The Secret Science of Magic

by Melissa Keil

  I stare at the Arts building, my brain spinning.

  And I burst out laughing.

  The sound rings though the schoolyard, unhinged and insane. I can’t seem to stop.

  ‘You’re brilliant!’ I yell. I stand and applaud, the sound of my clapping reverberating through the empty grounds. There’s no reply, aside from my echo. I didn’t really expect there would be.

  The school is silent. The Arts building remains.

  Just me and my nemesis, alone in the dark.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The duality principle

  I never did find Joshua that night. I don’t think I was supposed to. I am almost certain that that was not the point. I want to tell him I understand. I want to tell him that I always believed, that I knew he had the potential to be epic. But the mental space I may have had for dealing with the Joshua conundrum is soon occupied by a somewhat more pressing matter.

  I have actually put some time into practising. I have read, and studied, and researched. I have even rehearsed my monologue in front of an unwilling audience of one, Toby looking all sorts of pained as he sits in a dining chair and is subjected to my thespianing. He refuses to offer any constructive criticism or advice. But it is the most I have heard my brother laugh since Dad accidentally backed his car over the neighbours’ inflatable Santa.

  It’s mild today, so mild that I shrug out of my blazer as I head through the main school gates. It’s the strangest feeling, this winding-up time. I recognise some of my classmates hanging around in odd configurations, either desperately engaging in last-minute cramming or conducting feverish post-mortems of exams just completed.

  The Arts building hasn’t gone anywhere. It stands, still a brick-and-mortar monstrosity, carrying the weight of everything I fear within its fungus-encrusted walls. My heart has been pounding all morning, my skin almost feverishly slick with sweat. There’s no point pretending otherwise; I know that my control over my anxiety is tenuous at best. There is every likelihood that I will end this morning curled in a ball on the smelly brown carpet, or being carted out on a stretcher, still dressed in my Salvation Army costume and wig.

  I square my shoulders, adjust my outfit, and march into the building with my head held high. I ignore the dust. I ignore the liquid sensation behind my kneecaps. I ignore the table of examiners, and Ms Heller, and their various looks that I think are supposed to convey compassion and support. I ignore the thumping of my heart, the fight-or-flight response that is screaming for flight. I take the stage stairs. I am ready. I will do this.

  And I do.

  And – I suck.

  Like really, spectacularly, Hindenburg-exploding-in-a-fireball-level suck. I open my mouth and the words that I memorised months ago pour out; they might be in English, but with the speed that I am vomiting them, it’s hard to tell. Perhaps my subconscious has absorbed more than I knew through my time at Elsie’s, because at some point I realise that I have adopted an accent that sounds faintly, and possibly offensively, Indian. Midway through, when I calculate that my seven-minute monologue will probably be done in one minute and thirty-five seconds, I will my voice to slow. But at the same time I experience what I can only describe as a complete mental collapse, and forget if my character is supposed to be happy or dejected, so I end up racing through a section about a dead grandmother with a perky voice and a smile on my face. At some point I glance over at one of the adjudicators, only to see him doodling what looks like a semi-pornographic sketch in his notebook. And when I turn to walk down the stage stairs, I trip over a lighting cable and fall into the orchestra pit.

  I can’t be certain, but I think I detect a collective sigh of relief when I mumble a ‘thank you’ and stumble out of the building.

  I pause beneath the Arts Centre sign, blinking into the daylight. A couple of my classmates are milling nearby, Romy Hopwood and her friends frantically practice-emoting in the sunshine. I see Damien Pagono, looking relaxed and unperturbed. He gives me a grin and a thumbs-up.

  I suck in a few mouthfuls of air, my body still trembling. I remove my wig and the too-big dress that I’d hastily shoved over my school uniform. I breathe. And I wait. The tangled feeling in my stomach doesn’t abate. But strangely enough, it seems that I am not dying today.

  I turn towards the main path and hurry across the lawn, through the covered library walkways and around to the front of the main building, following that inexplicable, GPS-like homing signal that I am fairly certain I will never be able to explain.

  He is perched on the back of the park bench, wearing his black glasses and his old-man tweed cap. His hands are buried within the pockets of his blazer. I’m pretty sure it’s no magic trick, and it’s certainly no phenomena of physics, but the light appears to bend around him. Some unknown singularity seems to make him glow.

  He stands when he sees me, whipping off his hat. He takes a few tentative steps in my direction.

  ‘So?’ he says.

  ‘So,’ I reply.

  He shuffles his feet on the grass, two even scuffs for each foot, that unconscious tic that appears when he’s nervous. He adjusts his glasses, and I can tell that he’s fighting hard against the desire to just blurt out everything that’s in his head.

  I take another step towards him. ‘I’m done. The Drama exam, I mean. It’s over.’

  He seems to be holding his breath. ‘And …?’

  I flop onto the bench and massage my aching shoulders. ‘And, it was bad.’

  He swallows convulsively and sits down beside me. I notice that he leaves more than a handspan between us, carefully angling himself so our knees don’t touch. It makes something in my chest ache.

  ‘Uh-oh, really? How bad?’ he says. ‘Are you sure? Maybe you did better than you thought? I mean, I totally thought I bombed the Bio test but –’

  I cross my arms and lean backwards, breathing in the dry air. I ignore the hitch in his voice, the remnant of his lisp that’s back in full swing. ‘Joshua, you know that I’m incapable of hyperbole, right? Keep that in mind when I say that I’m fairly certain my Drama exam may have been one of the worst things to ever happen in the history of everything.’

  His eyes widen. A small smile starts to play at the edge of his lips. He rests against the bench, turning to face me. I match his posture, tucking my legs beneath me. ‘Was it worse than the time Mr Finkler opened the swimming carnival with that “Eye of the Tiger” banjo solo?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, it was so much worse.’

  Joshua laughs, though he still looks confused. ‘Okay. But, Sophia, you don’t seem to be freaking out.’ He runs his eyes over me. ‘Oh boy, you’re not, like, repressing, are you? Tell me you’re not waiting for a quiet moment to … well, you know …’

  ‘Have a gigantic meltdown? No. I don’t think so. I guess I’ve had time to think about things.’ I force my eyes to meet his, almost afraid of what I’m going to see there. But he’s looking at me with the same soft expression, a little bit concerned, and maybe just a tiny bit hopeful. It will never cease to amaze me how clear his face is to me. I may not be brilliant at it, but I think I can read this person. His shuffling feet, his ceaselessly moving fingers, the catch in his voice that appears whenever he is uncertain. It sort of breaks my heart that I might be the cause of those things.

  I reach out and touch the cuff of his blazer. ‘I’ve been thinking about lots of things,’ I say. I’m sort of proud that my voice comes out steady. Inside, my atoms feel like they’re shifting and crashing.

  ‘What did you think about?’ he whispers.

  I shuffle forward, my knees connecting with his. My skin tingles at the point of contact, and part of me still hesitates at the touch. I don’t think I’ll ever be the sort of girl who can throw herself with abandon into the arms of another person. I will probably never be effusive or demonstrative. And I doubt I will ever be the sort of girl who belongs inside a romance movie.

  Joshua’s eyes widen. He leans towards me, slowly, his hand curving tentativ
ely around the back of my neck. It’s trembling, but not moving to draw me any closer. I know he’s holding back, waiting for me to meet him halfway.

  I move inside the circle of space that separates us. My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking.

  It’s not a proper kiss; more like the suggestion of a kiss, a faint brush of his lips against mine. I stay still, his face so close that I can feel the radiating heat of him. It’s not entirely comfortable, but I think, with time, and practice, maybe it might be.

  ‘Joshua?’ I whisper, my lips not quite touching his.

  ‘Yeah?’ he breathes.

  ‘I think I may have failed. Like actually, properly failed. I tried really, really hard. I did everything I knew how to do. And I still sucked.’

  He moves back slightly. His eyes flicker between mine. ‘And …’

  ‘And, I’m still here. It was awful. I feel, well, kind of mortified. But I’m still here.’

  His eyes crinkle at the edges. ‘Yeah. You are.’ He swallows, his thumb brushing lightly against my neck. ‘And … this?’

  I take a deep breath, filling my lungs till they feel like bursting. And then I exhale, slow and steady.

  ‘Okay,’ I say decisively as I lean in to kiss him again. ‘This.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Be natural, and use your head.

  – DAI VERNON

  Somewhere in the distance, music is playing. It’s coming from Mr Grayson’s Mazda; he’s locked himself in for his lunch break, and is blasting Beyoncé. Rumour is he’s quit St Augustine’s; apparently he’s off to volunteer at a sloth sanctuary in Costa Rica. It doesn’t matter. His music may as well be a bloody great hallelujah chorus.

  Sophia is kissing me. She is kissing me. It’s delicate, and cautious. It is, without exaggeration, the most awesomely perfect thing to have happened in the history of everything. But I know I need to rein in at least some of my excitement. I can practically feel the effort it’s taking her not to bolt.

  She pulls away again and my lips are instantly bereft. Her face is, as always, impassive, though her cheeks are flushed a brilliant red. I guess I can see how some idiots might think her expressionless, but her eyes roam inquisitively over me, and they sparkle, all bright and intense. I know I’m smiling at her like some git on magic mushrooms, but I can’t make myself stop.

  Her hand is on the very edge of my fingers, like she’s trying to acclimatise to the sensation. I turn my palm up, letting her hand wander carefully over mine. She looks puzzled, like there’s something she’s dying to ask.

  ‘What is it?’ I say, kinda desperate not to break this spell.

  She looks up at me again, those curious eyes probing. ‘So

  what did you decide on, in the end? What did you apply for?’

  I link the tips of my fingers through hers. I wait, till I feel

  the slight curl of her fingers in reply. I’m pretty damn proud

  of myself for not whooping like an idiot. ‘Is this okay?’

  She nods impatiently. ‘Yes. Answer the question.’

  I’m so distracted by the feeling of her hand in mine that I almost forget what she asked. The question still spins me out a bit. But at least I have something approaching an answer.

  ‘Arts. I’ll probably pick up some History, and maybe experiment with a couple of other things. I don’t know what I’ll do with it, after, but I had this thought that maybe … teaching?’ I shrug. I feel like I’m talking about a weird future that belongs to someone I don’t recognise. ‘I dunno. I like kids. It’s something I might be good at. I reckon even I can picture me as the goofy emergency teacher who fronts his classes with a cage full of pigeons or something? Maybe not. I might change my mind next week. I know it’s not, like, huge or spectacularly exciting or anything. And, you know, hello – that cautionary tale over there doesn’t exactly inspire confidence,’ I say, nodding my head at Mr Grayson and eliciting a knowing eye roll from Sophia. ‘But I think – right now, anyway – I think I feel good about it.’

  ‘Teaching,’ she echoes. She smiles, her beautiful face all aglow. ‘I think, Joshua, you’ll be a really amazing teacher.’

  ‘Well, I dunno about amazing. And it’s going to be a while before I can set foot in a classroom again. High school burnt a hole in my brain that’s gonna take time to heal, you know?’

  ‘Yes. You may not be the only one feeling the pain.’ Then she narrows her eyes a little, the subtle twinkle in them all cheeky and bold. ‘So, David Copperfield – what would happen if I asked you to tell me how you did that thing?’ she asks.

  I grin, gripping her hand just a little tighter. ‘Is that something you’re likely to ask?’

  ‘Well I’m assuming mirrors, and obviously lights plus some kind of holographic screen or projector or –’

  I laugh. She rolls her eyes again. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.’

  ‘Yeah, I have no doubt about that.’ I glance down at our linked hands. ‘So, Sophia, I think I figured out something as well.’

  ‘Oh? What mysteries did you solve, Joshua?’

  My heart does that insane skip that it always does when she says my name. ‘I think I discovered that maybe some mysteries aren’t mine to solve. Maybe it’s not my job to, you know. Save you?’

  She peers at my face, unblinking and thoughtful, with those eyes that seem to see the whole universe. ‘I have another theory,’ she says, her husky voice steady and sure.

  ‘Oh?’

  She grins. It’s small, and reserved. I’m not sure anyone else would even peg it as a smile. But to me, it lights up her whole face. ‘Yes. Perhaps neither one of us needs saving.’

  She kisses me again, just a gentle touch of her lips, and my heart takes flight like it’s mastered a levitation trick all on its own.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The expanding universe

  I have a long way to go. I’ll never be great among crowds, and I know I’ll never be totally happy too far outside my comfort zone. I still have moments where my fears get the best of me, where I need to lock myself away, alone, and focus only on the maths. Joshua seems to understand; sometimes it’s not another person I need, just space to be inside my own head. But, as the poster on the Nayers’ toilet door advises, I am trying to find the wisdom to figure out which bits to work on, and which bits to accept. I’m even starting to pay attention in my counselling sessions, though I feel … well, as Joshua would say, I feel like a bit of a tool. But I am attempting to be less sceptical. Some of the exercises even prove to be a little bit useful. Puppets. Who knew?

  My anxiety waxes and wanes; peaking when I start university, retreating a little when I realise that the advanced subjects I’m taking might actually be a challenge, but one that I know I can handle.

  Of course, there is still something that sends me into a spin, one looming inevitability that no amount of logical evaluation can conquer.

  One of Elsie’s favourite romance movies has this whole spiel in it about airports. Something to the effect that the departure gate of an airport is, like, a microcosm of all that is wonderful about humans. When we watched it, it made little sense to me, all cheesy music and slow-motion hugging. Though if I think about it, I suppose I can sort of see the point; maybe we’re always searching for tangible evidence of what we know is basically indemonstrable.

  I haven’t flown much, but the departure gate at Melbourne International at 7 p.m. on a Sunday seems anything but romantic. It’s loud, overly lit by banks of fluorescent lighting, crowded with stressed-looking people and bawling children, and has a preponderance of sunglasses stores that make no sense, given that its patrons are all about to enter a climate-controlled aircraft and are not, say, boarding a glass elevator for a trip to the sun.

  Elsie’s parents are trying to corral their family in front of the duty-free store. All of her brothers are here, as well as a handful of aunts and uncles, her grandparents from both sides, and a gaggle of cousins, all of whom are talking over one another
and posting airport selfies on Instagram.

  Damien Pagono managed to beg a ride with Joshua and me. Joshua was concerned that Damien was planning some grand airport declaration to Elsie that would probably end with his arrest, but at the moment he is merely sitting in a plastic chair, looking dejected. Though he does seem to be sitting just a bit too close to Elsie’s cousin Mira, casting occasional glances her way. He bumps her knee and flashes something on his phone; Mira, surprisingly, does not look disgusted.

  I stand apart from the crowds. Even under normal circumstances, Elsie’s raucous extended family is too much for me; today, I fear that a misplaced question or errant touch might be enough to crack my carefully held equilibrium.

  I keep my eyes on the departure board, even as I feel Elsie’s presence lingering beside me.

  ‘Elsie, you know you’re on a fourteen-hour flight, right? Sitting, on a fourteen-hour flight?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says quietly. ‘So?’

  I drag my eyes away and turn to face my best friend. ‘So – why are you wearing leather pants?’

  Elsie peers down at her legs. The shiny leather is so tight it looks like it was sprayed on. And then she throws her arms around me and bursts into tears.

  ‘I like these pants!’ she sobs. ‘They’re my favourite, favourite pants in the whole world! I’ve had them forever, and I can’t stand the thought of leaving them behind. What am I going to do without them, Sophia?’

  I wrap my arms loosely around her, feeling only a little bit twitchy. ‘Els, it’s okay, you can wear whatever you want. Though I’m pretty sure they have leather pants in America –’

  ‘I’m not talking about the stupid goddamn pants!’ she yells, just about rupturing my eardrum in the process. ‘Jesus Christ, Reyhart, you are supposed to be the smart one!’

  ‘Your metaphors suck, Elsie,’ I manage to say. I feel her tears on the side of my face, her hiccupy sobs against my chest.

  I pull away from her. She drops her arms by her sides, but I can still feel the ghost of them around me. ‘Sure you’re not going to change your mind?’ I whisper.