by Andrea Beaty
Tip: When you are trying to conceal something, distract the audience’s eye by using patterns. Random floral prints hide marks and cuts. Geometric patterns give the illusion of distance or dimension.
If I do it right, I can stick my hand through the Xs and reach into the box. That’s where Houdi will hide. When I pull him out, the Xs on the tablecloth and in the hat will close behind him and become invisible. Tadaaaa! Yeah, I know it’s cheesy, but I think the trick will still be awesome. Everyone loves to see a rabbit pulled out of a hat. And if it goes really well, I can use this trick for my act in the talent show, which is coming in about four weeks. Okay, it’s coming in 23.75 days. But who’s counting?
I KNOW YOU’RE BUSY, SO I WON’T BORE YOU WITH THE EVENTS BETWEEN Tuesday and Thursday. Let’s just say I spent a lot of time in the Hideout practicing. Practice is the most important part of magic.
I found a box big enough for Houdi and some food. I put holes in the bottom so that I could prop it on something and air could get inside. That way Houdi could breathe while we waited for our turn. That’s important, because two hours is a long time for anyone to hold his breath. Even a rabbit.
I cut an X in the hat, then I cut a round hole in the top of the box and glued the cloth over it. Then I cut an X in the cloth right over the round hole. I could reach my hand through the X in the hat and the X in the cloth and pull Houdi right out of the box. That was my plan, and it took a lot of work.
On Thursday morning, I was ready. I put Houdi in the box with lettuce and some apples. I packed up my props and headed to school. I got to the classroom before everyone—including Mrs. M—and put the box in the closet on a bunch of encyclopedias so the air holes on the bottom would have great circulation. I hid the cape, hat, and wand in the coat closet right behind the big plastic lunch bin. Each day, one kid is chosen to collect the lunches and put them in the bin. At noon, a different kid takes the bin out and distributes the lunches. Who was in charge of putting lunches into the bin on Thursday morning? You guessed it. Me. That was no accident. I volunteered as soon as I knew about the speeches. Planning is the most important part of magic. And, yes, I know I told you that practice was the most important part. In magic, there are lots of most important parts. That’s what makes it so hard.
Because I was in charge of lunch bins, Houdi could hide in the closet until my speech and nobody would have a clue he was there. Nobody could spoil the trick. In magic, you have to control your environment. That’s how you eliminate those unexpected problems.
The two hours from the start of school until my speech passed so slowly, it was ridiculous. I would have fallen into a coma if I hadn’t been busy thinking about my trick. Don’t believe me? Here’s the agenda. Just try to stay awake:
Announcements from Principal Adolphus: Good boring, students. Blah blah blah boring blah blah blah boring blah.
Math: long division + worksheets = boring.
Spelling: B-o-r-i-n-g. Boring.
Other people’s speeches: Four score and seven borings ago …
Okay, wake up. The list is over. See what I mean about boring?
At last, it was my turn. I went to the closet and put on my cape and grabbed my hat and wand. I picked up the box and walked to Mrs. M’s desk. It felt lighter than it had earlier. Houdi must have eaten all the apples.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” I announced. “Prepare to be amazed and astonished! That’s right, folks! Before your very eyes, I’m going to pull a rabbit out of my hat!”
I paused for effect. Always pause for effect. It’s … effective!
Cat clapped. Nate Watkins smirked. Mrs. M sighed and looked at the clock on the wall. I continued.
“That’s right, folks. I’m going to pull a rabbit out of this ordinary hat.”
I showed them the inside and outside of Dad’s fedora to prove it was ordinary. The X was invisible to anyone who didn’t know it was there. I tapped the hat with my wand three times and placed it upside down on the cloth-covered box.
“Abracadabra!” I said.
I reached into the hat, through the Xs into the box, and grabbed …
A chewed-up apple?
I smiled at the audience. If something goes wrong in an act, you should always smile. The worse it gets, the bigger you smile. It calms the audience. Unless you have a really creepy smile. Then you’re in trouble.
I raised my magic wand again and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, behold!”
I stuck my hand in the box and reached into every corner. At last, I pulled out a piece of wilted lettuce covered in rabbit fur. Houdi was gone.
There was only one thing I could do. There was only one thing any magician could do. I raised the hairy lettuce into the air and held it up like it was the greatest thing on earth.
“Ta-daaaa!”
And that’s when I heard the scream.
“THERE’S A RABBIT IN MY LUNCH!”
The rabbit was Houdi, of course. The screamer was Hannah Weissman. It was her job to hand out lunches at the end of class. When she opened the lunch bin, she found Houdi chewing the lettuce out of her cheese sandwich. Hannah’s scream freaked Houdi out. He burrowed deeper into the lunches. A rabbit’s natural instinct is to dig when frightened, and Houdi was terrified. His claws ripped into lunches as his back legs kicked like supersonic bulldozers. The food went flying. I ran to the bin and grabbed him while he thrashed and kicked. His heart beat like a snare drum as I pulled him close and tried to calm him down. I knelt in the dark closet and covered us both with my cape and whispered to him.
“It’s okay, Houdi,” I said. “It’s okay.”
He knew I was lying. It was not okay. The classroom went nuts with kids yelling like they’d never seen a rabbit before. Of course, somebody ran to the office to tell the principal. Somebody always has to do that. I hunkered down in the closet with Houdi and tried to cover his ears so he wouldn’t hear the yelling, while Cat blocked the door. Cat is a true friend.
Eventually, Mrs. M got the class to stop yelling, but everyone kept whispering so loudly the classroom sounded like a beehive. That scared Houdi even more. How would you like to be in a buzzing beehive? Not at all.
Principal Adolphus showed up and made me put Houdi back in his box. Then he marched me and Houdi down to the office. The whole school had heard the screams from our class, so everyone was looking out their classroom doors as we went past. It’s amazing how many classrooms there are on the way to the principal’s office. And every one is filled with nosy kids.
Principal Adolphus made me sit in the “trouble chair” on the other side of his desk while his secretary called Mom. He leaned back in his chair and looked at me. His face was redder than usual, and a fat vein stuck out in his neck.
“Robert …”
“Robbie,” I said.
He cleared his throat and leaned forward.
“Robbie,” he said, “I’m getting reports from Mrs. Mortzchinski that you’re having a hard time lately. With your grades and getting along and—”
“No, I’m not,” I said.
Principal Adolphus smiled but I could tell it was a fake smile, because the vein in his neck popped out even farther.
“Are there any problems you’d like to discuss?” he said.
Like the problem my class has with rabbits? I wrapped my arms a little tighter around Houdi’s box and shrugged.
He sighed.
“I see,” he said. “Do you remember our conversation after last year’s talent show?”
His voice told me he didn’t really want an answer, so I didn’t give him one.
“I specifically told you not to bring any animals to school.”
“Amphibians,” I said.
“What?” he asked.
“You said not to bring amphibians,” I said. “Houdi is a mammal.”
“I know it’s a mammal,” he said, and the vein in his neck stuck out even more.
“He,” I said.
“What?”
“Houdi is a he,” I sa
id. “Not an it.”
“Mr. Darko,” he said. “I will make this very clear. Do not bring animals of any kind to this school. Do you understand?”
I shrugged. It wasn’t going to be a problem. Houdi wouldn’t want to come back anyway. Who would?
“I think you need to put some effort into remembering things, Robert.”
Like people’s names?
Principal Adolphus pointed to the bench outside the window by the flagpole.
“Your mother will pick up the rabbit in a couple of minutes.”
The meeting was over. I shot out of the office and the front doors of the school and sat on the bench with the box on my lap. It felt good to get outside. I closed my eyes, lifted my face toward the sun, and took a deep breath. The warm air smelled like dirt and flowers. It was a good spring smell that made the thought of going back to class even worse. It gave me an idea.
Maybe I could go home with Mom. She wasn’t big on that sort of thing. To her, leaving school required a hurricane (which is very rare in the Midwest) or life-threatening medical issues. So it was a lucky coincidence that at that moment, I developed a hacking cough … and a limp. There was no doubt about it. I had tuberculimpus.
Tuberculimpus is a rare and serious disease. Sometimes fatal. Always contagious. Mom would have to let me go home for the rest of the day. Maybe two days. Cough. Cough. Three?
Tuberculimpus is aggravated by homework and can only be cured by rest and video games. Yes, I know that going home was like running—or limping—away from my problems. But I didn’t care. Facing the angry mob and Mrs. M after a weekend of gaming would be easier. It was a fifth-grade fact that I had to go back to class and catch it sooner or later, but frankly, I preferred later. Much later.
IT WAS OBVIOUS THAT MY PLAN WAS DOOMED WHEN MOM DROVE UP WITH Grandma Melvyn in the front seat. Mom did not look happy. She jumped out of the car like a kangaroo with a jet pack. Fast.
“Hi …,” I said, and coughed. (Tuberculimpus symptom.)
Mom flung open a back passenger door and signaled for me to put Houdi’s box on the seat.
“We need at least fifty-seven thousand,” Mom said.
She pointed at her earpiece. Great. Mom was on the phone, which meant she would be gone in two seconds flat. I put Houdi’s box on the backseat and closed the door.
A huge tuberculimpus attack rose up inside my lungs. It was just about to come out when I looked at Grandma Melvyn. She gave me a this-is-too-funny kind of look or maybe it was a how-could-anybody-be-that-pathetic look. I couldn’t tell.
“Rabbit trouble?” she asked.
And just like that, my tuberculimpus was cured. It was a miracle.
“Hold on,” Mom said to the person on the phone.
She frowned at me.
“What were you thinking, Robbie?” she asked. “I don’t have time for this today. Now we’re late for Grandma Melvyn’s doctor appointment, which makes me late for work this afternoon.”
My face got hot, and my eyes started to burn. The anger drained from Mom’s face and she sighed.
“Oh, kiddo,” she said. “What am I going to do with you?”
Mom grabbed my shoulders to give me a hug, but I pulled away.
“Houdi needs water,” I said. “Give Houdi some water.”
I turned around and ran into the school without looking back.
At least one good thing came out of my speech. Houdi destroyed so many lunches that Mrs. M ordered pizza and we had a pizza party. Everyone was happy about that except Mrs. M. Like I said, she does not like unexpected events.
The rest of the school day lasted seven years. Seven horrible, deadly, never-ending years. Cat didn’t even bother trying to cheer me up at recess. Or maybe she did. It’s hard to tell with Cat.
We sat beneath the ash tree by the playground. Cat braided and unbraided her hair while I dug a hole in the ground with a stick.
“Wow,” she said. “That was an epic failure.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“No, really,” she said. “It was a nuclear explosion of failure.”
“Glad you liked it,” I said sarcastically.
“I did!” she said. “I loved it! It was a fantastic disaster.”
“Great,” I said. “I created the Hindenburg of Rabbit Hat Tricks.”
“Yep!” she said. “A great big flaming dirigible of disaster.”
“Wow,” I said. “I feel so much better now.”
I jammed the stick hard into the ground and Cat snatched it away from me. She poked me in the arm with it.
“Look,” she said. “Accidentally having your rabbit eat everyone’s lunch isn’t great, but it isn’t horrible. Doing it on purpose would be horrible. You didn’t do it on purpose, did you?”
I gave her a look.
“Exactly,” she said. “Besides, now you have a great story to tell when you’re old.”
Cat collects stories like other people collect T-shirts.
“Do you want to play capture the flag?” she asked.
I gave her another look. It told her exactly how much I did not want to do that.
“Okay,” she said, handing me back my stick. “You dig a hole. I’ll talk to you later. Have fun.”
She didn’t say it to be snotty or mean. She really meant it. Cat could actually spend the day digging holes with a stick and call it fun. She’s easily amused. She’s also a good friend. It takes a good friend to let you sit under a tree by yourself and poke the ground with a stick.
After about twenty minutes, the bell rang and I went back to class. There wasn’t much of the day left. Only science, music, and Free Read Time.
When the final bell rang, I was out of my seat like it was covered in hot lava. I was halfway out the door when Mrs. M called me back into the room. She made me stand there while everyone else squeezed past me.
Nate Watkins “accidentally” bumped into my shoulder on his way past.
“What’s the matter, Dorko?” he whispered. “Can’t make yourself disappear?”
Very funny.
When we were alone, Mrs. M got straight to the point. She tried to hide how mad she was, but it was obvious. She straightened the books on her desk, then tried to smile. She looked like she had gas.
“Robbie,” she said, “I think you should resist the urge to do magic tricks in class from now on. Don’t you?”
I couldn’t speak. It was like someone had punched me in the gut and all my air flew out, taking my words with it. No magic? Could she do that? I could see banning rabbits maybe. Or all animals, like Principal Adolphus did. But no magic tricks at all?
I stood there trying to get my words back, but Mrs. M stood up and began stuffing her tote bag with papers. The conversation was over.
Cat was waiting for me by the flagpole to find out what happened, but I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I sneaked out the side door and cut through the vacant lot behind the school. I wanted to be alone. Cat would understand.
The field was uneven and rough. The new grass struggled to fight its way through last year’s dead brown grass, but in spots, clusters of yellow dandelions and clumps of wild onions busted through.
I kicked a giant green clump, and an oniony smell rose into the air. I kicked at another clump and another. It felt good. I was about to kick a small shrub when a young brown rabbit bolted from behind it. He was barely bigger than Houdi had been when I rescued him from Mittzilla. I stopped. I had almost kicked a rabbit! How could I do that? It made me think about Houdi. I wasn’t the only one who’d had a horrible day. He had been scared to death by a bunch of screaming kids and a swarm of bees, and it was all my fault. It was enough to make a rabbit give up on magic.
I picked a bunch of yellow dandelions for Houdi. He loves dandelions. I do, too. I think they’re beautiful, and it makes me sad when people dig them up because they don’t act like grass. They’re just being themselves. Is that so bad?
I went home and took Houdi out of his cage. We sat in the Hideout and Houdi
nibbled the flowers and looked at me sadly. I pulled him close and buried my face in his soft brown fur and listened to the thumping of his heart.
“I know, Houdi,” I whispered. “I know.”
Then something got into my eyes and made them water. It was probably just a bit of fur.
YOU MIGHT THINK THAT THURSDAY WAS THE WORST DAY EVER. SO DID I. UNTIL Friday. Mrs. M was in a bad mood. She sat at her desk with a don’t-even-think-about-it look on her face that meant business. You can say a lot of things about my classmates, but they are not stupid. They know trouble when it sits at a teacher’s desk and stares them down. Nobody did anything dumb, and nobody said anything dumb. In fact, nobody said anything at all. It was spooky. At noon, Mrs. M handed out the lunches herself—just to be safe—and everyone walked silently to the lunchroom.
Remember when I said that it was a fifth-grade fact that I was going to catch it sooner or later? Well, I was right. When Mrs. M left the lunchroom, Nate pulled a small towel out of his lunch box, put it over his shoulders like a cape, and stood on the bench. Silence dropped over the room like fog at the Ice Capades. This was bad.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, raising a pencil into the air like a wand. “Prepare to be amazed as I pull a rabbit out of my nose!”
He paused for effect. Copycat.
“Aaahhhh … AAHHHHHH … CHOOO!”
Nate sneezed, and a tiny toy bunny flew out of his nose. It was one of those Teeny Beanie Bunnies from a kids’ meal. The lunchroom exploded with laughter.
Hardy. Har. Har.
It didn’t matter that he was lousy at sleight of hand and had obviously pulled the toy out of his pocket. It didn’t matter that he used a pencil and a towel for his props. It didn’t matter that he was a jerk who should be exiled to a moon base without video games for the rest of his life. None of it mattered. What mattered was that I turned red.