The Lightness of Hands

by Jeff Garvin

Genres: YA Coming of Age

Synopsis

A quirky and heartfelt coming-of-age story about a teen girl with bipolar II who signs her failed magician father up to perform his legendary but failed illusion on live TV in order to make enough money to pay for the medications they need—from the author of Symptoms of Being Human. Perfect for fans of Adi Alsaid, David Arnold, and Arvin Ahmadi.

Sixteen-year-old Ellie Dante is desperate for something in her life to finally go right. Her father was a famous stage magician until he attempted an epic illusion on live TV—and failed. Now Ellie lives with her dad in a beat-up RV, attending high school online and performing with him at birthday parties and bars across the Midwest to make ends meet.

But when the gigs dry up, their insurance lapses, leaving Dad’s heart condition unchecked and forcing Ellie to battle her bipolar II disorder without medication.

Then Ellie receives a call from a famous magic duo, who offer $15,000 and a shot at redemption: they want her father to perform the illusion that wrecked his career—on their live TV special, which shoots in Los Angeles in 10 days.

Ellie knows her dad will refuse—but she takes the deal anyway, then lies to persuade him to head west. With the help of her online-only best friend and an unusual guy she teams up with along the way, Ellie makes a plan to stage his comeback. But when her lie is exposed, she’ll have to confront her illness and her choices head-on to save her father—and herself.

Release date: August 10, 2021

Publisher: Balzer + Bray

Print pages: 400

Sample

CHAPTER 1

THE TRICK WORKED LIKE THIS: I entered the gas station first, playing the part of the suspect teenager, the apparent shoplifter—misdirection incarnate. I prowled the chip aisle, fingering noisy snacks, and then, just as the clerk started to get suspicious, Dad would walk in. There was nothing flashy about the setup, no pyrotechnics or vanishing objects, just a story to obscure what was really happening. That’s what magic is, after all: a lie that’s more satisfying than the truth.

Outside, our rickety RV with its attached ten-foot trailer sat at the farthest pump, where it would suck diesel until the prepaid Visa ran dry. I hoped fifteen bucks would buy us enough time. Other than the two twenties in Dad’s money clip, it was all we had left.

“Good afternoon, young man,” Dad said to the clerk in his stage baritone. A wry smile turned up the corner of my mouth; even at a backroad gas station in the middle of nowhere, he couldn’t help being the Uncanny Dante.

“How can I help you?” the clerk said. To judge by the mass of his neck muscles, he had probably played linebacker on his high school football team.

“Two packs of Chesterfield mediums, please.”

Dad had quit smoking when he got his cardiomyopathy diagnosis. Also, Chesterfield didn’t make mediums; Marlboro did. It was all part of the trick—and it worked. The clerk turned away to scan the cigarette display, and I made a beeline for the front door. On the way, I knocked a few cans of Hormel chili off the shelf.

Rule number one: Magic is misdirection.

The clerk spun at the sound. “Hey! Stop!”

I was halfway out the door when he grabbed my arm and yanked me back inside.

“What did you take?” he said.

“Nothing,” I replied, basting my tone with indignation.

Over the clerk’s shoulder, I saw that Dad had already completed his part of the grift; the old man was fast.

“Give it up,” Linebacker said, “or I’m calling the cops.”

“Go ahead.” I glared, trying again to yank my arm from his grasp. “I’ll tell them how you assaulted me!”

Now Dad approached, frowning. “Purcilla! What are you doing?”

Every time we pulled this bit, he gave me a fresh pseudonym, each more ridiculous than the last. We got a kick out of it.

“Forgive my daughter,” he said, putting a hand on Linebacker’s shoulder. “She’s troubled.”

He let go of me.

“Now do as he asked, Purcilla.”

I rolled my eyes and unzipped my hoodie, revealing a can of BBQ Pringles and a package of Reese’s peanut butter pumpkins. Dad was on me in a heartbeat, shaking me by the shoulders.

“You little thief! I didn’t raise you like this!”

“Take it easy,” Linebacker said, oozing with counterfeit chivalry. It was okay for him to manhandle me, but not my own father. What a hypocrite. “I just want to make sure she didn’t take anything else.” He glared at me. “What’s in your pockets?”

I showed him they were empty. He seemed satisfied and was turning back toward my dad when I said:

“Oh, wait. I do have these.” I reached into my back pockets, then presented both middle fingers.

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “All right, Purcilla. Back to the bus with you.”

I rolled my eyes again, pushed through the doors, and headed for the RV, leaving Dad to close the ruse.

The prepaid Visa had run out as expected, but when I squeezed the handle, the diesel started flowing again, this time free of charge. While I had been distracting the clerk, Dad had reset the pump.

As the tank filled, I took a few deep breaths, trying to slow my heart. The adrenaline rush from a grift was almost as strong as the high from performing—but it faded quickly, leaving me to worry how we were going to book the next job. Get the next meal. Survive.

I opened the secret pouch I had sewn in my hoodie and took out what I had lifted: two unripe bananas, a bag of pork rinds, and Linebacker’s wallet. He only had fourteen bucks, but I removed his driver’s license anyway and jotted on the back in Sharpie: $14—Dunlap, IN. I stuffed our convenience-store lunch back into the pouch and leaned back on the RV. Dad was supposed to be on a low-fat, low-sodium diet for his heart. I couldn’t keep feeding him this crap. We needed decent food. We needed money.

We needed a real gig.

Five minutes later, the RV was sputtering south on US 33.

“You’re sure we’re clear?”

“I’m sure.”

Dad was paranoid about security cameras—but these old gas stations always had out-of-date technology. It had taken Dad only a fraction of a second to reach over the counter and reset the pump; if the move showed up on camera at all, it would be a momentary flash, and whoever was watching would be more focused on the girl stuffing chips down her shirt.

Still, Dad maintained his grim expression, his mustache turned down at the ends. I didn’t ask why; I already knew. He hated stealing and insisted we keep track of every penny we took. Someday, he said, we’d “make restitution.” I hated stealing, too, but unlike Dad, I didn’t believe we’d ever pay it back doing birthday parties and bar gigs. And in the meantime, we had bills to pay.

“How are we on time?” Dad asked. The gold Breitling watch he’d inherited from his grandfather clung ever present on his right wrist, though it had stopped working years ago.

“It’s ninety minutes to get back to Fort Wayne. We’ll make it.”

Right now, normal high school juniors were shouldering backpacks and piling into cars, heading off to football games or fast-food joints to hang with their friends. I was on my way to work a wedding with my sixty-four-year-old father.

As he drove, I opened the pork rinds. The aroma that rushed out of the bag triggered a flood of memories. Pork rinds had been our thing, Mom’s and mine. We would polish off a whole bag while watching Ratatouille for the thousandth time, licking the red salt from our fingers and snorting with laughter. I popped one into my mouth, letting the familiar tang of vinegar overwhelm my senses. It was like I was six again, sprawled next to her on the couch.

I ate another one, but it turned bitter on my tongue and was hard to swallow. Outside, rows of dead corn zipped past, and I wished I were home. I missed the warm, dry breeze of Las Vegas. I missed the sun.

I missed my mom.

I had been a little kid during Dad’s Vegas years; now I was living every sixteen-year-old’s dream, residing in a forty-foot RV with my dad at the Cedarwood Mobile Estates in Fort Wayne. I’d spent more than half my life here, but it would never be home.

“What about closing with Sub Trunk tonight?” Dad said, eyeing me from the driver’s seat. “Get you back on the boards? You haven’t performed in weeks.”

I shook my head, felt my jaw tighten.

“I’m behind, and I can’t afford to let my grades slip any further.” I kept my eyes on the barren cornfields outside, but I could feel Dad’s gaze like a spotlight. We’d had this conversation a hundred times; I had to be the only teenager in Indiana whose father was urging her notto study.

“I’m sure you’d make a great nurse, Ellie. But performing is in your blood. You’ve got it on both—”

I cut him off before he could mention Mom. I didn’t want to think about her right now.

“The party is half a mile from Eastside,” I said. “There might be people I know.”

It was a good excuse; Dad knew I didn’t want to be recognized. Ellie Dante, the semihomeless chick who had dropped out halfway through sophomore year.

“I see how your eyes sparkle when you’re onstage,” he said.

When I’m onstage, sure. But what about afterward?

“Can I just stay in the RV? Please?”

Dad sighed and scrubbed a finger across his mustache. “All right, you don’t have perform. But I need you to stage-manage.”

Before I could argue, my ancient prepaid phone buzzed in the cup holder, and I snatched it up. The call was from an unfamiliar number with a Las Vegas area code. It might be a client, and we needed one—badly. I answered, but there was only a hiss of static before the call dropped. No service out here in the land of corn and soybeans. I unclicked my seat belt and stood up.

“I’ve got homework.”

I made my way toward the back, holding on to bolted-down furniture as I went. Behind the captain’s chairs, two couches faced each other. At night, one of them folded down to form a bed where Dad slept. Beyond them was the kitchenette: a tiny sink, a propane stove, and a mostly empty pantry, its door secured with bungees so they wouldn’t fly open on a curve. A half-sized restaurant booth occupied the port side—that was where we ate and I did homework on my obsolete laptop. The bathroom was behind it, and at the very back of the RV was my luxurious eight-by-ten “suite.”

I closed the flimsy accordion partition behind me and flopped down on the mattress, feeling the rumble of the diesel engine beneath me. I had tried to cover every inch of the faux-wood walls with posters, but it was still nothing like a normal teenager’s room. Normal teenagers had closets instead of cubbyholes. Desks instead of fold-out tables. Beds that didn’t vibrate at sixteen hundred RPMs.

Someday, I would live in a real house with a real shower and a back door and a foundation.

I sat up, trying to banish my spiraling thoughts. I needed to take my history test online before midnight, so I grabbed my phone and checked my usage stats: only two megs of data left, not nearly enough. I would just have to hope that tonight’s gig site had Wi-Fi so I could take it while Dad was performing. In the meantime, I opened my dusty copy of The Grapes of Wrath and tried to focus. My phone dinged with a new text.

Ripley: Existential crisis pending. Assistance required. Are you alone?

Me: Out of minutes. Can you text?

Ripley: Ugh. Really need to talk. Where are you?

Me: On the road. Will try to get wifi and call after show

The three dots bounced for a moment, then disappeared. Maybe Ripley had been interrupted while composing his reply, or maybe he’d just given up. I couldn’t blame him if he had; I was the most unreliable friend ever.

The adrenaline from the heist was wearing off, and I could almost taste the stress hormones turning sour in my bloodstream. In harmony with the low rumble of the engine beneath me, the chorus of an old Rihanna song began to play on a loop in my head: Ella, ella, eh, eh, eh . . . Over and over. I tried to shut out the song, to summon any other melody, but “Umbrella” only corkscrewed itself deeper into my mind. This happened off and on—some jagged shard of a song would get lodged in my mind and play itself back relentlessly. Once it was “Wrecking Ball,” and another time it was “Believer” by Imagine Dragons. Those weren’t so bad—but during the whole first semester of freshman year I’d had “It’s a Small World” stuck in my head, and I’d nearly flunked out—and then for no apparent reason it had just stopped. The depression that followed had been long and deep and colorless. So I’d come to recognize these repeating song fragments as a warning that gray days were coming.

I reached into the drawer next to my bed and grabbed my prescription bottle. A single pill rattled inside the orange plastic cylinder, and I felt an invisible belt tighten around my chest. I wished I could save this last one for an emergency, but that wasn’t how the medication worked. It had to build up in the bloodstream; if I stopped taking it, the effects would wear off quickly. How many days did I have left? Three? Five? A week?

I tapped the tablet into my palm and swallowed it dry. I had to be on tonight.

We needed the money.

CHAPTER 2

WHILE DAD PULLED PROPS OUT of the equipment trailer we towed behind the RV, I mounted the steps to the big Victorian house and rang the bell. A moment later, the door opened, and a boy stood on the threshold, shouting over his shoulder so that I didn’t immediately see his face. He was slim but muscular, probably ROTC or crew team, maybe home from college for the weekend.

“I don’t know anything about the centerpieces,” he called back into the house. “I’m on bar duty.” He turned and looked at me, and my skin turned to ice.

I knew him.

His name was Liam Miller, and we had worked together during Eastside’s winter production of Damn Yankees when he was a senior and I was a sophomore. He joined the cast as a distraction between baseball seasons, and I designed the special effects for the show. We rehearsed together for a month, and I thought we had formed a sort of awkward, unlikely friendship. But when the play ended, he went back to being a sports god, and I was still a sophomore theater nerd.

Liam tilted his head. “Ellie Dante? What are you doing here?”

He remembered my name. For a moment I considered bolting back to the RV. Instead, I did my best not to scowl.

“My dad’s the magician.”

“Oh, right. Dante.” He shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”

I agreed, but I didn’t say so. How was I supposed to act around this guy?

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“My sister is the bride.”

“Oh.” Now who was the idiot? I should have recognized the last name when his dad booked us.

Liam smiled, revealing a deep dimple on his left cheek. “Come on in.”

I stepped inside—and tried not to gape. The foyer was opulent: marble floors, grand piano, massive crystal chandelier. His parents were obviously rich; I wondered why he had even gone to a public high school.

“We’ve got a dressing room for you,” he said, gesturing at the wide marble staircase. “Upstairs, second door on the right.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“I’ve got to go lift heavy things for Princess Becca. See you later?”

“Unless I disappear,” I said. Liam gave me a quizzical look, and I wanted to break my own skull against the door frame.

I watched him retreat into the house, his back muscles moving against the fabric of his T-shirt. Was he strutting like that on purpose? It might have worked on the baseball groupies at Eastside, but it didn’t work on me.

A moment later, Dad appeared on the doorstep carrying two heavy trap cases and a shoulder bag. Despite the cool air, his temples were already damp with perspiration.

“Let me,” I said, taking one of the cases. He protested, but I shut him down. Carrying heavy things up stairs was on his doctor’s no-no list.

The dressing room turned out to be Liam’s bedroom. It was twice the size of our whole RV and impeccably clean, probably for the occasion. There were posters on the wall—the 2016 Chicago Cubs, Panic! at the Disco—but instead of being thumbtacked, they hung in expensive frames. A photo of the Manhattan skyline dominated one wall, and a Notre Dame baseball pennant in a shadow box was mounted above the hardwood dresser. I stared around in envy. My whole “suite” would have fit inside Liam Miller’s closet.

I opened a set of French doors and stepped onto a stone balcony overlooking the backyard. Three tents draped with fairy lights stood on the perfect lawn, sheltering a wedding setup for at least a hundred guests. Round tables with red cloths; an explosion of roses; an archway of satin ribbon over a temporary stage where a band was setting up their amplifiers. I imagined myself standing on that stage, feeling a hundred pairs of eyes on me. Sensing the energy from the audience, controlling it, drawing their attention wherever I wanted it. I felt tingles crawling up the sides of my face—it was a rush, having that power.

I released the railing and took a step back, and the twitch of mania receded. I wouldn’t be onstage tonight; I would be hiding up here, taking my history exam.

Ella, ella, eh, eh, eh . . .

“Do you see those thunderclouds?”

I turned and saw Dad leaning against the door frame.

“An outdoor wedding in northern Indiana in October.” He shook his head. “I don’t envy the groom. Come on,” he said, beckoning me back inside. “Let’s get cracking.”

He had already unlatched one of his cases and was setting aside decks of cards and various props; I hadn’t heard any of it. Spacing out was another symptom of impending gray. I needed to hold out for few more hours. Then I could crawl into my vibrating bed and curl up in the fetal position.

“What should I close with?” Dad asked, shutting his case. “Dove Production? Spoon Bender?”

I frowned. “Doves won’t work if it rains.”

“Good point,” he said, rubbing at his mustache.

“And Spoon Bender is too small for that stage. I was thinking Card to Fruit.”

The trick worked like this: The magician asked a volunteer to pick a card and sign it. Then, using sleight of hand—my favorite brand of magic—he vanished the card. Next, the magician selected a piece of fruit at random from a bowl, cut it open, and voilà: he pulled out the signed card, wet with fresh juice. I loved it because of the reaction it elicited from the audience: eyes widening, jaws dropping. The trick defied logic in the most visceral way, and Dad performed it as well as David Blaine had in his famous Harrison Ford YouTube video.

“Perfect,” Dad said. He fished the necessary item out of his kit and tossed it to me.

As Dad took the stage, I watched from the balcony, just as I had watched him from the wings since I was a little girl. I’d been six when we relocated from Las Vegas to Indiana—and at the time, I thought we’d had to move because Mom died. Years later, I discovered the truth.

Dad had been grinding out a living at a small casino when he was offered the opportunity of a lifetime: a guest spot on Late Night with Craig Rogan. If it went well, he could finally move into a big theater on the Strip and see his name glowing alongside the greats’: Lance Burton, Flynn & Kellar, Daniel Devereaux. He spent a month designing a brand-new illusion—but on the night of the live taping, it went horribly wrong.

My memories of the incident were like fragments of a bad dream. Probably I had manufactured them, cobbled them together from YouTube videos and overheard conversations. But they seemed real to me. Looking down at Dad onstage now, I wondered if he was wearing the same black tie he’d worn that night.

The lights came up, and the wedding guests began to applaud. I remembered the faint smell of burning dust in Craig Rogan’s studio, the heat of the overhead lights. I tried to repel the memories of that night, but they pushed against my mind relentlessly, like a song, until I closed my eyes and let them come.

I’m holding my mother’s hand as the curtain ascends. When the lights come up on my father, standing center stage, she kisses my cheek, lets go of my hand, and crosses to him. As she turns to acknowledge the audience, her smile is luminous in the glare of the lights. She selects a volunteer, who binds Dad’s wrists and ankles—and then a second curtain goes up, revealing an old red Chevy pickup truck and an enormous Plexiglas tank filled with water. My mother helps Dad into the truck, and a winch hauls it toward the rafters.

The hush of the crowd, the gleam of chrome—and the splash as the truck hits the surface and sinks until the water is over his head.

Laughter from below jarred me back into the moment. Dad was finishing his new opening bit: dropping a red toy truck into a half-filled fish tank. The audience responded with a bout of laughter; it had worked.

When our gigs had begun to dry up, we’d had to do something to address Dad’s reputation problem. To point out the elephant in the room right at the top so everyone could move on and enjoy the show. But Dad was proud, and it had taken me a long time to persuade him to try the Toy Truck Drop. When he finally relented, it worked perfectly. Audiences laughed, relieved by his self-deprecating humor. They trusted him again, and he was able to perform with his old vigor and panache. For a year or so, the bookings picked up. But then they began to evaporate again, until we had only one gig on the calendar. This one.

I watched Dad step off the stage and circulate among the attendees, picking cards and finding coins to their delight. Most of the guests were older, probably friends of Princess Becca’s parents. The bride herself sat at a high table next to her pasty, corn-fed husband, smiling for pictures and picking at her salad. Overhead, the clouds threatened to break open, but luckily for her, they hadn’t yet.

I spotted Liam near the stage, holding court with a pair of girls. I recognized the pretty blonde; she’d been one of the baseball groupies at Eastside. She took his arm and started to lead him into the house, but then he glanced up to where I stood on the balcony.

Reflexively, I shrank away from the railing—but I was pretty sure he’d caught me watching him. God, I was embarrassing. What was I doing? Liam had been nice enough to me during Damn Yankees rehearsals, but once the show was over, he’d ignored me completely. Besides, that had been a year ago. It was ancient history now.

Liam and his girls had looked like they were making plans to escape the reception. I envied them; I had never had a group of friends, or any hope of escape. I had precisely one friend, who I knew only by his avatar and his voice.

I pulled out my phone and found the Millers’ Wi-Fi, thinking I should call Ripley as promised—but the network was password protected. So I sent a text instead.

Me: No Wi-Fi. :( Can you text?

I stared at the screen for two solid minutes, but Ripley didn’t reply. I imagined him lying back on his bed, texting with someone else instead, some new IRL bestie at his IRL high school who not only could afford reliable internet but could actually be present in his life. I pictured her as a pretty girl, taller and more elegant than me. His very own Princess Becca. It was a ridiculous thought—Ripley wasn’t like that—but the idea ricocheted around in my head anyway.

Ella, ella, eh, eh, eh . . .

The chorus of “Umbrella” had resumed its loop. For the umpteenth time, I wondered: Why that song in particular? I’d been a toddler when it came out, and as far as I could remember, it didn’t have any special meaning for me. Yet somehow it had burrowed itself into my brain like a Lyme-disease tick.

I was about to head back to the RV when I heard the sliding glass door open behind me. I turned. It was Liam.

He paused in the doorway, one hand in his front pocket, looking like a model from the J.Crew catalog.

“Mind if I join you?”

I pressed my lips together. Was he serious with that pose?

“It’s your house,” I said.

He closed the door behind him and crossed to the railing, leaving a respectful distance between us.

“It’s my father’s house, actually. He reminds me all the time.”

“Probably beats living in an RV, though.” Shut up, Ellie. Shut up.

Liam raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. You kind of live like a rock star.”

“More like a senior citizen.”

He laughed. It was a soft, deep sound, and it caused an unfamiliar warm sensation in my midsection.

“You look different,” he said. “Your hair is longer.”

“Yeah, that happens.”

“Still a smart-ass, though.” He laughed.

The truth was I couldn’t afford to get it cut, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

Liam turned to face me, leaning his elbow against the railing. “It’s good to see you again, Ellie.”

I bristled when he used my name; it was such a bro technique. Use their name, make them feel special.

I turned away. “Your house is huge.”

“Like I said, it’s my father’s. Well, technically, it belongs to his trucking company. It’s a tax thing.” He was quiet for a moment as he looked down at the wedding below. “He still treats her like she’s five years old. Hence the backyard wedding in October.” He gestured at the tents. “For favors, we’re handing out umbrellas.”

Great. Just when I’d almost gotten the song out of my head.

Liam leaned forward, about to say something else. Please, not my name.

He seemed to change his mind before saying, “Could I interest you in some vodka?”

I bit my lip. “Actually, do you have any food?”

Liam offered to take me out back for leftover canapés, but I didn’t want to risk being seen by anyone else from Eastside. So while Dad set up for his finale, I sat on Liam Miller’s front steps in the cool autumn evening, drinking apricot punch spiked with Smirnoff and eating the best goddamned peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’d ever tasted.

I hated PB&Js, probably because I’d lived on Wonder Bread and Jif for so long. But the sandwich Liam made me was of an entirely different paradigm. The bread was some kind of artisan multigrain ambrosia. The peanut butter was organic and had to be stirred. He just sat there while I ate, and I started to feel self-conscious. I must have looked like a starving orphan.

“You don’t have to babysit me. Go be with your girlfriend.”

Liam leaned back on the top step. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s the maid of honor’s little sister, and she’s obnoxious.”

“Oh. Okay.” I was an idiot. I stuffed the last bite into my mouth.

Liam tugged at the zipper on his jacket. “Have I done something to piss you off?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just . . . you’ve been kind of cold to me since I answered the door.”

I brushed bread crumbs from my lap. Did he really not know? Or was he just trying to pretend nothing had happened? ...