Something that’s weird about me is that I have oven mitts for hands. Not actual oven mitts; that’s just what one of my old foster parents called them. He said it meant I was going to grow a lot in a few years. It never really mattered much to me, except for it looking kind of funny with the rest of me being normal size and my hands being so big. Large palms, long fingers—you get it. It wasn’t until I moved into my last foster home that I finally found a reason for them.

My new foster dad had said I was welcome to anything in my new room. There wasn’t much, except for some old clothes in the closet some other boy had left behind, and at the base of the closet, there was this wooden box full of books. Normally, I wouldn’t have even bothered with a box full of books, but the box had this chest-like look to it. If you’re going to put a treasure chest in my foster room, I’m not going to not look through it, no matter what’s inside.

I sifted through the whole thing—textbooks, children’s books, comic books. Anyway, there was this one book at the bottom of the chest which caught my eye it was so old. Maybe the book jacket was missing, because the hardcover had no design and was this puke shade of orange. But the title was printed there in small blue letters: Kristoph’s Card Secrets. I don’t know if you believe in destiny, but I remember holding that old book out in front of me on my knees, not even open, thinking I was supposed to find Kristoph’s secrets. My name’s Christopher, and I randomly stumble upon this ancient book at the bottom of a closet with my almost-name on the front and “secret” in the title.

What are the odds?

Not high; I can tell you that much. What was more was this nearly full deck of cards held together with a rubber band slipped out the back of the book when I opened it. Basically sealed it for me and Kristoph.

For the next few weeks during summer, I was never without Kristoph’s book or my deck. I’m serious. Not even just during waking hours; the book and my cards came with me to bed. Anywhere I went—church (these foster parents were big on church, and it didn’t go over well when I kept taking my cards out), the park, grocery store, mall—I was practicing my lifts and pulls there. That was where my oven mitts for hands came into the whole thing, because I found out they were perfect for magic.

What Kristoph said—and I believe him—was that so much of it just comes down to repetition and practice. The big hands made it easier, but it was really about what you put into it. You master your lifts and your shuffles like it’s breathing, then you can pretty much add any flashy piece you want to your bag. But you’re not going to be able to do anything if your double life isn’t automatic.

As I said, my foster parents were pretty religious, and they started taking some umbrage with my doing card tricks all the time. I was walking back from the bathroom to my room, fanning my cards when my foster dad stopped me from the living room. “Didn’t we talk about the cards?”

“I thought you only said not at church,” I said, continuing to my room before he could tack on any other limitations to my magic. This worked until the school year rolled around and it was a different story.

My foster mom was checking my homework at the dining table, and she spotted my cards sitting at the corner. “Chris, I don’t want to see those cards in the house again,” she said.

My teacher, Ms. Morazes, had sat me down and said something similar after she took my deck from me one day. She said I was a bright boy, but I needed to learn to sit still and pay attention. I told her the cards helped me sit still; I could sit in the back of the room and practice my shuffles with my mind on the lesson. “That may be so, but you have to figure out another way,” she said. She also asked me if I was having any problems at home, because I never socialized with anyone. If you really think about it, that was what got me suspended—Ms. Morazes’s insistence I make a friend.

Brandon was this really quiet boy. He didn’t talk much, but he watched me in Ms. Morazes’s math class and my shuffling all the time. I eventually found out he had been held back a year. The school thought he was slow. I saw where the school was coming from, but once you were around him enough, you realized he wasn’t stupid. Don’t get me wrong; Brandon probably wouldn’t win any scholastic achievement award any time soon, but the guy also got things. He could sit back and watch and understand what was going on. His observations had a funny way of being right once you dug them out of him. He didn’t offer them much, but if you sat with him long enough, he would tell you what he thought. Somehow, they always ended up being bang on, even if they weren’t what you wanted to hear. Also, nobody ever messed with him on account of him being so big, him being held back and all. Not long after my talk with Ms. Morazes, I asked him if he wanted to sit with me at lunch. “Okay,” he said. Maybe it’s not completely fair to Ms. Morazes to say her suggestion is what got me suspended. Vincente Bellinelli had a lot to do with it.

Vincente Bellinelli was a magician I had found online to learn different card sleights. He also went by Vinnie the Great or Vinnie Bell, depending on his mood. I ended up spending a lot of time watching the shows he posted for people. Vincente had this gift of completely mesmerizing the room, like his audience were on some twisting trip and he was their guide. I found out he was doing a tour and was booked at a coffee house in the city. The show cost forty dollars a seat, but I needed to see how he created the atmosphere he did. I had no way of getting forty dollars, and my foster parents weren’t going to take me. Also, the show was on Columbus Day, and we had school that day. Stuff like this doesn’t really matter to magicians, though.

Card tricks were great, but they weren’t exactly a cash cow. People got hip to your act pretty quickly and weren’t going to wager anything. Confidence schemes were a little different, even if they involved cards. The easiest one I found was three-card monte. Most people are kind of familiar with it, which actually plays into why it works. The mark thinks they spotted the rub and that they can beat your system. The whole thing relies on the mark’s confidence. That was why Brandon and I ran it on the eighth graders instead of the sixth graders—the eighth graders were more likely to believe they had the leg up (also, we couldn’t exactly run it on other seventh graders because of the reputation Brandon and I were getting).

Afterschool, I would sit somewhere with my cards and Brandon would come up to me and make it clear he was betting on my show. Kids would come over to watch and see Brandon betting and winning like we had planned. The eighth graders, naturally, would want in on the action. “Can you wait your turn? I can only take one bet at a time,” I’d say.

It wasn’t hard for them to spot the pattern of my hands and which card was the facedown queen of hearts—the whole point. So after Brandon collected his winning, I’d tell the marks to show me their money. At this slightest lack of attention, I’d switch the pattern, and they would lose. We ended up working our way through the eighth grade and making about a hundred and fifty dollars. But then some brute who couldn’t let go of having lost his money figured out what was going on and ratted us out. It’s never the kid you would think. Brandon and I got called into the principal’s office, and we had to return all the money we had made and were suspended for three days. Only I was able to hang on to forty dollars because I said we had made about a hundred dollars and then forked over a hundred and ten.

At the time, I was thinking of the show, but afterwards, I felt so bad about getting Brandon in trouble with me I offered to split the forty dollars with him. He wouldn’t take it no matter how hard I insisted, saying I should go to the show. If you ask me, the school doesn’t know what they’re talking about if they can hold a guy like that back.

During the three days I was suspended, the reality I would be going to Vincente Bellinelli’s show sunk in. That was, if I could figure out the logistics. It wouldn’t be hard to get there; the coffee house was only a bus ride downtown away. No, the tricky bit was getting out of school on Columbus Day. The school always phoned home and emailed if you were absent without an excuse, unless your guardian called.

I spent a lot of time with Kristoph’s Card Secrets those three days. There wasn’t anything about scheming your way out of school, but it wasn’t necessarily completely about cards either. That’s part of what made it so fun—he wasn’t some clean-shirt teacher talking at you or listing a bunch of formulas or dates. He was just some guy who was interested in magic and figured you were too. Anyhow, I hoped maybe Kristoph would jog something loose in my brain.

In a way, he did, because I was reading his book in our living room when I overheard something Richard, one of my latest foster siblings, said to my foster mom. Apparently, Richard had chosen to get in contact with his biological parents, and that’s what he was having a chat with our foster mom about. It’s a somewhat dicey subject, reaching out to the people who gave you up, if they are even willing to be contacted. I don’t know; the way I see it they might as well be anybody else. All of my foster parents have been more or less the same; I don’t really figure why those people would be any different.

Well, I was sitting there, flipping through Kristoph’s book when Richard started talking to our foster mom about how his biological father was going to be in town for the day and how he had planned to take him out of school to go on an outing. Richard had a planned absence form that he had gotten from his high school’s office. He’d gone to all his teachers and had them sign it, and they had given him the assignments for the day he was going to be missing. Now, he needed our foster mom to sign it. Afterwards, I asked Richard if I could borrow the paper for a second, and I took it to my room and traced our foster mom’s signature.

A week after I got back to school, Brandon and I went to the office so I could search for the planned absence form. I didn’t really have much of an idea in place. I just figured Brandon could stand there and maybe talk to the attendance clerk while I looked around for the form. It was as I opened the door to the office that I realized how ridiculous I was being. I just asked the lady clerk for the form. She had this naturally suspicious look to her about everything, and I was on her list, so to speak, because of my suspension. But I told her my biological father was in town and, no questions asked, she handed the form right over.

The worst part was going around to all my teachers and having to tell them I was meeting with my biological father on Columbus Day and that I needed to get them to sign off. I shouldn’t say that was the worst part, because that by itself really wasn’t so bad. I figured it was all in the name of seeing a magic show versus any old day in school where I wouldn’t learn anything new anyway. No, the worst part was when I had to get Ms. Morazes to sign. She started to get a little choked up when I told her why I needed her signature and hid her eyes with her hand. I told her not to cry, that it was going to be a fun day.

That’s when she really broke down and started to sob. She steeled herself and signed my form. “I hope you know what a special boy you are,” she said. This little pocket of air shot out of her throat at that point. “You have a lot to be proud of.” For a few seconds, I forgot what I was doing and believed what she was saying and felt this rush of warmth. But that only made me feel worse when I remembered the truth. I kind of patted her on the shoulder, then scooped up my form and left before I did or said anything else.

I was lying in bed, thinking about what Ms. Morazes had said later that night. It’s funny what sticks out in your memory and what gets left behind. I’ve heard people say it’s the little things that count, and they might be onto something. I’ve had plenty of foster parents tell me things like that before—calling me special, or even telling me they love me. It never really stuck. Then Ms. Morazes goes and gets choked up, trying to sign a form and it’s seared in my memory like a video recording. I kept playing it over and over, hearing that little gasp of air escape her throat, watching her fingers go to her brow over her closed eyes. Maybe it really is the small things that make a difference, because the magic show didn’t seem what it was anymore.

All of a sudden, I felt this strange urge to be a straight A student. Not like the ones who always ask teachers questions they already know the answers to and you know even the teachers don’t really like them but a different type of straight A student. One who never speaks much, except when called on. And they always have some answer that isn’t exactly what the teacher had in mind, but which then makes them think about it in a different way. They always do their work on time, but they don’t make a real show about it. And you just know the teacher secretly loves them, but it never has to be said. You could just tell from a small gesture when the teacher passes their paper back. Maybe the teacher sets their paper down in a special way so it slides across their desk into their stomach. It was all really nice to think about. A thing such as that you couldn’t do all at once, though. And I wasn’t exactly about to miss my day off to see Vincente Bellinelli either. Ms. Morazes did have me thinking about it, though, which I guess is what a good teacher does.

I woke up on Columbus Day and dressed and left for school like any other morning. This part was easy enough, as I go to the school bus stop by myself anyway, and my foster parents aren’t going around, following me to the school bus to make sure I get on. Instead of walking to the school bus, I went to the city bus stop. A few people headed into the city for work were sitting on the bench when I got there. I asked this lady if the bus was going downtown. All she said was yeah. She had this kind of hassled look to her. There are certain people who don’t seem to care at all what you’re doing as long you don’t care what they’re doing. This lady seemed like one of them. The bus driver, however, did not.

When I got on, he immediately started asking me all these questions: who I was, if I should be in school, why I had a backpack. I’ve been in jams before where I’ve been lying and the person will catch me in some part of it. You have to be pretty quick to gloss over the change without them knowing. Anyhow, it wasn’t hard this time because I had the lie all figured out already from talking to my teachers. He asked me why I had the backpack, and I just told him about the magic show, said my father was taking me to see Vincente Bellinelli while opening the bag to show him Kristoph’s book and my cards. I even showed him some tricks that he watched in the rearview mirror at red lights. A few of the riders noticed, and I performed some of the tricks I knew—involving light crowd work—for them. Just things like the rising card, which works pretty well in any environment if your shuffles and double lifts are good enough. I did mess up a couple of times, mostly because I was on the bus and it was cramped in the seats, but I played it off professionally. That’s what Kristoph says is the mark of a true magician—how they handle their mistakes. Every magician makes mistakes during their act, but the best incorporate them so well that either the audience doesn’t realize or, if they do, they think it was on purpose.

“You’re going to be big noise one day, kid. I know it,” the bus driver said when I rose to get off. “And good luck with your father,” he added. I had gotten so into all the magic I had nearly forgotten about the father story. I thanked him quickly and stepped off the bus. At this point, I was rather pleased with myself. Bus drivers do see a lot in their line of work. If he knew I was going to be big noise one day, it had to count for something.

I bought my ticket at this table they had set up right inside the entrance of the coffee house. I figured I was going to be the first one at the show, but there were actually these two girls sitting in the front row of the chairs that had been arranged in front of a platform stage. It surprised me to see that Vincente Bellinelli was already out and talking animatedly with them. I didn’t think he would be out so early, but I hadn’t seen a magician before in person, so maybe it was pretty standard. He had on this really tight black T-shirt with sleeves that wrapped closely around his biceps, which were pumped up like he had just been working out. I hadn’t noticed that in the online videos. It seemed like he must have known the girls he was talking with because they had the best seats in the house. One of them had this kind of big hair. I don’t know how girls get their hair that way, but the only way to describe it is big. At first, I thought she was very pretty, but then when I started watching her, I wasn’t so sure. Vincente was only talking to her friend, almost ignoring her, and she kept scooting in to try to get his attention. She had this really annoyed look on her face where her mouth got all small and her eyes narrowed. Vincente was doing a here then there with her friend. It’s actually a really simple trick where you give someone a card, and they think it’s a certain card, and then you make a different card appear in their hand—specifically one they saw you holding only seconds before. Simple in that there’s really two of that same card in the deck. It’s a bit cheap in that you can’t do that with any old deck that someone in your audience might insist on. It all depends on presentation for the best effect, where you dress it up with other smaller tricks and your audience is constantly a step behind. But I was watching the look on that girl with the big hair’s face, and you could tell she was even getting angry that Vincente was only talking to her friend. It made me like Vincente more, to tell you the truth—him ignoring this girl who could get full-on angry about a thing so small.

Other people started to come in, and Vincente left the stage area. The crowd seemed to be a pretty good spread of people from the city. That’s one of the things I love about magic: it works on everybody. I did notice at first there weren’t any kids, not totally surprising with so many schools in session. But two did come in with someone who looked to be their mother, and it made me feel better about my cover. When Vincente came back out, he was in a fitted black suit jacket and a crisp black button-down shirt. He went right into his set with a trick involving cups and limes. I’m not sure how he was doing the trick, to be honest. He would lift the cups, and they would be completely empty. Then he’d move them around while talking to us and multiple limes would appear in the cups that couldn’t have been there. Crazy, but he was on the stage and we were in our seats, so our vision of him wasn’t completely level. After some stuff involving small ropes, he asked for a volunteer, and I raised my hand.

“I saw you here so early,” Vincente said and called me up to the stage. I must have swallowed three times in the fifteen-foot walk up to the stage. You really do swallow when you’re nervous; just watch next time you get nervous or star struck. “What’s your name?” Vincente asked.

I told him and added, “I’m a magician too.”

Vincente must have thought this was pretty funny because he laughed and rubbed my head. “Have a seat, champ. Right there next to the table.”

I sat down next to the table and Vincente started the setup for card stealing where you ask for a card from the audience, and then you hold the deck up and then drop them in a pile before you seemingly catch the chosen card at random from the air. The trick is to palm the card in your other hand. I will say: you need slicker fingers than I have at the moment to pull it off. The set up can also be a mother because you have to have your cards arranged so you can find the selected card inconspicuously. Anyway, Vincente asked for a card from the audience and someone yelled out “ace of spades.” Of course.

“Beautiful. I’m going to drop these cards, champ. And when you say ‘when,’ I’m going to grab the ace of spades,” Vincente said.

I said “when” when about half the cards had fallen, and Vincente didn’t do anything but let the rest of the deck fall and then look over at me.

“I said say ‘when,’” Vincente said. The girl in the front row with the big hair laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Vincente looked over and smiled. He turned back to me. “Are you going to say ‘when’?” His teeth were a bleach shade of white.

“I’ll say ‘when,’” I muttered. He dropped the cards again, and I said “when” at the same point. Vincente shot his hand over and produced the ace of spades as if he caught it from the dropping deck The girl with the big hair shrieked, and Vincente again looked over and held her gaze for a second. Then he sent me off stage by asking the audience for a round of applause. “How about Christopher, huh? Let’s give him a big hand.” This was kind of stupid, as it wasn’t like he was playing for some big venue; it was just a coffee house that had some small platform stage set up.

I don’t really remember much of the rest of the show. I just sat in my seat and felt really weird. It didn’t feel like someone had punched me in the stomach; I wish someone had punched me in the stomach. It felt like I wanted to be literally anywhere else. Only I knew that being anywhere else wouldn’t matter, because whatever it was was inside my stomach and wouldn’t go away. At the end of the show, I watched Vincente take his bow, and then he stepped off the stage and started talking to the girl with the big hair. The next thing I remember, I was out of the coffee house and on a bench in a downtown park. I just kept seeing that smug expression on Vincente’s face, from when he spoke to me, and that awful look in the girl with the big hair’s eyes beaming up at him. As if he had somehow done something that special. I could imagine doing magic for a girl if she was your wife, or if you really liked her and she was a nice person. But that was not a nice person. I felt bad for the friend. Maybe the girl with the big hair had dragged her friend to this show because she didn’t want to go alone. Or maybe he had met them and given them both tickets earlier that morning. I didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Several pigeons were strutting very close to me on account of my sitting still for so long. I didn’t move. All I knew was I didn’t want those pigeons to leave. And they stayed. They just kept pecking around by my feet. It wasn’t even like there was food there, but they kept wobbling around, pecking like there was. Imagine having all that power to do magic and using it to pick up some girl who acts that way. I thought of Ms. Morazes and the way her throat caught when she spoke to me about meeting my biological father, how that had made me feel in my stomach after. My backpack was sitting next to me, and I pulled out Kristoph’s book. I had meant to get it signed by Vincente since Kristoph had been dead so long and obviously couldn’t sign it. Maybe Kristoph had been exactly like Vincente all those years before. I traced the blue writing of the title Kristoph’s Card Secrets, then lay the book in my lap. Then I thumped the orange hardcover with my fingers. Over and over, I thumped, staring straight ahead. Nope, couldn’t be.

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Michael Long graduated from the College of William & Mary with a BA in philosophy and the University of California-Riverside with an MFA in creative writing.  He was raised and lives just outside Washington, D.C.