“My name is Grace Wu,” the woman repeated. “I’m calling on behalf of Flynn Bissette.”
The name hit me like a slap. Flynn Bissette? As in Flynn & Kellar, the most successful duo in the history of magic?
“Hello?” the woman said. There was something overenthusiastic, maybe even insincere about her voice.
“Did you say you’re calling on behalf of Flynn Bissette?”
“Yes!”
Irritation tightened my jaw. This was just one more in a long series of prank calls. They got our number off our Facebook page and thought they’d have fun taunting a has-been.
“It’s Grace, right?” I said, unable to keep the contempt out of my voice.
“That’s right. Grace Wu.”
“Okay, Grace. What can I do for literally one of the most famous magicians ever?”
“Grace” was undeterred by my sarcasm. “Mr. Bissette is shooting a live magic special at the Dolby Theatre in Hollywood. He’d like Mr. Dante to—”
“Fuck off.” I was surprised at the rage suddenly heating my face.
“Excuse me?” the woman said.
I was about to launch into a tirade, but the robot voice broke in once more and told me I was out of time.
CHAPTER 3
I POCKETED MY PHONE AND leaned against the column.
“What was that about?” Liam asked.
I looked away. “Can I use your bathroom?”
I sat on the toilet lid, one hand pressed against the wall, the other on my chest. My heart was pounding—which felt wrong, because depression was rolling toward me like a summer storm. Usually, that slowed everything down. But so much had happened in the last five minutes, thoughts were pinging around my skull like ricocheting bullets.
The prank call had been the trigger, but it was more than that. I was out of cell minutes, cut off from Ripley, cut off from clients—I couldn’t even take my fucking US History test. We were almost broke, and we’d just stolen three hundred dollars’ worth of diesel. This was our last gig on the books. We were running out of options.
Applause drifted in through the bathroom window; the show was over. I splashed some water on my face and headed upstairs to pack up. I didn’t see Liam as we were loading the trailer, and I found that I was disappointed. Which was probably stupid: A year ago, he’d fooled me into thinking he liked me. Probably, he’d just done it again.
But as I stepped into the RV, he called my name.
“Ellie!”
I paused in the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” Liam said, stopping at the bottom of the retractable steps. “Can I get a do-over?”
I cocked my head. “What are we, in third grade?”
The Millers’ front door opened, and the blonde who had pulled Liam inside earlier came stumbling down the front steps with her tall friend.
“Liiaaamm,” she called.
He ignored her and held my gaze. “I’m heading back to school in a couple days. But I thought, if you’re not busy tomorrow night . . .”
I tried to look casual as I steadied myself against the door frame to counteract the dizziness that had suddenly come on. I’d been hit on a thousand times; I’d been asked out on a date precisely never.
“Are you asking me out?”
Cue the impossible dimple. “Yes, Ellie, I’m asking you out.”
He kept saying my name—and I found that I didn’t hate it.
“I don’t really date,” I said. “I’m never around.”
“Are you around tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know.” It was the truth.
“Well, why don’t you give me your phone number, and I can call you?”
I searched his face, trying to detect whether he was making fun of me, but my judgment was scrambled. I decided to play it safe.
“Your dad booked us,” I said. “You can get the number from him.”
Liam stood there with a stunned expression on his face—he was used to girls falling all over themselves for his attention. Case in point: the blond girl who was now slinking toward us, whispering and laughing with her friend. She was so pretty—professional tan, salon manicure, and an outfit worth more than my whole closet. How could I compete with that?
The two of them pulled Liam away. As they neared the girl’s car, he looked back over his shoulder and gave me a quizzical look.
I turned and boarded the bus.
As the door closed, Dad looked over at me from the driver’s seat.
“Say nothing,” I warned. “Say absolutely nothing.”
Dad mimed zipping his lips, then started the motor.
We pulled away, and I watched Liam Miller get smaller and smaller in the side-view mirror.
It started raining as soon as we pulled onto the highway, fat, angry drops striking the windshield like suicidal wasps. I imagined Liam rushing around the Millers’ backyard, rescuing centerpieces or carrying that cute blonde over a patch of mud. I closed my eyes and tried to picture anything else. The quickening that had struck me after my encounters with Liam and the prank caller slipped away fast, leaving my nerves raw and buzzing. Sometimes this happened after I performed; I felt as if I were standing at the top of a steep slope, waiting for something to run up from behind and push me over the edge. But tonight, I hadn’t set foot onstage.
We got back to the glorious Cedarwood Mobile Estates just after ten p.m. I was looking forward to connecting to the Wi-Fi, cranking out my history exam, then hooking up the propane for a hot shower—but when Dad got out to enter his code at the entrance gate, something went wrong. I could see him through the rain-streaked driver’s-side window, bent over the security keypad, coat stretched over his head in lieu of an umbrella. Ella. Ella. I moved over to his seat and cracked the window.
“What’s wrong?” I yelled over the sound of the storm.
“It won’t take my code,” he replied, typing it in again. The LED indicator flashed red, and he grunted with frustration.
“Hang on,” I said, trying to hide my irritation; the man was allergic to technology. I pulled up my hood, climbed out of the RV, and came around to the keypad. Dad stepped aside, clearly annoyed that I was doubting him. I punched in the numbers, my fingers trembling against the cold metal buttons, but the light still flashed red.
“You see?” Dad said.
I reached for my cell to call the manager, then remembered I didn’t have any minutes left and pushed the Call button on the security gate’s keypad instead. A low electronic burble issued from the crappy speaker. After four or five rings, Julius, the site supervisor, finally picked up.
“The office is closed.” He sounded like I had woken him up.
“Julius, it’s Ellie. The gate’s not working.”
I heard rustling as if he was moving the phone to his other ear. “Ellie who?”
“Elias Dante. Space Twenty-Two.”
Long pause.
“Julius, can you please open the gate? It’s raining cats and dogs out here.”
“No, I can’t open the gate.”
I glanced at Dad, ready to share a look of annoyance—but his expression had frozen. He looked scared, or maybe guilty. I frowned at him and spoke into the talk box again.
“Well, the keypad’s not working. Is there a manual override or something?”