Elsie looks at me hesitantly. ‘Well then, do you maybe wanna tell me about this boy? Cos something tells me he’s sort of been significant?’
I sigh. ‘I’m not even sure where to begin. And it’s not something I want to talk about while –’ I gesture at the doorway, where two year eights are sucking each other’s faces like the Hodge Conjecture proof might be hidden in one of their tonsils. I glance at my best friend. ‘Can I just come over and hang out? I promise I’ll tell you everything. And maybe … you can fill me in on what’s been happening with you? With America and, you know. All that stuff.’
Elsie throws an arm around my shoulder, then lets go of me just as quickly. Then she launches into an account of the latest episode of The Bachelor, and it all feels so familiar that, if I were a crier, I think I might have bawled.
I am confident of many things.
I am confident that I can solve cube roots as quickly as a calculator, and comprehend complex number theory without breaking a sweat.
I am confident that I will someday attempt to prove the Riemann hypothesis, even though there’s a strong chance I’ll end up nothing more than a footnote in an obscure journal, or a sarcastic meme on a Maths faculty’s Christmas party PowerPoint.
I am not confident that I will master much more than the maths. But for now, with Elsie nattering beside me and my heart beating at normal human speed, maybe that is enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Before there can be wonders, there must be wonder.
– DAVID COPPERFIELD
I’ve never been a massive fan of escapologists. Weird, I know, cos they’re kind of a huge deal among my people. But I dunno – like so much big stage magic, it’s all just a bit show-offy for me. There aren’t many escape tricks you can do alone, not without a team behind you. And really, being able to get out of a situation where you’re dangling in a straitjacket over a tank of sharks while someone shoots at you with a flamethrower – is that even magic? Or just pants-crapping panic?
But while I have no interest in busting out of an underwater tomb, I think maybe I’m starting to see the appeal. It’s not the flash and bang, or even the possibility of drowning. It’s the promise – the ticking clock, the terror of being trapped, and the exhilaration of working free.
Yeah. Kick-arse metaphors aside, life is actually not the steaming pile of horse manure I expected it to be. I hang out with my friends. I pick up a bunch of extra shifts at Houdini’s Appendix after Amy dislocates a shoulder at roller derby training, which, suffice to say, does not improve her mood. Jasper takes to dropping by the shop and bringing her USBs of music and bags of Skittles, which does morph her frown from exasperated to mildly annoyed. It’s mesmerising, observing the two of them, like watching an iceberg trying to charm the Titanic. Sometimes I still wanna mash their thick heads together. But my interfering days are over.
I force myself to engage with exam prep, though that does involve a whole lot of staring and a tonne of naps. I’m pretty behind, no surprises there. And I still have bugger-all interest in the finer points of civil law, or the details of molecular genetics, no matter how many YouTube videos Mr Grayson subjects us to. But, you know – I’m present and accounted for, which is more than I’ve been able to claim in a while. I spend time with my sister, building a mini Eureka Stockade in our yard and fashioning costumes from Dad’s old fishing coveralls. It’s the only way I can get her to feign interest in her History homework. And, okay, maybe I spend a little too much time with my cat. But I’m good. It’s not like I’m wasting away in a puddle of my own tears and my vaporised heart. I see Sophia at school, and I’m fine. I’m awesome.
Okay, maybe awesome is a tiny overstatement.
But I manage to pass the weeks in Bio without my eyes drifting to the back of her head – notwithstanding the time Damien shoved a pencil in my ear and hissed, ‘Dude, for god’s sake, grow some gonads and talk to her!’
I dunno about the state of my gonads. All I know is, Sophia seems fine, too. Solid, like some of her tumbling pieces are finally catching up with her amazing brain. I don’t know why I ever thought she needed someone like me. Not even when Tom Shaefer, the ham-fisted git, cornered her in the hallway, and I found my feet moving of their own accord, possessed by this desperate need to – well, maybe give him a stern talking-to or something. But she didn’t even need me then. Elsie will always have her back, no matter what.
I don’t have the energy for magic anymore. It’s stupid, and childish, something I should’ve let go of a long time ago. I still get a buzz out of helping the kids at the shop – teaching them simple shuffles and reveals, seeing their little faces light up when they master something new. Occasionally my hands feel edgy, and lost without a deck in them. Amy, in her usual graceless way, tries to talk me around by yelling at me till I take to wearing headphones at work. She even shows me this awesome variation on an Invisible Flight trick that I’ve been trying to get her to teach me for ages. But none of that matters. I need to move on. I’m never going to be anything other than average with it anyway. It’s about time I grew the hell up.
The weeks wind down. Nights fall later and later, and the chill in the air that felt like it would last forever slowly disappears. Details of our graduation ceremony are revealed – a liturgy in the chapel, followed by an assembly in the sports hall, both of which I have as much intention of attending as I do of joining Damien in his planned using-weed-killer-to-burn-a-giant-penis-on-the-soccer-oval muck-up day caper.
Exam time finally lands on my doorstep. History is a breeze. Maths is like being slowly wedgied with a cactus. But all in all, I think I’m doing okay.
By Friday afternoon after the Bio exam, I’m knackered. I’ve ditched pizza with Damien and am instead lying on my bed, staring up at my shelves. I’m trying to decide whether I have the will to study, or if I should tackle Game of Thrones from the first book again instead, when Gillian bangs open my door and barges in without knocking.
‘Whatcha doing, J-bag?’
‘What does it look like I’m doing, Gilly-bean? I’m chilling.’
She drops onto my fading star rug, tugging off her school tie. ‘Uh-huh. Moping, more like it.’
I piff a ball of socks at her. ‘Hey, not fair. I haven’t moped in ages. No mopage here. Totally beyond that.’