“Captain Grimbeard,” Wesley interjects, extending his hand to give each boy a hearty handshake. They stare at him, awestruck. Clearly, pirate trumps royal servant in the eyes of eight-year-old boys.
“Um, yeah. Anyway,” I say. “Captain Grimbread—”
“Grimbeard.”
“Captain Grimbeard is assisting me tonight. Pray tell, can I get thee anything else?”
It’s like I haven’t even spoken, these kids are so into Wesley and his stupid eye patch.
“You lads like magic?” Wesley reaches over and pulls a Tudor Tymes chocolate coin from behind Boy Number Two’s ear, a totally lame trick that somehow manages to delight the entire table. They erupt in applause like he’s David Copperfield or something.
A few minutes later, I’m pushed aside while Wesley makes balloon animals—which, hello, they totally did not have balloons in the Middle Ages. And even if they did, they were probably sheep bladders or something, and they almost certainly didn’t use them to make balloon animals.
When the trumpet sounds to signal the start of the show, I shepherd Wesley to the back of the room, where the waitstaff are supposed to remain, hidden in the shadows. I guess this is to make sure that none of us distract the audience from the real show—i.e., Alan.
“So, you’re, like, a pirate magician?” I whisper to Wesley as the lights dim.
He smiles. “Cool, huh?”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” I say. “Pirates don’t do magic tricks. They rape and pillage.”
“You’re thinking of Vikings.”
Clearly, I need to bone up on my pirate history.
“Okay, fine. But I know for a fact that they didn’t have magicians in the Middle Ages.”
“Well … technically, the king had fools—”
I can’t help but smile.
“—but you’re right—they were more like clowns than magicians,” he says. “But who doesn’t love magic?”
Right now? I’m not so fond of it. Unless, of course, Wesley’s able to make himself disappear. That I could definitely get behind.
“I can’t believe you’re still so into it,” I say. Wesley used to carry a magic wand with him everywhere. But that was when we were eleven.
He shrugs. “Some things stick with you.”
I can’t argue with that. After all, as he pointed out earlier, I’ve been borderline obsessed with England for years. That probably seems just as weird to him.
“Explain the balloon animals, then,” I say. “Not something magicians normally do.”
“I worked the birthday party circuit in Vegas.”
“Wow. That’s…”
“Geeky?” Wesley smiles. “Go on. You can say it. But I’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.” He holds up a five-dollar bill and nods toward table nine.
I narrow my eyes and make a grab for the bill, but he holds it out of my reach. “That’s my tip, you ass! I earned it.”
He folds the money into his pants pocket, where he knows I’m not about to go after it. “Maybe we can work out an arrangement. Magicians always need assistants.”
Is he kidding? He started working here an hour ago. As if I’m going to help him with his stupid tricks!
I cross my arms, fuming, as Alan waddles onto the stage and settles himself on the throne. He clears his throat and begins to deliver a somber Shakespearean soliloquy. Because this is Alan’s idea of a show small children are dying to see.
“I come no more to make you laugh,” he booms, tapping his gold-tipped cane against the stage floor. “Things now, that bear a weighty and a serious brow … sad, high, and working … full of state and woe … such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow.”
Alan loves a dramatic pause, so it usually takes him forever to wander through this soliloquy. Surprisingly, no one ever leaves during his performance. Maybe they’re afraid he’ll throw them in the stocks.
“You go to West Seattle High?” Wesley asks.
“Yup.” I glance at him, my stomach suddenly tight. “Don’t tell me…”
He nods. “I’ll be there in the fall.”
Great. So not only do I have to work with Wesley, but he’ll be haunting my school hallways as well. This night just keeps getting better.
“It seriously sucks to have to start a new school in my senior year,” he says. “I kept in touch with a couple of guys from elementary school, though, so at least I’m not going in totally blind.” He nudges me with his elbow. “And you, of course. I know you.”
Is he for real?
Wesley James and I will never be friends.
Ever.
He takes in my crossed arms, the death-glare. And, finally, he gets it.
“Wait,” he says, his smile fading. “You aren’t still mad…”
When I don’t say anything, Wesley shakes his head. “Boy, Q. You can really hold a grudge.”
He has no idea.
“How can you still be mad? It was five years ago,” he says. “And, when you think about it, I didn’t even really do anything—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap. The words come out louder than I expected them to, falling right into one of Alan’s dramatic pauses. I sink back into the shadows before he can identify me—I’m hoping the stage lights mean he can’t see the crowd clearly—and I don’t breathe again until he resumes his speech.
As soon as the lights come up, I leave Wesley to fend for himself.
*
By the time I get home, it’s nearly midnight. I text Erin—fortunately, she’s a night owl—and a few seconds later my phone rings.
“I hate my life,” I say, collapsing on my bed. I really should take a shower—I stink like turkey and grease and despair—but right now I need to talk to Erin more than I need to be clean. “You will not believe who I’m working with.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say his name. I’m too traumatized.” I throw my arm over my eyes.
“Jason Cutler?”
Jason and I had a brief thing last semester. He dumped me over text the day before my birthday, so I understand why his name is the first to pop into her head.
But while working with Jason would be heinous, it would still be preferable to working with Wesley.
“Worse,” I say.
“Who’s worse than Jason?”
“Wesley James.”
“No! I thought he lived in Oregon?”
I sigh deeply and turn over, burying my face in my pillow. “He moved back,” I mumble.
“What are you going to do?”
I picture Erin in her room. It’s twice the size of mine, with purple-striped walls and a canopy bed, like something out of a fairy tale.
“What can I do?” I say.
“I don’t know. Quit?”
“Not if I want to go to London. It’s way too late in the summer to try to find another job. Besides, why should I quit? I was there first.”
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” she says. “Maybe he’s changed.”
“No. He hasn’t.” I rub my eyes. I think I’m getting a migraine.
“Is he cute?”
“Erin.”
“What? He was a cute kid. I’m trying to get a mental picture of what he looks like now.”
“You don’t need a mental picture. You can see him in person when he starts school with us in September.”
“Seriously?”
“Why do you sound excited? This is the exact opposite of exciting news.”
She laughs. “I don’t know. Maybe because all you’ve talked about for years is what a jerk he is. How he ruined your life. I just think…”
“You just think what?” I prompt.