Jessie Grean

CHAPTER 1

My feet carried me toward home, a room to call my own, and a mother who didn't want to be one, at least not to me. I meandered along the uneven sidewalk. A glint on the ground woke up my drooping eyes. Maybe it was my lucky day. A nugget of freedom would have been great. I kneeled. A round piece of bronze metal. Another penny. I pushed the coin with my thumb over my index finger and let it roll over the rest of my hand.

The wavelike motion swept my memory back to Jennifer Klein, my old neighbor. She gave me the bug for finding treasures on the streets. It brings you luck, she’d promised. Her big smile had hammered hope into my brain on my fourth birthday. I’d gulped all her words down. Why not?

She’d been like a grandma to me. The old lady was gone now. Yet her promise persisted. I gripped on this hope for a long time. I didn’t even know what I hoped for anymore. Sometimes I feared my life was already over. Despite that, I pocketed the penny.

Droplets started pelting the path. Foreboding thunder rattled the dark sky. I sped up to find refuge under an over- hanging branch. My quick breathing filled the space around me. The rain pounded down on the tree. Wet splotches formed on the pavement as raindrops squeezed through the leaves.

Goose bumps popped up on my arms. I watched myself shivering in the computer repair shop window opposite me. My jeans were torn on my knees and my sneakers had holes. Usually, I avoided my reflection. My appearance disturbed me. Unfortunately, other people were fascinated by the way I looked.

White spots around my eyes, mouth, and neck always drew stares. Throughout my sixteen years, my skin condition had spread across my body. My kindergarten nurse called it vitiligo. My mother never talked about it. She merely wrinkled her nose before her upper lip arched in an inverted U.

The rain stopped as quickly as it had started. The down- pour created small rivers at the edges of the street. I marched on and rounded the corner to a side road. Rain- water carried a stream of plastic bottles, cups, and flattened cereal boxes down the drain.

The outside of my brown house, with its missing wood siding, broken windows, and fading paint, reflected the inside pretty accurately: disheveled and run-down. The white wooden front door creaked. As if on cue, my mom’s rusty voice pierced my ears.

Jessie? Is that you?

Who else would it be? escaped my mouth. I clamped my lips shut instantly. A little burst of satisfaction made me happy for a split second.

Don’t smart-mouth me, my mother rattled. And get nothing wet. I just cleaned.

A one-inch-thick dust layer had accumulated above blackened scratches on wood panels. A collection of thin brown-and-white plastic grocery bags lined the hallway in front of me, leading up to the kitchen and living room. Dirty clothes, junk mail, and food packaging filled up most of the bags. A musk of rotten food emanated from emptied cans.

What are you up to now? boomed her voice.

I jetted up the stairs without answering.

You come here when I’m talking to you, yelled my mother. Her heavy, plodding steps drew closer.

I stopped midlevel. She reached the bottom of the stairs surprisingly fast. Wrinkles and pimples were spread across her facial skin. Stringy, thin hair stuck to the side of her head. Her eyes sat deep in their sockets. Black and missing teeth showed every time she opened her mouth.

This five-foot-tall woman wore her pink chiffon dress, as usual. Perhaps it looked good on her at one point in her life. Now, however, the dress resembled a rag that had been dragged through the mud, burned, and beaten for the hundredth time. Luckily, we never went anywhere together. Regardless of my appearance, hers made me want to crawl under a stone.

What, Mother? I challenged.

What? she parroted. Can’t you talk in whole sentences? Don’t you go to school or something? I didn’t finish school, but I talk better than you! You should do something for your brain.

That again. These speeches rotated in a constant cycle with nothing ever added. My mother thundered toward me.

Ouch! escaped me after her slap.

You earned it!

My cheek burned. I dashed into my room. My anger shut out my mom’s continued screeching. Tears drizzled out of my eyes. I hated her. I hated this place. I had nothing. I was nothing.

I curled up, lost in time. Eventually, the sadness evaporated from my veins. My focus landed on a five-gallon trans- parent plastic bottle full of change. I had collected the coins off the streets over the years. At first, the mountain of round metal sparked a sense of achievement in me, but the pride fled quickly. The copper, silver, and rare gold coins brought me nothing. No luck, no riches. The pit in my stomach grew. No money, no freedom.

The edge of a plastic card on my desk caught my eye. I jumped off my bed, pulled out the library card, and yanked down all the crap on my table along with it. Paper, pencils, and books covered my floor. I twisted the credit-card-sized white plastic in my hand. Blue letters read JAMAICA PLAIN CENTRAL LIBRARY.

Mrs. Gallagher made me sign up for a card when we had a media course there. My eyes had barely stayed open during those forty-five minutes. At the end of the class, she’d made us write down our favorite book titles and share them.

How had she said it? To broaden our mind, or something along those lines. I wanted to chicken out. I didn’t have a damn library card, and I told her so. But I didn't think when the words came out of my mouth. She made me sign up for one on the spot, all the while telling me about the freebies that came along with it, like access to the internet and access to all books, CDs, and videos within the Boston library network.

Her words rang in my ears. A tingle twirled up my spine. An escape from this house. I booted up, hurled myself toward the door, shut it right behind me, and sprinted toward the center of Jamaica Plain.

Car exhausts mingled with bird chatter. Life and energy surrounded me as soon as I reached Armory Street. A woman’s metallic voice broke out over the city noises. It’s unbelievable.

A man’s deep voice agreed with her. I couldn’t believe it either.

My eyes fixated on a computer screen behind the window of a newspaper kiosk next to me. A man with glasses, a gray mustache, and a pink polo shirt continued on the broadcast, I don’t know what happened. I was just gone.

My mind reeled at all the statements. A younger woman appeared on the advertisement. Her blonde bob contrasted with her black dress. I was instantly hypnotized, she declared.

A man in heavy black and white makeup with jet-black hair, startling emerald green eyes, a black dress shirt, and black pants appeared. I am ready. Are you? Get tickets online or at TD Garden’s box office.

I started walking, thinking about hypnotism until my sneakers squealed on the imitation-hardwood floor of the library. A few people raised their heads. I diverted my gaze to the young woman behind a wooden crescent-shaped table. Her brown hair touched her shimmering yellow blouse just below her shoulders. The sign on her desk read JUNE GRAND.

In a firm voice, she asked, How can I help you?

My mouth opened, but I held my breath. What did I want? The voice from the commercial flashed into my mind. I am ready. Are you? he’d invited.

Have you heard about the guy on TV who does magic shows?

The librarian paused for a second before she answered, Do you mean Van Raven, the magician?

Mmmhhhh, I think so.

Actually… began Ms. Grand while reaching for a leaflet in a transparent stand right in front of me. Here we go. She held up the flyer.

Big red letters spelled out THE MAGIC KINGDOM. See Van Raven at TD Garden, October 5.

That’s tomorrow, I declared.

If you want to find out more about him, you can use the computer over there. Ms. Grand gestured behind me.

After opening the internet browser, I typed Van Raven in the search box and hit Enter. Thousands of results came back. Van Raven—The Magic Starts Here was the first one. I clicked on the link.

Images of the dark-haired man with heavy contrasting makeup populated the home page along with snippets about Van Raven. The first sentences read, Van Raven leads a new generation of magicians. He will capture you with his presence and surprise you with his mind-twisting tricks. After his show, you will believe in real magic.

A video streamed below the newspaper fragment. Van Raven’s face appeared. The camera closed in on his hypnotizing green eyes. His off-camera voice boomed out of the speakers. I jumped backward and pushed keys, any keys, to make the noise stop. A hand reached down from behind me and muted the noise.

Here, offered the librarian, passing me a pair of headphones.

Sorry, I mouthed as I slipped the listening device over my ears.

Look into my eyes, and you will find yourself. Trust me and then trust yourself. You will feel me becoming one with you. His voice mesmerized me.

Another newspaper snippet appeared on the screen. What you see is never what you get. His clever use of mind control, hypnosis, and manipulation onstage and off has created a buzz around this Chicago-born magician, who used to be mentored by mentalist Sam Litmen after he had run away… .

The library will close in fifteen minutes. If you wish to borrow items, please start checking them out now, announced June Grand over the loudspeaker.

The computer screen turned black. I carried the head- phones to the librarian.

Thank you. And this book was just returned, offered.

Ms. Grand. She slid a book toward me. The title read The Magic in You.

I flipped through the pages. A few words stood out immediately: focus, doubt, disbelief, control, perception, trust, attention, illusion. I borrowed the book on the spot.

A church bell resounded in the distance shortly after a library employee locked the door behind me. Nine chimes! A groan escaped my throat. I hung my head. A roundish shape on the ground caught my eye. The lost item sparkled gold.

One dollar. Wow.

I tiptoed into the house. My ears adjusted to the new environment. A muffled voice reached my ears, and I glided toward its origin.

No. I don’t know. You don’t know any better than I do. No. I didn’t tell her anything yet about her father. No, she doesn’t know. Why should she? You could take care of her instead since you know it all. Stop telling me what to do, Paula!

I held my breath, yet the floor creaked under my feet. Jessie! Why are you late again? yelled my mother.

Giant leaps carried me upstairs. I closed my bedroom door behind me and threw myself on the bed. What about my father? Why did she never tell me anything? I’d questioned her about my father several times, but received no answer from her.

When I pressed my mother, only aggression came out against me for asking, against the world, against my aunt. They talked once in a while—just on the phone, though. I wondered if she lived in Alaska or Aruba, or somewhere else far away, so she never needed to face her sister. Every time they talked, my mother raised her voice. Her defiance and anger were unmistakable. I knew those feelings myself only too well.

All these questions spun around my head as I slept. Pictures of my Prince Charming father mingled with me hypnotizing my mother the same way Van Raven did his volunteers. She slumbered on her favorite spot—the couch in the living room—only for me to escape my invisible cage to roam the world without a single care.

Jessie! I heard a high-pitched voice screaming. Jessie, I don’t have time to wait for you to freaking get up!

Before I even pushed the kitchen door open, my mom's voice fired at me. I called you a hundred times. Do you always need an invitation? Why can’t you be a normal sixteen-year-old girl? What’s wrong with you? Wear your clothes outside out, not inside out.

The yapping washed over me. The big hand of the clock behind my mother struck seven. I’ve got to go. School starts in thirty, I excused myself.

Behind my back, she muttered, What kind of girl did I raise?

Rusted chain-link fences framed in a recess area the size of a baseball field. Students lingered on the patched-up concrete. I weaved through the crowd.

Look! a girl called out. Here comes the zebra. Not white, not black, but striped.

I increased my pace. Laughter swept through the school grounds. My cheeks flushed. I sat cross-legged on a toilet seat, staring at the beige bathroom stall door. My limbs trembled. Eventually the shaking stopped, my tears dried up, and my fingers unclenched from holding my legs. Footsteps came and then faded away in the hallway. The school bell sounded. Class- room doors slammed shut. I started breathing harder. Again, I was in trouble. But I didn’t care anymore.

My feet carried me out of the empty schoolyard across the road right toward Lamartine Street. Stony Brook’s underground station spilled out passengers every five minutes. The aboveground newsstand displayed magazines. The covers presented perfect people, with perfect smiles and perfect lives. I grew nauseated.

My gaze zeroed in on one pair of green irises. I’d seen those eyes before, just last night. An article title on the cover read, You Haven’t Found Me Yet? Come and Get Me. My heart skipped a beat, evaporating any negative feelings I had. Yes! I will!

Excitement bubbled up into the air. People swarmed the plaza in front of the Garden to enjoy their late afternoon treat. The concrete event space housed the Bruins and the Celtics, seating three thousand people at the north corner of Boston. I pushed through the forest of bodies to reach the box office. Are there any tickets left?

A man with a mullet responded through a microphone from behind the booth window. We’re almost sold out. His hands ambled over the keyboard.

So, are there any tickets left?

I am already checking…Okay! The only ones left are in A2 for $354.

No way!

You don’t want one?

No. Of course not.

A mass of men, women, teens, and families streamed left and right of me. I stumbled past the lucky ticket holders and sank onto the edge of a flower bed, weak, tired, disappointed, and angry as more people populated the entrance area. The atmosphere grew thick with anticipation while my mood dampened. I overheard a young boy howl to his mom, I am so excited! I can’t wait for the show to start. The cost of his outfit could have easily fed us for weeks.

I wanted to see Van Raven too. This spark of envy pushed me out of my stupor. I rounded the stadium toward the North End. The entrance for the performers and stadium employees came into view. I tiptoed along the smooth concrete and squeezed between a wall at the beginning of a metal gate, then edged between two glossy black tour buses and sneaked into the building through a side door. As I jumped from one shadow of the backstage area to the next, adrenaline pumped inside me.

Suddenly, a speaker switched on. A female voice roared through the stadium. Ladies and Gentlemen! This show contains images and interactions that might disturb you. You might feel the need to protect your eyes or ears. Please leave if this show causes you discomfort.

While I wondered why someone would leave after shelling out three weeks’ worth of grocery money, another microphone switched on.

Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for having me, began Van. His robust voice called everyone to attention.

Clapping erupted. My cheeks burned with annoyance. I made my way this far, but got stuck just before the show started. Other corridors branched off the hallway, stairs led to other levels, and a handful of closed doors created a maze.

Yet I put one foot in front of the other and followed the call of his voice. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two chunky men in black bomber jackets preceded by a golden retriever. They would surely know that I was an intruder. What if they caught me? I pictured myself standing handcuffed on my doorsteps. My knees weakened, and I started to sweat. I felt the urge to leave. Immediately.

The audience yelled, gasped, clapped. The energy prickled my skin. I swallowed hard, straightened up, and pretended that I belonged. Leaving was just not an option, regardless of the repercussions.

Unnoticed by the guards, I marched through the back- stage area until the heat and noise levels hit me like a sledgehammer and Van Raven stood only a few feet away.

Six thousand eyeballs concentrated on one man. Van Raven opened his arms wide. He lifted his chin.

Sit back, relax. I have something extraordinary to show you. No one has seen this illusion before. I want you to watch carefully. Some of you might find it distressing, but remember…It is just an illusion. An illusion that needs the help of an audience member. I will throw out a ball.

Van Raven tossed a lime-colored volleyball into the audience. A freckled teenager in a blue shirt caught it. Please throw the ball to another audience member, directed Van. The boy did. This process went on three more times.

Hold it! Van’s voice boomed out of the speakers. What is your name? A crew member dressed in black placed a microphone on an extension in front of the woman. Her pink ponytail swung left and right when she stood up.

Sarah.

Sarah, please join me onstage, invited Van Raven. The woman skipped up, accompanied by loud applause. Please stay right next to me, said Van. She walked over and stood on his right-hand side close enough to reach out and touch him with her fingertips. She tucked her black-and-white- striped muscle shirt into her ripped jeans. The clapping died down. The audience held its breath.

Slow classical music broke the hushed silence in the stadium. Relax and close your eyes. I will guide you into the magnificent world of your dreams. You are about to experience the feeling of moonwalking, began Van.

You will rise above the ground and fly over the stage. Sarah stayed still at first, but then, to my astonishment, the woman’s feet left the ground.

Wow, I gasped along with the audience.

She hovered, unmistakably. No visible construction raised her. Sarah levitated at least one foot above the ground. Van Raven lifted his hand. Without touching the woman, he guided her over his head. After she landed on his other side, Van Raven scattered green, blue, and brown broken glass on a small red carpet. The magician picked up one blue piece. He cut his hand palm. Three drops of crimson blood dripped onto a white one-foot-square mat in front of him. My chin dropped.

Sarah, Van called out. I want you to stand on your hands.

The young woman leaned forward, stretched out her hands, and pushed her legs into the air. She balanced perfectly. Like a toddler I stood there, simply transfixed and in wonder.

Let’s have a walk, then, suggested Van.

The barefoot magician walked over the broken glass carpet. Sarah followed on her hands, eyes still closed. My eyeballs popped out of my sockets. Everyone sat on the edge of their seats.

Once Sarah moved across the fragments of former bottles, Van addressed her. Now it’s time to come back to us. Sarah’s feet touched the floor. She stood onstage like a statue. Van lifted his hand and snapped his fingers right in front of her eyes. Almost instantly she opened them. Welcome back, Sarah. How do you feel?

Great! Fantastic, in fact. Somewhat light.

The audience laughed and clapped enthusiastically.

My thoughts spread across every dimension before settling on one idea. I had to learn how to do create this kind of magic.

I’ve never gotten up so early on a Saturday morning to read a book. The last streaks of the night’s darkness just vanished. Mesmerized, I devoured The Magic in You cover to cover three times, ignoring my prickly bedsheets. The chapter about hypnosis became my obsession. On scrap paper, I jotted down my own script. After seven or eight revisions, I had the urge to practice with someone. My heart sank. No friends, no family. I drummed the tip of my pencil on the page. Only one option could be heard in the beat.

I balled my hands into fists, trotted downstairs, took a deep breath, and pushed the kitchen door open. The television blared. My mother stirred a pot with one eye on the television.

Mom? I cooed sweetly over the noise.

What do you want? she snapped. I didn’t call you, did I? I told you that I don’t want to see you until I call you down.

Well…I…

What is it?

Something from school. Could you please turn off the TV so we can talk about it?

What? Don’t be ridiculous.

How could I get her to follow my suggestions? An idea popped into my head. I’ll…I wanted to apologize. I opened my hands and shrugged my shoulders.

What? Do you really think I’m that stupid? Her neck tensed.

I just thought something needs to change. You know? And I thought… I bit my lip.

Since when are you able to think, Miss Grean?

I sat down at the kitchen table. And to my surprise, my mom did too.

I just thought…that if I started…

Since when do you talk like that?

I realized that I am not a child anymore. I’m sixteen, and I need to take responsibility for myself.

I wish, she scoffed. My mother glanced at the pot of lentil soup on the stove, which was quietly simmering. She got up, but I gave her a gentle rub with my hand on her upper arm.

Mom?

I’m cooking, she mumbled.

It’s okay. The soup is cooking on its own, I soothed. A smile brightened up her eyes. This change in my mother’s face melted my heart. Her features relaxed. Hope stirred within me. I mustered all my courage.

There’s this experiment I did in physics class the other day. It’s really amazing. Can I show you?

Why not?

It’s very simple. I deepened my voice. Just look at my nose.

That’s a funny request.

I know, I countered. But you’ll be surprised. Keep looking at my nose.

My mother followed my suggestion. The soup bubbled. Otherwise, quiet enveloped us.

Close your eyes, my smooth voice commanded.

She actually did. Even if nothing came out of this, I would replay this moment for months in my head over and over and over.

"Do you feel how your eyes get heavier and heavier? In fact, if you try to open them, they get heavier. I am counting down from five. By the time I get to