I race to my best friend Leila’s apartment, my gym bag bouncing against my back. She opens the door, and her little brother, Omar, sticks out his arm, blocking her way.
We’re already late for basketball practice.
“Can’t I come with you?” he begs.
“You’re banned after snatching the ball last week,” Leila says.
His face falls, but he won’t budge.
“If I do the trick, will that make you feel better?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he says, tilting his head.
I reach behind his ear and pull out a quarter. “Ta-da! You should clean your ears better.”
He grins up at me and pockets the quarter. He always pockets the quarter. He waves goodbye, running back to his room.
Leila laughs. “The Amazing Amelia.”
That’s the stage name my grandfather gave me. He taught me everything I know about magic, including that coin-in-the-ear trick. Grandpa is Polish and doesn’t speak much English, but that never mattered to me, because magic is its own language.
Grandpa knows all the words for magic tricks: “Pick a card, any card,” “Now you see it, now you don’t,” and of course, “Ta-da!”
His face would always light up when I figured out how to do a new trick. “The Amazing Amelia,” he’d say in a booming voice.
“You’re really good at magic,” Leila says as we hurry to practice. “You’ve got to try out for the school talent show.”
I shake my head. “I haven’t practiced since Grandpa moved out. It’d be awful to mess up in front of everybody.”
And anyway, I’ll never be as good at magic as Grandpa is. Or as good as he used to be.
For my whole life, it was just Grandpa, Mom, and me. Every day after school, he would fix me a snack of cheesy pierogies and teach me magic tricks. But a year ago, he started leaving the stove on and getting lost on his daily walks. Then he started forgetting his tricks, and that got him so upset he wouldn’t come out of his room. Now he’s at Green Acres Assisted Living, where nurses can watch over him.
He hasn’t done magic in a long time . . . which means I haven’t either.