I hate performing for magicians.

I love performing for laypeople.

I'm standing on hard concrete, making a fool of myself. Person after person walks past. There's a millisecond when they spot me and immediately un-see me. Their eyes glaze over.

They're polite, so they smile while they pretend that I'm not there.

I'm performing for a room full of magicians.

It's in the basement of the church; that's where all the brothers of the brotherhood meet.

Someone asked: Who wants to perform? One, Two, Three, Four people volunteer.

I'm new. The only girl there that day, the only one in the old boys' club.

It's only in my head

I think

when I feel eyes creeping towards me.

Anyone else? he asks.

I hate performing for magicians.

I volunteered.

Someone stops.

What've you got?

Not much, I shrug.

I wave a card. It's a color change, a metamorphosis of a Joker to a King.

Eyes widen. The audience builds.

The audience is already there.

I'm Five, so I watch One, Two, Three, and Four.

One is hiding that there.

Two is doing that trick from that book.

Three is doing something that I sometimes do too.

Four's probably got that up his left sleeve.

I'm watching a magic show.

I hate being a magician watching a magic show.

It's a coin trick. One, two, three coins.

Except there's no trick, since I'm just counting.

And being funny

or trying to be.

Magic for magicians.

Here we go.

I curl up my toes in my shoes.

That's how I deal

when my nerves are screaming.

The audience laughs.

I do the trick.

The coins jump one, two, three.

That's all there is to it.

It's magic.

It's a display of knowledge -

I get a compliment on how well I did [So-and-so's] [secret move].

[That magician] does a great version of this.

Check out [Master Magician's] book.

I thank them for their input.

I put away my number two pencil and blue and white Scantron.

I think I passed.

*I don't really know what this is. I had three cups of coffee today - three times what I normally have on a normal Sunday afternoon. This is the result.