I plop down on one of the black folding chairs near the front. I take the edge seat and regret it immediately as I shift my knees to the side every time someone needs to move past me. My toes still end up bruised. Drunkenness has no grace.

A blond boy with spiked hair sits down beside me. He stares at the side of my face as I focus on the stage, willing him not to speak to me.

The lights fade and the noise fades with them. Only jarred lights dangling above continue to flutter, barely illuminating everyone’s heads. Any remaining whispers die as a spotlight flickers on.

A girl stands with her chin tilted slightly down so her black ringlets fall against her cheekbones. She glows under the harsh light, and her strapless purple dress shimmers even with her stillness. The dress ends above her knees, leaving just inches of bare white skin between the hem and the top of her lace-up black boots.

She stays frozen long enough for the audience to fidget in their seats. Everyone holds their breath, and I realize I’m doing the same. I let mine go the second before the loud thrum of a violin bursts through the speakers. With the sound, one of her palms twitches upward, and a ball of flame shoots to life. There’s a moment of silence, aside from the low murmurs of a few assholes in front of me, and then her other palm opens with a surge of flame, accompanied by the violin.

This time the music continues, drifting away until the violin whispers just on the edge of our hearing before slowly growing as she finally raises her head. She stares out at us, face stoic, until the music hits a loud and frenzied high, and she jerks her hands toward the audience, sending harmless sparks above the heads of the first two rows.

Her palms close, and she smiles, taking in the few whistles and claps.

I don’t clap. I’ve seen similar tricks online with people shooting sparks from their hands and using hand sanitizer to light their palms on fire. It’s a cheap party trick used by drunk frat boys. I’ve never seen anyone maintain it as long as she did, but I crave more. I want the rush of seeing a new trick and believing for one glorious second that the magic is real and anything is possible. I want those childhood moments of wonder while standing at the edge of the stage watching Dad make Mom disappear and then reappear across the stage. Or those times at the dinner table with Mom when she made a card appear underneath my dinner plate while she was across the table. My parents were magic—even if Mom told me again and again that it was only illusion.