Don Calame - The Delusionist

L ADIES AND GENTLEMEN! B OYS AND GIRLS! P ERRY strides onstage, beaming like a game show host, his arms wide, as though hes embracing the entire school auditorium. Which he would, if he could. Hes that kind of guy. Welcome to the wonderful world of mystery and magic.

I scuttle after Perry, trying not to trip on the electrical cords that lead to the gleaming silver-and-black drill press looming at center stage. I take my place beside a long table where Perry has set our duffel bag full of props.

I am Perry Larsson. Perry gestures to himself. This he thrusts a palm out toward me is my silent partner in illusion, Quinn Purcell. And together we are Quinn and Perry.

The theater erupts in applause. We have become a talent show favorite here at Fernwood High. Its the only reason Im not completely invisible when I walk down the halls.

Well, that and the fact that Im usually walking with Perry.

I cant pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but somewhere around twelve Perry became ridiculously handsome, spellbindingly charming, and maybe most unbearable of all impossibly good at anything he does. It doesnt seem fair that someone could just wake up and suddenly be amazing at everything sports, theater, music, girls, poker, video games, dancing, beatboxing, finger whistling but thats what happened to my best friend.

One day were both just a couple of bean-thin dorks with greasy hair, squeaking voices, and uncontrollable wangs, and the next day Im still that very same scrawny dork but now, somehow, Perry is four inches taller and the proud owner of a voice as deep as the ocean, flowing blond locks straight out of a comic book, dimples that seem to have increased in adorableness, eyes that somehow have become an even more bottomless blue, and an unnatural ease in the world that makes everyone want to be around him.

I will give him credit, though. Perry has never forgotten where he came from. He still loves sci-fi, continues to belong to the Video Game Club, and has remained a dedicated magician. Perhaps most inconceivable of all, no matter how many popular-people parties he gets invited to, no matter how many cheerleaders he dates or how many winning touchdowns he scores, Perry continues to be best friends with me.

I would like to think Id have done the same if the roles were reversed. But I cant say for sure. Im weak-willed. So he has that over me as well.

Onstage, I shift a bit so that Im not literally standing in Perrys shadow the symbolism a little too on the nose and give a quick bow, grateful I dont have to speak. Weve tried the act where Perry and I dialogue a bit. Bantering back and forth. But once youve heard Perrys smooth radio baritone, my reedy sneaker screech is like a dark pube poking from a pillowy mound of whipped cream.

Tonight, my friends, Perry says, conspiratorially whispering to a crowd of four hundred, tonight you are going to witness a true Quinn and Perry original. Something we have never attempted before in front of a live audience.

Perry sweeps around the stage like were the headliner and not just one of two dozen acts performing in tonights talent show. He lets the thunderous ovation continue longer than he has to.

Now, if youve been to previous shows, Perry says, pacing the stage like a rock star, youve seen us read minds, summon the dead, make billiard balls float in the air, and change the paint color on a bicycle right before your eyes. He stops center stage, directly in front of the drill press, and addresses the audience with laser-focused seriousness. But this evening is different. This evening has an air of danger about it. Real danger that could result in real death.

I clear my throat, standing stock-still, trying to keep my heart from leaping out of my chest. Normally I can rein in my nerves. Get through a performance without passing out or, you know, throwing up all over myself.

But Perrys not kidding. This act is very much a life-and-death situation.

My life.

Or my death.

You see behind me an industrial-strength drill press, Perry says, stepping aside and pointing at the menacing machine. Many of you may have used a similar one in shop class to drill holes in wood, plastic, even steel. This one happens to be my fathers. A Delta 18-900L, eighteen-inch laser drill press. Fully functioning. Nothing has been tinkered with in any way. My father can attest to this. In fact, he would kill me if I tampered with it at all.

I wouldnt kill you, Perrys dad hollers from somewhere at the back of the theater. I would stop just short of that.

This gets a nice big laugh from the crowd. Because, you know, child abuse.

Always the jokester, Perry says. For more of my fathers humorous take on life, or if youd just like to see some of the lovely homemade pine hallway tables he has for sale, you can check him out @realrockylarsson on Twitter and rockylarssonwoodworks on Instagram.

The crowd hoots and applauds.

So, my father has confirmed that I havent tampered with his drill. Perry taps his lip. But then, why would you trust someone Id so shamelessly give a plug to? No. I think we need an impartial volunteer from the audience to come up here and run this powerful press through its paces. Just to be certain.

Instantly three-quarters of the hands in the audience shoot for the ceiling, everyone calling out to be chosen. If this were anyone other than Perry asking me, for instance all youd get would be crickets and violently averted gazes.

Can we have the lights turned up, please? Perry asks.

A second later the auditorium is illuminated. Hundreds of faces staring up at us. Mom and Dad are out there somewhere. Probably oversharing and handing out business cards to their seat neighbors.

I drop my gaze to the stage. Having all those eyes on me makes me feel like Im in front of a firing squad. A trickle of sweat dribbles down my left side and I have to suppress a shiver. Im wondering now if we should have scaled this effect back a little.

Hmm. Perry strokes his chin, carefully considering all of his choices. Such a fine-looking crowd we have here tonight. Lets see. OK. He points to one of the middle rows. How about the lovely lady right there?

I glance out to see that hes pointing at his ex-girlfriend Gwen Wilson, whos excitedly wiggling her long, manicured fingers in the air like shes reaching for a ripe apple thats just out of reach. Gwen is that rare breed of beautiful girl who will actually acknowledge you outside of school. Everything about her her smile, her big heart, her bouncy auburn hair, her sense of humor, her sunbeam eyelashes, her ridiculously sexy English accent is an all-encompassing glow of happiness.

Why Perry ever let her go continues to be a mind boggler. I mean, sure, theyre both young and have their whole lives ahead of them, but still, if you think that youve found your absolute perfect match at sixteen and its Gwen Wilson, you dont throw it away because youre worried its bad timing. You make it work.

Clearly I havent gotten over their breakup yet. And listening to Perry talk about her all the time, neither has he.

Give it up for Gwen Wilson, everyone. Perry applauds, and the entire audience follows suit. A more perceptive, beautiful, fair-minded person you will never find.

Gwen hoists herself up as her current boyfriend, the very jacked Carter Burns, blinks uncomfortably from the seat beside her. Youve gotta feel bad for the guy. I mean, its hard enough being best friends with the most handsome and charming guy on the planet. I cant imagine what its like to follow him in the romance department. How do you not drive yourself insane with comparisons?