12 Grand Finale

Chapter 12 Grand Finale grand finale (n) the last part of a performance, typically the most exciting spectacle of the show "Take a break," Evan said to Jessie on Friday afternoon. They had been running through the show for the past hour, and they were both hot and tired. The outdoor thermometer read ninety-two degrees, but the air was so sticky and thick that it felt like a hundred. To make things more difficult, odd gusts of wind would occasionally blow through, upsetting the prop table, sending the cards flying into the air, then disappearing, leaving the air even heavier than before. Evan knew Jessie was doing her best to keep everything in place, but she only had two hands. And then Professor Hoffmann started to act strange. He kept hopping around the edges of his

large cardboard box. Twice he kicked over his water bowl. And whenever Evan picked him up, he trembled. "It's the barometric pressure," said Jessie. "We measured it today at school. It's dropping because of the storm." "Rabbits don't have weather stations!" said Evan crossly. He was frustrated because he hadn't had a chance to practice the grand finale. "Animals can tell, though. They can sense changes in air pressure, and they can hear infrasound. Professor Hoffmann knows that Annabelle is coming." "Well, if he's so smart, does he know when Dad's going to get off the phone?" "No," said Jessie thoughtfully. "I don't think so." "Jess, that wasn't a real question!" "Then why did you ask it?" asked Jessie. She was setting up the cards for the first card trick exactly the way he had taught her, but the wind kept blowing the cards off the table. "We should practice inside," said

Jessie. "I can't practice the grand finale inside! I need the hole in the floor, remember?" "Well, practice everything else inside and then, when Dad gets off the phone, practice the grand finale outside." "But he hasn't gotten off the phone for the last three hours! He's never going to get off the phone." Evan needed his dad because after Jessie's panic attack yesterday, his dad had offered to be the one to climb into the basket and disappear. At first Evan had thought it wouldn't work. His dad was a whole lot bigger than Jessie, and Evan didn't think he could fit inside the basket. But it turned out that if his dad scrunched his legs in a particular way, he could just barely squeeze inside with the lid closed. Evan had felt so glad—so grateful—that his dad was willing to do the trick in Jessie's place. The show wouldn't be ruined! He could still perform the Amazing Disappearing Trick. But after walking through the illusion once

yesterday, their dad had been too busy to rehearse any more. "I've got it, Evan," he had said. "It's not that complicated. We can practice more tomorrow if you want." But when tomorrow became today, his dad had been even busier. Something important was happening somewhere in the world that had their dad's full attention. "C'mon," said Evan. "Let's take all this stuff inside. Maybe we should take the curtains down, too," he added, eyeing the long red velvet drapes they had hung over the proscenium arch. Every once in a while the drapes would flap vigorously in the wind before dropping back to their usual droopy positions. "No," said Jessie. "The storm isn't going to get us. It's tracking west by about two hundred miles." She sounded disappointed. Jessie liked to see things firsthand. Evan looked at the curtains. It would be hard to get them down without help. Even though Evan was

the second-tallest boy in fourth grade, he still wasn't tall enough to take down the curtains without a ladder. And their dad? Evan knew better than to ask for his help. Evan's mother wasn't a whole lot taller than he was, but they made a good team. He could hold the ladder and she could climb up—or the other way around. Whenever there was a tough job to do, they figured out how to do it together: installing the air conditioners, moving the refrigerator, digging up the dead lilac bush. Evan heard the screen door slide open. He looked up, and there stood his father in the doorway with the phone to his ear and a manila folder in his hand. He waved the folder at the two of them. "Take-out," he said. "You pick the place." "I don't want take-out again!" said Jessie. "I want real food." "Sorry, Tootles. I don't have time to cook dinner." "Do you even know how?" Jessie asked. Evan knew she wasn't being sassy. She just had never seen

their dad cook. But Evan was older, and he could remember a time when their dad would cook huge pancake breakfasts on sleep-in Sundays. That's when their mom got to sleep late and their dad took care of them. It hadn't happened often, but Evan could remember. "I'm an amazing cook," he said, waving the folder again, "but not tonight." Then his attention turned back to his phone call, and he said, "Yes, I'm waiting. No, that isn't the reason..." and he dropped the folder on the porch and went back inside. The pizza was heavy and greasy and sat like a lead ball in Evan's stomach. He'd eaten four slices, which was two more than usual. It wasn't even about being hungry; it was just about wanting to eat. "I feel like I'm going to barf," said Evan. "That's because you ate like a pig," said Jessie. It was her turn to do the dishes, which was lucky for her because there were just two plates and two cups.