6 Rabbit Box

Chapter 6 Rabbit Box rabbit box (n) a specially built device that appears to be an ordinary box but actually has secret panels, mirrors, or compartments that can hide a rabbit within Hey, Pete. How r u? I'm good. Ive got a faver to ask. Do you have scrap wood? I need to bild a box to make a rabit disapeer. Can I send u a drawng? And then u cut it and mail the peaces to me so I can put it togethr? Thx. —Evan Hey, Big Man! Good to hear from you. I've been wondering how things are with you and your family. All good? Sure I can cut the wood for you, but mailing it is going to be ++$$. Wood is heavy, dude. Do you have any scrap wood in

your basement? Can you get someone to cut it for you there? There must be someone there who knows how to operate a saw. It's not brain surgery! At least not if you're careful! Ha ha! I saw your grandma yesterday. It's great to have her back in the North Country for a little bit. Come visit. All of you! I could use your help! Stand tall, Big Man— Pete Evan stared at the screen, wishing he could rewrite Pete's email. He wanted it to say: Hey, Evan. Why don't I come down there and build the rabbit box with you? We'll do it together, just like we fixed your grandmother's house after the fire. Evan looked at the drawings in Professor Hoffmann's Modern Magic.

It looked so simple. It was just seven boards, two hinges, and a latch. How hard could that be? Except for the cutting. Pete had taught him how to glue, nail, sand, and paint wood. Working with Pete was like going to carpentry school, but more fun. Evan looked at the pictures again, then picked up the book and headed downstairs. Jessie and their father were on the porch in the backyard. Even though Memorial Day was just a week away and the weather was as warm as summer, the porch looked the way it did all winter—empty. The chairs and table were still up in the attic, and Mrs. Treski hadn't bought a single tomato, pepper, or basil plant. Usually by this time of year, the porch

was overflowing with potted plants: calla lilies and marigolds, pansies and begonias, narcissuses and Cape roses. Every spring Mrs. Treski planted morning glories that would creep up and over the splintered and broken railing, twining their vines around the cracked wood. "It hides the rotted-out parts!" she would say. But this spring had just been too busy. Evan had never seen his mother work so hard. The porch looked as if it was stuck in winter. Jessie was walking the perimeter of the porch, tapping each corner of the railing as she passed. Their dad was checking his cell phone, squinting at the colored screen in the bright afternoon light. Evan pushed open the sliding screen door and walked outside. "Hey," said his dad, looking up for an instant. "The house is a dead zone." Jessie laughed and started to repeat the words: "The house is a dead zone. The house is a dead zone."

Evan scowled. "Dad, do you know how to make things?" he asked. "With wood?" "Wood? Yeah, sure. Well, no, not really. What are you talking about?" "The rabbit box!" said Jessie, coming over to stand next to Evan and look at the page in the book he was holding. "For his magic show." Jessie stopped for a split second; then her face seemed to catch fire. "And I've got an idea! We'll sell tickets! I bet we could make fifty bucks, easy! That's big money! Enough to open my own bank account!" "We're not selling tickets!" said Evan, suddenly embarrassed to even be talking about the show in front of his dad. "Why not?" asked his dad. "Aren't you good enough?" "He's great!" shouted Jessie. "But he needs a big finishing act. Something kapow. A blockbuster!" "Where are you going to do it?" asked their dad. "An auditorium?" "No," mumbled Evan. "I don't know. The

basement, I guess." When he imagined the show in his head, he was in an auditorium, on a real stage, with hundreds of people watching. But he knew that could never be real. "No way," said their dad, still looking at his cell phone. "Basements are for losers. You need something big. Impressive. You need a stage. Curtains. Lights. The whole thing. You need to look like a professional if you're going to charge money." "We can build a stage," said Jessie. "A real stage!" "Or maybe—" said their dad. "But I'm not a professional," interrupted Evan. "So fake it. That's what half the people in the world are doing. Act like a pro, people will treat you like a pro; next thing you know—hey, you're a pro." He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back casually against the railing. Evan could have predicted what would happen next. Even Jessie shouted, "Dad, stop!" But it was too late. The rotted and splintered wood of the railing