The Illusionist by Dinitia Smith Page A

Melanie’s was deliberate. This tendency of hers toward scarcity just came naturally, out of some complexity, out of her guilt, from something difficult inside her.
    By eleven, the apartment was packed. People dancing close together. The room had a hellish red glow. There was a nice pungent smell of dope now, hanging in the air. Groups of people locked in the bathroom doing lines. People dancing by themselves, stoned out of their minds, absorbed in themselves. The music so loud my throat was sore from shouting over it. A stack of empty beer cans was piled high in the garbage pail, empty boxes of Uncle Dom’s. The room was all smoky, and the smell of reefer hung in the air, so warm, comforting, like food. Most delicious smell in the world, I thought.
    Then suddenly a draft of cold air swept through the room. Cold, cold December air. The cigarette smoke in the air roiled. And I knew she had arrived. I knew it from Dean, from his face. He was transfixed.
    Melanie stands in the doorway. Small and delicate, her thin, wispy brown-red hair gleaming. Gold eyes like a cat’s, fragile smile, little pointed chin.
    And I can’t believe it. She’s with Brian. There is Brian, standing right behind her.
    Melanie is wearing a black leather jacket that hangs to her knees. The jacket is open. She wears a black leotard underneath it, which is tight over her small breasts. Melanie’s skin has a rubbed look, as if she has just made love. There are soft brown shadows around her eyes, cat’s eyes. So delicate.
    Brian Perez is standing behind her, much taller, towering over her. Brian’s long, blond hair is beautiful tonight—hair so pale it’s almost white, like burned ashes, fluffy around his face as if he’s shampooed and blow-dried it just for this occasion. But his slanty blue eyes give away nothing. His thin mouth is tight. His face is wide, flat, with high cheekbones. He is wearing only a denim jacket though it’s cold—Brian never seems to feel the cold. And underneath the jacket, he wears a white Indian-cotton shirt across his broad chest.
    Behind Brian stands Jimmy Vladeck. Big lump of stupidity Jimmy, slouch-shouldered, pot-bellied, brown hair tied back in aponytail, bits of hair hanging in greasy strands around his puffy face. Wearing a huge dirty dark blue parka.
    Abruptly, Dean clambers to his feet. Dean’s movement catches my eye. And suddenly, Dean grabs Terry’s arm, pulls her out into the middle of the room, and he starts to dance with her.
    You can see the burst of joy shoot through Terry’s whole body as he summons her. And as they dance Terry is like a young tree swaying in the wind, tossing her hair back, arching her body, kicking out her long legs as she dances.
    I’d never seen Dean dance before. . . . His cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth, his eyes squint from the smoke. So cool! He’s got a special, unique way of doing it. . . .
    The way he dances hides his body. He draws his elbows in close to his ribs, darts his head out from side to side like a bird pecking. Doesn’t make any eye contact with Terry. Little flash of gold in his ear. Soft hair sticking up at the top, sideburns, little tail behind at the neck.
    People at the party glance at him out of the corner of their eyes—they’re not sure. And even if they are sure—they’re fascinated. Who is he?
    It’s midnight. I bring in the birthday cake, candles blazing. I’d bought it at Food Mart, stuck in on a plate with a doily. We all sing “Happy Birthday—Happy Birthday—” “Hey, Dean,” someone says. “Do some magic tricks!” Humoring him.
    â€œYeah, Dean. Do some magic!”
    And they stand around him while he does his routine. He folds his handkerchief around a quarter, then shakes the handkerchief loose. Nothing falls out. The handkerchief is empty, the quarter has disappeared.
    He curls a dime around his