I never believed in magic until I met Tommy Naughton.
The first time I saw him was in my eleventh-grade English class at Ridley High in 2001. He looked odd, with his gapped-up haircut and baggy clothing. He always smelled like sour sweat—ugh! He rarely made eye contact, never spoke unless spoken to, and sat as far back in the classroom as the wall would allow. I was sorry for him, but pity doesn’t do much to cure another’s social awkwardness. Then one day, Tommy went from being a social outcast to the talk of the school. It all started when our English teacher, Mrs. Sharon, gave us an assignment.
“Okay, listen up, people. When I call on you, I want you to come up. Then I’d like you to tell everyone something unique about yourself: a special talent, family history, interesting hobbies; anything. We’ll go alphabetically. First up, Larry Anders.”
Let me tell you, there was nothin’ special about ol’ Larry (still isn’t, from what I hear). A few kids had some cool things to share, like Teresa Donavan. Turns out one of her uncles was a roadie for Red Hot Chili Peppers. Skyler Murphy held the swim team record for holding her breath underwater: a whopping five and a half minutes! I dreaded my turn. For once, I was happy to have the name “Lenore Zylstra.” But my dread must have paled compared to Tommy.
“Tommy Naughton,” said Mrs. Sharon.
Tommy was reading a book, or pretending to.
“Tommy, put the book down and come up. I’m sure everyone else is a little embarrassed, too,” said Mrs. Sharon.
Tommy lowered his book and looked at her solemnly. When he spoke, somewhere between a mumble and a whisper, no one could understand him.
“I can’t hear a word you’re saying,” said Mrs. Sharon.
“I said I have nothing to share.”
“You could tell us how you plan to kill your barber!” That was Brad Oberstrom. Butthole.
Everyone guffawed; poor Tommy looked mortified. I couldn’t stand the cruelty for another second, so I raised my hand.
“I don’t mind taking his place,” I said. I hated going next, but anything was better than
watching Tommy being humiliated.
“That’s thoughtful, Lenore, but I called on Tommy, not you.” She glared at Tommy. “Mr. Naughton, a weary world awaits you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tommy placed his book on his desk, then shuffled to the front of the classroom, snickers following him with each plodding footstep.
“Oh, boy. This is gonna be timeless.” Brad again. Butthole.
I think Mrs. Sharon felt sorry for Tommy now. She looked remorseful, sympathetic. When the uproar died down, she gently addressed him.
“Tommy, hon. You can start whenever you’re ready. I promise we’ll give you our full attention.”
Maybe it was my imagination, but I could’ve sworn he looked right at me. It wasn’t a harsh stare. It was as though he was singling me out.
“I have a special talent that no one else has. Some people who practice magic say they have this ability, too, but they’re lying. For them, it’s just a trick. But I can make things disappear . . . for real. It’s called teleportation. Want me to show you?”
I spoke up, surprising myself. “Would you? Make something disappear, I mean.”
Tommy gave me that odd look again as if he were only going through this to impress me. “Sure I can, Lenore. I think you’ll like it.” Gazing around the classroom, he said, “Does anyone have a small object like a watch or a ring?”
“I got a watch,” Peter Travers said, passing it forward.
“Watch closely.” Tommy cupped the watch between his hands and massaged it with his palms. He stopped, then opened his hands. The watch had disappeared.
A collective “whoa” swept over the classroom. “Dude, that was cool. Where’d it go?” Peter asked.
“I teleported it to another place. I can do that: make something disappear and wind up somewhere else.” He turned to Mrs. Sharon. “Ma’am, would you open your upper right desk drawer?”
The place went wild when she opened the drawer and retrieved the wristwatch. Mrs. Sharon
looked like she had just pulled out a three-headed chicken. “H-How?” she stammered. “How in the world did you do that, Tommy?”
“Because I know real magic,” he said matter-of-factly. “May I sit down now, ma’am?”
“Of course. Thank you, Tommy.”
Poor Tina Newsome; how the heck was she gonna top Tommy’s act?
Story: The Disappearing Boy by PD Williams
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