“I’ll open with this one,” he announced, holding up a large golden coin.
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He looked at us with a sly grin that can only be pulled off by someone who knows he’s about to be a hero to a room full of ten-year-olds. The room must have been a science lab, because he stood right next to a sink, and made a big show of washing his hands before beginning his lesson/performance. The teacher-magician took his place at the front of the class. I figured I should say hello, but couldn’t decide whether to go with “hiya” or “how are you.” As the connection between brain and mouth glitched, I think I said something like, “howa” – a bizarre combination of my two primary options – but before my neighbour could ask what the hell I’d just said, the teacher walked in and our attention shifted to the front. Looking to my right, I made accidental eye contact with an equally gangly, bespectacled youth. My glasses were too big for my face, my legs were too short for the chair, and my introversion was too pronounced to engage others in conversation, so I sat there wondering why I was doing this. The classes were held in a local high school, so I and my fellow classmates (all of us young and slight and nerdy) must have looked comically small sitting at the desks built for people on the verge of adulthood. On a Saturday morning in the 90s, while most other pre-teens were playing sports or talking about girls, I was sitting in a classroom nervously waiting for my first Magic class to begin.
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