The Delusionist

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OVER THE PAST MONTH Cyril and Connie had started to notice each other. It began in art class when everyone had to draw each other’s mouth. Cyril did Connie’s whole face. It was a good likeness, an uncanny likeness, right down to the sardonic narrowing of her already narrow eyes, the curl at the corner of her lips, and the nostrils alert to the scent of Cyril’s excitement. Cyril knew he’d hit that one, like a ball square off the bat; the lines were not sketchy but bold, and even had flair. Sometimes it was like that: you lucked out, as if your hand did the work and you were just along for the ride. Not that Cyril admitted that to Connie.

“No putting pins in it,” she said.

“Then you better be nice.”

Her eyebrows rose in pleasant surprise as if discovering a worthy opponent while Cyril, breathless, went off to draw the next kid’s mouth, feeling the exhilarating heat of Connie Chow’s attention. Connie was strange. She once came to school with her teeth blacked out, another time wearing a boot and a runner, and once wearing a shiny red clown’s nose. She always used one of those painted Chinese umbrellas. Some said she was from The Twilight Zone. When she walked by they whispered just loud enough to be heard, “Picture if you will an alien who looks almost human…” She was an object of fear and disdain—disdain because she was small and skinny, fear because she was confident and unpredictable. The very elusiveness of her approval made it all that much more desirable to Cyril, who wanted it, meaning he wanted her. Somehow she managed to be terrifying and reassuring at the same time, and while she might say no thanks if he asked her out he knew she wouldn’t sneer, so he decided to do it right after school.

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