Bobby was a magician.
Not the poof-cloud-of-smoke kind, but the real kind.
The kind that taps into the electricity of life, of smiles, of blood.
The kind of magic I’m talking about is the kind that silences
the snickers and jabs on an entire bus,
or at least the back four seats,
which might as well be the entire bus.

Unless, of course, you're talking about the front seat
behind Ms. Super-piano,

which was more a throne than a punishment.

Bobby was a magician of the heart and sometimes wondrous science.
After Alec Morenovich made Silly Putty for the science fair
(Seriously! The kid made Silly Putty),
after I had sent my piece-of-shit albatross electric glider

on its last mission (a suicide flight off the living room roof),

he made crystals from household chemicals.

The night went like this:
Glass Joe on pause
(decidedly not punched out)
A cavernous stock pot set on his desk
with a bare bulb standing in for a Bunsen Burner.
Orange Juice
Lemon Juice
Skim Milk
Dish Soap

Mouthwash

Woolite
Ranch dressing
Karen’s perfume
Green food coloring
Salt
Sugar
Crushed black pepper
Crushed red pepper
Corn
One Marlborough Red
Saliva

With a wooden spoon, I stirred,
holding my nose as Bobby stood guard,
probably reducing Lisa to tears in the process.
I don’t remember ever leaving the pot
(I would never shirk my duties with science on the line)
and perhaps this is where the magic came in.
In mid stir, my spoon clacked against something hard.
Deep down, below the bubbles,
beneath the floating mats of pepper and spume.
Down among the corn, but not corn because it clacked.
Bobby watching over my shoulder as I carefully slid it
up the long metal side, never dropping it once,
my breath held still and quiet.

I later learned that the white crystalline formation
was not born of Woolite, tobacco, and Karen’s perfume,
but a common pebble of quartz, lifted from the driveway
and plunked into the stew when I wasn’t looking.
But here’s where it gets strange, because I never wasn’t looking.
Somehow, Bobby had snuck the pebble in
under the intense scrutiny of science.
Magic.

When Bobby told me of his trick,
giggling over a piece of Shoreline Pizza,
I could have poured the pot
(spume and all) right over his head,
but deep down, swirling among the corn
I smiled at the magic of it all.
Because Bobby was a magician
not of smoke and playing cards,
but of pinching cigarettes
of Punch Out and Zelda
of uncontrollable laughing fits,
and electric summers.