Excerpt from The Lightness of Hands by Jeff Garvin, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

We needed a real gig.


Five minutes later, the RV was sputtering south on US 33.

"You're sure we're clear?"

"I'm sure."

Dad was paranoid about security cameras—but these old gas stations always had out-of-date technology. It had taken Dad only a fraction of a second to reach over the counter and reset the pump; if the move showed up on camera at all, it would be a momentary flash, and whoever was watching would be more focused on the girl stuffing chips down her shirt.

Still, Dad maintained his grim expression, his mustache turned down at the ends. I didn't ask why; I already knew. He hated stealing and insisted we keep track of every penny we took. Someday, he said, we'd "make restitution." I hated stealing, too, but unlike Dad, I didn't believe we'd ever pay it back doing birthday parties and bar gigs. And in the meantime, we had bills to pay.

"How are we on time?" Dad asked. The gold Breitling watch he'd inherited from his grandfather clung ever present on his right wrist, though it had stopped working years ago.

"It's ninety minutes to get back to Fort Wayne. We'll make it."

Right now, normal high school juniors were shouldering backpacks and piling into cars, heading off to football games or fast-food joints to hang with their friends. I was on my way to work a wedding with my sixty-four-year-old father.

As he drove, I opened the pork rinds. The aroma that rushed out of the bag triggered a flood of memories. Pork rinds had been our thing, Mom's and mine. We would polish off a whole bag while watching Ratatouille for the thousandth time, licking the red salt from our fingers and snorting with laughter. I popped one into my mouth, letting the familiar tang of vinegar overwhelm my senses. It was like I was six again, sprawled next to her on the couch.

I ate another one, but it turned bitter on my tongue and was hard to swallow. Outside, rows of dead corn zipped past, and I wished I were home. I missed the warm, dry breeze of Las Vegas. I missed the sun.

I missed my mom.

I had been a little kid during Dad's Vegas years; now I was living every sixteen-year-old's dream, residing in a forty-foot RV with my dad at the Cedarwood Mobile Estates in Fort Wayne. I'd spent more than half my life here, but it would never be home.

"What about closing with Sub Trunk tonight?" Dad said, eyeing me from the driver's seat. "Get you back on the boards? You haven't performed in weeks."

I shook my head, felt my jaw tighten.

"I'm behind, and I can't afford to let my grades slip any further." I kept my eyes on the barren cornfields outside, but I could feel Dad's gaze like a spotlight. We'd had this conversation a hundred times; I had to be the only teenager in Indiana whose father was urging her not to study.

"I'm sure you'd make a great nurse, Ellie. But performing is in your blood. You've got it on both—"

I cut him off before he could mention Mom. I didn't want to think about her right now.

"The party is half a mile from Eastside," I said. "There might be people I know."

It was a good excuse; Dad knew I didn't want to be recognized. Ellie Dante, the semihomeless chick who had dropped out halfway through sophomore year.

"I see how your eyes sparkle when you're onstage," he said.

When I'm onstage, sure. But what about afterward?

"Can I just stay in the RV? Please?"

Dad sighed and scrubbed a finger across his mustache. "All right, you don't have perform. But I need you to stage-manage."

Before I could argue, my ancient prepaid phone buzzed in the cup holder, and I snatched it up. The call was from an unfamiliar number with a Las Vegas area code. It might be a client, and we needed one—badly. I answered, but there was only a hiss of static before the call dropped. No service out here in the land of corn and soybeans. I unclicked my seat belt and stood up.

Excerpted from The Lightness of Hands by Tim Garvin. Copyright © 2020 by Tim Garvin. Excerpted by permission of Balzer + Bray. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.