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

"I don't know anything about the centerpieces," he called back into the house. "I'm on bar duty." He turned and looked at me, and my skin turned to ice.

I knew him.

His name was Liam Miller, and we had worked together during Eastside's winter production of Damn Yankees when he was a senior and I was a sophomore. He joined the cast as a distraction between baseball seasons, and I designed the special effects for the show. We rehearsed together for a month, and I thought we had formed a sort of awkward, unlikely friendship. But when the play ended, he went back to being a sports god, and I was still a sophomore theater nerd.

Liam tilted his head. "Ellie Dante? What are you doing here?"

He remembered my name. For a moment I considered bolting back to the RV. Instead, I did my best not to scowl.

"My dad's the magician."

"Oh, right. Dante." He shook his head. "I'm an idiot."

I agreed, but I didn't say so. How was I supposed to act around this guy?

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"My sister is the bride."

"Oh." Now who was the idiot? I should have recognized the last name when his dad booked us.

Liam smiled, revealing a deep dimple on his left cheek. "Come on in."

I stepped inside—and tried not to gape. The foyer was opulent: marble floors, grand piano, massive crystal chandelier. His parents were obviously rich; I wondered why he had even gone to a public high school.

"We've got a dressing room for you," he said, gesturing at the wide marble staircase. "Upstairs, second door on the right."

"Okay. Thanks."

"I've got to go lift heavy things for Princess Becca. See you later?"

"Unless I disappear," I said. Liam gave me a quizzical look, and I wanted to break my own skull against the door frame.

I watched him retreat into the house, his back muscles moving against the fabric of his T-shirt. Was he strutting like that on purpose? It might have worked on the baseball groupies at Eastside, but it didn't work on me.

A moment later, Dad appeared on the doorstep carrying two heavy trap cases and a shoulder bag. Despite the cool air, his temples were already damp with perspiration.

"Let me," I said, taking one of the cases. He protested, but I shut him down. Carrying heavy things up stairs was on his doctor's no-no list.

The dressing room turned out to be Liam's bedroom. It was twice the size of our whole RV and impeccably clean, probably for the occasion. There were posters on the wall—the 2016 Chicago Cubs, Panic! at the Disco—but instead of being thumbtacked, they hung in expensive frames. A photo of the Manhattan skyline dominated one wall, and a Notre Dame baseball pennant in a shadow box was mounted above the hardwood dresser. I stared around in envy. My whole "suite" would have fit inside Liam Miller's closet.

I opened a set of French doors and stepped onto a stone balcony overlooking the backyard. Three tents draped with fairy lights stood on the perfect lawn, sheltering a wedding setup for at least a hundred guests. Round tables with red cloths; an explosion of roses; an archway of satin ribbon over a temporary stage where a band was setting up their amplifiers. I imagined myself standing on that stage, feeling a hundred pairs of eyes on me. Sensing the energy from the audience, controlling it, drawing their attention wherever I wanted it. I felt tingles crawling up the sides of my face—it was a rush, having that power.

I released the railing and took a step back, and the twitch of mania receded. I wouldn't be onstage tonight; I would be hiding up here, taking my history exam.

Ella, ella, eh, eh, eh ...

"Do you see those thunderclouds?"

I turned and saw Dad leaning against the door frame.

"An outdoor wedding in northern Indiana in October." He shook his head. "I don't envy the groom. Come on," he said, beckoning me back inside. "Let's get cracking."

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.