Cover art by Erin Halfelven

©2026 SammyC

“Welcome to Sha-Wang-Ah Lodge, Mr. Ace. Good to have you back again this summer,” the cheerful young woman at the front desk announced, as my father and I checked in. “And I see you’ve brought your lovely daughter with you this time—”

I raised my hand and started to protest but Dad jumped in and remarked with a hearty laugh, “Lindsey doesn’t take compliments easily. Bashful. Just turned 16.”

“Sorry to hear about your wife, Mr. Ace. My condolences. She was a nice lady. And so beautiful. By the way, I don’t believe your new assistant has checked in yet.”

“She’s…she’s been delayed. I expect she’ll arrive Sunday night. Some family...uh…problems.”

“I know some of our regulars are anxious to see you perform next week. Two couples told me they specifically chose this month to stay at the Lodge just to see your act.” She handed room keys to both of us.

Dad thanked her and as we walked toward the stairs that led up to our room, he turned to me in a low, soft voice. “You see? Dear old Dad has fans in all these Catskills resorts. Paid for your schooling, they have.”

“I attend public school, Dad.”

“You know, if you were more serious with your studies… You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Lindsey. I wish you wouldn’t hide it under all that hair.”

I remember that summer before my sophomore year in high school with a mixture of wry embarrassment and righteous pride. I discovered who I really was and who I could become that summer. But it had started all so badly. We lost my mother that January on an icy road after midnight somewhere in Wisconsin. They were headed to Appleton for a gig at The Houdini Club. Trying to shorten a four-hour drive from Chicago. Mom was driving because Dad, who was dead-tired from the two shows a night engagement they had just completed at Chulien's on N. Halsted, sprawled out on the back seat.

The Wisconsin Highway Emergency crew extricated Dad, battered and alive, from the wreckage but Mom was gone. Back in New Jersey a week later, Dad attended Mom’s funeral in a wheelchair, one arm and one leg in casts. Grandma, with whom I lived most of the year, had to hold me up through the service and the interment at the cemetery.

Many of Dad’s magician friends attended Mom’s funeral. Most of them had never met me. Due to being painfully shy and choking back tears, I hung my head down, letting my long auburn hair cover my face. I sniffled my replies when they offered condolences. One of the magicians’ wives whispered to my grandmother after she passed by me in the pew, “Helen, I know girls her age can still be tomboys but, really, couldn’t you have made her wear a dress? It’s just more respectful.”

“Leave the girl alone, hon,” interjected the woman’s husband. Turning toward my father, seated in his wheelchair at the end of the pew, he remarked, “She’s lovely, Jack. Takes after her mother, for sure.” My father smiled but didn’t bother correcting him.

By the end of March, Dad had returned to performing, although the engagements, already diminishing before the accident, were sparse and low-paying. He patted me on the shoulder to reassure me of my fears. “Summers are when we make hay, kiddo. I’ve got my Catskills tour all buttoned up, as usual.”

To replace Mom, Dad hired the niece of a magician friend of his. I met her before they left for a club tour in New England. She was very pretty…and young. She said she was 22 and didn’t look a day over 17. But she filled out her assistant’s costume really well.

When school ended in early June, Dad decided to take me along on his march through the resorts of the Catskills region in Central New York State. Things went swimmingly until Dad’s new assistant ran off with one of the guests at Kellerman’s Mountain House. Some galoot from the dry goods business in Manhattan. I could’ve guessed. The guy came to every performance the entire two weeks we were there. Twenty-eight – count ‘em – shows. My Dad’s good but not that good.

On top of losing the love of his life, dwindling gigs in a declining segment of show business, and bad health brought on by long, late hours, incessant travel, and awful food on the road, Dad had to endure the ignominy of having his assistant abducted from him by a horny shmuck who sells off-the-rack dresses to matronly ladies on Delancey Street.

Dad sat in the easy chair in our room, a tired and defeated look on his face. He rubbed his cheeks raw as he always did when stressed.

“Kiddo, I’m screwed. I…I can’t do the act without an assistant—”

“What are you talking about? Your assistant has no part in any of your tricks. She just points and nods her head.” I looked up at the ceiling. “Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to—”

“Kiddo, that’s not the point. The whole act is based on sleight of hand and misdirection. You know that. The audience focuses on the lovely lady in the sexy outfit while I work my magic.”

“I don’t see the problem, Dad.” I knelt in front of Dad and took his hands off his cheeks. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see. The audience won’t even realize you’re not using an assistant. Do more patter. You can talk a blue streak when you get started—”

“No, kiddo. I’m a complete failure as a father. I was never home to watch you grow up, to spend precious time bonding with you, teaching you things, protecting you, cherishing you—”

“I never resented you and Mom…I never did. I knew you loved me and Gran was the best. Still is.”

“I know it’s a sore subject with you but I can’t help but blame myself for your…gender confusion.”

I clapped my hands over my ears and shouted, “Daddy, let’s not go through this again. Maybe you’re right. I’ll grow out of it. Happy now?”

“Lindsey, I’m not angry at you. Just concerned. Even though it’s 1972 and the world’s progressing, getting more tolerant…I’m afraid for you. Coming out is still out of bounds in society—”

“Daddy, I’m not gay! Honestly, I don’t know what I am…yet. Gran says I’m just kind of delicate. I guess I act girly a lot.”

“Your grandmother tells me you get harassed a lot at school. I wish I made enough money to place you in a private school.”

“Get thee to a nunnery? Dad, I’m famished,” I announced as I feigned hunger pangs. “Let’s head down to the dining room and get some victuals.”

“I’m not hungry, kiddo. I think I’ll just lie down for a while. Maybe I’ll order up something later. You go downstairs and get something to eat. Who knows? You might make some friends your own age.”

The hostess who led me to my table gave me an odd look as if she couldn’t decide if I was a boy or a girl. I suppose with my long hair and my horizontal-striped tee shirt and blue jeans, she might have thought I was a scruffy-looking teenage girl.

“Dining alone? You know, we have a really groovy lounge for teenage guests. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable being with kids your own age?”

“I’m a lot older than I look,” I told her as I sat down. She smiled, handed a menu to me and walked away.

I struggled through my order of roast chicken with paprika gravy, washing it down with some Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda. The cold potato soup with sorrel was placed to the side. I never touched it. I was about to leave a tip and go back to my room when a lanky boy with a mop of long reddish-brown hair on his head approached my table.

“Hi, are you new?” He looked to be about my age. He wore round wire-rimmed glasses like John Lennon and flashed a geeky smile at me.

“New? What’s that mean?”

“Sorry, I meant have you just arrived? You’re a new face I’ve never seen here before. I spend summers every year at Sha-Wang-Ah with my grandmother,” he explained as he pointed to a table in the corner of the room where an elderly but still vibrant-looking woman sat, waving back at us.

“I’m not a guest. Not technically. I’m here with Jack Ace, the magician.”

“Oh, wow. I’m a big fan of his. I do a little close-up magic myself. I bought Jack’s book on card tricks and learned a lot of them. Of course, the book only had the simpler tricks in it. No real trade secrets.”

“That’s nice. I’ll tell Jack I met a young fan of his at dinner. It’ll brighten up his evening.”

“So you must be his new assistant. We read about that terrible car accident a few months ago. We weren’t sure we’d see Jack this summer. Excuse me for saying this but you seem awfully young to be his assistant.”

“I’m not.”

“Come on, you’re not a day older than 15 or 16—”

“No, I mean I’m not…never mind. I need to get back to my room. Nice meeting you, uh…”

“Jeremy. Jeremy Ross. And you’re?” He extended his right hand.

“Lindsey Azoff,” I replied, shaking his hand rather daintily. I can’t help myself I scolded internally.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Lindsey. You look so young. And beautiful.”

I blushed and turned away, despising my awkward response to his naïve flattery. Without uttering another word, I released his hand and practically ran out of the dining room.

It’s annoying how often people mistake me for a girl. It’s not like I’m trying to look like a girl. When people would tell me I looked like a miniature version of my mother, even the ones who knew I was a boy, I’d tolerate it. It only bothered me when boys would harass me at school, especially in gym class. There was one particular creep named Arnie Gottschalk who kept snapping the waistband of my gym shorts and cackling. One time he tried to pull my shorts down in front of the whole class. Coach Levine caught the bugger just in time. But everyone in class just burst out in raucous laughter. Gran told me to sign up for the school band if I wanted to avoid gym class but I’ve got a tin ear. I can’t tell a B-flat note from a wet fart.

But something snapped in my brain as I walked up the stairs to our room on the third floor. I thought about Dad’s predicament and insecurity about not having an assistant in his act. After everything that has happened in the past six months, I was convinced he would fall apart on stage having to feel naked alone in front of an audience. Having an assistant was not only eye candy for the patrons but an emotional crutch for Dad. So, a crazy idea came to me as I approached Dad’s bed. He was dozing uneasily, fully clothed, lying on top of the comforter.

“Daddy, wake up! I’ve got the answer to all your worries.”

Dad groggily woke up and blinked several times before opening his mouth. “Lindsey, how was the food? Good?”

“Worst chicken I’ve ever had. See for yourself. I asked them to pack a doggy bag for you. The soup I never touched. It’s cold soup anyway.”

I placed the paper bag on the little oval table near the window. Turning back toward Dad’s bed, I walked over and plopped myself on the comforter next to him.

“This is how it’s going to be, Daddy. I’m going to be your new assistant. Voila!”

“Lindsey, the audience expects a girl—”

“Everyone thinks I’m a girl anyway, Dad. I just had a boy tell me I’m beautiful—”

“And you didn’t correct his delusion?”

“He seemed sincere. Anyway, we’ve got the entire weekend to rehearse. By Monday night, I’ll have every cue down pat.”

“But, Lindsey, you’ll have to wear the assistant’s costume—”

“Gran taught me how to sew, Daddy. I’ll make it fit perfectly.”