A Magician Never Tells His Secrets

My eyes roamed over the webpage, greedily eating up more information about the need for corn detasselers in Iowa. Apparently a hybrid corn seed farm needed one hundred workers to pick and strip corn during July. They needed people who could work outdoors, live in rough conditions (camping without running water) and withstand pressure. I could do that.
“Hey mom!” I yelled, turning my face to my open bedroom door so she could hear my call. “What do you think of me going to Iowa to pick corn?”
I heard the loud howling of a vacuum cleaner turning off before my mother stuck her head into my room. “Corn picking?”
“Yeah,” I answered, gesturing towards the webpage. “Sounds sorta like fun.”
Her eyes ran across the screen, her crow’s feet bending into a frown as she read.
“Oh Meg,” she sighed, turning away. “The last time you stayed in a tent you were fifteen and on school camp. You whinged everyday about wanting to come home.”
“Yeah,” I said, as I rolled my eyes, exasperated. “But I was fifteen. That was over three years ago. Maybe camping appeals to me now.”
Mom looked at me dubiously and I caved under her intense gaze.
“I mean, it could have happened,” I said in a feeble voice.
“Meg,” mom sighed, leaning against my cluttered computer desk. “Why do you want to go away so badly? You’re only eighteen after all; you have the rest of your life to plan an adventure.”
“No, I don’t mom,” I answered flatly. We’d already had this discussion too many times. “I’ll go away to college in the fall, if I get accepted that is, and then I’ll have seven more years of school before I get my PhD. And after I graduate I’ll get a job, become a GP, and then start a family. I mean, that’s what you did, and look at you. Don’t you regret not having an adventure?”
Mom sighed and looked out my window at my quiet suburban street. She didn’t say anything, but I knew her answer. My mom lived such a normal life. She married her college sweetheart, had a family, as worked as a small-town doctor. It was exactly the same thing I wanted, but I hated the thought of never experiencing the world outside of a quaint, two-point-three kids type of life.
“Well, you’ll still need to get Tori to agree with corn detasseling, and something tells me she won’t be the one to put her hand up for roughing it,” Mom laughed. I groaned internally. My best friend and future co-adventurer Victoria Youdell was definitely not one for roughing it. It’s not like she’s a snob or prissy or anything, just flatly refused to do anything smelly, dirty or physically intensive. Wait, I guess that is prissy. Many times I’d suggested some really cool, out of state jobs we could take on for the summer, such as fruit picking, cleaning rooms in hotels or helping in charity houses, but she said no to them all, finding some flaw in my perfect schemes. I have to admit; I’m quick to get ideas, but never to think things through. It wasn’t hard for her to find flaws.
“I’ll tell her about it tonight,” I said with a shrug.
“Okay,” mom said, watching as I stood up. “Your going to the carnival, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” I grinned. The Magic and Mischief Carnival was in town for a week, and tonight was its fifth night. The day after tomorrow would be it’s last before packing up and vanishing with the daybreak. I thought it was really dreamy.
The town I lived in was only quite small, the usual entertainment being the movies, the poorly stocked mall and the old bowling ally. It was nice for a new, bright, exciting thing like a fun-fair to come to town.
“Know what you’re going to wear yet?” She probed, picking up a pair of jeans from the back of my chair and folding them.
“No, it’s a carnival, mom, not a prom,” I laughed.
“What about your new dress,” she inquired, her eyes lighting up. “The turquoise one. Oh, if I only had your figure. But it probably wouldn’t suit me like it suits you. That colour blue sets off your hair, and your eyes of course.”
I rolled my aqua orbs. “It’s too fancy, I don’t want it ruined.”
It was my mother’s turn to roll her eyes. “If it was up to you you’d only wear old jeans and button up shirts.”
“They’re not old, they’re vintage,” I corrected her.
“Scruffy is the right word.”
I smiled at the familiar argument, which neither of us could win. I knew what she was trying to say by nagging me; that she’d miss me when I was gone, that she’d always care about me. I knew she’d still have my younger brother Tom, and my dad of course, but I would still worry about her while I was gone . . . to wherever I was going. I just needed to figure out where first.