It had taken a little more adjustment than he had expected, learning how theater worked with magic. The first time he’d been backstage somewhere, he remembered being taken aback by how ugly and Muggle everything had seemed -- dull industrial metal, too-bright lights, plastic and rubber, everything overwhelmingly artificial -- but it’d been something else entirely once the lights were down in the house. It’d been one of the first things he’d seen and then really wanted to understand -- like illusions without magic -- of course, now it was illusions without magic, but with magic.
He had refused any real responsibility by saying he didn’t know anything about theater -- he’d be happier as a grunt than as an artist or manager -- but he hadn’t tried especially hard to keep up the fib, and had wound up being one of only a few upperclassmen who knew at all what he was talking about. That was very rare for Conrad, who had a long history of giving people blank looks until they opted to ask somebody else for help, and he was not sure if he liked it. Sure, he was in his element, but he didn’t think his element was a good thing to be in in front of all these other people. He knew once this stupid play was over, everything would go back to normal, except that a bunch of his classmates would know him a little bit better, which was the stuff of nightmares.
A part of him liked it, too -- a part of him liked having a job that people trusted him to do. That had been the appeal with the Muggles, too, that he just had to do what they asked of him without needing to worry that somebody was hanging over his head waiting for him to fuck it up -- Conrad, you’re not paying attention -- Conrad, I didn’t bring you here to sit -- Conrad, shut your mouth -- Conrad, don’t touch that --
Conrad, can you pass me the next one?
Conrad craned his neck up -- it was one of Zhenya’s bazillion cousins, one of the younger ones, hanging like a bat from the rafters. “No,†he said shortly, “Sit up first so you don’t drop it on my head.â€
