Jenny’s eyes widened.

“I mean he’s . . .” Micah choked. What was wrong with him? Why had he said that? “I mean he’s sick. He’s very sick.”

“Oh,” Jenny said quietly. She leaned toward him.

He leaned away. “It’s fine, okay. I’m sorry about the project. I didn’t mean to say he was . . . he’s just been sick. I can finish the quipu tonight.” He couldn’t stop babbling.

“Micah?” Jenny sounded worried.

He shook his head at her. He didn’t want to hear whatever she was going to say. “I’m fine. Completely fine.”

But his throat was tight, and his eyes stung, and he couldn’t do this. Not here. Not in front of everybody.

It’s just a stupid project. It’s just homework. He’s not dying. You can’t cry like a little kid in the middle of class.

Jenny jumped to her feet. “The supply closet!” she hissed.

“What?” Micah croaked.

But Jenny was already pulling him out of his seat and top-speeding him toward the back of the classroom.

The craft closet was tiny and dark, and it smelled like glue. Jenny and Micah barely fit. Something that was probably an elbow hit him in the chin before Jenny managed to pull the chain that turned on the single lightbulb.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be in here together,” Micah whispered.

“Are you okay?” She was still twisting one of her braids around her finger. Her eyes were filled with worry. “This is a good place for . . . I thought you were going to cry.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she said. “What . . .?”

She trailed off. Micah knew by the way her lips pressed together that she was bottling up a hundred questions. He braced himself. She was going to ask him why his half of their project was a mess and who was sick and other painful things. He wasn’t sure he could stand it.

But after a moment, Jenny said, “Never mind.”

Micah blinked at her.

She dropped her braid and clasped her hands in front of her skirt. “I’ll finish the project if you need me to. I’ll tell Mrs. Stark you helped.”

Maybe it was because Jenny hadn’t asked, or maybe it was because she was the kind of person who knew that the craft supply closet was a good place to hide when you were about to cry. Whatever the reason, Micah found himself telling her the truth.

“It’s my grandfather who’s sick. I didn’t mean to forget about the presentation.”

Once he’d told her that much, Micah didn’t quite know how to stop. Jenny didn’t interrupt while he talked about Grandpa Ephraim and Aunt Gertrudis and the horrible sound of the breathing machine. Everything came out of him in a rush, like he was a punctured balloon.

He even told her about Circus Mirandus and the miracle.

Jenny didn’t say anything at first, and Micah became uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was standing beside a box full of Christmas tinsel, pouring his secret thoughts out to someone he barely knew. He could hear his classmates talking just feet away, their voices garbled through the door.

“I’m so sorry,” Jenny said quietly. She sounded like she really meant it. “About your grandfather and your aunt. That’s horrible.”

Micah opened his mouth to say that it was all right. But it wasn’t. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the ripped copy of the letter he’d taken from Grandpa Ephraim’s room the night before.

Jenny leaned back against a shelf full of pipe cleaners and read it. “The Lightbender,” she said. “I guess that’s a stage name?”

Micah shrugged. “I don’t think he has another one.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but . . . wouldn’t he be dead by now? If your grandfather met him when he was a boy?”

“Of course not.”

“What?”

“It’s a magical circus,” Micah explained. “He’s lived a very long time.”

It was only after Jenny started to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot that Micah realized how strange a phrase like “magical circus” sounded at school.

“You don’t believe me.” Of course she didn’t. She probably thought he was crazy.

Jenny shook her head. “I don’t think you’re a liar.”

Her smile looked nervous to Micah.

“It’s just . . .” she said. “Well, I think you might have misunderstood what your grandfather was trying to tell you.”

He fought down the urge to snap at her. “I didn’t.”

Jenny stared with narrowed eyes at a spot a few inches above his head. After a minute, she said, “I really will finish the project. You won’t get in trouble that way. You should spend as much time as you can with him.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Micah said automatically.

But he wasn’t sure he could finish it. After the way the knots had behaved today, he wasn’t sure about anything. “I can . . . I’ll try to make it up to you somehow.”

She shook her head. “When my grandmother found out she was dying a couple of years ago, she told us she was going back to Mexico. To her hometown. She wanted to see it one last time. My dad—well, he didn’t approve. He told her she was too old to make a trip like that, but she sold her house and her car and she went. She called me when she got there, and she sounded so happy.”

“Um . . .”

“I was proud of her,” Jenny explained. “She got her dying wish. Things like that are important. It sounds like your grandfather’s dying wish is to see this Lightbender person one last time.”

Micah nodded. “For his miracle. The Lightbender can make him better again.”

Jenny bit her lip. “Micah? You know magic isn’t real. Right?”

Micah opened his mouth to say that of course he knew that. He didn’t believe in dragons or leprechauns or witches. Those were just fairy tales. But Circus Mirandus was different. The Lightbender was different.

Before he could say any of these things, though, Jenny was talking again. “Your grandfather . . . maybe he just embellished the real story. Maybe there really was a circus, and it was special to him. That’s why he wrote the letter. Now that he’s sick, he’s trying to find the circus again.”

“He didn’t embellish.” Grandpa Ephraim had told the whole, plain truth.

“Oh, of course he did!” Jenny cried.

She glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “He was trying to make the story more fun for you. He was trying to make it exciting and special. That’s what grown-ups do when they tell stories to children!”

Micah tried to take a step back, but there was no room. He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

Jenny’s face scrunched with sympathy, and Micah jerked his eyes away. What was he thinking? That a brainy girl like Jenny Mendoza would believe in magicians and miracles? Just because she had been nice about the project . . .

He shouldn’t have told her. He should have known better.

“Micah—”

She was interrupted by the door swinging open. The sound of their classmates’ chatter filled the closet.

Florence stood in the doorway. “What are you two doing in here?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Jenny and Micah said at the same time.

“Well, I need some glue, so . . .”

“Here.” Jenny thrust a bottle of X-tra Strong Craft Paste at her. “We were having a private conversation about our project.”

“No we weren’t,” said Micah. He pushed past Florence and headed for his desk.

“Micah, wait a minute!” Jenny called.

He pretended not to hear her.