Mind Scrambler by Chris Grabenstein

Definitely not Springsteen.
    More leg kicking, cowboy hat lifts.
    I think they called this “choreography.” Hyper-peppy boys and girls stomping and clomping in a line, grinning and smiling and tipping their sparkling cowboy hats at one another.
    Yippy-ki-yi-yo.
    The girl without a dance partner did her best to pretend she had an invisible friend who knew all the moves.
    At the end of their hootenanny, all seven dancers pointed up toward the ceiling and shouted, “Let’s! Rock!”
    That seemed to be the cue for a smoke ball to explode in front of the curtain—about thirty feet above center stage. When the cloud cleared, there he was—Richard Rock. Floating. He swungout his arms to feel the love and started drifting down toward the stage.
    â€œThere is obviously a crane apparatus of some sort concealed behind the curtain,” whispered Ceepak, eager to explain how the trick was done. “Perhaps a jib.”
    Then there were these other explosions. Three new smoke bombs: One over our heads in the middle of the auditorium, one on either side of the stage. Mrs. Rock and the two kids magically materialized and started drifting down toward the stage as gracefully and effortlessly as magic carpets. I saw no wires. No crane apparatuses. Smoke but no mirrors, except for two billion tiny sequin ones on Mom’s dress.
    â€œFascinating,” said Ceepak.
    Yeah. I had to admit: it was pretty impressive. Amazing, astounding, and astonishing, even.
    Richard Rock descended to center stage and stood in front of the curtain. He put his hands on his hips and pretended to be perturbed as his children floated toward him. Richie and Britney were wearing pajamas. The fleecy kind with feet.
    â€œWhat? Are you kids still
up
?” Rock said to his airborne offspring, earning his first family-friendly chuckle of the night.
    Mrs. Rock and the kids made soft landings on the stage and walked over to join Richard. Again, I couldn’t see any wires being unhooked from harnesses, no jetpacks being slipped off. Maybe the kids were friends of Peter Pan and he had taught them how to fly by thinking happy thoughts. Christmas. Puppy dogs. Beer.
    â€œWhere’s your nanny, children?” said Rock, playing the put-upon poppa to perfection. “It’s past your bedtime!”
    â€œYes,” said the boy. “Time
flies
when you’re having fun!” The kid nailed his line and knew it. Soaked up his laughs. Beamed.
    Mrs. Rock propped a hand beside her mouth so she looked like an elegant hog caller. “Nanny Katie?” she cried out. When shemoved her left hand up to her mouth, she blinded us with the laser beams shooting out from her gigantic diamond ring. It was so huge, it looked like one of those gumball-machine-sized ones six-year-old girls give out as birthday party favors.
    â€œNanny Katie?” she called out again
    â€œYes, Mrs. Rock?” said Katie from the back of the theater. Her voice sounded shaky. I figured she was nervous about going onstage. Katie was always kind of shy. Modest. She marched down the side aisle toward the stage.
    Jake wasn’t with her.
    He hadn’t made it onstage to join his bare-skinned brethren yet, either.
    â€œTake the children up to their rooms, if you please!” Rock said to Katie with a dramatic flourish.
    The boy tugged on the tails of his father’s tuxedo.
    â€œYes, Richie?” said Rock, rolling his eyes.
    â€œCan we fly up to our rooms, Daddy?”
    â€œNo,” said Mrs. Rock, stiffly shaking her head back and forth long after she’d already said her line. Guess she never studied acting. “You’re both
grounded
for the night!”
    Another chuckle.
    I checked out Ceepak.
    Yep. He was grinning.
    Me? I was trying not to groan. The Rocks’ banter reminded me of the cornball jokes you hear on the Jungle Boat ride at Disney World: “Keep your hands in the boat, folks—the alligators are always