The Magic Thumbtacks

It was second grade. Back then, bullying was already starting. Some of it was quite aggressive. I remember the sixth graders would form a little huddle of seven or eight and go over to the second graders, completely surrounding you to kick at you while dancing like gypsies. Very fun... for them. For those of us in second grade, trapped right in the center of that huddle, it was downright terrifying. When they did it to me, I knew I had to kick back, even if I died right then and there.

1990, Colegio Westminster School, 1:00 PM, Mexico City. I got trapped by about nine sixth-grade boys. To me, they were giants. They hemmed me in. But I decided to defend myself, even if it cost me my life. I went crazy and started kicking the air—honestly, I didn’t hit anyone, I just wanted to scare them and run away. And somehow it worked, because they saw me so deranged that they soon stopped bothering me. I collapsed onto the ground, exhausted, and looked up at the sky. My heart was beating like a drum.

Maybe that’s why I decided to save that classmate. This is the first time I’ve ever told this story.

It was probably Mexico History class. I was sitting there, not paying much attention, because while the teacher faced the blackboard, a bunch of whispering could be heard all around me. I saw a classmate rummaging through her backpack, and then she pulled out five thumbtacks. I had already deduced what they wanted to do. They were waiting for the moment the teacher called someone up to check their notebook. Cunningly, I spied on the entire criminal plot unfolding in the classroom. There were several kids in on it. My advantage was that my row of desks was right against the wall, so I could lean back and see everything from the side. That helped me disguise the fact that I was watching them in detail.

The girl kept the thumbtacks in her hand, waiting. Then, what usually happened in class took place. The teacher asked for the first notebook to review. A boy walked up to her desk.

By that point, I had already figured out my classmates' intentions. They were going to place the thumbtacks on the seat of whoever stood up, then that person would come back and poke their butt; they would jump in pain, and everyone would burst into roaring laughter. But I didn't agree with it, and I was going to stop it. However, talking to them would be useless, and telling the teacher would make me a traitor. So, I used one of my recent skills at just 7 years old: magic.

I had been bought a deck of trick magic cards. I had practiced them and performed for family members, so I knew how to be discreet. I knew how to wait for the right moment and act. In the classroom, there were five rows of six desks; I was right at the fourth desk of the fifth row, the one against the wall. And the plot was brewing in the rows next to the window.

The teacher called Paola to check her notebook. She stood up from the third desk of the first row, the one next to the window. The thumbtacks were passed from hand to hand, and the boy sitting behind Paola placed them on the seat. Then he started laughing under his breath. By that time, half the class was involved in the conspiracy, hiding smiles as they imagined the reaction and the scream from the prank. I had an intuition, an absolute certainty, that my plan to save her would work. Maybe they disliked Paola, or maybe she was just their ideal victim. It didn't matter; I was willing to stop them. But I had little time—one or two minutes while Paola was at the teacher's desk.

I dropped to the floor and used another of my skills: crawling. A skill I had acquired playing on my bedroom rug, playing with toy cars or building all kinds of futuristic cities with wooden blocks.

I dragged my hands, knees, and sneakers across the floor. The two classmates behind me didn't notice me slipping away into the aisle. I reached the back of the rows, where there was a wide space, as it was an area meant for educational games: puzzles, coloring books, and so on. I crawled with my back to everyone. Nobody saw me. When I reached the first row, I waited for the kids in the back desks to look away, and honestly, they were so distracted by their little prank that it never even occurred to them to look down at the floor where I was sliding by.

I took advantage of a moment when they were whispering secrets to each other. I slipped through agilely and furtively reached Paola’s desk. I barely glanced at the seat, snatched the thumbtacks, put them in my right hand, closed my fist loosely, and traced the exact same path back.

I leaned on my right wrist so I wouldn't prick myself with the sharp points of the tacks. That way, I made it back safe and sound to my spot, quickly sat at my desk, and looked around. Amazingly, everything indicated that nobody, absolutely nobody, had seen me. And I know this because they kept laughing and murmuring to each other, waiting for the grand finale. I tucked the thumbtacks into my backpack. The evidence had vanished.

The teacher finished checking the notebook. Paola walked back to her seat. Half the class watched her with anticipation. When she got back, she simply sat down. Some kid let out a laugh that was instantly stifled. They looked at Paola in shock. None of them understood a thing of what was happening. I, of course, smiled. I had performed magic; I had saved someone.

Half the class was utterly speechless; they searched the floor, trying to make sense of it, thinking the thumbtacks had fallen off. But there was nothing. They exchanged bewildered glances; there was anxiety, whispers, and even a bit of anger. The teacher raised her voice to find out what was going on. The room fell silent like never before. I was a hero. I couldn't believe nobody had seen me.

The teacher kept checking notebooks. Soon, the recess bell rang. When we stood up to leave, Paola left her desk, and several kids began inspecting the crime scene: the seat, the floor, the desks. They simply couldn't believe it. I, for my part, inwardly relished this great act of collective illusionism: the thumbtacks had completely disappeared.

Later at recess, people talked about the "magic thumbtacks"; it was the great mystery. I never told them, because a magician must never reveal his secrets when someone else could be in danger.

I don’t know what the others thought. I don’t know if they reflected on their bad actions, or if they got scared because it felt like an inexplicable, paranormal event, or if they simply ran out of thumbtacks in their backpacks. What is certain is that they never attempted that prank again for the rest of the year.

I always felt proud of my grand act of illusionism. This is the first time I am speaking of my secret. I like to call this formidable childhood trick: The Magic Thumbtacks.