The Lost Fisherman (Fisherman #2)(88)
“Move? Again?” I sigh as we pass the UW-Madison Arboretum, one of the places I like to go in the summer.
“We just want to find a good fit for you.”
“I fit fine where I’m at.”
“But they’re not challenging you enough.”
I shrug. “What does it matter? If I already know what they’re telling me, then I don’t have to do as much homework as my friends.”
“It’s wasted potential.” Dad shoots me a quick look in the rearview mirror. He, too, has lost his fight over my outburst.
“Potential means—” Mom starts to explain.
“Possibilities, prospects, future success. I get it.” I’m fairly certain other eleven-year-old kids in sixth grade have heard the word potential before. It’s not exactly a word I’d see on my word of the day calendar.
“You know, Swayze, the Gibsons are sending Boomer to a private school only an hour from our house. If we send you there, you’d already have one friend.”
Boomer. Another hideous name. Sounds like a Rottweiler. Nice boy though. I like him, but not the way he likes me. At least I don’t think so. He carries my backpack to the bus for me after school, but he also snaps my bra in class. The bra I don’t need. My mom pressured me into getting one after several of my friends got them. I don’t have breasts. Nope. Nothing there yet. Still, I wear it to feel like all of the other girls, and apparently Boomer’s need to snap it during math every day means he likes me. At least that’s the story my mom tries to sell.
Not buying it.
“I like my school.” I twist my blond hair around my finger then slide it through my lips curled between my teeth.
Mom frowns. She has a thing about hair near the mouth. A hair in her food triggers her gag reflex to the point of vomiting, and then she can’t eat that type of food for months. Dad always threatens to plant a hair in the ice cream she likes to sneak—his ice cream.
“You’ll be in middle school next year. It’s a good time for a change. The transition will be easier.” Dad nods as if he only needs to convince himself and my mom.
“I like my friends.”
“You’ll make new friends,” Mom says, shaking her head and scowling at the hair in my mouth.
I pull it out and flip it over my shoulder. “Why can’t I just be normal and you be happy with that?”
“Swayze, if you just give this a try, I promise we won’t ask you to switch schools again, even if it doesn’t work out.” Mom flinches like something’s caught in her throat, probably bile from seeing hair in my mouth.
One last move. One last school. I’ll do it. But I won’t believe it’s truly the last.
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Acknowledgments
I have to thank my amazing readers first and foremost. As I experimented with different ways to publish this story, you stood by me, eagerly awaiting my words in whatever form I decided to share them.
Thank you, Jenn, for dealing with the chaotic summer version of me—juggling a million projects and constantly changing publishing schedules.
Thank you, Nina and the hardworking team with Valentine PR for all the Zoom calls and sheer love of this story. It’s an honor to work with people who believe in me.
My editing team! These souls have a very special place in the afterlife for making sense of my gibberish and polishing it into something worth sharing with the world. Max, I can’t wait to take this new journey with you as not only my editor, but also my agent. Leslie, Kambra, Sian, Monique, and Amy, thank you for sacrificing your enjoyment of my stories to make me look like a competent author. I feel like my success belongs to you as well.
As always, a big thank you to my family for supporting me during moody times, frantic schedules, a million frustrations, and everything in between. You inspire me.