This Might Hurt(21)
Finally I got the damned handcuffs off. I gave them to Gabriel, who had grown less impressed as the minutes ticked by. I asked him to hold up the cuffs for the audience to see, then told him to verify there were no trick springs or secret unlocking mechanisms. While he did, I rubbed my raw wrists. I’d broken skin on the left one. Blood trickled from the cut (?2). This whole miserable performance deserved a big fat minus ten. I glanced at Sir. He’d slumped lower in his seat, as if he didn’t want anyone to know we were related.
I gestured to Gabriel and spoke into the microphone. “How about a round of applause for my assistant?”
The crowd clapped, more weakly this time. By now those who were confused earlier had realized the booing was not part of the act or some masochistic teenage impulse they didn’t understand. I patted Gabriel’s shoulder, and he beamed at me before scuttling offstage. When he returned to his seat, his younger brother shook him by the arm, thrilled. They would relive this show over and over in the weeks to come.
“That’s all from me tonight.” I swiped blood off my wrist. “I perform here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and I add new tricks to my act every few weeks, so please come see me again. Thank you.”
I bowed deeply at center stage, letting every ounce of blood rush to my head so I’d have an excuse for my red face. My guests clapped politely, then quickly fled the auditorium, like failure might be contagious.
I snuck a peek at the back row. Empty. They always left before the final round of applause, letting me hear a few claps that weren’t overpowered by taunts. They parceled out enough hope to keep me coming back to the stage a few days later. I shifted my gaze to the front row. Mother’s eyebrows furrowed. Sir was hard-faced. The curtains closed. I trembled, squeezed my eyes shut.
It will never hurt worse than it does right now.
Sir used to tell us that all the time whenever we stubbed our toes or bit our lips. Fresh pain was the worst pain; it would only get better with every passing second. We’d repeat abbreviated versions of the refrain in our heads, never hurt worse, never hurt worse, waiting for the pain to subside. He was right. It always went away.
I squared my shoulders, walked offstage and into the auditorium. The rest of the theater had emptied, but my parents remained in their seats. “Thanks for coming,” I managed.
Mother patted my shoulder once, as if she was afraid of being too comforting. “You were wonderful. God must have been guiding your hand.”
Sir gave her a quizzical look and stabbed a thumb at the stage. “Don’t blame what happened up there on a bogeyman.” He turned to me. “That how these shows usually go?”
I was too exhausted to play dumb. “You mean the booing? Those were some kids from the drama club. They’re mad because everyone came to my show instead of their opening night. They want me to stop doing my act, but I won’t, so they keep heckling me.”
When I’d pitched Earthly Delights to the school principal, he agreed to let me stage it in the gymnasium and gave me three dates to choose from for my premiere. I probably wouldn’t have chosen the same Friday night in December that the drama club opened Bye Bye Birdie if the drama club director, Ms. Kravitz, hadn’t called me dim in front of her entire physics class earlier that day. That was not the first time she’d disparaged me, so I didn’t shy away from her sacred Friday night opening. How was I supposed to know the entire town and student body would rather see my magic show than her talentless troupe? The auditorium usually filled to the gills for the school musical, which my peers attributed to their genius. When they saw the lackluster turnout this time, it forced them to face reality. The size and enthusiasm of their Saturday and Sunday crowds—I didn’t perform on weekends—couldn’t make up for the disappointment of opening night. The damage was done. They were out for blood.
I had hoped we would wipe the slate clean over winter break. New semester, new play. On the same day as auditions for You Can’t Take It with You, the principal called me into his office. He said my show was so popular he wanted to move it from the gymnasium to the theater. Three nights a week I’d get to do my show on an actual stage with curtains and spotlights instead of risers. I couldn’t believe my luck. Did I consider that my upgrade would force the drama club to change their schedule and move a few rehearsals elsewhere? Not at the time, no. I was busy shaking the principal’s hand and thanking him effusively. I didn’t realize what I’d done until they showed up at my first performance later that week. The bullying continued, but I wasn’t about to slink back to the gym, tail between my legs. Who knew when I’d next get the chance to perform on a stage? If my classmates redirected half the energy they spent booing me into learning how to act, people might actually show up to their stupid plays.
Sir gnashed his teeth. “Let’s go home.”
The fifteen-minute drive was a silent one. I wished he’d come out and tell me my punishment already. Not knowing was the worst part. He wouldn’t call it a punishment; instead he’d mask it as a “point opportunity,” make it seem like we were doing this for my welfare, all in the name of self-betterment.
By now I was old enough to know better, but when would I be old enough to stand up to him? Three and a half years until I could leave for college. I would go far, far away like Jack had. Not to the same school, obviously. Somewhere the opposite of the West Coast. Florida, perhaps. I’d have to research the farthest city from our town.