This Might Hurt(22)

When I daydreamed about my escape, I tried not to think about leaving Mother alone with Sir. That hadn’t stopped Jack, so why should it give me pause? Besides, if Mother had ever had any fight in her, it had evaporated a long time ago. Once, while Sir was out on a job, I asked her why she didn’t leave him. She had cried out like I’d punched her, said she’d taken a vow, that this was God’s plan for her. When I observed it wasn’t a very good one, she asked how I dared challenge his wisdom, began ranting about my impudence and faithlessness. She was still fuming as she marched to her bedroom, slammed the door, and locked it. That was the angriest I’d ever seen her.

The three of us shuffled wearily into the house. The paint on the front door had chipped that year, but no one bothered to fix it. I took my time removing my shoes in the foyer; if I dashed to my bedroom, he’d only call me back down as soon as I settled. I stole a glance his way. He’d sunk into his recliner and flicked open the newspaper. Was I actually going to make it through the evening unscathed? I tiptoed up the stairs.

“Sweetheart,” he called when I reached the threshold of my bedroom. I gripped the doorframe, stewing in the irony that I’d wished for my own room my entire life, but now that Jack had left, I wanted nothing more than to share it with my sister. The house was a graveyard without her.

“Coming.” Dread built in the pit of my belly. What would it be like to have an ordinary father who made your eyes roll instead of dilate when he called you? I padded back down the stairs, heart thumping with every step. What did he want? I was too shattered to attempt one of his challenges. I’d been awake since four thirty that morning so I could squeeze in an hour of magic practice before heading to the pool (+1).

I stood in front of his recliner, the fabric stained and fraying. He steepled his fingers, as though considering me for the first time, as though we didn’t see each other’s ugly, bitter face every single day.

Please, not the sandpaper.

“You practice backstroke today?”

I blinked in surprise. You never knew what was going to spew from Sir’s mouth, but rarely was it a normal question. “Yes,” I said, sure I was walking into a trap.

“Time?”

“One fifteen.”

He frowned. “That’s your best time yet” (+2).

Why was he frowning, then?

After I’d made my way through all six levels of swim class, a month faster than Jack had, that still hadn’t been enough. I had to be better, faster, stronger. He decided I would join the high school swim team.

“It’s about time you started thinking on the future,” Sir said. “Enough of this magic bullshit.” My jaw dropped. “Your sister got an academic scholarship. You certainly ain’t gonna qualify on that front. How you planning to pay for college? Pulling dollar bills out of people’s ears?”

Jack had gotten a partial academic scholarship. She was paying most of her tuition with waitressing tips. I doubted my parents had the means to help us with college, but they wouldn’t even if they could. Sir was determined to teach self-sufficiency.

“You push harder at swim practice, you might get an athletic scholarship. Nowhere good, but maybe at a small school wanting to improve their program.”

I fumed. My progress would have thrilled any other parent: I no longer feared water, be it in a bathtub, pool, or ocean. I was a more-than-proficient swimmer, strong enough to swim someone else to safety. But swimming was a chore. I had no intention of continuing the sport after I graduated. I was on the godforsaken swim team only because he’d signed me up.

I cleared my throat. “I don’t want to swim in college.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to work for a living, but adulthood is about doing shit you’d rather not. What are you planning to do with your life? Your sister’s getting a business degree while you’re getting booed out of theaters.”

“Those were some mean classmates retaliating. Everyone else loved the show.”

“Those hooligans were the most interesting part.” I flinched, suddenly yearning for the sandpaper. “Now, listen, I supported this little hobby while you were a kid, but it’s time to get serious. You’re not gonna put food on the table by grabbing rabbits out of hats.”

“If I get good enough, I can. I’m still learning.”

“Not anymore, you’re not.”

I sucked in a breath.

“No more magic shows ’til you get your backstroke down to 1:02.”

My eyes nearly bugged out of my head. “Thirteen seconds off? My teammates are pushing to shave a single second.”

“Them girls were in swim clubs while you were farting around Lake Minnich.”

That was one way to describe a near drowning.

“You got a helluva lot more room for improvement than they do.” My father sniffed. “And we don’t lower ourselves to other people’s standards, sweetheart. I say thirteen seconds by end of senior year is doable.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “Better technique. Muscle buildup. Cardio. You can be awful resourceful when you want to be. You’ll figure it out.”

I gaped at him, refusing to cave to this insurmountable demand.

He narrowed his eyes. “I mean it. No more shows, no more practice, no more magic. Not unless you get your times down.”