This Might Hurt(23)

I gritted my teeth. “I can do both. I’ll get better at swim and magic at the same time.”

“Like hell you will. Try to get this through that thick skull: there’s no future in magic here. You gotta go to New York or somewhere for shit like that. You’re staying”—he jabbed his finger on the tray table—“right here.”

In less than a year, I would earn my driver’s license. I could leave this house and drive as far as I wanted. I could drop out of high school, find a couch to sleep on, devise a way to get my GED.

“You’re done with magic.”

His glare dared me to challenge him. There was no use arguing.

My chin dropped. “Yes, sir.”

“How many times have I said, if you only applied yourself, you could be somebody someday? But you’ve gotta get focused. Enough horsing around.” His eyes flicked to the television. “Bring your points notebook down here.”

“Yes, sir,” I repeated.

I trudged upstairs to my room and flopped on the bed, squeezing Mr. Bear’s head until my arms ached. I opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out my notebook, thought about hurling it out the window.

From now on, I would practice before Sir woke. I’d perform impromptu shows for smaller crowds in secret venues. I’d do all my reading and research at the library, tell my parents I was working on group projects. I would sharpen my craft, losing blood, gaining bruises, until I was flawless and fearless like Houdini. I would move to New York if that was what it took. Sir could threaten me all he wanted, but I wasn’t going to stop.

I would never, ever give up performing.





9





Natalie


JANUARY 8, 2020


“I DON’T TAKE kindly to being called a liar.” I flash Gordon a withering glare, put the key card to the scanner, and hear the door unlock. “Whoever you talked to has their facts wrong.” Heart racing, I push the door open and haul my duffel bag inside, not giving him a chance to respond.

What do I know about any of these people, what they’re capable of? Who’s to say they’ll limit their threats to e-mail? I press the bruise on my wrist, picture Gordon dragging me by the hair to the water and holding me under until I fall limp. Who would know where I’ve gone?

Who would care enough to look?

I shake my head clear and glance around the cabin. The room is spotless, not a dust bunny in sight. It’s set up like Paul Bunyan’s dorm room: heavy on function, light on decor. A twin bed rests against the far wall, crisp white sheets tucked into perfect corners. Across from the bed stands a bare oak desk and hard-backed chair. Sliding doors conceal a small closet. No rug on the floor, gadgets on the nightstand, art on the walls. Just knots in the pine that look like swarms of bees.

“One more thing,” Gordon says. I jerk and spin around. He has crossed the threshold, is standing inside my room. He closes the door and reaches into his messenger bag. From it he pulls a stapled packet. “I need you to sign this.”

I flip through the pages of the contract. It says I can’t sue Wisewood for injuries or emotional distress, that I promise not to share anything that happens here with the “outside world.” No posting ratings or reviews on travel sites or elsewhere on the web.

We do not want anyone disclosing trade secrets or spoiling the experience for future visitors.

That explains why there are so few reviews of Wisewood online. I turn to the last of twenty pages of mind-numbing legalese. When I look up, Gordon is staring at me expectantly. He’s waiting for me to sign right here and now. It’s not like I read Apple’s terms and conditions before updating my iPhone, but for all I know, Wisewood’s contract includes a nightly animal sacrifice.

“I’ll need to read this in depth,” I say. He nods but makes no move to leave. “Privately.”

“Take your time.” Gordon taps his foot. “You just have to stay in this room until you’ve signed. We need to protect our intellectual property.”

I clutch the packet. The longer I stand here reading, the longer it’ll take me to find Kit. Not to mention I haven’t checked my e-mail in hours. Though my phone is off, I’m sure I can hear the pings of panicked messages pouring in, in my absence.

I speed-read the pages. Nothing crazy jumps out. I sign on the dotted line and hand the contract to Gordon.

“You can pay for the night’s stay when you check out tomorrow. We serve dinner at six in the cafeteria.” He heads for the door.

“Hey, what did you mean on the phone?” I worry my lower lip with my teeth. “When you said I’d done enough?”

“You fidget with your mouth when nervous. I presume you wear a mouth guard at night to stop from grinding your teeth.” I immediately stop. He clasps his bear-paw hands behind his back. “Kit’s talked a lot about your family in class.”

I flinch. “What’s she said?”

“Ask her yourself.” With that, he opens the door and leaves. I lean against it. “Maximized day, Ms. Collins,” he calls quietly.

I wait for my heart to slow. After a minute, I realize I never asked which room is Kit’s. I yank open the door, but Gordon is long gone.

I curse, then scan the room. Next to the closet is the bathroom, which is so small I can wash my hands in the sink while sitting on the toilet. I sigh and shift my gaze above the sink to check the damage this weather is undoubtedly inflicting on my hair.