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.”
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.