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.
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.