Sir’s teeth clenched. “I’ll talk to my daughter however I damn well please.”
Surprise wrinkled the boy’s otherwise flawless skin. “Oh, you’re her father, then?” He considered me. “Guess you drew the short straw on that front. Sorry to hear it. My dad’s a b- . . . b-bastard too.” He shrugged.
The corners of my lips twitched.
Sir’s face was beginning to purple. “I oughta smack you into next Tuesday.”
The teen grinned. “I w- . . . w-wouldn’t, sir. I played football for Aldsville, so I’m pretty good at taking hits. Used to making them too.” He continued smiling, delivering the threat as merrily as if he were wishing Sir a happy birthday.
“How dare you talk to me that way?” Sir said.
“How dare you talk to her that w- . . . w-way?”
“W-w-w-way,” Sir mocked him. I cringed.
“Well done, sir.” The boy nodded toward my father. “Punch me right in the stutter. It’s a low blow, and not an entirely original one, but a blow nonetheless. I have to warn you, it’ll take much w- . . . w-worse than that to send me running.” He rocked onto his heels and put his hands behind his back like he was happy to stand there all night.
Sir glared at me. “You gonna do something about this punk?”
My father was wrong about me: I did have something to offer; I was talented. Someday I would change the world. “I think you should go,” I said.
“I knew it was a mistake coming here. I told your sister as much.”
No one said anything. I stared at Sir, willing him to leave.
Finally he did. “Don’t bother showing your face around these parts again.”
“Gladly,” I said loudly enough for him to hear.
He stormed out of the room, shoulder checking the boy on his way. The teen barely moved, rock solid. Once Sir was gone, the air returned to my lungs.
“Thank you.”
The boy smiled sympathetically. “As I said, I’ve got a model like him at home.”
I remembered myself then, that I was to be the nonpareil of fearlessness. I squared my shoulders, forced my chin to higher ground. “I don’t need other people fighting my battles for me.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re Madame Fearless. But sometimes it’s nice to know someone has your back.”
Something loosened inside of me. “Call me Rebecca.” He nodded but made no move to state his intentions. “How can I help you?”
“You don’t remember me?”
I squinted.
“From your magic show. W- . . . w-when you were in high school.”
“I performed that show three times a week for four years.” I put a hand on my hip. “Might you narrow it down for me a touch?”
“I was your assistant in the handcuff routine,” he said at the same time I recognized him. He was the boy in the second row at the show Sir and Mother had attended, the one I’d bungled due to the provocations of the drama club. A lifetime had passed between then and now.
I shook his hand. “Remind me of your name?”
“Gabe.” He grinned. “I’ve b- . . . b-been excited for this show for months. It was fantastic.”
“You flatter me, Gabe.”
“You deserve it. You were a master up there.”
“Generous of you to say.” I paused. “Do you want me to sign something? Take a photo?”
“Actually, I was hoping I could offer you something. I w- . . . w-wondered if you might need an apprentice.”
I considered the quickest way to turn him down while he prattled. True, I desperately needed an assistant, but the plan was to find my hire through a temp agency. This jaunty boy was emphatically not part of the plan. “I’m studying public relations, so I could help you get the w- . . . w-word out about your shows.”
He was in college, then, older than I’d thought.
“I’ll take care of whatever you need, like a p- . . . like a p-personal assistant.”
“What’s in it for you?” I asked suspiciously.
“I’ve always w- . . . w-wanted to be a magician.”
“Then why don’t you put your own show together?”
Gabe shifted his weight. “My dad w- . . . w-wants me to go into a steadier line of w- . . . w-work. Find something more lucrative.”
I stared down my nose. “What is it your father does?”
“He owns a p- . . . p-pizza chain.” Gabe’s face turned crimson. He stared at his tattered sneakers. “He says I’ll never make it as a magician anyway if I can’t even spit out a line.”
Silence inched its way into the room and hovered uncomfortably. How many fathers had trampled the dreams of their children? Would it never stop? I gritted my teeth.
“What about your mother?”
He shrugged.
“As I recall, you had a younger brother,” I tried again. “Is he supportive?”
“W- . . . w-when it’s me and him, sure. Otherwise he goes along with w- . . . w-whatever Dad says.”
“Siblings are unreliable that way, aren’t they?” I said darkly.
He nodded at his shoes, chewing his lip.
“Well, in my experience parents rarely know what they’re talking about.”
Gabe peeked up, so unguardedly full of hope that it made my chest twinge. His face clouded. “I’m not the type of guy they p- . . . p- . . . let onstage.”
“Not so long ago women weren’t allowed onstage either,” I said evenly. “The only person who has the power to stop you from being what you want is you.” He broke out in a grin, and I had the rather merciless impulse to add, “You’re going to need a much thicker skin if you want to make it in show business.”
He nodded. “I want to learn the ropes as best I can.”
What was the responsible action here: give him a leg up or dissuade him from a life of rejection and setbacks? I recognized the fire in Gabe. Had Evie ever once tried to extinguish mine?
When he sensed my vacillation, he said, “B- . . . b-but I’m not asking for charity.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not the philanthropic sort.”
One “yes.” That was all he wanted. How long had I been saying I wanted to help others, to pass on all I had learned about the art of fearlessness? I had ambitions of effecting change on a grander scale, but perhaps I was putting the proverbial cart before the horse. I could practice with Gabe, loosen fear’s grip on him. I was far too intelligent to believe in chimerical concepts such as destiny, but I allowed for the occasional stroke of serendipity. What more fitting first pupil could I ask for than a boy under the thumb of his father?
“I’d work you to the bone. Your university classes would look like child’s play.”
He bobbed his head again. I watched him for a time, searching for a sign this was a mistake. I found him slightly annoying, a bootlicker, too cheerful and fawning. He was ignorant of social decorum. Possibly he would expect us to be friends or to share our feelings occasionally.
I strode to my purse on the makeup counter and pulled a business card from it anyway. When I turned around, standing in the doorway behind Gabe was my sister.
I started. She was wearing too much makeup in all the wrong places, leaving the resultant impression that she had recently returned from a hard day’s work in a coal mine. A grin stretched sloppily across her face.
“Sir left,” I said. Gabe turned to see whom I was addressing.