“Don’t ignore me, Darren. You have practice.”
“Well, I’m not going to bloody practice,” Darren snapped. “I’ve been practicing all afternoon, my wrist hurts, and I have calculus homework!”
Father drew himself up and folded his arms over his chest. Darren could remember being five and afraid of that stance, but it was ten years ago, and those ten years hadn’t been kind to Jeff Peace. His stomach was forcing its way over the top of his suit trousers, he was going bald, and the last summer (and Darren’s violently quick growth spurts) had reinforced the simple fact that Father was not as tall as he made out to be.
“You have a talent,” Father growled, but his voice wasn’t deep enough to do it properly, “and talents are the keys to success in this world. If you want to ever be a success, you have to nurture your gifts, and that means practice.”