Chapter 17
Sharp Edges
“This chicken is good. New marinade?” Uncle Tim helps himself to a second serving from the pottery dish in the table center.
“Greek,” Dad says. “One of the swim parents shared the recipe in our f*******: group so I thought I’d try it.” He nods at me. “You don’t like it?”
“What? No. Yeah. It’s great. I’m just tired,” I say.
“I don’t know how you keep up with your schedule, kiddo,” Uncle Tim says, his eyes soft. Sometimes I wish he were my dad instead.
“Speaking of,” Dad says, resting his fork on his plate edge. “Coach Tosto would like to see you in the pool five days a week before school up until districts. Your butterfly times aren’t where they should be, even after that workshop. She’s concerned.”
I feel like crying. I am already so tired, how can I possibly
