A Castle of Sand Read online

  Dad had me sit on a stool with him, watching him take orders and cook up breakfast for the two hundred students about to arrive at the cafeteria. But when breakfast was over, he winked at me and told me this was the best part of the job; that he could take long breaks in between. He led me down the hallway to the grand theater which was placed in the center of the school. Putting a finger to his lips to signal that I should be quiet, he opened the door and snuck me into the back row. On stage, the lights dimmed and the soundtrack played. Rehearsals for that year’s production were just starting.

  This is when my fate was decided. I don’t think I closed my mouth the entire time we were there. I didn’t say a word; my mouth just hung open in awe. That year they were doing a musical—Les Miserables—and their opening night was just days away. The actors were ready to perform, with their lines memorized and dance steps learned. I watched, as if I were in a dream, as they entered the stage, one by one, their costumes grand and elaborate, and their performances spot on. I cried when Fantine perished, and clapped when Cossette was safe. I sat on the edge of my seat, my hands over my eyes, as Javert ran about the stage, looking for his prey. And when it was over, my eyes were sparkling. I was on my feet, applauding and cheering.

  “Did you like that?” Dad asked, beside me, reaching out to stroke my hair. And then I turned to him, and sealed my fate.

  “Dad, I want to be an actress.”

  It was out of the question, before the words even left my mouth. He was too protective of me. I was too fragile. The tuition fees were too high, even if I stayed at home and became only a day student. They had a rigorous audition process, and students from around the world came to try out—having been trained and performing since they could walk. Students who were to grace the stages of this school would go on to appear in Hollywood; their names in lights. They would sing on Broadway and at the Metropolitan Opera. They would tour the world. Their parents were wealthy - perhaps successful actors themselves. This was not the school for a chef’s daughter who had a dream, and nothing more.

  That was nine years ago, and I haven’t forgotten a moment of that day. Although it may not be a reality, this essay asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, not what I was going to be. Every year, I watch the Oscars with the knowledge of one who has seen the films a thousand times. I download bootleg copies of West End performances, and order theater textbooks from university bookstores, even though I’m not enrolled in their courses. I think every single one of my pleasure reads is about actors, about the stage or the screen. I still memorize monologues and I post them on YouTube, although no one ever watches. It doesn’t matter. The pure joy of doing that is enough for me.

  My father thinks that this was the last I knew of the school. Sure, we go to see the shows, and I occasionally talk to him about the actors we’ve seen there. But to the best of his knowledge, I spend the rest of my time at home, working hard to get high grades to go to a good college. He wants me to be a writer, or a researcher—perhaps a historian—with a Master’s degree or a PhD. He wants better for me than what he has—only an 8th grade education and minimum wage to support us. He hasn’t taken me to work since that day when I was nine; it’s as if, even then, I was outgrowing his profession, I was better than that. He wants me to find something unstressful that has flexible hours that I can do from home. But home is the last place I want to be.

  At least twice a week, I wait until I know he’s busy in the kitchens, and I sneak into the school. I could navigate the route in my sleep by now. The classrooms are mini theaters in and of themselves, and there are so many observers and auditors - local drama classes coming for field trips and potential students - that no one notices if I sneak in. I always sit at the back, knowing where to hide out of the light. I could sit for days on end listening to the lectures and watching the rehearsals. By the time we go to see the shows, I know every line and step off by heart. I can sing every note, bring every emotion forward, and recite every line. I try to follow along with my age group, so I never look too suspicious sitting in the back row. The lectures and lessons are different from year to year, and I always take notes. I have notebooks full of them, hidden under my bed upstairs. Although sometimes, it’s a pleasure to watch the first year students, just six or seven years old, acting out performances well beyond their years, without even breaking a sweat. I know the theories of Stanislavski and Uta Hagen like the back of my hand. I know stage right, stage left, upstage, downstage, backstage, everything. I can listen to almost any Shakespeare quote and tell you who said it, where it’s from, and what it means.

  Most of the students, they don’t stay the full twelve years there. They enter late, or leave early, either for fame and fortune, or because of broken dreams. Some of them barely make it a year, the classes are anything but easy, and the directors are as hard on them as they would be to any professional actor. I probably have been there longer than any of them, with nine years of sneaking in under my belt. I long to be in front of an audience of more than my stuffed animals and five people on YouTube, to try to apply what I’ve learned.

  But I’ve learned to face reality. I’ve not been able to go to the school for a week or so at a time when I’ve been ill myself, and I realize how lucky I have it. When my energy is low, I just have to open my laptop. But when I finally do make it back, I feel so full of life. The school rejuvenates me.

  So that’s what I want to be when I grow up, an actress. And that was the day I decided it forever.

  I hit save, and spell check, re-reading quickly before I hit submit and ended the test. I wanted to forget writing it as soon as I was done; bringing back up those feelings was going to stick with me. As soon as I saw it was submitted, I shut down the computer and got up to stretch. I had been typing for four straight hours, finishing most of my assignments, ahead of time as usual. But now, Dad would be home, and I wanted to get a head start on dinner.

  Most of my ingredients had already been prepared in the professional way that he had taught me. I had learned about food safety before I learned not to stick my fingers in light sockets. I couldn’t help putting some in my mouth as I was preparing it, everything tasted so good today. Some days, my appetite seemed to leave me, but at that moment it had returned with a vengeance.

  Just 62 days until Oscar Nominations posted! My phone beeped with a text from my friend, Sarah. Sarah was my kindred spirit, my best friend. We had met online via a forum where we were discussing actors and movies, and we exchanged phone numbers the next day. Despite having never met, we texted each other several times a day with little updates and messages.

  I smiled, typing back a huge smiley face, and then went back to stuffing peppers. Dad had warned me that this was my one downfall in the kitchen; my phone. I teased him that one day, I would make fried cell phone, and his face showed that he wouldn’t put it past me.

  Is your Dad home yet? Does he know who is cast in this year’s winter performance? That beautiful HBO–pretty Luke you wrote me about?

  I glanced at the clock before replying. Although I couldn’t attend the school, I badgered Dad for information, and always saw every performance they put on. This year, the most promising of all was a senior named Luke, who had the lead in every show. The last show’s program said he already had an agent and would be moving to LA as soon as his schooling was done.

  Not home yet, but soon. I’ll tell you as soon as I know, but I don’t know when they are posting the cast list.

  Living next door to a theater school was like having my own personal Hollywood, and at least I had Sarah to share it with, rather than sitting in silence all day long.

  The clock chimed 6pm just as I heard the door open. Dad was a bit late, but not overly so.

  “Hi!” I called to him, turning around just as I finished the last of the cutting. He smiled at me as he stepped into the kitchen.

  “There are only two professions in the world where one is used to being greeted with a huge knife. Serial Killer and Chef. Be careful, Amy.�
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  “Sorry,” I said, turning around and putting it down again before giving him a hug. Being homeschooled often meant I didn’t see another living soul all day. “You’re late. Was the cast list posted for the winter show?”

  “What?” He looked at me, confused, before he clicked in. “Oh. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” I gave him a horrified look. How exactly could he spend all day there and not know? “But it was due any day now. And isn’t that why you were late? Students all checking the cast list?”

  “The headmaster was going on and on about the use of so much red meat in food,” he replied, hanging up his coat. “These may be drama students, rising stars, but they are still normal kids who like burgers and fries. Geez… Anyway, what are you cooking?”

  “Stuffed Peppers.” I had begun to set the table, wondering exactly how messy these peppers were going to be.

  “Did you finish your assignments today, or do you need to continue to work?” he asked, and I nodded.

  “No, I’m done. I’m so glad I don’t have to take calculus any longer.” Calculus had been the bane of my existence, and it was mandatory up until 10th grade. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to do with my life, but I knew math wasn’t going to be in it, so the moment it became optional, I had stopped. When I had math on my plate in 8th and 9th grade, and had begun taking courses online by myself, I had spent about every evening in tears trying to figure it out. Dad had not been much help then, having stopped taking math in 8th grade himself, to train as an apprentice chef. It hadn’t helped that he had told me, with a rueful smile, that math was also the bane of my mother’s existence when she was in school. I just felt more doomed than ever before.

  “What did you do today, then?” he asked, reaching to pour himself a glass of water.

  “English, mostly,” I replied. “A little French and world politics.” I took a breath before posing my next question. However, before I could ask him about colleges, he cut me off.

  “And how are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” I replied, a bit annoyed. This was his question almost every minute of the day. I received two phone calls and five text messages a day from him, asking the same thing. “I even cleaned my room during lunch.”

  “Are you sure you’re feeling fine, then? You cleaned your room?” He gave me a teasing glance. “Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?”

  “Aliens,” I replied, as the oven dinged. “That’s what happens when you get left alone all day. You’re an easy target for abduction.” I pulled the food out of the oven, putting it on hot plates on the table.

  “Tomorrow I’ll be late again,” Dad said, as he sat down, taking another swallow of water. “Possibly into the evening. In fact, it’ll likely be that way all next week.”

  “Oh?” I looked up, surprised. Tomorrow was Friday, and we usually rented a film and ordered in dinner. It had been a tradition since my childhood, and while the movies had changed from cartoons to dramas, the ritual remained the same.

  “Next week they are having auditions for the winter semester, so they’ll have an overload of potential students flooding the school, which means the cafeteria will be extra busy. I need to make sure things are prepped and ready so we don’t get slammed. The last thing the headmaster will want is for us to appear as though we are not top quality. Even if that means we’ve just run out of fries and pizza.”

  “Anyone interesting?”

  “Just mostly potential transfers from that drama school down south,” he replied, chewing thoughtfully. “You practically have to have a pedigree to get into a school full of pedigrees.”

  “Right,” I replied, taking a bite. “How is it?” I asked, alarmed, when he put his fork down after only one bite.

  “It’s fine. Good herbs, not bad on the sauce. It’s just…” After a minute he pushed his plate away. “Sorry, Amy, I’m just not very hungry today. My stomach has been upset since breakfast.”

  “Oh!” I replied, but he shook his head and gave me a soft smile. “Nothing to worry about, love. It really is good.”

  “Good enough for a professional chef?” I asked, and his face darkened.

  “You need to set your sights higher than that, Amy. Speaking of, when are college applications due?”

  “Next month.” I replied. “But I looked into it today. I mean…you don’t just fill out a form and submit as many as you like. They cost money to even submit. It’s about 100, each time.”

  He winced at this, meeting my eyes.

  “100? For each one?”

  “More for the private schools,” I said, looking down. “And that’s for online applications too. But Dad, we don’t have to…” The last thing I wanted to be was a burden. Already, I had seen my father go without a hat or warm coat because of the cost of my medication.

  “Don’t be silly. This is your future,” he said, standing up and carrying his plate to the sink. “We’ll figure it out, one way or another, and I don’t want to hear another word about it. Submit as many as you can, Amy.”

  “But…” I started, and he glared at me.

  “The discussion is closed.” He rinsed his plate, his back to me. “Now I’m going to lie down for a bit, see if I can’t shake this. I’ll do the dishes later tonight. You should get a head start on those applications, look into them and see how many you’d like to submit.”

  “All right,” I replied, reluctantly. I already knew in my head that the number was in the double digits, if I could have my way, and I knew that there was no way we could pay for it. But Dad wasn’t giving me a chance to protest, and before I could say another word, he was gone.

  After I finished my own dinner, I rebooted my computer and brought my notebook to the kitchen table. Turning to a blank page and trying to ignore the pages already filled with theater notes, I wrote College, in big letters on the top of a page, and began to write down admission requirements for each. However, each time I clicked on a page full of the list of programs, I couldn’t help but check out the requirements for the Theater Majors. Most required an audition, although I knew already which were good schools and which were not. College or not, none of them compared to the education offered at the theater school down the road, but perhaps it could be another dream of mine.

  I was interrupted by the sound of footsteps upstairs, and then, to my horror, my father choking. I shut my notebook in a hurry, heading to the bottom of the stairs. “Dad?” I called, and after a long silence, he responded.

  “I’m alright, Amy. Just an upset stomach.”

  “Oh no.” I came a few steps up to the landing, where I could see him leaning over the sink. He looked terrible, the transformation from just an hour ago was stunning. Pale and sweaty, his jaw clenched as tightly as his hands, he looked like he was about to fall over. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

  “No, stay away.” He waved an arm at me.

  “You think you have a bug or something?”

  “Chef’s curse,” he said, with a shaky grin. “I’ve felt it before. I think the milk from this morning might have gone bad.”

  “You don’t think it was my peppers, do you?” I asked, alarmed that I might have done something careless.

  “No.” He shook his head. “If it was, you’d be sick, but it also wouldn’t have come on so fast. We had leftovers among the kitchen staff this morning which tasted off. I ignored it then, but that’s probably what it is now. Still, if it’s contagious, I don’t want you too close, Amy. I want you to stay downstairs, and wash your hands.”

  “Can I get you anything?” I offered, unsure of what to do. My father was my rock, my stronghold, and seeing him weakened was frightening to me.

  “No, thank you, darling. Just stay downstairs. I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning.”

  “Right,” I said, not believing that he could go from looking so wretched to making a fast recovery. Still, I listened to his wishes, and backtracked down the stairs.

  Parts haven’t been ca
st yet, and I think I food poisoned my father. I failed you on both fronts. I texted Sarah once I was back in the kitchen.

  I’ve got something that will cheer you up. She replied, sending me a link. With a smile, I clicked on it, and sat back in my chair watching Dame Judy Dench perform Shakespeare at London’s West End. Sarah always knew how to save the day. Thank God for best friends, even ones so far away.

  CHAPTER 2: AMY

  I opened my eyes to a now familiar sound—that of my father coughing in the early morning light. This had been going on for a week and it wasn’t getting any better. What he thought was just food poisoning was either the worst case that had ever existed, or something more. Either way, I was suffering along with him. Not just from seeing him in pain, but from his lack of work. The chefs relied not only on their salaries, but also on tips that were shared with the staff when they catered big events. Dad had not been to work for a week. When I checked the bank account online yesterday, which should have been payday, I was shocked to find a negative amount. And it was two more weeks until he got paid again. We needed money; we were already only just getting by. We couldn’t go on like this.

  “Dad,” I said, appearing in his room as the sun rose. I was dressed in black pants and a white shirt with my jacket on. The moment he saw me, I’m sure he knew what I was going to do.

  “Amy, no.”

  “And why not, exactly?” I asked, leaning against the doorpost. “Have you seen the amount of money we have lately?”

  “Amy.” He sat up, trying to take a sip of water, but finding his stomach wouldn’t have any of it. “This isn’t what I wanted for you, to ever have to do this.”

  “Don’t be dramatic, Dad,” I said. “Leave that for the students. It’s not forever. It’s just for a few days, until you feel better.”

  “You’re better than this,” he managed, and I sighed.

  “If it’s good enough for you forever, it’s good enough for me. It’ll be fine, Daddy, don’t worry. It was fine when I spent those few weeks working with you a summer ago.”