A Castle of Sand(95)

And she was beautiful, but that was inconsequential. Most actresses are some type of beauty, or they make you believe so. And this is a tough industry. It’s not seen through rose-tinted glasses. If I can’t see some sort of physical beauty in them, even at this young age, then they don’t get a shot. Better they learn it here than somewhere else.
Speaking of shots, I had certainly had at least two too many last night. It was a rough night - rougher than most. It seems closer to a full moon, the cravings always get worse. I’m not sure why, and I haven’t bothered to figure it out, but come the full moon, the urge to feed on human blood is never stronger. The alcohol helps, although it isn’t always a cure.
Which led to that morning, and my pounding head. Curse immortality that comes with hangovers. I still suffer the effects nearly every time. And when walking into a room full of energized, over-dramatic teenagers, the symptoms double.
I nodded curtly to a few of them and made my way toward the front of the room. Some of them called my name—no doubt they had questions about the latest simple assignment I’d given them. No matter how simple I made the homework, they had questions.
I was leaning against my desk with my back to them to try to drown out the noise, when suddenly the pain started to subside. The room was growing quiet, and the scent of human blood was neutralized.
I took a deep, pain free breath and turned around, proud of myself for controlling the urge. But then I saw I had not done so at all.
She was standing in the center of the now quiet room, blushing at the curious stares. Her long hair was hanging straight down her back, her huge brown eyes that had first attracted me were staring right into my own. But it was her scent; calming my urges, that made me hold her gaze as I wondered what she was. I felt better almost instantly, swallowing to find the words to speak.
“Take a seat, Amy.” I said, gesturing with my free hand, and she nodded, sitting down almost instantly. “And the rest of you...” I said, giving them my usual glare. They scuttled to their seats, pulling out notebooks. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her the entire lesson. What was she? What was drawing me to her? What story of us was just beginning?  

CHAPTER 1: AMY
 
Write about what you want to be when you grow up. What made you decide that? Use all the proper formatting described in the previous chapter. I read the assignment over and over again before I clicked the start button. The thing with being homeschooled, or ‘online schooled,’ was that once I clicked the start button for the test, I couldn’t do things normal students did, like negotiate for extra time to go to the bathroom, or argue my grade. I had to do it right the first time.
I glanced at the clock, seeing that I still had about forty five minutes left before Dad came home. The assignment was only allotted at thirty minutes, maximum, which meant I could probably finish it in twenty. They always gave you too much time with these things, which was silly really, because it meant you had extra time to use the textbook and cheat.
I never cheated, of course. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. My father had taught me that something worth doing was worth doing right, and even if he wasn’t home, his lessons rung loud in my ears. If I started this assignment right away, I could finish it and start dinner. I was planning stuffed peppers worthy of a five star restaurant—my father would expect no less—and when I read the recipe for them, I almost drooled. However, they would take some time to make, and I didn’t want him home and waiting on food, not after a long day at work.
I clicked start, taking a deep breath, and positioned my fingers over the keyboard. Go.
I want to be an actress. I think I’ve always wanted to be an actress. I can remember, when I was young, putting on plays for my parents and my stuffed animals in the living room. Nothing thrilled me more than dressing up in costumes, making up stories and performing at the top of my lungs. However, I think there was one day when it became more than just a childhood fantasy.
I was nine years old, and my father and I had just moved here. After months of job searching, he finally got a job at a prestigious theater school just down the road. He was to be a cook, helping with not just the students’ three meals a day and snacks (about 50% of the students are boarders), but also the catering for the fancy theatrical events and any food props needed for the shows. It meant long hours, but that made up for the low pay. I remember him working late at home one night trying to develop a way for meat to be raw on the outside, but cooked on the inside. Whatever show they were doing at the time was not ‘appropriate for a child of my age,’ but he succeeded, and they put his name in the program and gave him ‘special thanks’ along with the rest of the chefs.