Beautiful Monster(2)

              The school was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen: historic and sturdy on the outside, and the walls inside were filled with colors. There were murals, art work, and old flats from shows mounted on the wall. There were hundreds of black and white pictures of the students in various plays, their costumes and makeup outstanding. I had never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. But that wasn’t the best part.
              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 sound track 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, it 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 in a dream myself, as they entered the stage, one by one, their costumes grand and elaborate, and their performance 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 Javier 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 actor.”
              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 that 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 the time at home, working hard to get high grades, and 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 in to the school. I could navigate the route in my sleep by now. The classrooms are mini theaters in themselves, and there are so many observers and auditors; local drama classes coming for field trips, 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 watch for days on end, listening to the lectures, 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 Stanislavsky and Uta Hagan 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.#p#分页标题#e#