“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, alarmed, 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 to as many as you can, Amy.”
“But…” I started, and he glared at me.
“The discussion is closed. Now,” he rinsed his plate, his back to me. “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.”
“Alright,” 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, bringing 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 a 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.