The Year of the Great Seventh Read Free

yours?” I said, bringing a piece of chicken to my mouth.
    My dad, Charles, was a historian and worked as a professor at UCLA. Before he met Mom, Dad spent eight years in Africa, working as an archaeologist. Mom and Dad met on a plane traveling from London to Los Angeles and dated long-distance for six months. When they decided to get married, Dad accepted a job as a lecturer because Mom didn’t want to raise a family in Africa.
    I knew Dad didn’t mind teaching, but his real passion wasn’t to sit all day in a lecture hall. He wouldn’t admit it, but I knew he craved his old days, adventuring down into the unknown ruins of lost civilizations. However, when I pushed Dad to admit it, he would always say his admiration for Mom outshone any archaeological adventure.
    “The classes at UCLA don’t start for another week. We only had faculty meetings,” Dad replied.
    “By the way, Charles, did you have time to mow the lawn today? I’m glad you grew that hedge around the garden so the neighbors can’t see our messy garden.” Mom complained.
    “No, I didn’t have time, as I spent all day at the university. I’ll try to do it tomorrow.”
    Mom frowned, following Dad with her eyes. The house had a relatively large garden and this was the only friction point between Mom and Dad because neither of them enjoyed gardening. The garden was surrounded by a tall hedge to fence out the house from the street because Dad was paranoid about locals intruding in their neighbors’ lives.
    “Can you believe that old man on TV wanted to rob a bank?” Mom announced.
    Mom had the habit of making comments about the news on TV as though Dad and I didn’t speak the same language as the news anchor.
    “A sixteen-year-old ran over a man because he was drunk driving. This is unbelievable,” Mom continued.
    “Mom, we’re watching it, too.”
    Dad chuckled at my comment and gently kicked my leg under the table for smarting off to Mom.
    “By the way, Sophie,” Mom said, “you should’ve seen the kind of people that showed up for today’s casting. We got some real weird ones. There was this blonde who messed up every single line of the script. I would think that even if someone purposely tried to get every line wrong, it would be impossible.” Mom laughed.
    Mom was a casting director, and like every casting director, when she was a child, she didn’t dream of finding actors who would become Hollywood stars. She dreamed of being a Hollywood star herself. But one day an opportunity came along to help cast a movie, and, tired of waiting tables and living as a struggling actress, she accepted the offer and moved on with her life. The rest is history.
    “Did you find the right person for the lead role?” I asked, pouring some water into my glass.
    Mom turned to look directly at me. “No, not yet. We’ve seen over two hundred actresses, and the director is getting a bit frustrated.” I definitely knew where this conversation was heading. Mom had all but given up her dream of being a successful actress. But it was her dream, not mine.
    “Sophie, why don’t you stop by the casting after class tomorrow? I’m sure you’d be perfect for one of the roles. Come on! You’re so much more beautiful than all the girls I saw today.” Mom begged.
    The anger I was feeling made the blood rush to my face. I couldn’t believe she was bringing this up for the fiftieth time. Trying to control the emotion in my voice, I replied, “Mom, I think we’ve spoken about the whole acting career thing about a million times. I don’t appreciate your emotional blackmail to get me to attend castings.”
    “Okay, you don’t have to come if you don’t want. I was just asking.” Mom was taken aback.
    “Did you get into all the classes you need to fulfill the requirements for your college scholarship?” Dad asked, trying to ease the tension building up between Mom and me.
    With Dad it was a different story. We got along ridiculously well, as I had