Scrappy Little Nobody(11)
I hit the jackpot. I didn’t have to go to school (my dad was tutoring me) and I got to run around New York City all day. Sometimes I was lonely. I met most of the other kids who were in shows at the time, but as I said, child actors are crazy, and the conversations often looked like this:
“Anna Kendrick is a great name. Is that a stage name or your real name?”
“It’s my real name.”
“You got a good one. Good syllabic symmetry.”
I’d try to catch my dad’s eye and find some recognition that this was not normal preadolescent behavior.
I did make a few friends. My closest friend was Nora, an understudy in The Sound of Music. The Sound of Music kids were intimidating. They seemed like this sexy, co-ed gang (proving once again that even the dorkiest subcultures have their rock stars). Nora was the only thing I had that resembled normal preteen life. We had sleepovers and went window shopping, we sang along to pop music and show tunes, and each of us tried to convince the other that she was the pretty one.
Even though I was friends with Nora, we didn’t see each other all the time, and I had no other good friends. Sometimes working and commuting didn’t feel as easy as it did other days. I knew the show like the back of my hand, but I still had to do it every night.
Sometimes I would get home after a show and I couldn’t sleep. I’d sneak into the living room and watch TV until the sun came up. Then I’d sleep all day and dread going to work. I’d dread the drive from Yonkers. I’d dread putting on my costume. I’d dread warming up. I’d dread my entrance. I’d dread my first line. I’d dread my song. I’d dread the drive home.
I was so happy to be doing this incredible thing, but at this point, dear reader, I’d like to use my one “What do you want from me, I was twelve years old, tired and lonely and working the kind of job that full-grown adults do” card.
I needed a break. Just a little one. Anxiety typically only becomes unmanageable for me when I feel I have no choice, when I feel trapped. I just needed a break in routine so I could shake out the dread.
One day, when we were halfway through the first act, I reached my limit. I needed to take a break RIGHT NOW. Don’t get too excited; this isn’t a story about me bailing on a Broadway show mid-performance. I told my dad that I didn’t want to do the show the next night. He knew I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t serious and kind of desperate. At intermission, we went to speak to the stage manager . . . no, it was a producer, maybe . . . I remember we were under the stage, but who the hell was in charge of that? Who did you talk to about taking a night off and why the hell was their office under the stage?I At any rate, my dad told the appropriate woman that I was going to stay home and rest the following night.
“Well, tomorrow night is tough.” She winced. “It would be a lot easier for everyone if you took off a night next week.”
Just being near a serious conversation between adults made my stomach turn (it still does, actually), and when she looked over at me she could see that I was upset.
“Do you want a glass of water, honey?”
In show business, when you tell people that you need something and it runs counter to what they want from you, it’s amazing how often they will offer you water. This is code for Deal with it.
I agreed that having a night off the following week would be just as good. The advance notice would make it less stressful for my coworkers, and I really didn’t want anyone to be mad at me.
We scheduled my night off for a Tuesday so that, coupled with the Monday (which was always off), I would have a real weekend of sorts. My dad took me up to the Catskills. We went to a mall, and I swam in the hotel pool, and I even rode a fat, probably dying horse at a nearby ranch.
In the car on the ride home, I was quiet, and Dad said, “You really needed the night off when you said you did, huh?”
I nodded and he hit the steering wheel. I hated that he was mad. Which is weird since he was only mad because he hadn’t been able to make me happy. Love is some funny shit, right?
When the show closed, I was sad but relieved. I was ready to go home. Still, maybe because I’d seen my family struggle to pay the bills, even while my father was working two jobs, it was disconcerting to be unemployed. Sure, I could go home and go to school and see my friends and family, but at what cost? Was I a twelve-year-old has-been?
I’m still haunted by this fear. It has made me very cautious of feeling comfortable in my career—and turned me into a bit of a workaholic.
Even now, every job I get, I worry that it will be my last. I think becoming a washed-up hag is sort of my destiny. So if you see a wrinkled old bitch wearing a tattered fur and chain-smoking in an off-Broadway back alley . . . that’s just me. Starting four years from now.
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I. My memory is bad and I could probably ask myself these kinds of questions on every page, but I’m going to do my best to fill in the blanks from here on out, and I hope you’re cool with that, too. XO!
hell, thy name is middle school
In elementary school, we had an afternoon of “health class” once a year. The teachers separated us by gender and explained what we could expect from puberty. They handed out maxi pads to the girls and gave the boys . . . pamphlets on styling a wispy mustache that ONLY grows at the corners of your mouth? I may never know.