Scrappy Little Nobody(4)

I noticed how high the writing was placed and rushed toward The Wall to demonstrate that I couldn’t have done it! I wasn’t even tall enough! Surely they could see that! Once I started to reach my arm up, though, it looked like I would be able to make it if I got up on my toes. I made a big show of flailing my hand just beneath the writing but kept my heels firmly on the ground, as though I was the kind of person who couldn’t balance otherwise.

This was a setup. I suggested alternative suspects, I tried to look as outraged for my friends as they were themselves. I knew it was Tori; it was so obvious I couldn’t believe I’d even have to say it. But she was tall and I was outnumbered, so I wasn’t about to accuse her then and there.

Once we were back in the classroom and under the safety of adult supervision, I made the rounds to each girl. I whispered that it had to be Tori, that she was trying to squeeze me out, that they were giving her exactly what she wanted! Sadly, by this time, they were enjoying their dramatic game of cold-shoulder too much. It would have spoiled their fun to stop hating me.

The next day I regrouped. Sure, I was starting to hate them right back, but I’d been wronged and this would not stand. I doubled down on the “too short” angle, took a ruler outside at recess, and recorded the results. The measurements were shoddy, but what my evidence lacked in accuracy I made up for in volume. That’s how you save a friendship: comprehensive documentation!

I also pointed out that defacing property was not in my nature. I’d read about the disappearing beaches in National Geographic Kids and my anxiety about the environment went through the roof, so I did not condone waste, littering, or “graffiti.” I even argued that the use of the word “suck” should have eliminated me from suspicion, because I was against swearing. (Oh, sweet, naive younger me.)

They would not be moved. The harder I tried to prove my innocence the more I revealed my true nature, and eventually their motivation for shunning me transformed. It became less about the alleged betrayal and more about their aversion to hyperactive little weirdos. They’d moved on from being angry and settled into just not liking me.

This is how supervillains are created.



* * *




I. Except when I was born. My god, I was so fat. I almost killed my mother. And while that’s gross, it’s completely true. If we lived in a time before cesarean sections, she wouldn’t have survived. (I would also like to thank cesarean sections for sparing me the mental anguish of knowing I once passed through my mother’s vaginal canal.)





origin story


There was a small window in my early childhood when I wanted to be a doctor. This was inspired by my pediatrician, a relatively young man whom I called Dr. Handsome. I had assumed this was because his name was Dr. Hasen or Dr. Branson, but I recently found out his name was Dr. Ritger, so I guess I should have just died at age four when I decided to call my physician Dr. Handsome without so much as a pun to justify it. Anyway, I loved Dr. Handsome. All I actually knew about him was that he was nice and he helped people, but he got a lot of attention for it, which seemed like a pretty sweet gig.



“When I grow up, I’m going to be a poor doctor,” I announced. My mom asked me what I meant.

“I’m going to be a doctor for poor people,” I said. “They won’t need to pay, I’ll work for free.” My mom is a sucker for this kind of sweet-little-kid stuff, but she had to point out that I might face complications in adult life, even if it meant crushing my dream.

“That’s very nice, sweetheart, but if you work for free, what will you do for money?” My mom was an accountant and the breadwinner in the family. Teaching her children about money was the responsible thing to do. She may have even wondered if my brother or I would follow in her footsteps.

I thought about this for a while. I’d just been served a heavy dose of reality.

“Oh!” I said. I can’t believe you didn’t think of this yourself, Mom. “If I run out of money, I’ll just write a check.” She knew then that a career in finance was not for me.

Aside from becoming Martyr, MD, I didn’t have many career goals before I decided I wanted to perform. Sometimes this worries me. Am I like one of those Chinese gymnasts who’s known nothing but this life, never able to consider another option? Am I going to wake up in ten years and say, “Someone get me to a lab; I’ve got some shit to discover!” I would actually love that. Having zero education to back up the desire would be irritating, but going to college at forty with a background in the arts and discovering the competitive world of science would be . . . a terrible movie! Terrible screenplay idea number one! (Terrible title ideas include but are not limited to: The Science of Art! The Art of Science! Old Maid in a Lab Coat!)

Still, performing is all I’ve cared about since the first time I can remember caring about anything. I don’t know how you pursue acting as an adult. It’s possible that the process would have subjected me to more discouraging situations than I could handle and I would have bailed and started a closet-organizing business . . . while letting my OWN life and home fall into chaos! Terrible screenplay idea number two! (Terrible title ideas include but are not limited to: Closet Case! Organize This! Mothballs and Heartbreak! Love Hoarder!) I’m glad I got started early.





It’s All Mike’s Fault