Scrappy Little Nobody(58)

He told me to calm down, he told me it would work out. I suspect that when he hung up the phone he threw up.

All I can say is god bless Ben Affleck. Once both of us were potentially going to be part of the broadcast, Warner Brothers agreed that to make it work, they would hire a private jet (!) to take us from LA to Atlanta immediately following the ceremony. Player WHAA—I can’t pull that off—I was super stoked.

The unglamorous reality of this situation was that in the back of the car that took me to the Academy Awards was a suitcase packed with a travel toothbrush, cotton socks and underwear, an old rain jacket (Atlanta was due for a storm), my laptop, and a week’s supply of sweatpants, a.k.a. two pairs of sweatpants.

My dress that year was a custom peach gown. It was temporarily constructed with a thin cord that tied the neckline of the dress together, but was designed to incorporate a diamond collar necklace. Having a diamond necklace hold up your dress is nerve-wracking but sexy as f*ck, and I would give the experience a ten out of ten. However, just to make sure that nothing malfunctioned, once the dress was on me, my stylist had to sew it to the necklace. This process was about fifteen minutes of being occasionally pricked by a needle with my head tilted awkwardly to one side. Still sexy, still loving it. Being sewn into a diamond necklace is not a thing you are allowed to be annoyed over in real life.

I arrived early since I was in the opening number and had to change clothes. The red carpet can get hectic as showtime approaches, but having a reason to be there before the rush meant there were fewer bodies and less stress. It was almost relaxing, but eerie, like being in a slaughterhouse before the cattle are brought in. I walked the carpet in my pretty, flowing gown. I was very happy to be out of the crash position, and nothing malfunctioned, so I went backstage to change. My stylist met me in my dressing room and slowly cut me out of my dress and necklace. Still sexy, still loving it.

I got into my Cinderella costume, had a quick hair change, and started warming up. I could hear Adam Levine and John Legend warming up in the echoey halls, and I wondered what the hell I thought I was doing. But Jack Black was in the room next door and he started a casual conversation through the thin wall. We lobbed jokes back and forth, which calmed my nerves. Jack may share the Clooney gene for spotting and preventing a potential downward spiral.

I stood backstage and waited for my cue. I would put this moment in the top three scariest of my life. Even writing about it makes me queasy. The number of my heroes sitting in the Dolby on Oscar night was almost comical. I wasn’t worried about the millions of people watching at home; I was afraid I was going to fall on my ass in front of Oprah.

My cue came and I ran onstage. I sang my first line to the audience and got entrance applause—entrance applause, motherf*cker! Hot crowd, I love it! Then I turned to sing my second line to Neil. Lovely Neil. Seeing him made my anxiety drop. No matter what happened, having this guy as a parachute meant we’d be fine. We sang our silly bits to each other, and then Jack Black came on and absolutely destroyed the place.

The hard part was over for me by this point and I got to fully enjoy his amazing comedic and vocal stylings. My last bit was a gag where I scream at Jack to “Beat it!” and throw Cinderella’s slipper after him as he exits.

In rehearsals, the problem was often that I didn’t throw the shoe far enough and it was unclear that Jack was being attacked. Performance adrenaline led to an overcorrection, and I threw the shoe clear offstage. Neil and I couldn’t tell if it was offstage from where we were, but we were nervous. The next piece was supposed to be Neil walking to my shoe, picking it up, and handing it back to me. The music started up again and Neil headed toward the opposite side of the stage, scanned the ground, and turned back in a graceful loop. Lovely, consummately professional, Neil skated back to me and took both my hands and looked into my eyes like, I guess you’re exiting half barefoot, sugar. We took our final breath as song partners and I was on my way offstage. Hopefully, no one knew that wasn’t the plan.

I walked to my dressing room in a haze trailed by a wardrobe girl and a few stage managers, got out of my Cinderella costume, sat down in my underwear, and had a drink. Finally I squeaked, “The shoe wasn’t supposed to go offstage.”

A chorus of people assured me they hadn’t noticed anything wrong, and I believed them, because what else was I going to do?

I got back into my peach dress and, once again, my stylist sewed me into the necklace. Still sexy, still loving it. Or at least, liking it very much and feeling very appreciative for this moment in my life. I had another drink and got ready to present an award with Kevin Hart. I asked him, “May I take your arm?” and we walked onstage.

I was allowed to stay until Ben presented his award since the plane couldn’t take off without him. I sat in the audience and watched Lady Gaga perform. Her seats were right next to mine, but while she was onstage her parents moved up and sat in them to watch her. I imagine that Lady Gaga has done a lot of things that confuse her parents, no matter how supportive they may be. Watching Lady Gaga’s parents watch Lady Gaga nail a musical tribute to Julie Andrews was extraordinary. When Ms. Andrews herself joined their daughter onstage, their pride almost took solid form next to me.

The last thing I got to see was John Legend and Common perform “Glory.” I had seen them perform it at the Grammys earlier that month (yeah, guess what, I’m a big deal) but something special was happening in the auditorium that night. Maybe it was having their cast and crew there, maybe Oprah really does make every room more magical. Chris Pine’s single tear was no bullshit.