Paris: The Memoir(21)
Three Possible Reasons Mom Didn’t Want Us to Work as Models
She knew more than we did about the modeling/acting world and didn’t want us to learn things the hard way.
It was painful for her to see us working because it raised a lot of “what ifs” in her mind. Just like seeing Nicky with her beautiful kids raises “what ifs” in my mind.
She secretly did want us to do it, but she wanted us to own it. Conrad Hilton taught Papa and Papa taught Dad that it’s dangerous when rich kids don’t have enough “dragons to slay.”
Maybe it was some combination of all three. Bottom line: She said no to every runway show and photo shoot I got offered.
In the fall, Mom and Dad took Nicky and me to interview at Sacred Heart, a prestigious Manhattan school for girls. A nun escorted us around, showing us the whole place, telling us all about Saint Madeleine Sophie Barat, the founder of the Society of the Sacred Heart.
“We teach by her example,” said the nun. “Saint Madeleine Sophie Barat said, ‘Be humble, be simple, bring joy to others.’ Our girls learn about living a meaningful life.”
I didn’t want to go there. I don’t know what it was about that place—the uniforms that reminded me of my old school, the classrooms full of rigid rows—but I knew immediately that it was going to be so fucking hard. I knew myself. My ADHD was still undiagnosed, so I had no language for my challenges and quirks, but I felt certain that I would be hated by the irritable nuns and prissy girls and end up hating myself.
After the tour, Nicky and I had to be interviewed by the nun in charge of admissions. I fidgeted and bounced my foot while she and Nicky had a great conversation about blah blah blah, and then the nun asked me, “What did you like best about the school, Paris?”
I tried to sound breezy. “Nothing.”
“Well, what did you like best about your school in Palm Springs?”
“Art. Field hockey.” I squirmed in the uncomfortable chair. “Look, I don’t want to go to this school, so I’m not trying to impress you.”
“I see,” she said.
“This place sucks. I’d rather kill myself.”
I felt my mom’s eyes drilling into me like lasers. The nun organized the papers on her desk.
“I’m afraid you’re not Sacred Heart material, Paris.” She beamed in Nicky’s direction and said, “You are.”
In the fall, Nicky went to Sacred Heart, and I went to Professional Children’s School, where I could opt into a curriculum that focused on the fashion industry. Macaulay Culkin and Christina Ricci and a lot of other young actors, ballerinas, and models went there. Macaulay’s apartment was right next door to the school, so we had parties there after school.
I thought this would be the coolest school in the world, and it was, but I found it unbearable to be in one place—even a cool place—for hours at a time. Pouring adolescent hormones into an ADHD brain is like dumping gasoline on a fire. Many teenage girls with ADHD struggle with mood swings, weight gain, anxiety, panic attacks, and a lot of unfamiliar, frightening physical and emotional turbulence that lead to their being isolated, judged, bullied, and punished, which makes it all a thousand times worse.
I felt like there was a snake pit inside me. It was impossible to keep my mouth shut and my hands still, even though I was inwardly commanding myself—mouth shut, hands still—and digging my nails into my forearms. Sometimes it was too much. I just had to take off and walk around New York. I jogged along the path and played with random dogs in the park. I trotted down Fifth Avenue, and the windows went by like a slide show, something colorful and wonderful in every store.
My parents went away for a couple of weeks so Dad could take care of some overseas business. Barron was seven, and Conrad was a toddler, so the nanny had their hands full and I had plenty of space to do whatever I wanted. Even more freedom than I had in Palm Springs. And New York was a million times more fun.
I waited for Nicky to get home from school and said, “Let’s go out.”
She was ambivalent. “I’ll go Friday,” she said, “but not on a school night.”
“Come on. Why not?”
“Because I’m not a moron. I want to get good grades.”
Nicky was thirteen and kinda bossy. She frequently forgot who was the big sister around here. Whatever.
I went down to the Waldorf lobby, grabbed a copy of Time Out New York, and flipped to the back, where they listed everything going on in the city at night. Every kind of music you can imagine—jazz, pop, karaoke, classical—and all sorts of quintessential New York happenings—gallery openings, drag competitions, performance art, and fashion shows. Best of all, they listed all the clubs, DJs, and underground raves.
Time Out New York became my daily homework assignment. I got good at scoping out the best parties and music and DJs. I slept most of the day, spent a couple of hours playing with Barron and Conrad or talking on the phone in Nicky’s room while she did her homework. After everyone went to bed, I headed out with just enough cash in my pocket to grab something to eat on the street. Party people didn’t show up at the clubs until midnight, and you couldn’t really know where the raves were happening until bar time, so midnight was the sweet spot. Plenty of time to pop into a few clubs and overview the situation before bar time.
Like the song says: You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.