Paris: The Memoir(22)

A group of us would jam ourselves into a cab or hop on the subway and go to a warehouse or an abandoned shopping center or a defunct department store to dance and go wild until morning. The music pulsed so loud that there was no way to make conversation, but that was okay. We didn’t need words. It was all about the feeling: freedom, abandon, adrenaline. I wanted it to go on forever, but eventually, sweaty and exhausted, I found my way back to the Waldorf, slipped past the doorman, and leaned against the cool, clean elevator wall until the doors opened. I went in as quietly as I could, took a shower, and fell into bed as everyone else got up to get ready for school.

It was easy to lose track inside the brick walls and blacked-out windows. When raves went late, and later, and so late it was early again, I figured it was better not to go home at all. I crashed at a friend’s house, slept all day, and went back out the next night.

One morning I got off the elevator and found my parents waiting with a hybrid look of rage and relief on their faces. Mom was devastated, wrecked with tears. Seeing how hard it was on Mom made Dad even more furious.

“Where have you been? Do you know what we’ve been going through? Do you know what we’ve been imagining?”

I was so tired. I just wanted the confrontation to end, so rather than try to explain, I apologized and promised it would never happen again. And I wanted to mean it. I hated how this hurt them, but I felt like they should trust me to take care of myself and be cool with it. Obviously, that was totally selfish and idiotic. Why would any parent be okay with that? I certainly won’t be okay with it as a mom.

But I tried to sell it to them: “Calm down. I’ll be fine.”

“There are predators,” Mom said. “Predators are out there waiting for girls like you.”

“No one’s going to mess with me,” I said. “Not with the paparazzi always hanging around taking pictures.”

“What?”

To be clear, we’re not talking about the storm of paparazzi that followed me around later in my career. This was a few groggy die-hards who camped out on the street every night, waiting for someone famous to come out of certain clubs that were known to be popular with certain celebrities. I wasn’t famous, but I had a famous name. Sometimes it was the best they could do. A picture of “Paris the Heiress” was worth a little something, so they’d call out to me, “Hey! Hey, are you the Hilton girl?”

“Hey, boys!”

“Where are you headed, Paris?”

“Oh, you know.”

“Is that your boyfriend?”

“No, we’re just hanging out.”

I always gave a cute pose and tried to be polite. If I had been walking alone in a dark street or getting into a cab at 3:00 a.m. without anyone seeing the license plate, I’d have been scared. I felt safer knowing the paps—always guys back then—would be out there waiting for me, trying to make me look over my shoulder and laugh, showing predators that I was seen and accounted for.

For some crazy reason, Mom and Dad did not find this comforting.

Obviously, first and foremost, they were concerned for my safety; in addition to random stranger danger, they were legitimately scared that kidnappers might see this girl from the rich family and take me for ransom. But they were also worried about what people would say if their underage daughter was seen hanging out in nightclubs and raving till dawn.

Now that I’m in the driver’s seat of a billion-dollar brand, I understand how distraught my parents were at the idea of my picture showing up on Page Six, the New York Post’s gossip section. My father had invested heart and soul to build this luxury real estate business in the context of a family where the bar for success was set incredibly high, and my mom was beside him every step of the way. They didn’t want me running around upper Manhattan embarrassing them. When you’re building a brand, embarrassment comes with a price tag.

I didn’t see why anyone should care what I did. I was just a teenager living my life. I wasn’t done up to be sexy. I wore baggy pants and tank shirts with sneakers. My hair was cut short in a cute little bob, just long enough for Cindy Lou Who pigtails, and I kept my makeup natural because I danced like I was running a marathon four nights a week.

When you’re sneaking in and out like I was, you need skills like a ninja, so I wasn’t interested in getting trashed. I just wanted to be part of the scene and dance with the rest of the ravers. I walked around sipping Sprite from a champagne flute, holding an unlit cigarette between my fingers. I loved the over-the-top fashion and makeup, the creativity that went into those looks, and the way everyone accepted everyone else on the dance floor. There was no one who didn’t belong. The pulsing music and laser lights were in sync with the unique rhythms in my brain. I know it sounds counterintuitive, but the chaos was comforting.

Meanwhile, my parents were getting calls and emails from the school, so they were unhappy. The whole school situation caused friction between us and made Mom cry, and this made me feel terrible. I kept promising to do better—and I really wanted to—but I kept failing tests and ditching classes. Eventually Professional Children’s School kicked me out.

I enrolled in tenth grade at Dwight, a private school that was kind of a last stop for stoners and other rich kids who’d been rejected everywhere else. I still see jokes about it online. “DWIGHT: Dumb White Idiots Getting High Together.” Weed wasn’t my thing at all back then, so I felt like I didn’t fit in at Dwight any more than I did at Sacred Heart. They put me in a class with only two other kids who had a lot of issues. It was scary and weird. Plus, I was bored as balls. The endless school day felt like being waterboarded with a vanilla milkshake. Getting kicked out of that school was a relief.