I'm Glad My Mom Died(22)

“She knows things. She just knows things.”

I’m nervous at this fourth audition. I almost wish I were still sick, because there was less room for nerves when I was sick. Sickness takes the edge off. It’s down to me and two other girls. They both have bigger credits than me, which Mom whispers anxiously to me every thirty seconds, as if there’s anything I can do about it.

“Andrea Bowen’s on Desperate Housewives. That show’s doing very well. Though I’m not sure why. Pretty hokey, if you ask me.”

I’m the last girl called in. I see the director again, and there’s a camera in the room this time. He says they’re gonna tape the audition for the producers. I nod.

“You’re quiet, huh?” he asks.

I can’t bring myself to respond. I’m petrified.

“Guess so,” he says with a good-natured laugh. “Don’t worry about it. Just have fun.”

I’m a little confused by the direction, since the scenes in the sides are (1) my character witnessing the homeless man who takes care of her getting shot; (2) my character sitting with Robert Forster’s character, telling him how she wants nothing to do with the father who abandoned her as a baby; and (3) my character sitting with her father, telling him she wants nothing to do with him since he abandoned her as a baby.

Where is the fun? I don’t see any fun here.

The six-minute audition goes by in a blur. The director tells me I’m good and that he thinks I’ll make it in this business. I say thanks and leave the audition. That night, we get the call I booked the role. Mom jumps up and down. So do I.

“My baby’s homeless! My baby’s got edge! My baby’s homeless!”





21.


“DO IT IN BOLD LETTERS,” Mom says over my shoulder while she dries a plate with a dishrag and watches me type.

I drag the mouse over the three words and click on the B tool at the top of the page to make them bold, then I whip my head around to gauge Mom’s reaction.

“Yeah, that’s good.” Mom nods in agreement with herself. “I’m gonna make Scottie some SpaghettiOs. Print it out when you’re done so I can take a look.”

Mom heads into the kitchen and I turn my attention back to the Microsoft Word document on the computer screen in front of me. Both of these things—the computer screen and Microsoft Word—are fairly new developments in the McCurdy household. Marcus built the computer in his computer-building class at high school and I bought all the add-ons with the check from my co-star appearance on CSI, where I played a murderer’s sister. The part was emotionally draining, but after Mom said I could buy Microsoft Word and The Sims with the part of my paycheck she wasn’t using for bills, it was worth it.

I’m typing up my own résumé. This makes me feel proud. Capable. Competent. How many other eleven-year-olds are typing up their own résumés? I feel ahead.

However, those three words Mom just suggested I make bold cause me a deep pang of dread in my gut. I look at the words for a long beat.

Those three words get top billing in the Special Skills portion of my résumé. They come before pogo sticking, hula hooping, jump roping (including double Dutch), piano, dance (jazz, tap, lyrical, hip-hop), flexibility, and twelfth-grade reading ability—all special skills that Mom thinks will either give me a leg up for having, or that will lead me to miss an opportunity for not having, like the time I missed out on a Chef Boyardee commercial by not being able to pogo stick. Mom immediately bought a pogo stick from Pic ‘N’ Save and had me practice an hour a day for two weeks until I could get to one thousand jumps without falling off the pogo stick. Yes, I’m really good at pogo sticking.

But none of those special skills are as important as this three-word one. The one that Mom designated top billing to, the one that she wanted in bold…

Crying on cue.

Crying on cue is the skill you want in child acting. Everything else pales in comparison. If you can bring the tears on command, you’re a real player. A real contender. And on a good day, I can bring the tears on command.

“You’re like a female Haley Joel Osment,” Mom tells me regularly. “He’s the only other kid these days who can bring the tears. Well, I suppose Dakota Fanning, but she’s more of a weller. The tears don’t actually fall. You want the tears trickling down the cheeks for the camera.”

The first time I cried on cue was in acting class. Miss Lasky told us to take an object from home and think of a sad story to go with that object, and then come to class the next week with the object and tell the story onstage.

I brought in a stapler. Dustin and Scottie draw a lot, and they staple their drawings into little packets to categorize them. So I made up a story about our house burning down and my brothers dying in the fire and the only thing that remained was their stapler. If I really wanted to bring the waterworks, I would have thought of Mom dying, but thinking of Mom dying is off-limits. Even though she’s been in remission for years, her health is still fragile enough that I don’t want to jinx anything, since her life is in my hands with my annual birthday wish. That’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly and one I would never want to undermine for the sake of a teary monologue. My brothers’ lives, on the other hand, are perfectly okay to exploit for artistic growth.

As I was on the little acting class stage telling the story, my eyes welled with tears to the point that my vision was blurry. But the tears weren’t falling. I was sort of feeling the sadness from the monologue, but sort of feeling the frustration of the tears not falling. Miss Lasky walked onto the stage with thunderous steps and leaned three inches from my face so our noses were nearly touching. I was scared. I didn’t know what was coming next. Then she lifted up her hand and snapped her fingers right in front of my eyes. The suddenness of the gesture scared my body into a jolt, and with the jolt, the tears fell. Miss Lasky beamed. I did too. Underneath the tears, I beamed.