I'm Glad My Mom Died(32)

We didn’t talk a ton during the shooting of the pilot, either. I felt shy, and it seemed to me like she did too. We ran our lines between takes and said an enthusiastic “Bye! See you tomorrow!” at the end of each day, but there wasn’t much else in between.

I studied her from afar though. Miranda seemed to have an independence I didn’t have, and it fascinated me. She walked alone to pick up food from a different nearby restaurant each day—alone! What’s that like? Then I’d always hear when she came walking back into the studio because she’d be playing Gwen Stefani or Avril Lavigne from her Sidekick. I knew of these artists, but Mom didn’t allow me to listen to them because she said their music might make me wanna “do bad things.”

On set, Miranda said cuss words like “shit” and “ass,” and she took the Lord’s name in vain at least fifty times a day. Mom warned me not to get too close to Miranda because she doesn’t believe in God. (Nathan is okay for me to get close to, Mom says, because he does. “Southern Baptists are no Mormons, but at least we’ve got Jesus in common.”)

Even though Mom said not to get close to Miranda, I really wanted to. I wanted some of her coolness to rub off on me. And she seemed nice, too, which is hard to be if you’re cool. I had my fingers crossed that somehow, despite our mutual shyness, a friendship between us would develop.

But then, unfortunately, it didn’t seem likely. Each day that passed where we didn’t exchange phone numbers, I felt like we were getting further away from a potential friendship. Until, on the last day of shooting the pilot, just as Miranda was leaving set, she turned back and said, “Hey, Jennette, do you have AIM?”

“Not really,” I said, thinking she was talking about throwing things. I’ve never had good aim.

“You don’t have AOL Instant Messenger?” She seemed shocked.

“Ohhhh, AIM,” I said, hoping that I sounded convincing, like I knew what it was even though I still didn’t. “Yeah, I have it.”

“Cool. Add me.”

“Cool.” And I felt it.

As soon as I got home that day, I had Marcus sign me up for an account. Over AIM, our friendship blossomed. Miranda and I spent hours talking every day on it. Sometimes if Mom walked past and asked me what I was doing, I’d tell her I was talking to Miranda, but most of the time I’d shrink the AIM text bubble, lie, and say I was doing schoolwork. She didn’t question me. She’d leave the room and then I’d pull the text bubble back up and start laughing.

Even though in person Miranda seemed shy and quiet, she had a distinct and hilarious personality through her written words. So many of the things she said made me laugh. Her way of observing things—people, habits, human nature. I loved her. And I was so excited we were becoming friends.

But now Mom’s lame gifts were going to ruin it.

Back at work, I set the gift bag down and knock three times on Miranda’s door, then I rush back to my dressing room. I didn’t want to see her reaction when she opened the stuffed animal and fuzzy journal. I was too embarrassed.

Miranda doesn’t mention the gifts at first, not for almost our entire workday. I’m scared our friendship may be over.

But then as we’re walking toward the parking lot with our moms at the end of the day, she turns to me and, through nervous laughter, says:

“Thanks for the stuffed animal. It’s really cute.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And the journal too. I’m excited to get back to journaling.”

“Awesome.”

She smiles at me. I can tell she’s just being nice. But I appreciate the kindness.

“See you on AIM later,” she says with a wave.

“Okay,” I say excitedly. A little too excitedly. Even if she didn’t like her panda and fuzzy journal, even if she was just being nice when she said thanks for them, she still wants to be friends. I’m so glad I have AIM.





31.


I’M STANDING BEHIND THE CURTAIN in the dressing room of the soundstage that we shoot the show on. My arms are folded across my body. My foot is tapping anxiously. I don’t want to come out from behind the curtain.

“Come on out, Net, they’ll just get one picture and then you’ll be good to go.”

“Okay.”

I step out. I feel my cheeks blush with embarrassment. I hate this feeling, the feeling of so much of my body being exposed. It feels sexual to me. I’m ashamed.

“You look great,” the wardrobe assistant who’s always sewing yell-says from across the room without looking up from her sewing machine.

I worry that “great” means “sexual.” I fold my arms across my body to try and cover it up more. I hunch my shoulders over like a little cave to protect me. I don’t want to look sexual. I want to look like a child.

“I’ll definitely push for the one-piece, but thank you for humoring me and trying on the bikini,” the head of wardrobe says while she pulls her hair up into a bun and pins it into place with chopsticks.

“Sure,” I say, unable to look at her, or at Mom, who sits on the stairs in the opposite corner of the room.

“Set your arms down, Angel; try and look more comfortable,” Mom tells me.

I set them down. I’m no more comfortable.