Metallica handed the pipe to Tiffany, and she inhaled deeply. She took one more hit, and then passed the pipe to the blue-haired girl. I faded to the back of the group and then slid out of the room.
I stood at the top of the stairs and looked down at the living room, where the music had taken a loud, manic turn. People stood around, more than a few in a bleary haze.
I backed away from the landing and instead wandered down the hall to Tiffany’s room and lay down on the bed. The alcohol weighed on me as I turned out the light and tried to pull the shade on what I’d seen.
The next morning, I woke up alone to a quiet house. I had no idea what time the party had ended, but as I walked silently down the hall to the bathroom, I could see sleeping bodies on couches and even the floor.
I didn’t want to talk to Tiffany about what I’d seen her and her friends doing the night before. I was embarrassed about being frightened by the drugs and the whole scene I’d witnessed in that upstairs bedroom. I just wanted to go, so I grabbed my bag and wrote a note to Tiffany, thanking her for the fun weekend and explaining that I had to get back home to get organized for the week at school. I got in the front seat of my red BMW, a standout on the shabby street, and sped off.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I walked into the audition and straight to the sign-in sheet. Old framed movie posters hung along the faded red walls, and beneath them chairs were lined up in rows for actors to sit in while they waited to be called into another room, where we’d stand in front of a white paper backdrop and read the lines to a video camera on a tripod.
I picked up a chewed pencil and started to fill out the empty line beneath the names of everyone who had come before me that afternoon. By now I could do the drill in my sleep: name, birthdate, Social Security number, union membership, agent, audition time. I filled it out, grabbed a Xerox copy of the sides (the scene we were expected to perform) and took a seat.
In the last six months, I’d worked only on a Frosted Flakes commercial. In that one, I’d raced over hurdles, fueled by sugary cereal. Improbable, but a jackpot nonetheless. Even with that money rolling in, I needed to work again. I had a plan. I’d been sneaking down the driveway to the mailbox and intercepting residual checks as they rolled in. Then stopping by the bank on the way home from school to deposit what I could glean into an account that no one else knew anything about.
The balance was growing pretty quickly. I had worked so much over the course of my life that checks rolled in all the time. I could skim enough off to make a difference without Mom realizing it.
I needed to stockpile about ten grand to pay the tuition and board at Stanford summer school. I had floated the idea of going away for the summer to my parents, and not surprisingly, my proposal was greeted like burnt toast. I casually agreed with my parents’ reasons why I shouldn’t go so that Mom and Dad wouldn’t realize I was going no matter what. I was only gauging their participation.
Dad said summer school away was too expensive, and Mom immediately sniffed it out for what it was, a plan to get out of her reach. She couldn’t grill me, control me, pull my hair to get my attention from four hundred miles away.
I looked at the sides. “Tampax, so I feel confident no matter what time of the month it is.” How am I going to sell that pitch, knowing every guy at school will see it? Nightmare.
It didn’t help that I felt huge in my jeans. I remembered what another hot agent had said when I went to talk to her about representing me earlier that week: “I don’t want you to be anorexic, obviously, but you need to try to be as small as you can possibly be.”
What did that mean? Could I take a knife and slice off the meat that had shown up on either side of my thighs? I could stop eating, but that would be tough if I wanted to stay awake and avoid a migraine.
I had to find a way to say the lines believably. A national commercial like this would easily net ten to twelve thousand dollars in the first cycle. That’s the kind of check that Mom would miss if I took it out of the mailbox. But the second-cycle check could get derailed into my stash without her noticing.
Two months alone was a dream. I could study, date, go out. See what it could be like to live Mom-free.
“Missy Francis?” the casting lady called.
I walked into the audition room and stood in front of the small video camera. A cue card blurted out the simple, mortifying line.
“Tampax, so I feel confident, no matter what time of the month it is.”
I said the words three times, three different ways, and then practically ran to the car. There had to be a better way to escape from Mom. There were thousands if not millions of people who would scream that line from the top of a building to be on TV. I knew that was true. I just didn’t happen to be one of them anymore.
When I walked in the door Mom was waiting in her room, watching TV and listening closely for the sound of the garage door opening. She’d been monitoring me closely since I’d blown off an interview the previous month. I’d decided to spend the whole afternoon with Oscar while she thought I was on a casting call. I figured she’d think it was just another audition I didn’t get. Too bad my agent reported the no-show to the authorities. She’d driven my car for a week just to make me feel what it would be like for her to have it instead of me. It seemed like she’d bought me the car for my birthday only so she could take it away and make it hers on a whim. The convertible was more an instrument of torture than a gift.
As I climbed the green-carpet stairs, I kept my eyes on the bright frayed strands. When I got to the top, I could see her sitting on the edge of her bed. She held my report card between her fingers, studying it, lips pursed, eyebrows raised. I knew exactly what it said. I always reviewed my grades with each individual teacher long before the school printed them out and sent them home. I knew I had carefully cultivated straight A’s like always.
I couldn’t walk by now without stopping, so I entered her room.
“I have to say, I’m disappointed,” Mom said with a frown.
What? My turn to raise an eyebrow. She went on.
“You got an A minus in AP Chemistry.” Disgust filled her voice. She may well have said the dog peed on the carpet.
“Right.” Incredible!
“That’s almost a B plus.”
I laughed, outraged. She stood up and slapped me across the face so hard I thought a few of my teeth might have flown out.
I laughed again, regaining my balance, and left.
That’s the best she can muster to hold me down? In the hunt to drum up evidence to justify clipping my wings, an A–in AP Chemistry was her smoking gun. Ludicrous. But then again, as long as I lived there, she was the judge and jury. And apparently Dad wasn’t going to do anything to stop her, so what did it matter how weak her case was?
The truth is I hadn’t brought home a B+ since eighth grade. I drove myself relentlessly to keep her off my back but also because I believed what she told me in the beginning: if I wasn’t first: if I didn’t get an A, it was simply because I wasn’t trying hard enough. I was born at least as smart and as good as anyone, she always said.
She had drummed that into me daily from birth, and I believed it then as I believed it now, and it made me bulletproof. Every setback was temporary. Success was only a matter of will and effort.
I cheated on a typing test once because I hadn’t practiced enough, and it was a physical skill I couldn’t think my way out of. (That was the lone B+, the lone blemish on my academic record.) When I got busted, the teacher, Mrs. Valentine, begged me to confess. I wouldn’t dream of it. She said “I understand why you would do this given the tremendous pressure you obviously get from your mom to be perfect.”
Fuck her.
I got straight A’s, I drove myself because I was worth it. I was worth the sleepless, ceaseless effort. In the beginning, it was about the fire-breathing dragon waiting at home. But not anymore.
I took an F on that typing test, and got an A on the rest. Even though it all averaged out to
an A–, Mrs. Valentine gave me a B+ to prove her point. “I can’t let you have an A–when I know you cheated. Even if you won’t admit it.”
Ironically, I proved Mom right. I got a B+ because I didn’t try hard enough that one time. The mediocre grade was my fault. I had no one to blame but myself, and I would never let it happen again.
Now this A–in AP Chemistry was one the toughest grades I’d ever earned. I’d struggled, and had even found a tutor at UCLA to help me, and Mom was looking down on the grade with disdain. A red mark splashed across my cheek as my reward.
It was insane. I had to go.
A few weeks later, a thick envelope arrived postmarked from Stanford, and I thought I’d explode. I tore it open, slicing my finger on the thick paper near the seal, and sure enough, it held the magic acceptance letter and registration packet. I just stood next to the mailbox in silent shock, one hand over my gaping mouth, the other clutching the stack of mail. My heart pounded in my throat.
During an open house night, the assistant principal, Ms. Corbett, had told Mom that spending a summer at Stanford, and doing well, would demonstrate I could carry the load and would go a long way to helping me get in to any college. Ms. Corbett had taken on the job of mentoring me after I’d been in her Honors Literature class. She said I had a knack for writing and analytical thinking, and a wisdom beyond my seventeen years. I think she suspected I might need a break from home. Though Mom had originally resisted, she and Dad couldn’t say no to at least letting me apply when the recommendation came from the assistant principal.
I flipped through the registration booklet and stopped at a picture of the dorm I would be living in with the other summer students. Brown bricks, modest, sort of ’70s, devoid of Mom. This was complete genius. I had engineered a way to live on my own, without parents, all summer. I couldn’t believe none of my friends had thought of this. I’d actually never heard of anyone attending a university summer program. I didn’t even know enrollment was possible until Ms. Corbett mentioned it.
I went in the house and showed Mom. She read and reread the letter. She couldn’t help but be proud of the achievement. An acceptance letter from Stanford reflected well on her.
“Well, if you go, you can still come home for auditions,” she said, studying the catalog at the kitchen table.
I doubt that, I thought.
“Of course,” I said.
We went to dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant, Giuseppe’s. I figured a public setting would be the best location to reveal the second part of my escape plan, the money I’d stashed away to make the whole thing work.
Mom and I walked through the swinging glass door of the restaurant. The black plastic blinds that blocked out the blinding setting sun jumped and slapped against the glass door as it shut. Mom and I stood by the hostess stand, waiting for a petite brunette to take us to a table.
The hostess deposited us at a round booth with a view of the strip mall parking lot. An upscale wine store and a nail salon filled out the rest of the mall.
Dad’s white Chrysler pulled into the lot. About a month before, he had traded in his troublesome silver Mercedes for this car, much to Mom’s dismay. He’d said he was sick of paying to keep the Mercedes running. He’d looked quietly gleeful as Mom had yelled that he couldn’t make these types of decisions without consulting her.
Dad opened the door to the restaurant, letting in a flood of light. He saw us by the window and came over to sit at the end of the booth. His leg dangled out into the aisle as he flagged down a waitress and asked for a glass of Chablis. He had on his signature faded Levis and blue and white striped button-down, with a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket. His hair, now almost completely white and thicker than ever, covered his forehead in a fluffy wave.
“Hey, baby. How was school today?” he said, patting my arm as his drink arrived.
“Great. I got into Stanford,” I said, peeking up from my menu.
“That’s great,” he said with a smile.
“So can I go?” I pushed on.
“I wish you could,” he said easily. “It would be great. But we don’t have the money for that right now. How much is it again?”
“It’s about ten grand with everything. Food and room and board,” Mom said.
This didn’t seem like the type of opportunity that should be evaluated on the basis of a price tag. Going to Stanford was exactly why I’d worked so hard in school for eleven years plus. Spending this money would be without question an investment in my future.
Luckily I’d planned for their collective unpredictability.
“I’m saving up for new tires for the Chrysler,” Dad said. I let the absurdity of that statement go.
“I’ve been saving too. I’ve got it covered. So, no worries,” I ventured.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Mom laughed lightly. “But I’m sure I can find the money somehow.”
She was about to tick off her demands in exchange for letting me enroll, then it would be impossible to thank her enough. I’d owe her for the rest of my life. Again.
“I’ve saved some money in an account at the bank. From tutoring the neighbors, and that Frosted Flakes commercial. Now I’ve got about twelve thousand. Maybe thirteen.”
Electricity gripped the table. I’d done the unthinkable. I’d moved the pea before she could palm it. No one had ever dared to screw with her shell game before.
“You what?” she said. They were both looking directly into my eyes, the three of us suddenly wide awake and connected.
“My paychecks, some residuals. And the money from tutoring Kiera. For the SAT. And then I saw the latest cycle check from the Frosted Flakes commercial in the mailbox and I just put that in too.” I said it like I’d just found a discarded piece of paper on the ground and picked it up.
“You stole a check from the mailbox?” Mom demanded, her voice so sharp it could have shaved ice.
“It was made out to me,” I continued. “What difference does it make which account it goes into?” If we weren’t sitting in a public restaurant, she would have grabbed me.
“Right,” she said slowly. Ever the shell man, she wouldn’t admit she’d lost control of the game even for a minute.
“I mean, I will write the check to Stanford. Isn’t that great? I’ve got enough set aside. You both just said it’s a great idea but we don’t have the cash. Now we do. Problem solved. I planned ahead,” I said.
“Set aside? You’ve got it set aside. Well, why don’t you take care of all of it then? There’s a tuition check due at Chaminade. You’re welcome to pay that. And there’s your car payment. Go ahead and write that one too. And the car insurance. I’ve got a bill from Allstate in my purse. How’s the balance now?”
“What about all the rest of the money?” I asked, picking the shell she’d led me to.
“What rest of the money?” she said, laughing that I’d fallen into the trap. “You have more than spent every dime you have ever made, and don’t you dare kid yourself otherwise. Don’t you ever say, I spent it. You spent it, my dear. Every single penny. You don’t see me in jewels and furs, do you? You’re the one driving the expensive sports car. You’re the one attending the private schools, you’re the one dressed to the nines. Not me. Not him. Certainly not your sister. She has never had half of what you’ve had. And you know it. You’ve worked hard, and you’ve spent hard, and don’t you dare ever say otherwise.”
She pushed out of the booth and got up, knocking over an empty glass which rolled across the table. She dragged her oversized leather purse with her, and sniffed as she strode to the door and threw it open, letting it slam behind her with another slap of the shades.
Dad and I just silently watched. It was the millionth time she’d shot up and stormed out during a meal, leaving only a cloud of dust and drama in her wake. One time she made a production of departing in a huff, and walked all the way home, which took an hour. The problem was that she had forgotten that she’d driven herself. She had to
get a ride back to the restaurant the next day to pick up her car. Sometimes she’d speed off in the only car we’d brought, stranding the rest of us in the process. Dad had taken to driving separately and keeping his keys in his pockets to be safe.
“Well, you’ve done it now.” Dad laughed, a little gleeful. “Did you really open an account and siphon off money as it came in?”
“Yep.”
“It is yours, I guess. You’ve got a right to it. But everything else she said is true too. You earned it. And you’ve spent almost all of it. There’s enough left for college, and if there isn’t, we’ll find a way to pay for that. But that’ll be a stretch. Beyond that, you’ll have to go out and get a job. But that won’t be a problem for you. You’re a smart girl. You can do anything you want.”
He smiled to himself and took a sip of wine. “She does like to control every last nickel that rolls in, no matter how it arrived in the mailbox. You’ve really done it this time.” He laughed ruefully.
We both knew we were on borrowed time until we had to go home and face the music.
When we got home, the house was dark, except for the glow from the television set that constantly hummed on Mom’s side of the bed. I crept past her door, quickly and quietly, trying to get the floorboards to keep the secret of our arrival to themselves. Then I changed rapidly in the dark into my pajamas and slid under the blankets almost without disturbing them, stealing off to sleep before anything more could transpire. I’d had enough excitement for one day.
The next day, Mom went down to the bank and closed the account, getting a cashier’s check for the full amount. She read the teller the riot act for letting a child open an account alone without a parent on it. And somehow, even though mine was the only name on the record, they let her walk out with the balance. And she didn’t even bring a gun.
Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter Page 16
