It was exactly where I left it. YES, let’s get busy!
As I raced over to my things, adjusting my clipped-in wig, I noticed there was a stool placed over my stuff. No problem: I’ll just reach under said stool, grab my costume, throw it all on, and be back onstage for the opening bars of “Big Spender”—front and center where I belonged, goddamn it!
It was at this point that I realized the emcee, a Big Fat Talentless Old Man, was sitting on this stool, preventing me from getting what I needed. (Oh, what a metaphor for life as a female.) The Big Fat Talentless Old Man was talking to the owner of the dance school; I wish I could say it was Ms. Colleen, as she would have put a stop to what was about to happen, but unfortunately it wasn’t—it was another Big Fat Talentless Old Man, and the two of them were having a jolly old time side stage at a kids’ dance concert. When they saw me approaching, they smiled at each other, and the emcee spoke to me.
Big Fat Talentless Old Man: What’s wrong, sweetheart?
Me: Um, I need to get my things.
BFTOM: Where are they?
Me: Um, they are under the stool.
BFTOM: Oh, I see.
And with that he looked at the other Big Fat Talentless Old Man and smiled.
I could hear the beginning of “Big Spender”; I needed to get my stuff and get the fuck out there. When I realized what I needed to do to get my things and the smug looks on their faces, I froze. The emcee stared at me as he sat back in his stool—the fucking stool that was preventing me from getting to my things and my career! He crossed his arms, spread his legs open as wide as his creaking old hips would let him, and slid his crotch forward on the stool.
“Well, you better get down there and get them, sweetheart.”
I remember thinking, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I walked slowly to the stool, feeling both their eyes on me, and instantly felt sick.
When I got to the stool, I bent down to get my things as quickly as I could, and he spread his fat, short legs farther apart and slid his crotch farther forward on the stool toward my face and groaned, and the other Big Fat Talentless Old Man laughed for a second time.
“Fuck you,” I wanted to say. But he was a man, and I was a female child. But fuck you!
As soon as I grabbed my stuff I thought, “Brilliant, I’m done. I can quickly get changed and get the fuck out of here and tell my dad all about it after the concert so he and my uncle Ray”—who wasn’t even at that concert but would have made the seven-hour trip—“can beat up these two predators.”
However, as we weren’t performing at the O2 Arena, even though we acted like we were, there wasn’t a lot of room side stage, and I quickly realized that this exploitation wasn’t over. It had, as I was about to learn, only just started.
I realized I had nowhere to change except directly in front of the fat, groaning, objectifying men. I felt a wave of fear come over me. I had to either miss my dance—a dance that I was so excited about, my fucking dance—or get dressed in front of these two pigs, who seemed to delight in making a fifteen-year-old girl feel uncomfortable, unsafe, scared, and as though it was her job to entertain them.
I kept my head down and got changed as fast as I could. They were staring at me the whole time. The only time they broke their stares was to wink at each other. I focused on the music onstage, knowing the quicker I ended this involuntary performance behind the black curtain, the quicker I could get out onstage and perform in the light.
I got my skirt on, changed my shoes, and ran onto the stage four bars into the song with tears in my eyes.
Tears soon turned to sweat as I danced my heart out, completely forgetting about what had just happened, to the point of thinking I had made it up and it hadn’t really happened at all.
The One about My Fake Brother, Michael
In the first house we lived in, Dad built Liv and me a Costume Room off the back of the garage to keep all the dancing costumes my mum had sewn for our not-so-lucrative-yet-overenthusiastic careers as entertainers. It was awesome.
For my sister and me, the Costume Room was a magical place. It was where our two worlds collided.
Growing up, Olivia and I were completely different. She was cool and independent and ate thirty-seven apples a day. And even though she was clumsier than a newborn trying to ride a unicycle, she was fearless.
Walking home from school one day, she said, “If I ran fast enough, I could totally jump over that four-foot barbed-wire fence,” and with that she ran full-force into said fence, which resulted in a busted knee, a trip to the hospital, and twelve stitches.
She recently tested out her agility by trying to ride a skateboard, an obvious choice for a thirty-six-year-old who trips over uneven grass.
“Can I borrow your deck and have a roll?” she asked Api one summer’s day.
“Sure, mate.” He is her biggest fan.
She jumped on that board like she was a seasoned pro. As the skateboard took off down the hill with Olivia atop it, laughing her head off, my darling Api was running alongside her, experiencing fear that only Olivia should have been feeling. When it was starting to get a bit crazy, he said, “All right, Livvo,” (that’s what he calls her) “when you’re ready just jump off, keeping your weight even.”
“Sweet!” she screamed with excitement.
Of course, being a Barber she did the exact opposite. She took more of a one-footed flying leap off the skateboard, and as she was midair, under his breath Api said, “Oh fuck! Not like that.”
She hit the ground like a sack of shit.
Mum, Dad, and I didn’t flinch, as this was a common occurrence.
But Api was worried, and strangers who saw and felt the thud were concerned too. People ran over to see if she was OK, and a lovely homeless man who was sitting nearby offered her his walking stick.
I’m pretty sure Olivia laughed so hard she farted.
I’m a lot more precious than my sister. I wouldn’t be caught dead on a skateboard; I’m flat out trying to swing myself on a swing set without freaking out. I’m scared of everything. I check the bath for sharks, and even mentioning the word “snake” has me lifting my feet off the ground and placing them higher than my head.
This is a red rag to a bull for my sister: pissing me off was her job description as a teenager, and she was bloody good at her job. She’s the funniest person I know; she can laugh at herself like no one I’ve ever met.
Whenever Olivia and I see each other she still wants to wrestle me. Partly because she knows she can beat fifty shades of piss out of me, but mainly because she knows I’m going to scream her name, “OOOLLLIIIVVVIIIAAA,” like Oprah does when she introduces a celebrity, while I throw my arms around like a helicopter to keep her away from me.
We went to different schools most of our lives.
Olivia went to the local public school and was cool and awkward and fit right in. I was more challenging and needed a smaller school with more attention. So I was off to the local private Catholic school that had only been open for a year.
Not surprisingly, we weren’t the best of friends growing up, as I didn’t understand the Keanu obsession (I was more of a Jonathan Taylor Thomas kind of gal), and there were only so many times she could tolerate me screaming at her through tears: “You just don’t get it, Olivia! The Spice Girls ARE better than the Beatles!” But I loved her the regular little sister amount. Over the years we have become really close, super close.
We talk to each other at least five times a day, have been known to have Skype dinners with each other and our families (we live in different states), and have entire conversations only using dialogue from Bad Boys.
Even though we didn’t have much in common as kids, we would hang out in the Costume Room Dad built us and talk about everything from which Corey she would marry, Feldman or Haim, to how plausible it was for me to wear the wedding dress from the “November Rain” music video to my own wedding, “because I really want to play to my strengths and show off my legs.” I was eight.
I remember a specific day in the Costume Room that changed my life forever. Olivia was using a blunt pencil to carve the lyrics of “Riders on the Storm” into the chipboard floor, and I was wrapping myself up in tulle, humming “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better,” when she dropped a bomb.
Olivia: Hey, I need to tell you something.
Me: OK, want to make up a dance first?
Olivia: No, this is important.
Taking the sequined bowler hat off my head, I was all ears.
Me: What’s wrong?
Olivia: If I tell you this, you have to promise not to tell Mum or Dad that I told you.
WARNING: If an older sibling says they have information they want you to know but you can’t let your parents know you know, run for the fucking hills with your fingers in your ears screaming: “NOT LISTENING, BITCH!!!!”
Me: OK.
Olivia: You have to pinkie-promise not to tell ANYONE.
Me: Fine.
Liv: And if you keep the promise, I’ll let you sleep in my room for a whole week.
This was just getting better and better: a pinkie promise, street cred from my big sister, AND permission to sleep in her room for a whole week. Let’s do this!
We pinkie-promised and I braced myself for the biggest moment of my life.
Liv: Ready?
Me: You betcha!
Liv: OK. We have a brother.
I froze. I slowly put the tulle wrap back on the rack, next to the sequined bowler hat, and walked over to her without blinking.
Me: UM, WHAT?!
Liv: Yep, we totally have a brother. His name is Michael.
Me: Where is he? Is he upstairs?
Liv: He’s dead. He died of a terrible disease.
Me: Oh my God! What?
Liv: He died of leukemia.
Me: I don’t know what that is.
Liv: It’s blood AIDS.
I started crying, I was so sad. The thought of having a brother was awesome, and I was so invested in this idea; then hearing he had died, and of something as terrible as blood AIDS, I mean, you can’t make this stuff up.
Liv: It gets worse.
Me: How?!
Liv: When Dad built this Costume Room, he knew we would love it and be here most of the time.
Me: Dad’s so nice.
Liv: So they buried Michael under the Costume Room so we would feel connected to him.
And with that she smiled, walked out, and closed and locked the door behind her, leaving me in there on my own with dead fake Michael’s ghost.
That was the last day I ever went into the Costume Room. Mum would be up all night beading our costumes, and I loved sitting and watching her, imagining myself dancing around wearing her intricate craftsmanship, but as soon as Mum asked me to quickly go down to the Costume Room to grab something for her, the dream ended. I would refuse, point-blank. It broke both of our hearts.
I love my sister more than I thought possible—she is my most favorite person in the world (well, her and Prince Harry)—but whenever we meet someone named Michael or Michelle, I need to take a deep breath and a big step back and remind myself that my sister is blood, and there’s no way I would survive jail.
The One Where I Was Bullied at School, I Think
I was bullied at school, I think.
See, this is one of the great things about having ADD. I don’t have a very good attention span, so when people at school started talking smack about me I’d hang around for the first part, the big opener: “You’re such a dumb slut.” But by the time they got warmed up I was already halfway to the swing set, chasing a squirrel I thought I had seen three hours earlier. So I think a lot of it was wasted on me.
The word “bully” gets thrown around a lot. Much like the word “empowering” (when a rich, topless model poses on her dad’s yacht on the French Riviera she’s not “empowering,” you guys, she’s spoiled). Or when my teenage stepdaughter says she will “literally” slit her wrists if her three-year-old brother calls her Bum Bum one more time, again it’s not really an accurate description of what is going on.
See, sometimes people are just shit. They can be mean, they can be hurtful, and they can sleep with your boyfriend when you’re out of the room trying to help a friend who’s vomiting. You can be called names or, even worse, be ignored. But this isn’t bullying. This is just people being, well, shit.
I think we need to be careful about how we use the term “bully.” A guy once told me I have a face people don’t like. He said it a few times, and in front of a few different groups of people; there was a lot of laughter, and a few people repeated it to strangers, who also got in on the joke. It was mean, unkind, and a little hurtful, but I don’t think I was being bullied.
Ruby Rose has spoken about her time at school, and it sounds horrible, terrifying, and downright wrong (see https://www.news.com.au/entertainment/ruby-rose-bashed-by-classmates/news-story/d7b979864ccce14ca9a9cdd45d9c7011):
There were five girls and one boy who picked on me badly. They followed me all the time after school, just yelling abuse at me. I would get so petrified I’d just run home—I never retaliated.
I never cried in front of them. I think that made it worse. They were determined to break me. Sometimes they would just come up and punch me in the head, but there was a lot of intimidation.
I almost preferred to be bashed rather than just threatened, because at least it was over and done with.
This isn’t teasing or kids being mean. This is downright bullying.
I had a disjointed group of friends at school. I didn’t really have my ride-or-die bestie that I couldn’t live without; I was a bit of a bed hopper with friends. I get bored with people easily, so I needed to move around, get different things from different people. Well, that’s when I was younger anyway. Now I have the same six friends, and my books are closed when looking for new people to come into the group.
Some were friends from primary school, some were new friends I made at high school, some were dance friends, and some would laugh at something I did once, so they instantly became my best friends.
I remember one girl who didn’t like me. Well, that’s putting it mildly—she hated my stupid dumb guts and wanted to beat the crap out of me. It was kind of weird, because it seemed like an overnight hatred, as I was friends with her sister (Friendly Sister) and even though she was hotter than the usual sun, I never had any tricky feelings toward her (Sexy Sister).
These sisters could not have been more different. Friendly Sister was fun and sweet.
Sexy Sister didn’t like girls who were friends with boys, and she wanted boys to like her and girls to be jealous of her. In Year 7, when I was trying to navigate my way through a swimming carnival wearing a maxipad with wings under my swimsuit, she was sporting a white crocheted string bikini (keep in mind we were at a private Catholic school, and our school swimsuits looked a little like something one would expect to see on The Handmaid’s Tale), and it would be fair to say her wish came true: the boys really started to like her, and the girls were jealous as hell. #blessedbethefruit. She was the first one in the grade to wear a bright-pink lacy bra under our thin white cotton school blouse and flick her hair in a way that defied gravity. When I stayed at their house, Friendly Sister and I would be forced to watch Sexy Sister model bikinis, as she wanted our honest and unbiased opinion.
On top of being banging hot and pulling off tissues as swimwear, Sexy Sister was super smart. She was in all the top classes and was one of those people who did really well at school without having to try. Damn you, Sexy Sister!
I was loud, insecure, and made people laugh, and Sexy Sister didn’t like that. She didn’t like my personality and she wanted to do something about it, to teach me a lesson.
In hindsight, I feel Sexy Sister didn’t actually hate me or want to “beat the crap” out of me, but it gave her a new type of attention, that of a hot girl who can karate-chop the funny girl, and that seemed appealing to her. Whatever blows your hair
back, love.
I arrived at school one day and there was a lot of buzz around, well, me. Someone came up to me when I was only five minutes off the bus, excitedly telling me that “Sexy Sister is going to beat the shit out of you.”
“What? When? Now? But why?”
I turned around to get back on the bus and get the hell out of there, but Dennis the bus driver was a stickler for being prompt and had already left. Come on, Dennis!
“No, at lunch. She said you’re a fat clown and everyone hates you.”
“Surely that’s not a reason to want to bash someone?”
“She wants to teach you a lesson; it’s going to be huge!”
“All right, mate, calm down. No one’s teaching anyone a lesson outside of Mr. Gazel’s math class.”
“Well, she said she’s going to do it on the oval near the basketball courts at 1:20 p.m.”
“So specific.”
“Yeah, the bell for lunch goes at 1:10 p.m. so she’s giving everyone enough time to get their lunch, get a drink, and go to the toilet if they need to before they head down.”
“How considerate.”
“You know her dad is a martial arts champion.”
“Jesus, of course he is.”
The deliverer of bad news ran off, fist pumping the air like he had just delivered a Game of Thrones spoiler to his archenemy.
“Shit. Fuck. Tits and arse. Why the hell is this happening? This must be a mistake. Surely she has got me confused with some other loud, academically challenged, attention-seeking girl named Celeste Elizabeth Dominica Barber. Does she really want to bash me?” Oh God, how does this go down? Would I walk down to the oval at 1:19 p.m. (I think in situations like these it’s important to be prompt) and try to talk to her?
The Clown: Hey, mate.
Sexy Sister: I’M GOING TO BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU! MY DAD IS A MARTIAL ARTS DUDE.
TC: Really? I thought he worked in the Thai restaurant at the beach.
Challenge Accepted! Page 5
