Miles to Go

by Miley Cyrus

  The first sign of trouble was the teeniest, tiniest thing you could possibly imagine. We were standing near our lockers after math. I made a joke, and the leader—she’ll be MG, for Mean Girl—rolled her eyes. That was it: a tiny gesture—it went by in a second. But this was sixth grade. Everything means something in sixth grade. What did I do in response? Nothing of course. I mean, if you’ve been through sixth grade, you know how it goes. If I had said something straightforward like “What’s up with the nasty eye-roll?” MG would have just said something patronizing like “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” and I’d be humiliated. A feeling I loathe more than anything. So I acted like I hadn’t seen it. I put it out of my head.

  But the signs kept coming. A few days later, I put my tray down at lunch and thought I heard a snarl. A snarl? The next week, I came in wearing a new jean jacket (yes, that was the thing in sixth grade). I said, “I love my outfit today.” One of them sneered, “You do?” and gave me a look that shriveled me up into a puny dried pea on the floor. From yesterday’s dinner.

  Now I knew I wasn’t just being paranoid. I was an outcast. Why were my “friends” turning on me? I had no idea. But there you have it. Welcome to sixth-grade social hell.

  On the Other Hand . . .

  You know how it feels on a hot summer day to dive into the crisp relief of a cold swimming pool? Well, that’s how it felt when I came home from school after a particularly hard day to be told that Disney had called. Margot, a talent agent who’d taken an interest in me, let us know that Disney had asked her to send tapes of all the girls she represented between the ages of eleven and sixteen. They wanted a tape of me reading for the part of Lilly, the best friend of a girl named Chloe Stewart in a new TV show called Hannah Montana.

  From the very first time my parents and I read the script, we knew that Chloe Stewart was my dream part. Chloe’s alter ego, Hannah Montana, was a rock star. The actress who played both parts would be singing Hannah Montana’s songs. Singing and acting. Both were dreams of mine, and if I landed this role, I wouldn’t have to put either one aside. After my dad read the part, he just kept saying, “That’s made for Miley. Miley’s made for that.”

  But, heck, I’d be happy to play Lilly. Or lucky to be Chloe Stewart’s talking houseplant, for that matter. So we made a tape, sent it in, and almost immediately got a call from Disney asking me to make another audition tape—and this time they wanted me to read the part of Hannah. I was so psyched. Seriously, my shrieks probably scared the poor horses out in the fields. In my head, I was already dropping everything to move to L.A. Sure, Hannah was supposed to be fifteen, and I was twelve. Twelve-ish. Okay, I was eleven. That was a problem. But still—they knew how old I was and they’d asked for the tape anyway, so it must not matter.

  Except it did. We sent the second tape in, and the very next day we got an e-mail saying that I was too young and too small for Hannah. (Hello? Didn't they know that from the Lilly tape?) I was bummed. No—what’s ten times bummed? That was me. My dad said, “Disney just made a big mistake. My intuition tells me that you are Hannah Montana.”

  All I could think was, So much for Dad’s intuition. Now let’s return to our regularly scheduled torture: sixth grade.

  Operation MMM

  Is there a guide for how to torture eleven-year-old girls? If not, those girls I’d started hanging with—you remember, my “friends”—could write one. (What am I saying? That's a terrible idea.) In the winter of that year, every day brought a creative new tactic in Operation Make Miley Miserable. They sent me mean notes. They stole my books and made me late to class. They made fun of my clothes and my hair. They told Rachel—the friend who had become tight with them at the same time as I did—that if she sat with me at lunch they’d have it in for her too. So I sat at a table by myself day after day, looking at the goth kids, wondering what I’d look like with black hair and chains. I’ve since decided: not so good.

  The list goes on: Rachel stopped speaking to me. When I wanted to try out for the school cheerleading team, my so-called friends told the principal that I’d cheated and learned the tryout dances in advance. Total lie, but the principal believed them, and I wasn’t allowed to try out for the squad. (At least I still had my competitive cheerleading squad outside of school.) Oh, and I’ll never forget how one of them was nice to me for a few days. She said she wanted the “fight” to be over. She got me to tell her exactly what I thought about “our friends”— that I didn’t understand why they didn’t like me, that I felt like they were being mean—then she went back to them and told them I was a snob. She’d been faking it. (Me = total sucker.) Looking back I think maybe she was the one who should have been an actress.

  If this sounds like run-of-the-mill Judy Blume Tales of a Sixth-Grade Nothing, well, it was. I wasn’t oblivious to issues like world hunger or pandemics. I knew my problems were relatively puny. But they were mine. And they felt heavier than the world on my shoulders. So, if you want to know if I liked school back then, the answer was definitely no.

  The First Dream

  Luckily, I had a whole other world outside of school. The acting thing was only a small part of my life then. I had started doing competitive cheer-leading when I was six, and for a long time it really was my everything.

  My mom got me into it. We lived on a big farm, which was incredible, but there were no neighbors nearby, no kids around for us to play with besides each other. Which wasn’t bad, in my mind. I loved the animals, and I loved hanging out with my cool big brother, Trace (I call him Trazz), my amazing big sister, Brandi, my little brother, Braison (I call him Brazz), and my baby sister, Noah—when she came along. But my mom wanted me to have some friends besides horses, chickens, and my brothers and sisters. Not in that order. (Okay, maybe in that order.) (Just kidding, guys!) Since Mom had loved cheerleading as a kid, she wanted me to give it a try.

  The first day I was supposed to go to practice, I was not happy. I begged: Please don’t make me go! What’s wrong with having horses and chickens and little brothers as my only friends? (Maybe my mom was right about the whole farm-makes-you-shy thing.) They won’t let me down, they won’t laugh at me—sure, they smell a little (sorry, Brazz)—but that’s okay. I’m not shallow.

  It may not be obvious from my life today, but being around new people makes me anxious. Just the idea of walking into a room of strangers keeps me up at night. Anyway, I knew that my dad was on my side about the whole not going to cheerleading thing. He traveled so much that he just wanted us kids around whenever he was home. But my mom stuck to her guns, and I went. And because moms are right way too much of the time, I loved it instantly. (Don't tell my mom I said that!)

  Cheerleading took a lot of time. A lot. I was at the gym every day. We worked out. We tumbled. We practiced two-and-a-half-minute routines over and over and over again. I became best friends with Lesley and the other girls on the team, and my mom became friends with their moms. We traveled together to competitions, stayed in motels, swam, goofed around, did our hair and makeup with our moms, and had intense, incredibly hard-core competitions. I was really into it. (♥ cheerleading 4ever)

  Sometimes I was too into it. One time I got really sick right before a competition in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. I could not stop throwing up. You know, one of those stomach things where even if you take a sip of water, you retch? Yeah, it was bad. But how long could it last? I was sure I’d be better in time for the competition. So I made my mom take me, and I spent the whole four-and-a-half-hour drive lying down in the backseat with a garbage can next to me, sleeping, throwing up, and sleeping some more. We got to the hotel in Gatlinburg and I was no better, but I still wanted to compete. My coach said there was no way I could do it. She tried to stop me, but I insisted. I knew I could do it if I pushed myself.

  Thirty minutes before we were supposed to go on, I pulled myself out of bed, showered, and we drove to the meet. I went out, did the routine, walked off the stage, and threw up into a trash can. But I did it. An
d that was what mattered to me.

  When we would get in the car after every competition, even if we lost, my mom would say, “Here’s your trophy!” and hand me a gleaming trophy with my name on it. Growing up, my room was full of trophies. All from my mom, the biggest and best fan a girl could have. (I ♥ you Mom!) I may not have deserved every single one of those trophies, but the Gatlinburg trophy—that one I know I earned.

  A Long Pit Stop

  Cheerleading was my safe haven, the one place where I knew I had friends I could trust to the ends of the earth. Or at least to catch me when I was flying through the air, which was a little more likely than reaching the ends of the earth, anyway. But at school I had no such safety net. And things were getting worse.

  I still have no idea how the Anti-Miley Club got a janitor’s key to the school bathroom, but one day I was on my way to science class, and they shoved me in and locked it. I was trapped. I banged on the door until my fists hurt. Nobody came. I tried to open the window, but it was stuck. (Note to self: in case of fire do not attempt to exit via bathroom window.) It dawned on me that everyone was already in class. Nobody would come to use the bathroom for at least forty minutes. I sat down on the floor and waited. (Gross.) I spent what felt like an hour in there, waiting for someone to rescue me, wondering how my life had gotten so messed up. (Where was a cell phone when I needed one?)

  I looked at the line of stalls, the row of mirrors, the unyielding windows, and thought about my two fish, swimming around and around in their bowl. How had I gotten here? Had I asked for it? Did I deserve it? Would it ever end? I knew the capitals of all fifty states. I could do a back handspring on the sidewalk. But I had no clue as to why this was happening. I was friendless, lonely, and miserable. The only bright spot was that if I had to use the bathroom, at least I was in the right place!

  When Disney Calls

  It was as if someone wanted to make it up to me for what was going on at school. Not long after the bathroom incident, I got another surprise call—this time it was Disney saying they wanted me to come to L.A. to audition in person for Hannah Montana. It was the middle of the school year! Score! I could miss school—i.e., Torture 101. But then I remembered. I also had major cheerleading commitments.

  Missing just a single practice was a big deal. The choreography relies on everyone showing up. After all, you can’t have a pyramid without the top girl. (Don't try this at home!) Actually, it’s even worse to try making a pyramid without one of the bottom girls!

  Somehow my mom got me excused from practice. I flew to L.A., anxiously ran lines with Mom, hurried to get to the audition on time, could barely contain my excitement, opened the door to the waiting room, and—there were fifty other would-be Hannahs waiting to be seen. My mom and I looked at each other. We had thought I was a finalist. I guess we thought wrong. We joked that they had enough Hannahs there to name one after every state, not just Montana. (Hannah Indiana, Hannah Connecticut, Hannah Idaho . . .) I know, I know—but we had a lot of time to kill in that waiting room.

  The waiting room for the Hannah Montana auditions was like the waiting room in a busy doctor’s office. There were old magazines, odd smells, tons of tension—and we were all about to be examined. Some of the moms who were waiting with their daughters had way too much perfume on, giving me an instaheadache. The only saving grace was that at least we wouldn’t have to get any vaccinations. Although, I was pretty certain that not getting the part would hurt at least as much and the pain would last longer.

  As we waited, and waited, and waited some more, I could see that some of the girls and their moms were sizing us up. My mom, thank goodness, has never been “that” mom. She ignored the looks, but I couldn’t. It was tense in that room. You couldn’t help thinking about who was prettiest or best prepared or most talented. As I sat there, I snuck peeks at the other girls. I didn’t recognize any of them—not that I expected to. I had done some auditioning, but I hadn’t exactly been going all over town.

  Most of the girls were older than I was and much taller. Many of them were beautiful. Some had shiny black hair. Others had long blond hair. Some had glowing white teeth. I looked at how they were dressed, how they did their makeup, and how they wore their hair. On looks alone, I was pretty sure most of those girls could land the role hands down. And I could only imagine what kind of experience they had had. I felt way out of my league. Auditions were by far the most scary, nerve-racking moments I ever had. Each one was like taking a test. I liked to perform, so I was always excited, but I also always really wanted the job, so the anxiety was huge. But on that particular day, the cheerleader in me woke up.

  My cheerleading coach, Chastity, was really tough. In Nashville, some people treated me differently because I was the singer Billy Ray Cyrus’s daughter. They’d cut me slack because my dad was somebody. Not Chastity. If I messed up, she made me run laps just like everyone else. If anything, she was tougher on me. I was afraid to fly—to be the person at the top of the stunt who soars through the air—but she had me work one-on-one with the stunt trainer. I wasn’t the best tumbler, but she made me practice until my back handspring was just right. I bounced off my head until I felt like I’d been spinning in circles for hours.

  Chastity didn’t care how long it took me. She was proud, so long as I didn’t quit. She always said, “Can’t is not a word.” Chastity taught me that when I wanted something, I had to work hard for it. I wanted this part badly. Who was to say that these polished L.A. girls were any better than I was? When they finally called my name, I was ready.

  In the audition room, I faced a panel of ten people. I stood there, dressed in my short little skirt and T-shirt—Abercrombie’d out. You want them to remember you, so I made sure to be outgoing. Um, it wasn’t exactly a stretch. For once in my life, it was good that I talked too much. I just had to make sure to be myself instead of letting my nerves take over. The casting people asked me to read from a script, then to sing. I sang a little bit from Mamma Mia! As at most auditions, they gave me comments, like “Can you try it a little brighter?” or “Read it again as if you’re really annoyed at your brother.” (It’s funny, I was so nervous and had no idea then who those people on the panel were. They were just intimidating strangers. Now they’re the people I work closely with every day.)

  When I came out of the room I had no idea how I’d done. And I couldn’t relax yet even though it was over. Sort of. The most stressful part of the whole auditioning ordeal is that you can’t go home until they tell you you’re done. You have to hang out in the waiting room, watching other girls get called back in, wondering if you’re going to be called in to read something different or to sing again. And you never know why you’re being called back in. Or not being called back in but still made to stay. Do they like you? Do they love you? Does one person hate you? Are they worried about your hair? Your height? They never give you the tiniest hint of hope.

  I did my best, but we ended up going home to Nashville with no good news. And then, a couple weeks later, I got another call. “You’re a finalist!” Okay, this was the real thing. Maybe I had my ticket out of sixth grade after all. Again I begged out of cheerleading. Two strikes. One more and Chastity would kick me off the team. I flew to L.A., anxiously ran lines with Mom, hurried to get to the audition on time, could barely contain my excitement, opened the door to the waiting room, and—there were thirty other would-be Hannahs waiting to be seen. Sound familiar?

  I was starting to feel like one of those balls that’s attached to a paddle by a rubber band. Each time I got smacked away, they pulled me back just so they could smack me again. Well, it was a little gentler than that. But I was eleven. It was a roller coaster. (Is that a more friendly metaphor?) In the faces of those thirty girls I saw the grim reality. I had barely made any progress. I was definitely going back to sixth grade.

  Make Your Own Dreams

  I couldn’t escape school but I could focus on other things. We had a huge cheerleading competition coming up, so I threw m
yself into training and tried to forget about bullies and auditions. My life only sucked from eight a.m. to three p.m. Then I went to the gym and pushed it all out of my head.

  And then, when I had just about really and truly given up hope, we got another call from Margot the talent agent. Disney wanted to see me again. What were they doing, cutting one girl at a time American Idol–style? This time there was no shrieking and disrupting of the animals’ peaceful farm life. Instead of feeling excited, I just felt tired of it all. I told my mom I didn’t want to go back. I figured it was going to be the same thing all over again. I was completely focused on cheerleading. My team wanted me. My team needed me. My team didn’t make me fly cross-country over and over again only to send me home with nothing. My mom was over it too. She said it stressed her out. But then Margot told us that Judy Taylor, the head of casting, had said, “You can’t pass on this. They’re really serious about Miley. They’ve seen so many girls, and they keep coming back to her.”

  Missing this competition would mean dropping off the team. I had to choose between cheerleading and auditioning. To this day it’s the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. My mom said it was up to me, but she wanted me to have perspective, to make an informed decision. She said, “Honey, are you sure? I think you’re amazing, but the chances of getting this role are still slim to none. You have no experience. We already know they think you’re too small and too young. You have the rest of your life to do this. If you go, you may end up sacrificing cheerleading for nothing.”