I wear sunglasses everywhere I go. It's not really a choice—it's more of a necessity. They're black aviator glasses, like something you'd see in a James Bond movie. But even they don't help much. ... "—interview with a local news station at 6:45 tonight. Oh, and you have to go to a party later tonight, at 11 or 12. You don't have to be there for long, just enough to get the reporters excited. Tomorrow you have an early morning rehearsal until noon, and then a lunch with—"
"Rick, can I please just listen to the music?" I ask.
He sits back in the leather seat, disappointed. Normally, I'd apologize for snapping, but today I just can't. He doesn't understand. I interally snort as I realize how cheesy that sounds. "He doesn't understand."
I gaze out of the tinted window, staring at the doors to the bottom floors of the Manhattan skyscrapers. My personal manager, Rick, is sitting across from me. He holds a clipboard and a phone, face taut and his wrinkles flooding with stress.
I wish I could say I hate my life, but that'd be a half lie. It's not all that bad. Just really...open. It feels like everything I do—literally, everything—is recorded and being reported. And the crowds...where do I even begin? It's like drowning, like suffocating. And they're everywhere. I can't ever get a quiet moment to myself when I'm out of my apartment.
I remember before. I remember when I had friends who were my friends because they actually liked me as a person, not because I'm famous or semi-rich. I remember when me traveling to Hawaii for a vacation was normal and not questioned as some illegal scandal I was taking part in. I remember not seeing myself on the cover of gossip magazines. But wishing I was on the cover. ... We're in the backyard. It's summer, and my mom is unfolding the red and white checkered tablecloth, getting ready to set the wooden table we keep in our backyard. The sprinklers are on, and my older brother is carrying a hose. Freezing cold water is bursting out of it, and he directs it at me and my little sister. Our happy screams fill the backyard as we get sprayed with the water. Our dog, Pepper, bounds next to us, pink tongue hanging out of his mouth as his chocolate brown fur drips with water.
My dad's making hamburgers on the grill, humming and singing to himself. My mom carries a bowl of watermelon out of the house and onto the table, shouting for us to come over and eat it before it warms in the hot summer air.
The watermelon is cool, and its sticky juice runs down our jaws. We don't mind. We can just spray it off with the hose, or let Pepper lick it off. We know our mom would hate that, but that's primarily the reason why we let Pepper do it.
My mom pulls out her phone, reading an email. I watch as her eyes widen in surprise, and her mouth drops into an O. She looks from the phone to me.
"What?" I say. "Did something bad happen?"
"No, you..." she trails off. "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!" Now all of us are curious. Even Pepper's sitting still, waiting for my mom to explain. "Oh my gosh," my mom exclaims again.
Her eyes meet mine, and I know. I know.
"You got it," she says. "You got the role."
Everything's quiet for a moment. We're standing in a mix of pride, confusion, surprise, and joy. But none of us say anything. For a second, I don't want the role. I don't want to fly to New York to film a new blockbuster movie that I now know I'm starring in. I don't want to leave my life behind, this perfectly normal and left-alone life that I've known for the 16 years of my life.
And then everyone erupts. My dad laughs, tears streaming from his face. My older brother lifts me up in a hug, and my little sister is jumping up and down. Pepper's barking and running in circles, my mom is half-smiling, half-sobbing.
The last thing I remember from normal life is that hug. It's a mesh of tears and laughter, of fear and joy, with childish excitement and an occasional feeling of regret.
I miss it. ... The car stops, and I'm pulled back into reality. I can already hear the clicking of cameras outside, and the pushes and shoves of reporters. Rick gives me a grim smile.
"Ready?"
I sigh, sliding on my sunglasses—not that they'll do anything. The people outside already know who I am.
"Ready."
"Rick, can I please just listen to the music?" I ask.
He sits back in the leather seat, disappointed. Normally, I'd apologize for snapping, but today I just can't. He doesn't understand. I interally snort as I realize how cheesy that sounds. "He doesn't understand."
I gaze out of the tinted window, staring at the doors to the bottom floors of the Manhattan skyscrapers. My personal manager, Rick, is sitting across from me. He holds a clipboard and a phone, face taut and his wrinkles flooding with stress.
I wish I could say I hate my life, but that'd be a half lie. It's not all that bad. Just really...open. It feels like everything I do—literally, everything—is recorded and being reported. And the crowds...where do I even begin? It's like drowning, like suffocating. And they're everywhere. I can't ever get a quiet moment to myself when I'm out of my apartment.
I remember before. I remember when I had friends who were my friends because they actually liked me as a person, not because I'm famous or semi-rich. I remember when me traveling to Hawaii for a vacation was normal and not questioned as some illegal scandal I was taking part in. I remember not seeing myself on the cover of gossip magazines. But wishing I was on the cover. ... We're in the backyard. It's summer, and my mom is unfolding the red and white checkered tablecloth, getting ready to set the wooden table we keep in our backyard. The sprinklers are on, and my older brother is carrying a hose. Freezing cold water is bursting out of it, and he directs it at me and my little sister. Our happy screams fill the backyard as we get sprayed with the water. Our dog, Pepper, bounds next to us, pink tongue hanging out of his mouth as his chocolate brown fur drips with water.
My dad's making hamburgers on the grill, humming and singing to himself. My mom carries a bowl of watermelon out of the house and onto the table, shouting for us to come over and eat it before it warms in the hot summer air.
The watermelon is cool, and its sticky juice runs down our jaws. We don't mind. We can just spray it off with the hose, or let Pepper lick it off. We know our mom would hate that, but that's primarily the reason why we let Pepper do it.
My mom pulls out her phone, reading an email. I watch as her eyes widen in surprise, and her mouth drops into an O. She looks from the phone to me.
"What?" I say. "Did something bad happen?"
"No, you..." she trails off. "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!" Now all of us are curious. Even Pepper's sitting still, waiting for my mom to explain. "Oh my gosh," my mom exclaims again.
Her eyes meet mine, and I know. I know.
"You got it," she says. "You got the role."
Everything's quiet for a moment. We're standing in a mix of pride, confusion, surprise, and joy. But none of us say anything. For a second, I don't want the role. I don't want to fly to New York to film a new blockbuster movie that I now know I'm starring in. I don't want to leave my life behind, this perfectly normal and left-alone life that I've known for the 16 years of my life.
And then everyone erupts. My dad laughs, tears streaming from his face. My older brother lifts me up in a hug, and my little sister is jumping up and down. Pepper's barking and running in circles, my mom is half-smiling, half-sobbing.
The last thing I remember from normal life is that hug. It's a mesh of tears and laughter, of fear and joy, with childish excitement and an occasional feeling of regret.
I miss it. ... The car stops, and I'm pulled back into reality. I can already hear the clicking of cameras outside, and the pushes and shoves of reporters. Rick gives me a grim smile.
"Ready?"
I sigh, sliding on my sunglasses—not that they'll do anything. The people outside already know who I am.
"Ready."
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.