“No, they’re from Wet Seal,” I said, pulling out the tag to prove their origin. “Yeah, it’s a zero, I guess.”
“It’s a double zero,” she pointed out, still trying to shame me. Today I assume she passes her time flaying old ladies for sport.
In a flash, I realized I could say, “So? Are girls not supposed to have small waists?”
“No, no,” Darryl said, “that’s proper.”
I had abruptly crossed over into the land where being small was a good thing! And Darryl had spoken four words to me! Suck it, you crone!!
It should be noted that a double zero was a good fit for a thirteen-year-old girl who was so painfully underdeveloped she didn’t get her period for another three years. If you aren’t a size double zero, congratulations, you don’t look ten anymore.
That was the best interaction I’d ever had with Darryl. I figured I’d take that little seedling and let it blossom; hit my stride once we got to high school, and I (fingers crossed) got boobs. I’d play the long game. Alas, he moved away again after eighth grade. And I did not get boobs in time for high school.
Yet looking young—a source of crippling insecurity—was a huge professional asset. My agent was thrilled I wasn’t growing. As long as you still look the part, casting directors value a few extra years of experience and maturity. Plus, child labor laws are more relaxed. Couldn’t the kids at school see this was good for my career?
A lot of the kids I’d met in New York were taking breaks to “just be a kid” for a while. Were they crazy?? I wanted to “just be a kid” as much as the next guy, but I wasn’t about to take a career in the arts for granted. There are only a handful of parts for children on Broadway at any given time, and maybe the paucity of roles should have been a sign that taking a break wouldn’t hurt. But I could see a future where I got drunk at office parties and babbled about how I’d been a child star (because my alternate-reality self would definitely overstate her former glory).
The first thing I booked after High Society was the musical version of Jane Eyre. It was in the workshop phase, when the producers assemble a cast to run through a show for a couple of weeks. The idea is to get the show on its feet so that it can be improved before a potential Broadway run. Based on each workshop, the writer, composer, and director will go away and make changes, then do it all again. Sometimes all the actors are re-hired. Sometimes they aren’t.
There was a challenging but thrilling piece of music for Young Jane that had made the role difficult to cast. Consequently, I was treated like a bit of a unicorn. The producers sent up prayers (in direct opposition to my bathroom-stall plea) that I would stay the same size. But the show was at least a year away from getting to Broadway. Occasionally, I’d catch the producers tilting their heads at me, gauging my height with an invisible yardstick. I made a point to transition my rehearsal attire from chunky boots to thin-soled ballet flats and ruefully dug out my Limited Too best to look as young as possible.
I was with that show for about a year, doing additional workshops or giving special cabaret-style performances to rooms of potential investors. But after a while, a bittersweet atmosphere took hold. There was a consolatory vibe at what would be my last performance, but I didn’t know why. I would have recognized the behavior if I’d ever had a boyfriend: I was about to get dumped.
I was sad to lose the job. My disappointment was slightly allayed when I heard they’d had to cut Young Jane’s song because they couldn’t find a replacement to sing it. That might not have been true; the song slowed down the pacing of the first act anyway.
This was not the only time I would lose a job this way, but I confess I was grateful for every inch I gained. Finding even one article of adult clothing that fit me seemed like a reasonable trade-off to being fired. Maybe I should have prioritized my professional pursuits, but my home life always felt equally significant. Decorating my locker seemed just as important as getting new headshots.
I had to compartmentalize, because everyone else did. People at school didn’t care that I had an audition for Touched by an Angel, and, weirdly, casting directors didn’t care that I had a four-page French assignment or that Courtney from choir was being mean to me for NO REASON.
While I was in one place, I tried not to think about the other. It was sort of like living a double life. Like a spy! Yeah. I was like James Bond. Like a loud, unsexy James Bond.
MGM, the next time you want to reboot the franchise, you know where to find me.
* * *
I. That year.
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