Friday, March 18, 2005 @4:11 PM
San Angelo Academy was sited on the remnants of an acre-wide villa before it was converted into a performing arts school in the early 1960s. World-renowned, with affliations in 17 different countries across the globe, it was the alma mater to some of the most celebrated performers, musicians and playwrights. It was rumoured that Madonna was once enrolled there as a cgikd.
The campus was sub-divided into three centres, one each for dance, drama, and music. A combined-school production was organized twice a semester, and many talent scouts from various heavyweight film empires were invited to attend. In addition, there were talks conducted by various well-known persons from the media industry, and weekly health inspections, during which out vital statistics would be meticulously recorded in a large leather-bound diary. A polished image was essential, especially in Hollywood. We were continually reminded that if we weren't beautiful, nothing in our lives would ever be. This was the unofficial San Angelo philosophy.
My drama coach was a middle-aged woman with the physique and poise of an 18-year-old. She eyed me beadily as I stumbled into the classroom on Monday morning. "You are late," she said sharply.
"Yes, Mrs Whittmer." The entire class was already settled at their desks, as meek as mice. I winced, "I'm awfully sorry. I couldn't seem to find..."
She dismissed my feeble excuse with a curt wave of her manicured fingers, then turned to address the other pupils. "Now listen up, every single one of you. This is your very first grave mistake - never apologize. You'll never get anywhere if you don't go to all lengths to achieve what you want. This is a cut-throat business. Nobody here is concerned about your welfare. No one here is your friend."
I could taste the silence in the air on the tip of my tongue. None of the others even flinched at her harsh advice. I squirmed, tugging nervously at the hem of my pleated skirt.
She fixed her cold gaze on me again. "I expect discipline and commitment from all my students. That means you are to be on time and prepared for every lesson of mine. I do not tolerate slackers. I have little patience for those who refuse to participate in this learning process. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Mrs Whittmer. I'm sorr.." Then I caught myself. "I mean, yes. Absolutely."
She groped for the register. "Julia, is it? Julia A..An.."
She squinted at the sheet of paper in her hand. A redhead in the front row tittered. When I glanced solicitously at her, she hissed, "Chink!"
Mrs Whittmer did not seem to notice. She was still puzzling over my apparent cryptic last name. "Ang," I supplied quietly.
She grunted in response. "Very well. You may sit down."
I crept to a seat in the back. The redhead tossed me a smirk as I passed. Her lips were curved, but her large green eyes were flat and hard.
I scanned the room as unobtrusively as possible. No one caught my eye or even acknowledged my presence. My mind strayed back to what the redhead had whispered. She'd called me a "chink". And I'd been on TV too.
Back home, I was a child star. Here, clutching the edge of the table as if it were a life bouy, I came to the sinking realisation that I was nobody,
I was an outcst in my peer group. No one seemed to want to befriend a "chink" or a "gook". Every class was spent slouching in my chair at the back row, staring at my knuckles. Rachel Armstrong, the redhead who'd christened me with the unfortunate nickname, took pleasure in tormenting me everyday. She repeatedly asked if my vision was obscured by "those slit eyes of yours", usually during lunch hour, when the area was teeming with people. Many kids would chuckle at the joke, and I would blush and make a beeline for the nearest empty classroom.
The diet commenced when I was nearing the second month at San Angelo Academy. During the next health check, I was told to remain behind for a private consultation with the nurse. I gulped, fearing that I'd somehow contracted some sort of contagious virus and had to be suspended from school.
"I've rather bad news for you," the nurse began, tucking a strand of honey-coloured hair behind her ear. Here in LA, practically everyone was blonde, with bronzed skin and long limbs. My throat constricted. "what is it?" I asked anxiously.
The nurse looked solemn. She leafed through the record book. "According to this, you're eight pounds overweight."
Air rushed from my lungs as I let out a sigh of relief. "You mean that is it?"
The nurse's ice-blue eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Perhaps you don't recognize the severity of the issue," she said distinctly, as if speaking to a petulant child. "Here at San Angelo, you are not allowed to even exceed your specified weight group my an ounce."
Then it registered. I half-stood, "wait a second, there must be some mistake!" I wasn't exactly the skinniest girl in the grade, but as far as I was concerned, I wasn't a walking tub of lard either. I peered ath the book. "It says 110 pounds. That's alright, isn't it?"
The nurse's brows knitted. "I'm afraid not," she said shortly. "We use a different system as San Angelo Academy. Here we want slender, graceful performers, not hulking rhinoceros. If you want to be a star, we dedicate ourselves to making you look like you. You are from the drama department, aren't you?"
"Yes.."
"Then take it from me. If you are not five-feet-nine with a twenty-three-inch wasteline, you'll never make it out of Sunset Boulevard. This is show business, Julia. You don't get anywhere just by reciting a couple of lines in front of cameras. You have to look the part, too."
I blinked slowly. My mind was reeling. Her words had thrown a new light on things. I needed to be beautiful. I needed to be perfect. I would be cast out if I failed to meet that criteria. My palms felt clammy. If that was to happen, I would keel over and die. I would be a has-been, doomed to mediocrity.
"Thank you," I uttered. I snatched my belongings and fled from the room.
That night, I refused to touch dinner. I spent half the time examing my body critically in the mirror and the other half staring listlessly out of my bedroom window.