Thursday, March 17, 2005 @11:19 PM
The next musical was 'The King and I', with Rachel Armstrong as Anna, of course. I'd auditioned for the part of the eldest royal daughter, feeling apprehensive and optimistic at the same time. The character was a Thai princess, and I was Asian, after all. But Caroline Bennett was awarded it, instead. Shattered, I blamed the setback on my weight. The tae-bo, the laxatives, and the late-night heaving were apparently not enough. I added daily workouts to my regime, long jogs around the neighbourhood where I would pause occasionally to stare hungrily into the warm, lit villas of strangers, and wonder if an actress or casting director was lounging in the glistening pool, or on the manicured lawn. I like to believe I was just like them; I had the backyard jacuzzi and the flat-screen television. But deep down I knew that I was worlds away from their chauffeur-driven limos and home spas, because I was an unknown, a visitor, here one day and then gone the next existence. Nobody knew my name.
Caroline Bennett had blonde hair.
One Sunday, I leapt onto the weighing scale and watched anxiously as the luminous numbers flashed their verdict. By then, my arms resembled bamboo stems and purple veins criss-crossed my thighs like meandering rivers on a world atlas. I glanced at the reading and my jaw dropped. I was four pounds heavier than I'd been the week before.
I reflexively grabbed my toothbrush and lowered my head over the sink. The pink narrow strip of plastic felt cool against my gums. I thrust it frantically down my throat. I had to get rid of my body of these toxins. I was convinced I was contaminated.
The familar watering of my eys, the subsequent retching. I nearly wept with relief. Bitter yellow fluid splattered against the teal marble. The revolting taste caused me to gag and on it went, until I was satisfied with my newly-achieved purity.
My mother carted me to Dr Werner's once again. According to the psychiatrist, my weight gain was due to constipation; my bowels were not functioning normally. Once again, ?I was deaf to her advice. I raced out of the clinic before she could give me my prescription. I stumbled onto the sun-warmed street, panting, My mother did not hurry after me. She had abandoned all hope on this teenage stranger, this daughter, the one she had and loved before we moved to California. She knew I would be home before she was; she knew I had nowhere to go.
"Caroline had to drop out of the musical due to a family tragedy," Mr Blackburn looked sombre. His charcoal-grey blazer was wrinked around the breast pocket, and there were smudges of black ink on his fingers. Blue-lined notes papered his desk. "And her understudy, Heather, has the German measles. I don't suppose you'd like the role of Princess Saovabha?"
Euphoria bubbled in the pit of my stomach. "Excuse me?"
"Tuesday after school. Three o'clock sharp." His attention had already turned to some documents in an orange file folder. His gaze was directed at a region next to my left elbow. "Please be punctual."
The monotonous rapping of the wall clock behind us brought me back to my senses. I scarcely believed my ears. "Y-you mean... "
He smiled thinly before returning to his paper work. "That'd be all"
Bulimia stripped me down to mere skin and bones. I had shed thirty pounds since the start of the semester. I was two inches taller, but the additional height was no consolation to Dr Werner. Twice, I passed out in class. Needless to say, this sparked off a new round of jeering, tauting and ridicule from my schoolmates. I would encounter long, inexplicable lapses in my memory, large hollow shells where yesterday or last weekend should have been. Bruises, the size and colour of eggplants, dotted my twig-like calves. Still, I would purchase family-size bags of Snicker miniatures, binge and purge them an hour later. It felt satisfying, knowing that I'd successfully cleansed my body of junk food. There was a definite tingle of success, as if I'd accomplished an amazing feat.
Opening night was in a month. The rumours flitted through the hallways of San Angelo like a herd of hummingbirds - two off-Broadway producers were in LA to recruit several teenagers for their latest production, and they would be attending the school play to identify potential candidates. I had no doubt that my name and photograph - jet-black hair, single eyelids, and all-would be down on their next cast list.
"You. Julia," Mr Blackburn said curtly, rapping me smartly on the shoulder with his clipboard. He was dressed elaborately for the occasion, with a crisp white shirt, gleaming leather boots and navy-blue silk tie. "We are on in five minutes."
I nodded, trying to suppress my mounting sense of excitement and anxiety. Lucy, the costume manager, was hastily pinning the stray folds of my dress into my collar, sleeve and hem. The green velvet gown was slightly oversized due to my recent laxative diet.
"Places!" Mr Blackburn bellowed, addressing the entire cast this time. There was a frenzied clatter of heels as the group thundered towards the wings. Lucy slid the last pieve of fabric in place and nodded. I fell in step beside Rachel, my heart pounding with anticipation.
The stage curtains rose majestically, and the audience applauded wildly. I gasped as a dizzying sweep overcame me. Everything seemed to garish, the way it had been in Dr Werner's office. A hurricane of images hurtled through my mind. Dazzling lab coat. The sputter of liquid in the syringe as the needle bit into my skin. Pink notebook on an aircraft heading west. Orange California sun on the cream-coloured walls of an apartment.
My feet seemed immobile. Rachel flounced onstage with the others trailing behind her. "Wait.." I cried hoarsely, but the heavy dust-caked curtains swallowed my imploration.
I glanced around desperately. The area was deserted. Splinters made excruciating burns in my stomach, and my palms were moist with disorientation.
It came, chilling me to the bone. I froze like an ice sculpture, my hair matted with perspiration.
My cue sounded once more. Gritting my teeth, I lurched onstage. The audience was invisible; we were facing a wall of perennial black. The stage lights hovered like a set of orbs - yellow, blue, white. The colours swarmed together until they became the blur of a spectacular sunset. I could feel the world's eyes on me, waiting with bated breathe.
I had an opening line, but it escaped my consciousness like air rushing from a tyre. I did not remember my name, not my purpose in teh universe. All I knew was that in a mere second, I was feather-light and wind gusted beneath my beaded toe shoes as I crumbled. Startled yells, then nothing at all as I let myself be released and the fround rushed up to meet me.
The coma lasted for three weeks. When I finally came to, Dr Werner delivered the truth in an even, neutral tone. Anorexia had caused several major damages to my nervous system. I would never regain full usage of my left arm again. Also, she went on to inform me, there was a likelihood that I would have to undergo physical therapy for the rest of my life. She looked me straight in the eye as she spoke, her gaze meeting my horrified one steadily and unblinkingly, as though she wasn't afraid.
I was expelled from the academy. A livid Mr Blackburn had bombarded my parents with accusatory phone calls and letters, stating that I was the sole reason behind the disastrous outcome of the musical. Most of the guests, including the off-Broadway team, were made to leave after the arrival of the ambulance. He even threatened to press charges and refer the case to court.
Later, I discovered that the two producers had returned several days later and conducted individual interviews and auditions with the other students. A group of four were jetted off the New York City to participate in their next production. One of the chosen few was Rachel Armstrong. The play was an embarrassing failure, but Rachel took her flight to mega-stardom as one of the youngest girls to be signed on by a major actors' agency.
I remained at St Magdalene's Hospital in California. Under strict orders from my psychiatrists and parents, all mirrors - including the compact on the night table that elderly patients used for removing dentures were to be cleared from the toom. I did not protest. I knew for certain what lurked on the other side of the silver pane- a has-been.
After my evening counselling sessions, I would pull a wicker stool from the corner of the ward and survey the scenes of Hollywood, California, The hills were not as prominent as the view I had from my bedroom, but the sparkling white alphabets were unmistakeable. I inhaled them in, bordering on fascinated admiration and warped revulsion.
I though of my mother, pictured her in the kitchen back home with the stir-fry wok and a dish of marinated pork slices. Though five-and-a-half miles apart, our thoughts were rattling down identical tracks. I had my wish. I'd travel to Hollywood to join the stars and now, it seemed like my very desires had been fulfilled. I was a shooting star - I had fallen.