Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter

by Melissa Francis

  The college admission process had been a tense time in our house. Tiffany’s SAT scores were very good, but even though I was only in eighth grade, I could see her that track record in the classroom had a few potholes. She’d opted to take the hardest Advanced Placement classes but had settled for mostly B’s along the way, plus many of her after-school activities, like getting into trouble with her friends, weren’t the kind you’d list on a college application. Her transcript read smart with a bit of a lazy streak.

  In a fit of crisis management, Mom had hired a college consultant to dress up Tiffany’s applications and improve her odds, and he’d said she’d be a stretch for anything Ivy League, but there was a back door she could use to make sure she got into UC Berkeley. She could apply directly to the College of Forestry and then switch out once she got there. Stanford, everyone’s first choice, remained a long shot. In 1987, Stanford had been the premier school in the state for years.

  The consultant turned out to be right on every count. Tiffany got into UCLA, and Penn State, and rejected by Stanford. But now Berkeley seemed to be calling.

  “Open it already!” Mom squealed.

  Tiffany’s face broke out into a huge smile. She laughed nervously. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen her this elated. She tore through the envelope and read the first sentence.

  “They are pleased to offer me admission!” she laughed. Both Mom and I rushed over to hug her.

  “That’s huge!” I said. “You are so smart! Wow! I’m so proud to be your little sister, smarty pants!”

  “I’m really proud of you,” Mom said hugging her. “This is a real feather in your cap! What an achievement. Of course UCLA is right here, though. We could still see you all the time,” she added.

  “Oh, God!” Tiffany laughed, as if that wasn’t entirely a selling point. Mom got the message and rolled her eyes, letting the comment go by.

  Mom, who hadn’t gone to college, wanted Tiffany to go to UCLA and become a sleek blonde sorority sister. Over the past year, Tiffany had turned eighteen and come as close to Mom’s ideal as was humanly possible for her. She’d picked up a seemingly preppy boyfriend, grown her hair long and blonde, and acquired a wardrobe that was mainstream with a little edge. At five feet two, she’d slimmed down to a hundred pounds, and she looked gorgeous. Overall, she was finally well behaved, at least on the surface. The last step in a full transformation would have been to go to UCLA, which was known for its population of perfectly toned, blonde California girls.

  To the naked eye, Tiffany had grown up and calmed down. I wanted to believe she’d put her passion for backlash to rest. But I knew my sister better than anyone else did, and I could tell that something under the lovely new mask she was wearing was itching her. She couldn’t relax. She’d burn through a pack of cigarettes when she left the house and douse herself in perfume before she returned to cover the giveaway scent. She’d hide all the contraband in her purse, never letting the bag out of her sight for fear that Mom would riffle through it.

  I also guessed some part of her felt like a sellout compared to the rebellious spirit she’d embraced for years. She’d always made fun of the girls who looked exactly like she did now. She’d traded black nail polish for bubblegum pink, but I suspected it was a costume she was trying on and could easily shed. I also thought the majority of her new image had more to do with keeping her new boyfriend, Cliff, happy and interested, than her own personal preference.

  We’d visited Berkeley a few weeks earlier, and it had something for everyone. A healthy streak of anti-establishment fervor for Tiffany, even if the school’s tradition of activism and the local hippie culture seemed tired and threadbare by the end of the ’80s. The brilliance of all the math and science geniuses that had come out of the school dazzled Dad. Mom liked the prestige, even if it didn’t measure up to Stanford, a fact she didn’t hesitate to communicate to Tiffany. And I think everyone longed to put a bit of distance between Tiffany and Mom. I didn’t believe their recent, fragile truce could last. A lifetime of battles versus just months of relative quiet seemed more like a break in the action than an end to the conflict. A six-hour car ride seemed ideal. Close enough to visit, far enough not to.

  “I’ve decided to go to Berkeley,” she announced one morning when she was getting ready to go to school. We were all in the kitchen, Tiffany standing at the door fidgeting with her car keys, the three of us around the table reading the paper and eating.

  Everyone smiled and nodded approval, even Mom. Deep down she knew the more she’d pushed for UCLA, the less likely Tiffany would go. This outcome seemed inevitable.

  “Let’s all go to dinner tonight and celebrate!” Dad suggested.

  That night we went to Tiffany’s favorite Chinese restaurant, the Mandarin Gardens. We walked in on our best group behavior, which couldn’t last.

  “You look so pretty tonight with your hair like that,” Mom said, pushing a few strands of Tiffany’s hair back behind her shoulder.

  The compliment was too solicitous for Tiffany. Her shoulders tensed as she rolled her eyes. “I need to get my roots done,” she said, nervously running her fingers through her bangs.

  “I say you look pretty and you immediately say something negative,” Mom pouted.

  “Mom. Come on,” Tiffany sighed, shoving her hands into her pockets.

  “What? I was trying to give you a compliment! Can’t I say your hair looks nice?” Mom’s voice was too loud, amping up the level of discomfort.

  As we took our seats in a deep red leather booth, I tried to lighten the mood. “I went through your closet and took out the clothes I wanted to keep,” I said, trying to divert attention. Tiffany pretended to scowl at me and shoved my arm.

  We ordered a tray of satay and some egg rolls, but by the time the main dishes arrived, the banter at our table was edging toward a throwdown.

  “We’ve driven past those houses next to UCLA. It looks like so much fun! Berkeley has sororities too. You should be sure to join. You could make friends and meet boys,” Mom purred.

  “I don’t know,” Tiffany said, looking down and picking at her acrylic nails. I wondered if they filled acrylic nails in downtown Berkeley. Seemed unlikely.

  “Well, it just seems like a great way to meet people! You shouldn’t knock it until you try it. At least try it! Promise me you will try it,” Mom pressed.

  “We’ll see,” Tiffany said pointedly.

  “A group of girls would be a great way not to put on that famous freshman ten. You look so fantastic right now. The last thing you want to do is go away to college and get fat, eating pizza and drinking beer. That’s what everyone does. They always say girls look their best in high school and it’s downhill from there. So you have to stay on top of it. And being with a bunch of other pretty girls, the competition, will keep you on your toes,” Mom preached.

  Tiffany looked sideways and met my eyes. I shook my head, willing her to just let it pass. I wanted to eat my beef and broccoli without an explosion.

  “Now what? What are you two looking at each other for?” Mom said tersely.

  “Jeez! Nothing, Mom! I just don’t know if I want to join a sorority! It seems really fake and I’m terrible at that,” Tiffany said.

  “Don’t call them fake. You don’t even know anyone in a sorority and already you’ve decided they are fake! Why don’t you turn over a new leaf. It’s a fresh start! I wish I had the opportunities you have! Going off to a nice college, all paid for, the ability to join anything, be anyone I want, parents footing the bill and supporting me! You’re so ungrateful!” Mom charged, raising her voice now.

  “So why don’t you go to college?” Tiffany said, throwing down the gauntlet. In other families you could get away with a little talk back like that. It wasn’t a big deal. But challenging Mom like that was pulling the pin on a grenade.

  Right on cue, Mom got vicious. “We had to lie to get you in. Unless you want to be a park ranger.”

  And, scene . . . I thought. Happy family mov
ie officially over. I felt angry with both of them. Why couldn’t Mom leave her alone, but really, why couldn’t Tiffany just play along and keep dinner civil? They both made life so complicated.

  “Just go! Get out of here,” Mom said, shoving Tiffany’s shoulder. Demanding Tiffany now leave was a complete overreaction, but it was also predictable. “Why don’t you just leave for college now. We’ll all be so much happier when you’re gone.”

  The couple at the next table looked over uncomfortably. I studied my plate, suddenly absorbed by the consistency of my rice.

  Tiffany stormed out. She had driven to dinner separately. I looked out the window and watched the rear bumper of her red Jeep speed out of the parking lot, tires screeching as she bumped up over the curb and cut off the oncoming traffic. Her license plate, H8SKOOL, disappeared into a sea of taillights.

  Dad drank his wine and shook his head, looking down at the tablecloth and frowning. I digested the silence, until Mom started tearing up and muttering quietly, kicking off a self-pitying monologue about all she had done for Tiffany, and how ungrateful she was. Neither Dad nor I jumped in, but our lack of participation seemed to have little impact on what she was saying.

  We sat around the table, inhabiting three separate worlds. The waitress took pity on us and brought the bill quickly, disappearing and reappearing with Dad’s credit card. Dad signed the check and we walked out, a defeated and deflated group, smaller than when we had walked in.

  I sat in the backseat on the way home, ready for Tiffany to leave for college. I liked spending time with her alone, going for a quick meal or even to the beach for some sun, but it was hard to ever have her to myself since Cliff soaked up so much of her time. And tonight she proved she couldn’t help herself when it came to Mom. Why she had to constantly lock horns with Mom boggled my mind. Why bother to expend so much energy for nothing? What was there to win? Did she think Mom was going to have an epiphany and suddenly realize she had been too hard on Tiffany her whole life, then fall to the ground and beg for forgiveness? They were eighteen years into the game.

  Mom had started the night being as nice as she could. Playing along would have required so little effort from Tiffany. Yes, talking with Mom, especially when she got so pretentious, could be grating. But ruining a perfectly good dinner was worse. I loved Tiffany dearly, but I was ready to be an only child.

  We all got a little breathing room when Tiffany moved into the college dorm a few months later. Mom, Dad, and I drove up to drop her off. I met her roommate, Candice, who had black hair and Goth makeup and seemed to be channeling the devil, or maybe she was a witch. Beyond that, she seemed quite smart and certainly nice enough. She and Tiffany did the first few freshman mixers together before my parents and I drove back to L.A. Tiffany said after that, though, they went their separate ways more or less, as Candice found her own coven of friends and Tiffany looked for hers.

  I started ninth grade as the only child at home, which certainly made life a lot more peaceful. The bathroom I’d shared with Tiffany was finally fully mine. We weren’t fighting about clothes, and there were no more quarrels with Mom about how late Tiffany could stay out with Cliff or the best way to be or dress. But my new status as the only child made me the sole focus of Mom’s attention, which was a little much for a fifteen-year-old yearning instead for some independence.

  Around this time, Mom and I both realized that I hadn’t worked in about a year. It was the longest dry spell I’d ever endured. I didn’t notice until it hit me that so long had gone by. I’d been busy cheerleading, riding my horse, and, of course, trying to jockey and manage the fights between Tiffany and Mom, hoping that they wouldn’t kill each other before she left for college.

  Many of the roles I auditioned for went to girls who were over eighteen. They didn’t have to go to school on the set or abide by any of the child labor laws that regulated how long kids could work in a given day. Plenty of eighteen-year-old girls who looked sixteen or even fifteen could be hired by production companies with a lot less hassle and at a lower cost than girls who were still minors. That made an already competitive market downright cutthroat.

  To battle back, Mom had me legally emancipated. She’d heard about another young actress working without the impediments of the child labor laws, and when she asked my agent about it, she was told it was as easy as hiring a lawyer and going to court.

  We booked a date and went to court, asking the judge to make me an adult. The law existed to help kids get away from dangerous and harmful parents.

  “Why are you petitioning for this?” the judge asked as we both stood before the bench. He was bald with reading glasses perched on top of his smooth, shiny head.

  “I’d like the ability to work more hours when I’m hired. I will not let my education suffer. As you can see from my transcript, I’m a serious student. I have straight A’s and I’m ranked second in my class. This is the only way I can compete with girls over eighteen who are trying out for the same roles.”

  The judge’s clerk took my transcript from my hands and delivered it to the bench. The judge looked it over and his expression softened.

  “This is impressive. Straight A’s and all honors classes. Very well done for any student, much less someone who is also a professional actress,” the judge said. His tone had changed, and now he studied both of us closely, his focus shifting to Mom.

  “And, Mom, does this have anything to do with money?” he asked.

  Mom cleared her throat the way she always did before she announced something she was trying to sell but personally didn’t buy.

  “No, your honor. My husband owns his own company. The money is there for her. It is hers. She’ll use it for college. This is about leveling the playing field so she can continue to work,” Mom said.

  “Do you like to work?” the judge asked me. He took his glasses from the top of his head and placed one stem in his mouth, chewing on the end.

  “I do. It gives me a sense of purpose. It’s what I have always done,” I said earnestly.

  “When did you start? Whose idea was it?” he probed further. “Missy was discovered as an infant at a Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo commercial her sister was doing. Missy’s worked steadily ever since,” Mom said.

  “Are you a Stage Mother?” the judge asked provocatively, employing a buzzword riddled with negative beauty pageant connotations.

  Mom stiffened but her voice was steady and calm. She smiled faintly and replied, “Are you asking if I spend my free time driving her to interviews and sitting on the set all day while she works and becomes a star and I’m not paid a dime? Do I deal with her agent and contracts, buy her clothes and pay for her haircuts so she can work and have a successful career? Am I the only one protecting her on the set, and looking out for her interests, all for free? Do I do these things for her while people call me names and treat me like a hanger-on while I’m on the set? And she becomes rich and famous? If that’s what you mean by a Stage Mother, then yes, I am that.”

  She was right, I’d heard that speech before, and every word of it was true. Still, the speech seemed to go against our best interests at the moment.

  “Sounds like she needs you. Why should I emancipate her?” the judge responded.

  “Because I will always do those things, whether she’s emancipated or not. Because I’m her mom. She’ll be free to work as long as she likes, but nothing else will change.”

  “You sold me. Missy Francis, you are now an emancipated minor.”

  I was legally free to live however I liked, but once again, Mom was right—nothing else would change. I still needed someone to manage my life, enroll me in school, make sure I had health insurance. But I did wonder, for how long?

  The first job I did as an emancipated minor was a Kmart commercial. The next project, though, put the work back in working. I was cast in a blood-and-guts slasher movie about a cult that commits mass suicide in a house fire. I played the female lead, Jennifer Rubin, in all her flashback sequences. Her char
acter, the only survivor of the house fire, constantly relives her time with the cult in her dreams, hence the title, Bad Dreams.

  In the first scene, the leader of the cult, a very scary-looking Bruce Abbott, baptized me in a filthy lake out behind Magic Mountain. Bruce had white hair and startling blue eyes and looked like a burn victim, which could have been a result of the way the makeup artists painted him, but I wasn’t sure. Either way, he was fairly terrifying.

  The lake was covered with slime, and I couldn’t see my hand below the surface. I could not believe that they wanted me to stick my head into that disgusting water. There was no way they had the budget to test it to see what toxins or deadly bacteria lived underneath the blanket of sludge that coated the top.

  They blew out my hair and applied my makeup, which made me hope that somehow I wasn’t getting dunked. Maybe they’d cut away and replace me with a stunt double. Although I doubted they had the budget for that either. When I noticed all the exact replicas of my outfit stocked in the wardrobe truck, I knew I was getting slimed.

  The director explained that the senior cult members would walk me to the edge of the lake, then Bruce would come take my hand and lead me in until I was about waist deep in the water. Bruce would say a few lines and guide my head underwater.

  I wanted to run. I knew from past experience, there was no escape. I needed to just man up.

  “Are we going to rehearse?” I asked the director, trying to buy time.

  “That was your rehearsal. We can’t get you all wet if we aren’t rolling.”

  I took a deep breath and prayed for a miracle, but instead, he yelled, “Action!”

  I walked to the edge of the lake, and Scary Bruce met me and dragged me in. The thick, putrid water filled my shoes and clung to my calves, and I fought back the urge to vomit as I got deeper and deeper in what felt like quicksand.