Falling with Wings

by Dianna De La Garza

  “Demi’s writing nasty notes,” said one teacher. “And she’s using vulgar language,” said another. The volley of complaints made me feel like I was standing in front of a firing squad.

  “But you don’t know what they did to her,” I tried to explain as the din grew louder. “Wait!” I said. “I told her not to bother you.…”

  But my words were meaningless. So, too, were the tears running down my cheeks. There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy for Demi or me that day, except from the drama coach and the choir director, both of whom tried to speak on Demi’s behalf. The verdict was already in: Demi was a bad girl. And our family was put on notice. When the school year ended, we all breathed a sigh of relief.

  * * *

  As summer vacation came to a close, Dallas decided she wanted to be homeschooled. “It’s too hard to juggle classes and auditions,” she moaned.

  The previous year had been especially tricky because I had allowed Dallas, then a sophomore, to travel to Los Angeles with a chaperone in February so she could attend pilot season. Anyone serious about breaking into the industry knows the value of pilot season—a frantic period of auditions, production, and decision-making about a slew of potential new TV series. Being there is a rite of passage for those trying to break into the industry, but it also requires missing more than a month of school, which meant I had to unenroll Dallas from public school and then re-enroll her when she returned. Neither of us wanted to deal with that hassle again.

  Demi, who had decided she wanted to back off of acting and focus on her music, decided to stay in public school. Considering she’d have a whole new group of teachers to work with, I was optimistic that seventh grade would be more fun than the previous year had been. My optimism didn’t last long.

  Less than two months into the new school year, my cell phone rang as Dallas and I were parked at Sonic, waiting for our breakfast to arrive.

  “Mommmaaa,” Demi sobbed, “I c-c-a-n’t get out of the b-b-bathroom.”

  Demi’s voice shook with terror.

  “Where are you?” I cried, knowing I had dropped her off at middle school that morning.

  “I locked myself in a dark bathroom,” she cried. “But I can hear them going up and down the hall. They’re saying they’re going to k-k-ick my ass! I have my legs propped against the door so they can’t get in.”

  “Who? What?” I asked.

  “Those girls,” Demi pleaded. “They’re going to hurt me!”

  It was those girls again, the very ones who had been tormenting Demi since the previous year. Apparently when Demi had gotten to her locker that morning, the girls had surrounded her, accusing her of stealing another girl’s shirt. “Why would I steal a shirt that I can’t wear? Besides, I can buy my own shirts,” Demi told them. When she brushed past the girls and headed to class, Demi overheard their rumblings for retaliation. “Let’s beat the bitch up,” one of them suggested. Fearing they’d catch her, Demi ducked into a bathroom that no one ever used.

  “Demi, I’m coming to get you,” I promised, “but you need to run to the principal’s office and wait there. Run as fast as you can!”

  Demi was in danger, and I doubted that the school would be on her side. When I ran into the office, I found Demi sitting in a chair, trembling and shaking like she was in shock.

  “We’re trying to sort this out,” the secretary mumbled. When I asked what would happen to the other girls, she nonchalantly shrugged. “We’ll look into it.”

  “Don’t bother,” I seethed. “We’re checking out—right now and for good. We’re done!” Then I put my arm around Demi, and we walked out of the office. On the way to the car, Demi pulled me into another bathroom.

  “It’s the hate wall,” she said, pointing at all the graffiti.

  Every word was directed at her, much of it echoing the sentiments of the letter the girls had written the year before. My heart broke into a thousand pieces. No one should ever have to endure such humiliation and shame.

  “And I know whose handwriting that is,” she said, pointing to one line in particular.

  Months later, we heard that the wall was covered with a fresh coat of paint, but no one was ever punished, even though I had shared Demi’s observations about the handwriting with the principal. Perhaps the administration just wanted a clean slate, but wiping away the scars in my daughter’s heart wasn’t so easy.

  From that day forward, Demi never took another class in a public school. She was bruised from the experience and so was I. Although I felt guilty because I had failed to protect Demi, mostly out of my need to avoid conflict and to appear perfect, I pushed the experience aside and focused on the future. Holding in emotions, stuffing down feelings, and keeping quiet about concerns were the rules I had lived by for so long that I didn’t have a clue about how to do things differently. So instead of exploring how to heal and integrate what we had been through, I latched onto the desire to help my kids become successful with even more intensity. Stardom, I decided, would be the golden ticket to acceptance. And if people accepted my kids, they’d accept me, too.

  It was flawed reasoning, for sure, but by the time I realized that, we were a family knee-deep in crisis.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “It’s not my place to tell people how to believe, but they should believe in something bigger than themselves.”

  By the start of 2005, I thought our family was running as smoothly as a fine-tuned engine. Every day, I’d make Dallas and Demi sit down to do their homework for a few hours, while Madison sat at her little desk and pretended to do her own schoolwork. A few days a week, Selena, who was also being homeschooled, joined us because Mandy, her mother, was working full-time. All the laughter and commotion that erupted most days made it seem like the trauma of Demi’s bullying was behind us.

  If Demi wasn’t busy trying to learn a new song by Kelly Clarkson (her go-to artist ever since she had won American Idol), she and Selena were pretending to mug for the paparazzi as they used their T-Mobile Sidekicks, first brought into the public eye by Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. Of course, we had those devices before anyone else in Texas did because we had to have the latest and greatest thing from LA. We’d pop those suckers open and bang out a text so fast it would make your head spin. While other kids were playing Nintendo, my kids were texting on their Sidekicks. It was all part of our incessant need to imitate the stars.

  One afternoon, Demi and Selena even pretended to flee from the paparazzi, which resulted in Selena hijacking Madison’s motorized, red Barbie Corvette—and she drove it right through our neighbor’s yard! Of course, I was the one who had to explain why his grass had tire marks everywhere. Sometimes keeping my three kids and Selena under control was an impossible task. In the midst of the chaos, Madison often escaped to the family room to watch TV. As I went to check on her one day, she pointed to the screen and said, “I want to do that.”

  “You want to do what?” I asked, hoping to understand.

  My four-year-old pointed at the screen, insisting, “I want to do what those people are doing!”

  Really? My eyes brightened at the thought. Was this the same girl who was so painfully shy just a few years ago that she couldn’t even tolerate strangers looking at her? I guessed that watching her sisters read scripts and audition for commercials was bringing her out of her shell. “Let me call Cathryn to see if there are any classes you can take,” I told her. Within days, she started acting classes and then promptly insisted she wanted to try an audition. We talked it over and Jennifer, Madison’s agent at Kim Dawson, sent her on a movie audition in Shreveport, Louisiana. We embarked on the three-hour drive with a lot of enthusiasm, but halfway there, Madison started having doubts. By the time we arrived, she was a bundle of nerves.

  “I don’t think I can do this, Mommy,” she said, fighting back tears.

  But I didn’t like my girls backing out of things at the last moment. “Just do it this one time because we told Miss Jennifer we would,” I said. “If you don’t lik
e it, you never ever have to do it again, I promise.” With that, I walked her up to the room where a panel of four casting people awaited her arrival. My little girl took a long, deep breath and stepped inside.

  Then I got nervous. All I could picture was Madison crying behind the door. As the minutes dragged on, I was sure I heard her sniffling. When the door burst open, I was mystified to see Madison skipping toward me, grinning from ear to ear. “That was so much fun,” she exclaimed. “I want to do this for the rest of my life!”

  Right then, all those hopes of my baby becoming a doctor or a rocket scientist vanished. Those scholarly dreams were history. I knew Madison was hooked, just like my other two. And considering she actually got her first callback from that audition, I figured she probably had the talent to break into the business at an early age. Little did I know how accurate my assessment would be!

  * * *

  One morning in the car as we listened to our favorite radio station, 106.1 KISS FM, Kidd Kraddick, a well-known and beloved DJ in the Dallas metroplex, made an announcement. “We’re having a Kelly Clarkson sing-alike contest,” he said. “We want you to call in and sing ‘Since U Been Gone,’ but using the lyrics we’ve written.” After listening to a few contestants, we realized the new words changed the song into a jingle promoting the radio station.

  On the way to dance class later that week, Demi insisted, “I can do that song, Momma. I know I can!” After class, I shared the details about the contest with Kat and she was all for it. “Hey,” she exclaimed, “why don’t you just go up to the station at six a.m. and make them put you on the show?”

  “Oh, God, no,” I said in horror. “They’ll get mad at us and probably ignore us.”

  “No, they won’t,” Kat insisted. “And, I have an idea—meet me there, and I promise, I’ll get her in. But, grab some bright-pink poster board and make a sign that says: I CAN SING LIKE KELLY CLARKSON!”

  My blood ran cold. I’m not sure if it was the thought of being embarrassed or having to get two teenagers and a toddler up by 5:00 a.m.! Regardless, I stopped for poster board and markers on our way home, and shortly before midnight, we all fell asleep, exhausted. The next morning, I still thought barging onto the show sounded like bad manners, but I shoved coffee in the older girls’ faces and off we went. If Kat didn’t show up, I decided I wouldn’t go through with it. But just as she promised, Kat pulled into the garage right behind us.

  “Follow me,” she ordered. We walked into a courtyard and stood by a large bay window where Kidd and his cohosts, Kellie Rasberry and Big Al, sat inside with headphones on, speaking into microphones.

  “Demi, over here,” Kat said. “Hold up your sign where Kidd can see it.”

  Demi, dressed in a plaid skirt and maroon blazer, along with a pair of knee socks and black platform shoes, waved her very pink sign in front of the window as Kat, Dallas, Madison, and I stood behind her. We waited … and waited.

  Then it happened. The loudspeaker in the courtyard sprang to life. “What do we have here?” Kidd exclaimed. “Seems like there’s someone who wants to give the Kelly Clarkson jingle a try.” After he asked Demi a few questions, the two of them chatted like old buddies.

  “You are so cute,” cried Kellie, who loved Demi’s outfit and matching hat. “I certainly wasn’t that fashionable at twelve!”

  “Well,” Demi replied rather shyly, “my stylist helped me.”

  “Your stylist?” Kellie gasped. “Who are you?”

  Of course, she didn’t have a stylist. Kat had merely suggested she wear the outfit, but everyone got a chuckle out of her remark. “Well,” said Kidd, “let’s hear the jingle.” But Demi had another interesting comment to make first. “Ah, Kidd,” she began, “I know you!”

  Kellie, who couldn’t resist mimicking Demi, looked at Kidd and teased, “Oooh, are you my daddy?”

  The room erupted in laughter, but the joke was lost on Demi, who sweetly explained that she had met Kidd two years before when he was a judge at one of Linda Septien’s talent contests. Demi was sure he’d remember her because she was the only contestant whose microphone hadn’t worked, though it hadn’t flustered her at all. Kidd had been so impressed with her poise and talent that he’d written on her scoring card: Someone to watch out for because she’s going places!

  Yet Kidd seemed to have forgotten. “Ah,” he replied nervously, “did I like you?”

  “Yes,” Demi giggled. “You did.”

  Wasting no time, Kidd asked, “You ready to sing?”

  The moment Demi opened her mouth, the booth went quiet. Eyebrows went up and heads shook in disbelief. Everyone was grinning. After she hit those really high notes in the chorus, the room erupted in excitement. Demi’s back was to me, but I was sure she was smiling.

  “Whoa! That was amazing,” said Kidd. When Kellie agreed, Kidd suddenly announced, “Contest is over! No need to continue it any further.” That’s when Demi finally turned around. Her smile couldn’t have gotten any bigger.

  Minutes later, my friend Lorna, who just happened to turn on the radio as she was leaving for work, called and gasped, “I just heard Demi on the radio.” Before I could respond, she shouted, “On the radio! She sounded amazing!”

  I couldn’t have agreed more.

  We never heard about any prize, but that whole exchange between Kidd and Demi was played over and over again through the years, and so was Demi’s version of the song. People just couldn’t get enough of it. I guess she owned the show in more ways than one!

  Kidd would go on to interview Demi a few more times during her career, and they’d always laugh about that day when a little girl held up a pink poster outside the station window. No one was more proud of the “hometown girl who’d made it big” than Kidd. Sadly, he passed away suddenly while participating in his own charity event for Kidd’s Kids, a nonprofit that sponsored trips for chronically and terminally ill children. Our family, like the entire Dallas area, still misses his generous and kind spirit. To this day, the Kidd Kraddick Morning Show still bears his name, which only seems fitting.

  * * *

  By spring, our schedule of classes, auditions, and work commitments was moving along at a brisk pace. Madison, still taking acting classes, wasn’t seeing a lot of action, but the older girls were. Had any of them decided they wanted to play baseball or soccer that summer, I don’t know how we would have fit it in! One Saturday morning, we loaded up the truck and headed for Austin, three hours away, for an unspecified network audition, although we suspected it was for Disney because the sides (the specific lines from the script that had been sent to us) were from an old Disney Channel movie about a group of girl soccer players.

  We took off on Interstate 35 East, hoping to make it in time. Dallas was riding shotgun, and Demi was sitting behind me in the backseat. Madison, strapped into her car seat, was in the middle, and Selena, who was also auditioning, was behind Dallas. We tried to make the best of the long drive, even though I was nervous we’d be late. There was always that lurking fear that we might hit a traffic jam and miss the audition.

  As the radio blared, we sang, told jokes, and laughed our way closer to Austin. About halfway there, Dallas insisted we stop at McDonald’s because she wanted a strawberry milkshake. “You better not spill it on anything,” I warned. “I don’t have time to clean up any messes.”

  With everyone munching on food and Dallas slurping her shake, I flew down the highway. Glancing at Dallas, I saw that she was rolling down her window. “What are you doing?” I asked. When she held up her milkshake and started tipping the remaining contents out the window, I screamed.

  “Dooonnn’t…” was all I could say before the pink liquid from her cup went flying out the window, only to sail right back inside and splatter across Dallas’s face. The trio behind me fared even worse. Big, baby-pink polka dots sprung from their hair and clung to their cheeks. Poor Selena looked the worst, her hair and clothes drenched in the gooey mess.

  “Look what you did,” I screamed
. Oh my God! I thought. Mandy is going to kill me! What if Selena can’t audition? No one dared to speak until Selena started laughing. When the others joined in, I demanded that everyone calm down. “Look for a gas station, now!” I ordered. When Dallas pointed to one up the road, I raced toward it.

  One look at the building, and my heart sank. I was hoping for a nice convenience store or a fancy truck stop, but this place was as old as the hills. Every inch reeked of stale motor oil and cigarettes. “This is no time to be particular,” I announced. “Everyone head to the bathroom.” I dunked Selena under one faucet and Dallas under another, trying to rinse out their hair. Then I shoved them both under the automatic hand dryer while I worked on Demi’s hair. There was no time to worry about Madison, who only got a swipe of wet paper towel across her face. “Now, go!” I yelled when Demi’s hair was dry, frantically pointing to the truck.

  When we pulled into the audition parking lot with only a few minutes to spare, my hands were shaking. Dear God, I silently prayed, thank you for getting us here on time. Now let them do their best. Each and every one of them! The three girls ran inside as I stayed outside with Madison.

  That very day, despite the pink catastrophe, Disney discovered their new star. But it wasn’t Demi they wanted; it was Selena, who booked a pilot for a spin-off of Lizzie McGuire, titled Stevie Sanchez. That pilot would wind up going against Hannah Montana, starring Miley Cyrus, so we all know who won out on that deal! But Selena’s moment quickly followed when she was picked to be the lead in Wizards of Waverly Place.