"Okay, that's a wrap,
people. Great job, people!" Stan clapped his hands and the cameras backed
away. Another successful season of "Smoky Blue" was in the can, and
instead of feeling exhilarated, I was exhausted. I was ready to get out of the sweltering,
unbearable heat blanket that was Orlando and wake up to the coolness of clear mountain mornings. I missed Georgia and my horse Rocky and even
my rotten twin brothers Harlen and Harley although I would rather eat fire ants than admit that fact to them.
"Jett, a word,
please," Stan motioned me over to his chair. Now what? I’m tired and all I
want to do is dive into a bubble bath. "Have a seat," he offered, smiling a
creepy little smile that was supposed to put me at ease, I think.
"No, thanks, Stan, I have
to catch my ride," I reminded him.
"Oh, about that..."
Stan began, lowering his gaze. You know
that feeling you get when someone talking to you won’t look at you? Like
they’re hiding something? I knew this moment was coming…I . Just. Knew. It.
"Um...Jett, you know you
turned 18 last week, and..." he continued talking, or at least I think he
did. I saw his mouth still moving but for some reason I couldn’t hear him
anymore. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears and I started to lose my vision. I grabbed
the arm of the chair and hung on., afraid I might just faint.
I suspected something like this to happen, but
I was hoping in my hopes of hopes that I had at least one more season to film. Just
one more. Let me find my next job, at least, I prayed! It’s a jungle out there
for “child” stars once they’re past their prime. What would I do?
"Jett, you know Disney Studios
caters to the 6-12 tween crowd..."
Yep, here it comes.
"Yes, Stan, I know," I
held my breath, waiting for the bottom to fall out of my picture perfect life. “Stan, if this is about my contract, you need
to talk to my dad. You know he handles all that.” I reminded him.
“Yes, he DID handle all that.
Now that you’re eighteen, your contract is now null and void.”
What a weasel. He doesn’t even
have the stones to tell my dad. Shady.
"Well, the Studio believes
you're just a little too old for our demographic. They’re not renewing your
contract," Stan informed me with all the deadpan compassion usually
reserved for swatting away a bothersome
fly. He reached out to pat my shoulder or something. Lame.
I backed away. I didn't need his
polite pity. He had never offered me any sort of kindness before--not for the
past 5 years I pretended to be a cute country singing sensation named Smokey
Blue. The studio had even made me change my name to fit their demographic. I
had given them everything I had in me and more --working 14 hour days, singing,
dancing, putting up with thousands of costume changes and hundreds of hours of
hair and make up, smiling on cue, acting the happy-go-lucky girl playing to crowds
of screaming tweens—faking excitement about supermarket openings from Biloxi, Mississippi to Pierre, South Dakota, cutting ribbons at new
malls all over the country where the Smokey Blue clothing line was
sold—smiling, laughing, singing, signing autographs and posing for pictures…even
when my mom was sick. Oh, I was the real “it” girl—a regular Betty Boop.
Don’t
get me wrong. Sometimes I loved it. I loved the glamour and the glitz, I loved
the pampering and yes, I even secretly loved the fawning over me. But
sometimes, I just wanted to scream. I wanted to go to Starbucks and get a Mondo
Mocha latte or whatever it is people
wait in line for so long for without
being mobbed by over-zealous paparazzi and
giggling gaggles of fan girls. I wanted to go see a movie and sit in the darkened
theater stuffing my face with heavenly greasy buttered popcorn and pretend to
be a normal girl for just two hours. I
wanted to sit in a high school classroom surrounded by kids my age. I wanted to
go to prom and dance with a boy I liked. I even wanted to eat horrible school
lunch from a crowded school cafeteria.
It hit me! I’m fired! Washed up
at age 18... I just lost the best job a girl could have. Now I got no job and
no hope in sight. What do I do now? Who was going to hire a washed up Disney child star? Stan was looking at me. I snapped out of it.
I bolted out
the side door nearly colliding with a lumbering cameraman. I brushed hot tears off
with the back of my hand. I didn’t bother changing into my own clothes—so what?
They owed me at least the borrowed clothes on my back. Stan wasn’t going to get
the pleasure of seeing me cry. Not today, not ever, but really, now what?
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