Suck It, Wonder Woman!: The Misadventures of a Hollywood Geek (13 page)

I moved from Japan
to Oklahoma when I was sixteen years old. Yeah, exactly, great time to move to a completely new school. Most people ask me if living in Japan was hard. But the truth is that living in Oklahoma was the hardest place I’ve ever lived. The thing about living in Oklahoma, or any part of the Midwest, is that people grow up together from kindergarten on. So when I come to this new school as a junior, it was like walking onto the set of
Degrassi High
or some shit. Oh, and in this season of
Degrassi
, I wasn’t even a regular character; I was more like the weird girl who occasionally gets a bone thrown her way in the form of a line or two. And then dies of some terminal disease.

What made my transition to the school even harder was that I had come from a school in Japan where, after a year of struggling through the typical high school hazing bullshit, I had somehow climbed my way to the teeny top. What does it mean to be at the top in high school? People actually stopped to say hi to me. They wouldn’t move away when I sat next to them in the cafeteria. Seemingly normal things when you look back as an adult, but back then, it meant
everything
to me. But now, in this foreign land called “Oklahoma,” no one knew me. No one saw me.

Now I should explain my look at this time in my life. Back then trends in Japan, were like four or five years behind. So at this point, I was in the alternative “skater” phase. I wore men’s big baggy jeans, with Converse sneakers, men’s T-shirts and my hair parted down the middle and hanging halfway in my face. I looked like the saddest Chili Peppers’ roadie. And what was the prevalent style in Oklahoma? Preppy. Insanely preppy. Gap sweater vests and cargo shorts and button ups, striped Polos and clean white sneakers. Oh, and one more thing to complete the picture of me as the absolute outsider? I didn’t wear any makeup. I was modeling and cheerleading in Japan so I already had enough people putting makeup on me, and I didn’t want to wear it in my everyday life. So, I never wore any makeup. And the Oklahoma girls, well, I’m pretty sure they were born with a curling iron in their hand. They had it all—beautiful faces slathered in mascara, hair perfectly curled, draped in the perfect little preppy outfits. Somehow I’d wandered into a freaking Ralph Lauren photo shoot dressed like Pete Wentz or a Madden brother. Sweet!

The first month of school was almost unbearable for me. I would walk through the halls in my big baggy jeans and oversized shirt, and look around. I was hoping to make eye contact with someone. Anyone. Any recognition that they actually
saw
me. I cried for the entire first month I was at that school. Every morning I would pull into the parking lot in my maroon Honda Accord with every intention of making friends and having a great day. But as soon as I walked through the front doors, I would smell that familiar waft of cafeteria rolls baking and hear the indecipherable chatter and gossip of people who were around me every day, yet did not even know I was alive. The combination of those two senses would bring something up inside me that no matter how hard I prayed to suppress it, would force tears to pour out of my eyes. You know how at
Cheers
everyone knows your name and you get free mugs of beer? I just thought I’d mention that so you could understand how
not
like
Cheers
my life was like at that moment.

I would walk the hallway to first period, crying. I would sit down in first period crying. We would begin class and I would stop crying. I would look up at the clock and count only five more minutes until the bell would ring and I would be forced back out in the hall…I started crying. And it went on like that for every period, every day for a month.

One day I decided I wasn’t going to wallow in this pity anymore. I had, after all, managed to persevere through the brutality of every new school I’d attended. After all those years, I had to have learned something about adapting. So I stopped being sad and started thinking about what I could do to make friends. First things first—I noticed I wasn’t dressing like the girls at all. I immediately went and applied for a job at The Gap. I figured I could get discounts on a whole new wardrobe and also make new friends with my Friends and Family discount! Great plan. I’m nothing if not a problem solver, right? I bought some cargo shorts, a button-up jeans shirt and white Keds. Then I looked at what group I wanted to hang out with. I noticed a sign for students to sign up and make banners for the weekend football game. Pep Squad? I like pep. Sounds fun. Honestly, at this point, it didn’t matter who they were, I just wanted one friend. I mean, for God’s sake, I was so pathetic, my older sister used to drive forty-five minutes from her college just to have lunch with me, so I wouldn’t have to sit by myself. Seriously, anyone would do. The only requirement was they had to have a pulse and even that was negotiable. (Oh, and not have bad breath. I draw the line with bad breath.)

And that’s how I found myself sitting in the driveway of some girl’s house, painting stars onto a banner.

And that’s how I found myself sitting in the driveway of some girl’s house, painting stars onto a banner. I was wearing my cargo shorts and striped two-button shirt. Everyone was nice but not really talking to me. Then one girl turned to me and said, “Great cargos!” I was so excited. I was noticed and my outfit worked! I asked her if she wanted to go to The Gap and use my discount. She said she’d call me. Yes! (Note: She never did call me, the preppy skank.)

After that I went through a very strange period. Almost every month I would join a new clique. But not just join them, I would completely transform myself. And this is not an exaggeration AT. ALL. Let me walk you through the months:

Month 1:
Student Government clique—sweater vest, American flag pin, jeans, and white Keds.

Month 2:
Cheerleaders—sweatpants, Asics cheerleading shoes (I still had mine from my last school), high school mascot T-shirt and hair pulled into a ponytail, wrapped with ribbon.

Month 3:
Alternative, potheads—lots of chains, black nail polish, black lipstick, and anything from Hot Topic.

Month 4:
The Librarians—the 70-year-old librarian ladies! We would share our lunches and read. I would wear conservative clothing and lots of button-up sweaters.

Month 5:
Debate—Blazer, jeans, white Oxford.

Month 6:
Athletes—Track pants (the kind that swish loudly as you walk) and matching jacket.

Also
Month 6:
Partiers, popular group—Levi jeans, boots, fitted shirts and water bra (yes, these are in fact what you think they are. Instead of padding, it’s filled with a water/gel substance so it feels real if I guy feels me up over the shirt).

The “popular” group was the group I always wanted to be in. Guilty as charged: I wanted to fit in; I wanted to be popular. I know that it’s horrible to admit that. You can’t say in high school that you “want to be popular.” But now looking back I can say it. There, I said it. So many people think it’s cool to say that they didn’t care about being popular or they liked being an outsider. But I really do feel that most people want to be liked and loved and recognized…especially in high school. So to me the “popular” group meant I made it in this social status game.

Unfortunately for me, they didn’t cherish my friendship as much as I did theirs. One day, I was out to lunch with a group of the popular girls. I was telling them how my mom was going away for three weeks to Vietnam. Immediately they put down their bagels and perked up.

“Where are you going to stay?” one asked.

“At home. By myself. My mom trusts me. And it’s not that long,” I responded.

“Oh my God! You should have a party!” one exclaimed.

Strange as it might sound, I had never considered that. I mean, in Japan we didn’t have house parties. We would just go to a club or down near a river and hang out. We would never go into our parents’ home and throw a party. You can’t accidentally break your dad’s stereo by pouring tequila all over it at the river, after all. We were, I suppose, better behaved in Japan.

Nonetheless, I agreed to the party after the other girls promised me it would just be ten, fifteen people tops. And I was excited. I was gonna make some more new friends and have a party! How “So-Called Life” of me.

The day my mom left town, a Friday, I was walking through the halls on my way to class and someone handed me a flier saying, “Party tonight. Ten bucks cover. It’s gonna be sick.” Sick! Awesome! Wait! WTF?!

I looked down at the paper and noticed something familiar. It was a map and directions leading directly to my house. Holy crap.

I got home that day and was really excited about how big the party had become. Sure I was also a tad nervous, but mostly I was psyched. People are coming to
my
party?! They must really like me!

This is so embarrassing, but the first thing I did was…I started setting up snacks. Snacks! It was a keg party with a bunch of kids from a high school who didn’t know who I was and only wanted a house to get wasted in and make money on selling beer. Why the hell would they be impressed with my cheese and grapes? I was clueless and put out my trays of crackers, nuts and pretzels. Very Martha Stewart hosting
Twilight
.

The doorbell rings and it’s a tall guy with long blond hair. I didn’t recognize him. He closed the door and let his friend through the garage where they carried in six large kegs. After placing them around the house and backyard, the blond guy went and took his place at the door. I would later learn that he was the door guy, collecting money from every one of my new “friends” as they came in.

I was so naïve. I had no idea. I was just so happy to have a bunch of people in
my
house at
my
party. I was never a big drinker. But, that night, I was in full-on celebrating mode.

My uncle had bought thousands of dollars of stereo equipment and my mom had stored it in the living room. Before the party I threw a sheet over it. Not thinking anyone would ever intrude on my privacy. There, that oughtta do it.

At one point in the night, however, of course someone lifted the sheet to see all the badly hidden stereo equipment. And, well, yeah. They started stealing it. That’s what kids do. That and drugs. Then the inevitable: cops came to bust up the party. Everyone in the house scattered like cockroaches when the lights turned on. They all raced around the house and yard and the cops tackled my friends/thieves so that they would drop the stereo boxes they were attempting to jack.

Where was I during this awesome melee? This is brilliant. As soon as we heard the cops come into the house, one helpful girl grabbed my arm and told me to go “pretend like you’re sleeping.” It was so stupid. But I was drunk and had no idea what was going on. So I lay down in my bed with a plan to tell the cops if they ever came to me, “Officer, I had no idea there was a party going on with underage drinking. I was sleeping the whole time. I musta really conked out. Weird.” I put my head on the pillow, closed my eyes and waited. After a few minutes, I sat up and realized how thoroughly stupid that idea was. I turned on the light and heard the cops walking down the hallway. I looked around the room and noticed a massive pile of weed on my desk. In one fell swoop, I wiped the whole pile onto the floor, crushing it with my foot into the brown shag carpet.

The cops walked right past my door without even looking in. When I came out of the room, only one friend was left. We walked around the house cleaning things up and picking up stereo equipment that was scattered around the lawn. Somehow I’d survived.

Back at school Monday morning everyone was talking about the party. How it was the best party of the year. And everyone knew me! Everyone knew it was my party, my best party of the year. Yes. Mission accomplished.

Except…oh yeah. That’s right. Nothing in my life could go according to plan. That must be why a few hours into the school day I got a call from the principal’s office saying I needed to go home immediately. I arrived at my house to see two police officers with their guns drawn, pointing at my house. Seems that during class, a couple guys had broken into my house, trying to steal the boxed up stereo equipment they were forced to leave behind. They knew I would be at school and thought it was the perfect time to rob me. They didn’t realize I had set the alarm on the house.

This broke my heart. I was devastated. All I wanted was to fit in and have people like me. I opened my home to these people and now they’re breaking into my house and robbing me?!

The next day at school I went up to the guys I heard had done it. I confronted them and looked into their eyes. These big, macho, stoner guys couldn’t even look at me. They were pathetic and disgusting. But the odd thing is, they actually ended up doing me a big favor.

I realized then that it doesn’t matter how popular you are, or how great your party is or what social group you’re associated with…none of that matters if you’re surrounded by a bunch of people who don’t give a fuck about you. A bunch of people who suck.

I wanted so badly to be on the inside. To be liked and recognized and popular. But at that very moment, I realized that none of it matters if you don’t have real friends. Okay, yes, this is the after-school special lesson moment of this chapter—deal with it! Of course, in high school that is your whole world. How popular and loved you are there is how well you do in life. That’s what you think because your whole life from 7
A.M.
to 3
P.M.
is that high school with those people. But eventually you get out of high school and you realize that all of those people don’t matter. It doesn’t matter what they thought of you, what you thought of them, who wore what and who drove what. Because when you’re out in the real world, you can make up your own mind about whom you want to hang out with and be friends with and who’s allowed at your party. And chances are, those friends won’t rob you blind.