You Look Like That Girl: A Child Actor Stops Pretending and Finally Grows Up (16 page)

Film sets are large operations, with lots of trucks and trailers and other inconspicuous places for over-zealous fans to hide.
Mrs. Doubtfire
was a high profile shoot, so we needed security. Big, scary-looking security. Preferably with unkempt beards and an affinity for leather.

Like the other cast members, I was assigned someone to look out for my personal safety on set; his name was Fuzzy and he was a Hell’s Angel. I didn’t really know what that meant, but Fuzzy was a massive and kind-hearted man and I was incredibly fond of him. His job was pretty straightforward: walk all eighty pounds of me from my trailer to set and look terrifying. There were mobs of people behind police barricades; some brought coolers, prepared to spend hours, if not days, desperately trying to get a look at anyone who was working that day. Some actors find that kind of thing to be exhilarating: the clawing, screaming and crying at the mere sight of them. It’s validating and encouraging, proof
that their work matters to someone. To me, it was scary and simmering with unintended yet potential violence. I felt like a gazelle in front of a pride of lions who had brought their own video cameras and lawn chairs. When it was time to go to set, Fuzzy would pound on my trailer door, the assistant director standing next to him looking tiny. She adjusted her headset and looked up from her clipboard.

“Hey, Lisa. They’re ready for you on set.”

“You ready to go, kiddo?” Fuzzy would growl.

The teeming mass of fans was positioned just around the corner, amped and waiting. There would be a moment of wondering if it was feasible to just hide out in my minuscule trailer bathroom. Sure, your knees hit the wall as you sat and it smelled like an outhouse, but all that might be preferable to navigating that crowd. But just beyond the throng was set, comfortable, easy set, with the crew and my fake family.

As soon as I stepped outside, the group of people went crazy. This was not because they had any clue who I was, because there was no reason for them to know me at all. It was just that if a trailer door opened and someone emerged, screaming ensued, regardless of who they were. Seeing a person who was simply affiliated with the movie seemed to be sufficient for absolute mayhem.

When I heard the roar, my heart raced and my face burned with anxiety. Then I looked to my right and up, way up, and remembered that I was with Fuzzy. I was invincible. Or maybe it was more like I was invisible—because as we passed the crowd, he kept me on his far side, away from the mob and I could walk next to the hulking bear of a man and literally not be seen.

If anyone even came close to me, I imagined I would find myself swept high into the air. Fuzzy would hold me above his head with one hand like I was a waiter’s tray, as he kicked aside whoever posed the slightest threat to my well-being. Then, he would run me off into the sunset, far from the maniacal movie fans, our long ponytails flapping simultaneously in the wind. We never had to test this, as no one was
moronic enough to mess with Fuzzy. He was always kind and would slow his pace so my short legs could keep up. In that moment, I was safe. I was cared for. I knew that was really all I needed.

The lengthy shoot for
Mrs. Doubtfire
was the last straw for my high school; a few months into filming they requested I simply didn’t come back. They were frustrated by my frequent absences and felt that I was not giving my education the proper attention. This relationship just wasn’t working, they said, my coming and going was a disruption to the classroom and created too much extra work for the teachers. It was my first break-up. They didn’t even have the decency to try the whole, “it’s not you, it’s me,” excuse. It was definitely me. At age fourteen, they decided to end my education.

It was devastating. While school had never been enjoyable, it seemed a necessary evil that needed to be survived in order to be a proper human being. What would I do now? I tried to just go to work and forget that I had been thrown out of school like some delinquent, but I was clearly distracted. When Robin noticed my sadness and asked what was going on, I explained the whole situation. He promptly asked for the principal’s address and wrote an incredibly kind note. He spoke about me in embarrassingly glowing terms. He explained that I was attempting to get my education while pursuing my talent and the school should encourage and facilitate that. He respectfully asked for them to reconsider and help me in balancing my life.

It didn’t work. Months went by and the school didn’t acknowledge the letter and didn’t change their mind. I was defeated and humiliated. My weird life had officially become too bizarre to be occasionally piggybacked into normal circumstances. Later, someone told my dad that the letter with Robin’s signature was framed and hung in the principal’s office. I wondered if anyone noticed that the letter was essentially a bitch-slap
to the entire institution, or if they were blinded by the fact that it was on
Mrs. Doubtfire
letterhead. Sometimes fame can have unintended consequences. But at least I knew that in an industry notorious for back-stabbing, Robin was a generous soul who had been willing to stand up for me. My gratitude for that is eternal.

When I went back to Canada after
Mrs. Doubtfire
wrapped, life was completely un-tethered. School had always been a challenge, but had also had a grounding effect. It was the one thing in my life that appeared to be standard and regulated. My parents worried about my social interactions, and rightfully so. Being an only child and an actor whose friends tended to be twice my age and/or in biker gangs, they were justifiably concerned.

In an attempt to keep me from becoming completely feral, my former high school granted me permission to participate in what might just be the most intense hour of high school interactions: lunchtime. My dad would drop me off in front of the school that had rejected me, so that I could eat in the cafeteria. By that time, I had gotten to know this one girl, Kathy, and she had introduced me to her group of friends.

The moment of walking into the cafeteria was always ulcer-inducing. If Kathy was busy with her last class or I arrived early, there was nothing to do but loiter uncomfortably in the cafeteria doorway and wait for her to show up. There was no way I could cross the threshold without Kathy acting as my membership card. I’d scan the room, searching for her blond hair. The cafeteria was always too bright and smelled like Clorox and old apples. Groups of kids huddled together in tight packs, sharing meaningful glances and bags of chips. They all knew the rules of engagement. All I knew was that in movies the freaky kid always got tripped in the cafeteria. The murmuring seemed to get louder as I scanned the clusters of adorable headbands and backwards baseball caps belonging
to kids who all seemed to know their place in the system.

Finally, when Kathy found me pretending to read the class president nominee propaganda for the fortieth time, she would grab my arm and walk me to her table of friends, who would nod their acknowledgement and shuffle around backpacks so we could join them. I unpacked my peanut butter sandwich and a grape drink box and nodded along with her friends, pretending to know what the hell they were talking about when they complained about that social studies assignment and the new substitute teacher for French.

I played the part of “student” quite well, and some kids seemed to believe that I attended school there but we just didn’t have classes together. Their mistaken assumption felt like a rave review in the
Hollywood Reporter
, but it was still disconcerting that even in what was supposed to be my real life, I was playing a role. I pretended to know my way around the large school, acting as if I intended to end up in the dead-end hallway under the stairs.

I pretended to fit in with the other kids, smiling like I knew who the Spin Doctors were even though I didn’t because I had been on location and hadn’t had time for teenager things like that. I didn’t know which stuff to laugh at, not to mention the type of laugh that was called for. Did that comment about the “straight-edge kids” deserve a total crack up, or was a slight chortle with an eye roll more appropriate? Or had I completely misunderstood and it wasn’t funny at all and a respectful nod would be best? I spent my whole work life studying people’s facial expressions and I did the same here, mimicking their reactions within a fraction of a second so that I could blend in.

After we ate, we spent the rest of the lunch period sprawled out in the hallway, throwing things at each other and commenting on the fashions of the kids who walked by.

“I’ve got my ape class in the Ken lab this afternoon—which totally sucks,” they’d lament.

“God, that’s the
worst
,” I’d commiserate.

I had no idea what they were talking about. I was too embarrassed to ask anyone, and it took me years to figure out they were talking about AP classes in the chem lab. Their short-hand reminded me of set lingo, except I was never that confused on set. Terms like Abby Singer and four-bangers and apple boxes were the foreign language that I’d learned along with English when I was growing up. It was such a luxury to understand everything that was going on, where to stand, what to say, and when to laugh. In that high school hallway, I’d think wistfully about the smell of lighting gels and the comforting weight of hitting a sandbag with your toes when you got to your mark. I missed being wrapped in the familiar routine that these high school kids seemed to feel here sitting on the scuffed, gum-stained linoleum. So, I just sat quietly with my back against a bay of lockers and imagined that my own locker was just down there on the left.

When the bell rang and students shuffled off to class, I pretended to walk to my imaginary locker and instead I snuck outside to wait for my dad to pick me up. Standing outside, the eerie stillness of a high school in session settled in around me. The chain clanked against the flagpole as I stood just behind the corner of the building so that no one could see me from the classroom windows. Within those windows, my peers were sitting in tidy rows and looking bored. I was desperate to be part of that, but it just didn’t seem to be my path. Nope. My path was unusual and painful and involved packing a lunch for a school I was forbidden to attend. All the autographs I was starting to sign and the letters from Robin Williams couldn’t make up for the fact that I didn’t have a locker and I didn’t know who the new French teacher was.

Even though there were challenges, being in Canada had its perks. I loved canoeing on the river near my house in the summer and skating on it in the winter. It was refreshing to have a break from the constant industry
chatter about movies. While my trips “home” were starting to be fewer and farther between, there was still a great sense of peace there. Although my accent would never again let on, I would always be Canadian.

On one of my trips up north, we got a dog. Mikki had passed away several years earlier, and although we still mourned the loss of our ill-behaved canine, we felt it was time to open our hearts to someone new.

Our Australian Shepherd mix was the most passive animal on the planet and we didn’t see her walk for a month; as soon as she saw us, she would throw herself on her back as a show of appreciation for inviting her into our family. My little ball of gratitude needed a name. The dog was as beautiful as….as….. Marilyn Monroe. (I was still obsessing about old movies and scoffed at those who thought classic films meant
The Graduate
.) But Marilyn was a terrible name for a dog and way too on-the-nose to be cool. So I decided to be all “insider Hollywood” about it and name her Marilyn’s real name. I began calling my pup Billie Jean. It suited her and the story made me sound cool and in the loop.

It only took a few weeks for someone to astutely point out that Marilyn Monroe’s real name was, in fact, Norma Jean. But by then Billie Jean had learned her name and Norma was also a terrible dog name. So, my dog was named after Marilyn Monroe, but in my attempt to be all Hollywood insider and cool, I had failed miserably and inadvertently paid tribute to a tennis player.