It was if someone wanted to make it up to me for what was going on at school. Not long after the bathroom incident, I got another surprise call – this time it was Disney saying they wanted me to come to L.A. to audition in person for Hannah Montana. It was the middle of the school year! Score! I could miss school – i.e., Torture 101. But then I remembered. I also had major cheerleading commitments.
Missing just a single practise was a big deal. The choreography relies on everyone showing up. After all, you can’t have a pyramid without the top girl. Actually, it’s even worse to try making a pyramid without one of the bottom girls!
Somehow my mum got me excused from practise. I flew to L.A., anxiously ran lines with Mum, hurried to get to the audition on time, could barely contain my excitement, opened the door to the waiting room and – there were fifty other would-be Hannah’s waiting to be seen. My mum and I looked at each other. We had thought I was a finalist. I guess we thought wrong. We joked that they had enough Hannah’s there to name on after every state, not just Montana. (Hannah Indiana, Hannah Connecticut, Hannah Idaho...) I know, I know – but we had a lot of time to kill in that waiting room.
7 Places I want to go
1. Fiji
2. Australia
3. Italy
4. Hawaii
5. Germany
6. Spain
7. North Carolina
The waiting room for the Hannah Montana auditions was like the waiting room in a busy doctor’s office. There were old magazines, odd smells, tons of tension – and we were all about to be examined. Some of the mums who were waiting had way too much perfume on, giving me an instant headache. The only saving grace was that at least we wouldn’t have to get any vaccinations. Although, I was pretty certain that not getting the part would hurt at least as much and the pain would last longer.
As we waited and waited, and waited some more, I could see that some of the girls and their mums were sizing us up. My mum, thank goodness, has never been ‘that’ mum. She ignored the looks, but I couldn’t. It was tense in that room. You couldn’t help thinking about who was prettiest or best prepared or most talented. As I sat there, I snuck peeks at the other girls. I didn’t recognize any of them – not that I had expected to. I had done some auditioning, but I hadn’t exactly been going all over town.
Most of the girls were older than I was and much taller. Many of them were beautiful. Some had shiny black hair. Others had long blond hair. Some had glowing white teeth. I looked at how they were dressed, how they did their makeup and how they wore their hair. On looks alone, I was pretty sure most of those girls could land the role hands down. And I could imagine what kind of experience they had had. I felt way out of my league. Auditions were by far the most scary, nerve-racking moments I ever had. Each one was like taking a test. I liked to perform, so I was always excited, but I also always really wanted the job, so the anxiety was huge. But on that particular day, the cheerleader in me woke up.
My cheerleading coach, Chastity, was really tough. In Nashville, some people treated me differently because I was the singer Billy Ray Cyrus’s daughter. They’d cut me slack because my dad was somebody. Not Chastity. If I messed up, she made me run laps just like everyone else. If anything, she was tougher on me. I was afraid to fly – to be the person at the top of the stunt who soars through the air – but she had me work one-on-one with the stunt trainer. I wasn’t the best tumbler, but she made me practice until my back handspring was just right. I bounced off my head until I felt like I’d been spinning in circles for hours.
Chastity didn’t care how long it took me. She was proud, so long as I didn’t quit. She always said, “Can’t is not a word.” Chastity taught me that when I wanted something, I had to work hard for it. I wanted this part badly. Who was to say that these polished L.A. girls were any better than I was? When they finally called my name, I was ready.
In the audition room, I faced a panel of ten people. I stood there, dressed in my short little skirt and T-shirt – Abercrombie’d out. You want them to remember you, so I made sure to be outgoing. Um, it wasn’t exactly a stretch. For once in my life, it was good that I talked too much. I just had to make sure to be myself instead of letting my nerves take over. The casting people asked me to read from a script, then to sing. I sang a little bit from Mamma Mia! As at most auditions, they have me comments, like “Can you try it a little brighter?” or “Read it again as if you’re really annoyed at your brother.” (It’s funny, I was so nervous and had no idea then who those people on the panel were. They were just intimidating strangers. Now they’re the people I work closely with every day.)
When I came out of the room I had no idea how I’d done. And I couldn’t relax yet even though it was over. Sort of. The most stressful part of the whole auditioning ordeal is that you can’t go home until they tell you you’re done. You have to hang out in the waiting room, watching other girls get called back in, something different or to sing again. And you never know why you’re being called back in. Or not being called back in but still made to stay. Do they like you? Do they love you? Does one person hate you? Are they worried about your hair? Your height? They never give you the tiniest hint of hope.
I did my best, but we ended up going home to Nashville with no good news. And then, a couple weeks later, I got another call. “You’re a finalist!” Okay, this was the real thing. Maybe I had my ticket out of sixth grade after all. Again I begged out of cheerleading. Two strikes. One more and Chastity would kick me off the team. I flew to L.A., anxiously ran lines with Mum, hurried to get to the audition room on time, could barely contain my excitement, opened the door to the waiting room and – there were thirty other would-be Hannah’s waiting to be seen. Sound familiar?I was starting to feel like one of those balls that’s attached to a paddle by a rubber band. Each time I got smacked away, they pulled me back just so they could smack me again. Well, it was a little gentler than that. But I was eleven. It was a roller coaster. In the faces of those thirty girls I saw grim reality. I had barely made any progress. I was definitely going back to sixth grade.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
A Long Pit Stop
Cheerleading was my safe haven, the one place where I knew I had friends I could trust to the ends of the earth. Or at least to catch me when I was flying through the air, which was a little more likely than reaching the ends of the earth, anyway. But at school I had no such safety net. And things were getting worse.
I still have no idea how the Anti-Miley Club got a janitor’s key to the school bathroom, but one day I was on my way to science class and they shoved me in and locked it. I was trapped. I banged on the door until my fists hurt. Nobody came. I tried to open the window, but I was stuck. It dawned on me that everyone was already in class. Nobody would come to use the bathroom for at least forty minutes. I sat down on the floor and waited. I spent what felt like an hour in there, waiting for someone to rescue me, wondering how my life had gotten so messed up.
I looked at the line of stalls, the row of mirrors, the unyielding windows and thought about my two fish, swimming around and around in their bowl. How had I gotten here? Had I asked for it? Did I deserve it? Would it ever end? I knew the capitals of all fifty states. I could do a back handspring on the sidewalk. But I had no clue as to why this was happening. I was friendless, lonely, and miserable. The only bright spot was that if I had to use the bathroom, at least I was in the right place!
I still have no idea how the Anti-Miley Club got a janitor’s key to the school bathroom, but one day I was on my way to science class and they shoved me in and locked it. I was trapped. I banged on the door until my fists hurt. Nobody came. I tried to open the window, but I was stuck. It dawned on me that everyone was already in class. Nobody would come to use the bathroom for at least forty minutes. I sat down on the floor and waited. I spent what felt like an hour in there, waiting for someone to rescue me, wondering how my life had gotten so messed up.
I looked at the line of stalls, the row of mirrors, the unyielding windows and thought about my two fish, swimming around and around in their bowl. How had I gotten here? Had I asked for it? Did I deserve it? Would it ever end? I knew the capitals of all fifty states. I could do a back handspring on the sidewalk. But I had no clue as to why this was happening. I was friendless, lonely, and miserable. The only bright spot was that if I had to use the bathroom, at least I was in the right place!
Monday, 30 March 2009
The First Dream
Luckily, I had a whole other world outside of school. The acting thing was only a small part of my life then. I had started doing competitive cheerleading when I was six and for a long time it really was my everything.
My mum got me into it. We lived on a big farm, which was incredible, but there was no neighbours nearby, no kids around for us to play with besides each other. Which wasn't bad, in my mind. I loved the animals and I loved hanging out with my cool big brother, Trace (I call him Trazz), my amazing big sister, Brandi, my little brother, Braison (I call him Brazz) and my baby sister, Noah - when she came along. But my mum wanted me to have some friends besides horses, chickens and my brothers and sisters. Not in that order. (Okay, maybe in that order.) Since Mum had loved cheerleading as a kid, she wanted me to give it a try.
The first day I was supposed to go practise, I was not happy. I begged: Please don't make me go! What's wrong with having horses and chickens and little brothers as my only friends? They won't let me down, they won't laugh at me - sure, they smell a little (sorry, Brazz) -- but that's okay. I'm not shallow.
It may not be obvious from my life today, but being around new people makes me anxious. Just the idea of walking into a room of strangers keeps me up at night. Anyway, I knew that my dad was on my side about the whole not going to cheerleading thing. He travelled so much that he just wanted us kids around whenever he was home. But my mum stuck to her guns and I went. And because mums are right way too much of the time, I loved it instantly.
Cheerleading took a lot of time. A lot. I was at the gym every day. We worked out. We tumbled. We practised two-and-a-half-minute routines over and over and over again. I became best friends with Lesley and the other girls on the team and my mum became friends with their mums. We travelled together to competitions, stayed in motels, swam, goofed around, did our hair and makeup with out mums and had instense, incredibly hard-core competitions. I was really into it.
Sometimes I was too into it. One time I got really sick right before a competition in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. I could not stop throwing up. You know, one of those stomach things where even if you take a sip of water, you retch? Yeah, it was bad. But how long could it last? I was sure I'd be better in time for the competition. So I made my mum take me and I spent the whole four-and-a-half-hour drive lying down in the backseat with a garbage can next to me, sleeping, throwing up, and sleeping some more. We got to the hotel in Gatlinburg and I was no better, but I still wanted to compete. My coach said there was no way I could do it. She tried to stop me, but I insisted. I knew I could do it if I pushed myself.
Thirty minutes before we were supposed to go on, I pulled myself out of bed, showered and we drove to the meet. I went out, did the routine, walked off the stage and threw up into a trash can. But I did it. And that was what mattered to me.
When we would get in the car after every competition, even if we lost, my mum would say "Here's your trophy!" and hand me a gleaming trophy with my name on it. Growing up, my room was full of trophies. All from my mum, the biggest and best fan a girl could have. I may not have deserved every single one of those trophies, but the Gatlinburg trophy - that one I know I earned.
My mum got me into it. We lived on a big farm, which was incredible, but there was no neighbours nearby, no kids around for us to play with besides each other. Which wasn't bad, in my mind. I loved the animals and I loved hanging out with my cool big brother, Trace (I call him Trazz), my amazing big sister, Brandi, my little brother, Braison (I call him Brazz) and my baby sister, Noah - when she came along. But my mum wanted me to have some friends besides horses, chickens and my brothers and sisters. Not in that order. (Okay, maybe in that order.) Since Mum had loved cheerleading as a kid, she wanted me to give it a try.
The first day I was supposed to go practise, I was not happy. I begged: Please don't make me go! What's wrong with having horses and chickens and little brothers as my only friends? They won't let me down, they won't laugh at me - sure, they smell a little (sorry, Brazz) -- but that's okay. I'm not shallow.
It may not be obvious from my life today, but being around new people makes me anxious. Just the idea of walking into a room of strangers keeps me up at night. Anyway, I knew that my dad was on my side about the whole not going to cheerleading thing. He travelled so much that he just wanted us kids around whenever he was home. But my mum stuck to her guns and I went. And because mums are right way too much of the time, I loved it instantly.
Cheerleading took a lot of time. A lot. I was at the gym every day. We worked out. We tumbled. We practised two-and-a-half-minute routines over and over and over again. I became best friends with Lesley and the other girls on the team and my mum became friends with their mums. We travelled together to competitions, stayed in motels, swam, goofed around, did our hair and makeup with out mums and had instense, incredibly hard-core competitions. I was really into it.
Sometimes I was too into it. One time I got really sick right before a competition in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. I could not stop throwing up. You know, one of those stomach things where even if you take a sip of water, you retch? Yeah, it was bad. But how long could it last? I was sure I'd be better in time for the competition. So I made my mum take me and I spent the whole four-and-a-half-hour drive lying down in the backseat with a garbage can next to me, sleeping, throwing up, and sleeping some more. We got to the hotel in Gatlinburg and I was no better, but I still wanted to compete. My coach said there was no way I could do it. She tried to stop me, but I insisted. I knew I could do it if I pushed myself.
Thirty minutes before we were supposed to go on, I pulled myself out of bed, showered and we drove to the meet. I went out, did the routine, walked off the stage and threw up into a trash can. But I did it. And that was what mattered to me.
When we would get in the car after every competition, even if we lost, my mum would say "Here's your trophy!" and hand me a gleaming trophy with my name on it. Growing up, my room was full of trophies. All from my mum, the biggest and best fan a girl could have. I may not have deserved every single one of those trophies, but the Gatlinburg trophy - that one I know I earned.
Operation MMM
Is there a guide for how to torture eleven-year-old girls? If not, those girls I'd started hanging with - you remember, my 'friends' - could write one. In the winter of that year, every day brought a creative new tactic in Operation Make Miley Miserable. They sent me mean notes. They stole my books and made me late to class. They made fun of my clothes and my hair. They told Rachel - the friend who had become tight with them at the same time as I did - that if she sat with me at lunch they'd have it in for her too. So I sat at a table by myself day after day, looking at the goth kids, wondering what I'd look like with black hair and chains. I've since decided: not so good.
The list goes on: Rachel stopped speaking to me. When I wanted to try out for the school cheerleading team, my so-called friends told the principal that I'd cheated and learned the tryout dances in advance. Total lie, but the principal believed them and I wasn't aloud to try out for the squad. Oh and I'll never forget how one of them was nice to me for a few days. She said she wanted the 'fight' to be over. She got me to tell her exactly what I thought about 'our friends' - that I didn't understand why they didn't like me, that I felt like they were being mean - then she went back to them and told them I was a snob. She'd been faking it. Looking back I think maybe she was the one who should have been an actress.
If this sounds like run-of-the-mill Judy Blume Tales of a Sixth-Grade Nothing, well, it was. I wasn't oblivious to issues like world hunger or pandemics. I knew my problems were relatively puny. But they were mine. And they felt heavier than the world on my shoulders. So, if you want to know if I liked school back then, then answer was definitely no.
The list goes on: Rachel stopped speaking to me. When I wanted to try out for the school cheerleading team, my so-called friends told the principal that I'd cheated and learned the tryout dances in advance. Total lie, but the principal believed them and I wasn't aloud to try out for the squad. Oh and I'll never forget how one of them was nice to me for a few days. She said she wanted the 'fight' to be over. She got me to tell her exactly what I thought about 'our friends' - that I didn't understand why they didn't like me, that I felt like they were being mean - then she went back to them and told them I was a snob. She'd been faking it. Looking back I think maybe she was the one who should have been an actress.
If this sounds like run-of-the-mill Judy Blume Tales of a Sixth-Grade Nothing, well, it was. I wasn't oblivious to issues like world hunger or pandemics. I knew my problems were relatively puny. But they were mine. And they felt heavier than the world on my shoulders. So, if you want to know if I liked school back then, then answer was definitely no.
On The Other Hand...
You know how it feels on a hot summer day to dive into the crisp relief of a cold swimming pool? Well, that's how it felt when I came home from school after a particularly hard day to be told that Disney had called. Margot, a talent agent who'd taken intrest in me, let us know that Disney had asked her to send tapes of all the girls she represented between the ages of eleven and sixteen. They wanted a tape of me reading for the part of Lilly, the best friend of a girl named Chloe Stewart in a new TV show called Hannah Montana.
From the very first time my parents and I read the script, we knew that Chloe Stewart was my dream part. Chloe's alter ego, Hannah Montana, was a rock star. The actress who played both parts would be singing Hannah Montana's songs. Singing and acting. Both were dreams of mine and if I landed this role, I wouldn't have to put either one aside. After my dad read the part, he just kept saying, "That's made for Miley. Miley's made for that.
But, heck, I'd be happy to play Lilly. Or lucky to be Chloe Stewart's talking houseplant, for that matter. So we made a tape, sent it in and almost immediately got a call from Disney asking me to make another audition tape - and this time they wanted me to read the part of Hannah. I was so physched. Seriously, my shrieks probably scared the poor horses out in the fields. In my head, I was already dropping everything to move to L.A. Sure, Hannah was supposed to be fifteen and I was twelve. Twelve-ish. Okay, I was eleven. That was a problem. But still - they knew how old I was and they'd ask for the tape anyway, so it must not matter.
Except it did. We sent the second tape in and the very next day we got an e-mail saying that I was too young and too small for Hannah. I was bummed. No - what's ten times bummed? That was me. My dad said, "Disney just made a big mistake. My intuition tells me that you are Hannah Montana."
All I could think was, So much for Dad's intuition. Now let's return to our regularly scheduled torture: sixth grade.
From the very first time my parents and I read the script, we knew that Chloe Stewart was my dream part. Chloe's alter ego, Hannah Montana, was a rock star. The actress who played both parts would be singing Hannah Montana's songs. Singing and acting. Both were dreams of mine and if I landed this role, I wouldn't have to put either one aside. After my dad read the part, he just kept saying, "That's made for Miley. Miley's made for that.
But, heck, I'd be happy to play Lilly. Or lucky to be Chloe Stewart's talking houseplant, for that matter. So we made a tape, sent it in and almost immediately got a call from Disney asking me to make another audition tape - and this time they wanted me to read the part of Hannah. I was so physched. Seriously, my shrieks probably scared the poor horses out in the fields. In my head, I was already dropping everything to move to L.A. Sure, Hannah was supposed to be fifteen and I was twelve. Twelve-ish. Okay, I was eleven. That was a problem. But still - they knew how old I was and they'd ask for the tape anyway, so it must not matter.
Except it did. We sent the second tape in and the very next day we got an e-mail saying that I was too young and too small for Hannah. I was bummed. No - what's ten times bummed? That was me. My dad said, "Disney just made a big mistake. My intuition tells me that you are Hannah Montana."
All I could think was, So much for Dad's intuition. Now let's return to our regularly scheduled torture: sixth grade.
Not All Butterflies and Flowers
To say sixth grade was not a good year would be the understatement of the decade. When I found out that pilot season - when all the auditions for TV shows happen in Los Angeles - overlapped with the beginning of school that September, I spent a good hour on the floor of my room bawling. That meant I'd have to start school in Nashville a couple of weeks late. At the time, the idea of missing any school seemed awful.
We'd just come back from a year in Canada, near Toronto, where my dad was starring in the TV series Doc. He and my mum has been commuting back and forth for a few years, but the summer before I went into fifth grade we all missed him so much that my mum moved us up there.
She homeschooled me that year, so now I was coming back to my old school after a year's absence. Not only that, I knew perfectly well that the first few weeks of school are when everything gets sorted out - you meet your teachers, you find your friends, you figure out if the new school clothes you bought are acceptable - or completely unacceptable. The cool people find each other. The smart people find each other. Me and all the other in-between artsy people realize we'd better join forces and make the best of it. If you miss all that fun, you risk being an outcast. A loser. If you've been through middle school, then you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't yet, well then...hang in there. It gets better, I promise. Either way, you can imagine, missing school was from from ideal. But if I wanted to be a performer - and I did - then there really wasn't a choice.
I wasn't exactly expecting to just show up back at school and be one of the cool girls. The farm in Tennessee where we lives when we weren't in Toronto was kind of isolated, so there weren't any neighbourhood kids for me to practise being friends with. I grew up playing with my brothers and sisters, but I was just as comfortable hanging out with my parents and their friends.
It didn't help that I always had too much energy. There was no way I could sit still and focus for hours on end. People didn't exactly know how to handle me. It's not that I was trying to be direspectful, but I. Could. Not. Be quiet. On my first day of school one year, my teacher told me I'd get detention if I said one more word. I turned to my friend and whispered, "One more word." Boom! Detention. For whispering. On the first day at school. I'm lucky the teacher didn't hear exactly what I said, or who knows what would have happened to me.
At school I always wanted to be my own person and wasn't shy about it. I had a lot to say. I stood out in drama and music. I made good grades. I had huge dreams. Not exactly the formula for 'cool.' Most kids worry about not fitting in; I worried about not standing out. I wanted to feel unique, quirky, different. But standing out by missing the crucial beginning of school wasn't exactly what I had in mind.Anyway, when I got back to Nashville for sixth grade - two weeks after school had started - my old friends seemed happy to see me and life felt back to normal. I started to think I'd dodged a bullet and that I had worried for nothing. But slowly realized that wasn't the case. One of my closer friends, let's call her Rachel, and I started drifting toward a group of girls in our class. They weren't the 'cool' girls or the 'mean' girls. I didn't really know what their deal was then and I can't stereotype them now. But for some reason, they were the group I wanted to fit in with.
The first sign of trouble was the teeniest, tiniest thing you could possibly imagine. We were standing near our lockers after math. I made a joke and the leader - she'll be MG, for Mean Girl - rolled her eyes. That was it: a tiny gesture - it went by in a second. But this was sixth grade. Everything means something in sixth grade. What did I do in response? Nothing of course. I mean, if you've been through sixth grade, you know how it goes. If I had said something straightforward like "What's up with the nasty eye-roll?" MG would have just said something patronizing like "I have no idea what you're talking about," and I'd be humiliated. A feeling I loathe more than anything. So I acted like I hadn't seen it. I put it out of my head.But the signs kept coming. A few days later, I put my tray down at lunch and thought I heard a snarl. A snarl? The next week, I came in wearing a new jean jacket. I said, "I love my outfit today." One of them sneered, "You do?" and gave me a look that shriveled me up into a puny dried pea on the floor. From yesterday's dinner.
Now I knew I wasn't just being paranoid. I was an outcast. Why were my 'friends' turning on me? I had no idea. But there you have it. Welcome to sixth-grade social hell.
We'd just come back from a year in Canada, near Toronto, where my dad was starring in the TV series Doc. He and my mum has been commuting back and forth for a few years, but the summer before I went into fifth grade we all missed him so much that my mum moved us up there.
She homeschooled me that year, so now I was coming back to my old school after a year's absence. Not only that, I knew perfectly well that the first few weeks of school are when everything gets sorted out - you meet your teachers, you find your friends, you figure out if the new school clothes you bought are acceptable - or completely unacceptable. The cool people find each other. The smart people find each other. Me and all the other in-between artsy people realize we'd better join forces and make the best of it. If you miss all that fun, you risk being an outcast. A loser. If you've been through middle school, then you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't yet, well then...hang in there. It gets better, I promise. Either way, you can imagine, missing school was from from ideal. But if I wanted to be a performer - and I did - then there really wasn't a choice.
I wasn't exactly expecting to just show up back at school and be one of the cool girls. The farm in Tennessee where we lives when we weren't in Toronto was kind of isolated, so there weren't any neighbourhood kids for me to practise being friends with. I grew up playing with my brothers and sisters, but I was just as comfortable hanging out with my parents and their friends.
It didn't help that I always had too much energy. There was no way I could sit still and focus for hours on end. People didn't exactly know how to handle me. It's not that I was trying to be direspectful, but I. Could. Not. Be quiet. On my first day of school one year, my teacher told me I'd get detention if I said one more word. I turned to my friend and whispered, "One more word." Boom! Detention. For whispering. On the first day at school. I'm lucky the teacher didn't hear exactly what I said, or who knows what would have happened to me.
At school I always wanted to be my own person and wasn't shy about it. I had a lot to say. I stood out in drama and music. I made good grades. I had huge dreams. Not exactly the formula for 'cool.' Most kids worry about not fitting in; I worried about not standing out. I wanted to feel unique, quirky, different. But standing out by missing the crucial beginning of school wasn't exactly what I had in mind.Anyway, when I got back to Nashville for sixth grade - two weeks after school had started - my old friends seemed happy to see me and life felt back to normal. I started to think I'd dodged a bullet and that I had worried for nothing. But slowly realized that wasn't the case. One of my closer friends, let's call her Rachel, and I started drifting toward a group of girls in our class. They weren't the 'cool' girls or the 'mean' girls. I didn't really know what their deal was then and I can't stereotype them now. But for some reason, they were the group I wanted to fit in with.
The first sign of trouble was the teeniest, tiniest thing you could possibly imagine. We were standing near our lockers after math. I made a joke and the leader - she'll be MG, for Mean Girl - rolled her eyes. That was it: a tiny gesture - it went by in a second. But this was sixth grade. Everything means something in sixth grade. What did I do in response? Nothing of course. I mean, if you've been through sixth grade, you know how it goes. If I had said something straightforward like "What's up with the nasty eye-roll?" MG would have just said something patronizing like "I have no idea what you're talking about," and I'd be humiliated. A feeling I loathe more than anything. So I acted like I hadn't seen it. I put it out of my head.But the signs kept coming. A few days later, I put my tray down at lunch and thought I heard a snarl. A snarl? The next week, I came in wearing a new jean jacket. I said, "I love my outfit today." One of them sneered, "You do?" and gave me a look that shriveled me up into a puny dried pea on the floor. From yesterday's dinner.
Now I knew I wasn't just being paranoid. I was an outcast. Why were my 'friends' turning on me? I had no idea. But there you have it. Welcome to sixth-grade social hell.
Lyric And Melody
For a while I had two fish. I was obsessed with them. Their names were Lyric and Melody. Sometimes, when I should have been writing, I'd sit and watch them swimming in circles in their bowl. Outside, in the pastures, our horses ran free; but I would stare at those two fish swimming in their glass world forever. They were so beautiful. I could just put my two hands around that bowl and know that there was something wonderful in there. Life in a jar.
Life in a jar is a miracle, but it's also a trap. Lyric and Melody were stuck, destined to thread the same line through the water over and over again. Their worlds never expanded. They could never have Nemo adventures, never find out who they were. I'd gaze into their small world, looking for a song. Think outside the bowl. That's what I told myself. Think outside the bowl. I didn't want to be stuck like the fish, stuck seeing only the world that was right in front of me, stuck swimming in circles. But when I was eleven, in sixth grade, it was hard to imagine any world beyone the one where I was stuck.
I wasn't always stuck. And I did get unstuck. Every story has a beginning, a middle and an end, and so does this one. But I'm only sixteen - let's face it, this is all 'the beginning' - so to start with the day I was born and tell you every major milestone (I lost a tooth! I turned ten! I got a new bike!) until my sweet sixteen isn't how I want to do this.
Instead, I want to start with sixth grade. It was the last year that I'd be known as just Miley Cyrus. It was a dividing point - what I now think of as my life before and my life after.
Life in a jar is a miracle, but it's also a trap. Lyric and Melody were stuck, destined to thread the same line through the water over and over again. Their worlds never expanded. They could never have Nemo adventures, never find out who they were. I'd gaze into their small world, looking for a song. Think outside the bowl. That's what I told myself. Think outside the bowl. I didn't want to be stuck like the fish, stuck seeing only the world that was right in front of me, stuck swimming in circles. But when I was eleven, in sixth grade, it was hard to imagine any world beyone the one where I was stuck.
I wasn't always stuck. And I did get unstuck. Every story has a beginning, a middle and an end, and so does this one. But I'm only sixteen - let's face it, this is all 'the beginning' - so to start with the day I was born and tell you every major milestone (I lost a tooth! I turned ten! I got a new bike!) until my sweet sixteen isn't how I want to do this.
Instead, I want to start with sixth grade. It was the last year that I'd be known as just Miley Cyrus. It was a dividing point - what I now think of as my life before and my life after.
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