When Disney Calls

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.