Jakub - You look like that girl: a child actor escapes from Hollywood

YOU LOOK LIKE THAT GIRL

For J
Every day

A Child Actor Stops Pretending and Finally Grows Up

LISA JAKUB

Copyright 2015 by Lisa Jakub

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jakub, Lisa, 1978

You look like that girl : A child actor stops pretending and finally grows up. / Lisa Jakub First edition.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-8253-0746-1 (hardcover : alk. paper)

1. Jakub, Lisa, 1978- 2. ActorsUnited StatesBiography. I. Title.

PN2287.J2854A3 2015

791.45028092dc23

[B]

2014035733

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Published in the United States by Beaufort Books
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Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books
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Printed in the United States of America

Interior design by Jane Perini
Cover Design by Michael Short

Composite headshot, showing my versatility as an actor. As you can see, my hair can go forwards or back.

PHOTO: NICK SEIFLOW

LISA JAKUB

Being a seven-year-old actor does not make you popular; it makes you fascinating, much in the way that dissecting a frog is fascinating. Its an interest tinged with a feeling of uneasy tension. Its a look-but-dont-get-too-close kind of curiosity. It was a lot for potential friends in my Grade 3 class to wrap their minds around. There I was, sitting next to them during art period, dipping pipe cleaners in Elmers glue, when just that morning while they were eating breakfast, I had been singing the praises of Cottonelle toilette paper through their TV. It might have been normal for me, but they found it rather disconcerting.

Mikki was the perfect confidant. She would set her thoughtful, chocolate-milk-colored eyes on me and suddenly the weird, sideways glances and confused whispers would fade into the background. Mikki was four years older than me but our age difference never seemed to pose a problem. She had a dirty grey muzzle and long fur that poked out from between her toes. Her tail was always matted with a collection of dirt, leaves, and the occasional dead ladybug. She was arthritic and deaf. A thyroid condition made her rather obese and she possessed very little control over her bodily functions. While my dog was indeed my best friend, it would be untruthful of me to omit the fact that she had very little human competition.

That Saturday afternoon, they came on bikes. Five of them. One I knew; Karen. She was cute, tall, blonde, and the earliest known representation of everything I found intimidating about women later in life. The other four kids I had seen around. They were Older Boys. They were nine-year-olds, and anyone nearing double digits was, of course, automatically and rightfully awarded a daunting level of prestige.

From the dining room window, I could see them coming. Karens pink streamers were waving from her handlebars, trumpeting the gangs arrival. It was both thrilling and horrifying to realize that they must have been coming to my house to play; no other kids lived on my block. Clearly, they wanted to ride bikes with me. I had a bike, but riding it had proven challenging. My mother had kindly blamed my compete lack of balance and coordination on an ear surgery I had undergone half my life earlier, but since I still cant ride well, the blame likely lays with a general lack of physical grace.

Since there was little chance of becoming proficient on a bike by the time the posse reached my front door, I required an alternate strategy. I grabbed my skateboard from the hall closet. This had become my way of seeming beyond the bike. I was cooler than the bikers. I rocked a board. My skateboard deck was laminated with tie-dye blue and green swirls and had a glow-in-the-dark sticker on the underbelly that said SLIME-BALL in all capital letters. I never really understood the purpose of such a sticker but it came with the board and it made me feel tough. Nobody had a bike with a mean word on it.

The plan was in place. When they asked me to ride bikes, I would take a cool moment to consider their offer and then offhandedly say the line, Id rather skate, while flashing my edgy sticker. They would be suitably impressed with my independent, bad-ass choice and we would ride off into the sunset on our respective modes of transportation.

BANG. BANG. BANG. They were here. Karen and The Older Boys had come for me. Trembling a little with nervousness and excitement, I adjusted my board just so, attempting to make it look casual in my arms, the mean sticker facing out.

When I opened the door, there they were, fanned out on my front step. The boys seemed to be mostly inspecting their shoelaces, but they took quick glances up at me. Karen stood in front of them, flashed a smile and flipped her hair in a way that made her suddenly look like she was seventeen. Karen pointed to my face as she addressed her gang.

See, I told you guys the girl from TV lived here.

The Older Boys took this as their cue to really examine what stood before them. One pushed his glasses up to get the clearest view possible. They squinted in scrutiny, trying to picture it, then nodded in agreement. My face did indeed match the television face. After murmuring to each other, Thats pretty cool, they each handed Karen a dollar before they got on the bikes they could all ride proficiently. And they left. Without ever saying a word to me.

They had dissected their subject. They had inspected me and poked around, displaying my most tender guts. When they got their fill of the weirdness they moved on, leaving me splayed out, pinned to a board, and rejected. I told Mikki that Karen was a SLIMEBALL. She agreed by peeing on the carpet.

My adopted hometown is small and sweet and adorably southern. We like grits and sweet tea and sing-songy little phrases laced with just a tinge of sarcasm. There are rolling hills snaked with post-and-board fencing and everyone waves at everyone. I spend a great deal of time now doing yoga, because after a yoga class, I feel wrung out and cleansed like my soul just went through the deluxe carwash.

In the dressing room after class, I was marinating in that state that yogis affectionately call yoga stoned. Thats when everything feels still and beautiful because you have cleared your mind and loosened up your hamstrings. The room was busy but quiet as everyone reveled in their spiritual accomplishments, as evidenced by their sweaty Lululemons. I was peeling off my yoga gear when a girl wrapped in a towel stepped out from the shower. She was running her hands through her freshly-washed hair and I could smell fair-trade organic tea-tree conditioner. Suddenly, she froze, fingers entwined in the wet tangles near her scalp. She furrowed her brow at me.

Hey, why do I know you? she asked.

Oh, well, I go to UVA. Do we have a class together?

No. Im still in high school. But I totally know you.

I am here at the yoga studio a lot, maybe thats it, I deflected.