Thursdays at Eight. Debbie MacomberЧитать онлайн книгу.
to the mundane. I refuse to take second-best. I am an actor. Currently a starving one, but that’s beside the point.
All right, I’ll step down from my soapbox. God forbid, my biggest fear is about to become a reality. I’m beginning to sound like my mother, the Woman Who Always Knows Best. Now there’s a thought to send me screaming into the night.
She and Dad insisted I get a college education. I disagreed, stood my ground, fought the good fight, but then—during a period of below-poverty-level existence—I caved. Hey! They might’ve won the battle, but the war’s all mine. Since the day I was born, my domineering mother has attempted to run my life. From the moment I enrolled in college, she’s demanded I be a teacher. A lifelong occupation, she said. A good job for a woman. Give me a break!
Well, I have that precious degree, but it’s in history with a minor in education. I have no intention of using it, except where it’ll aid my acting career. Fortunately I’ve found a way in which to do that. Oddly enough, it also means my mother’s kind of getting what she wants. But that’s just a by-product. The important thing is I’m getting what I want.
You see, I’m a substitute teacher. Temporary and part-time. Due to the severe teacher shortage currently happening in southern California, anyone with a college degree—and it doesn’t matter in what—can be hired as a substitute teacher. Isn’t that incredible? I can have a degree in basket-weaving and qualify as a teacher for a whopping two-hundred-and-fifty bucks a day. Now, I don’t mind telling you that’s good money for part-time work. What’s so fantastic is this: I can pick and choose the days I want to teach.
If I can fit subbing into my schedule, I spend two or three days a week in a classroom. Three at the most. That way, I still make enough money to support myself. On the days I don’t work, I can audition for whatever’s available.
Before the holiday break, my agent sent me out to audition for a TV commercial for a new kind of toilet brush. The district called first thing that morning and without fear of losing my job and without so much as a twinge of guilt, I said I had other plans. No problem; they simply went to the next name on the list. I headed out the door, knowing there’ll be a job for me another day, if I want it. Sadly, I didn’t get the commercial, but rejection’s the name of the acting game.
As soon as school starts up after the holidays, I’ll be ready to go back to substitute teaching. With so many days off, I have to admit I’m experiencing a bit of a cash-flow problem. Christmas didn’t help, and neither did the cost of the one-day acting workshop last week. In fact, Jeff bought my latte for me today. But never mind, I’ll survive. I always do, despite my mother’s dire predictions.
I know I’m an embarrassment to her. She can’t brag about me to all her society friends the way she does Victoria. My sister had the good judgment to marry an up-and-coming attorney who raised our family’s social standing an entire notch. As far as I’m concerned, Roger is a twit, but no one’s asking for my opinion. Good thing, too, because I’m not afraid to give it.
One positive aspect of Victoria’s brilliant marriage is that Mom and Dad’s attention is now focused on my sister and her first child instead of on me (although I do have to admit my nephew’s a real cutie!). Basically Mom’s been leaving me alone. Thank God.
I once heard a psychology professor say that the females in his class should take a good look at their mothers because in all likelihood we’ll be just like them as we mature. Heaven help me—say it ain’t so!
Mother means well. I can’t fault her there. It’s just that I’m such a bitter disappointment to her. Mom’s so…so sterile. So predictable. There’s no passion in her soul. I’m nothing like her, so I don’t know how Professor Gordon could categorically state that in a few years I’ll resemble her.
If anyone’s like Mom, it’s Victoria. To her, what people think and say is of ultimate importance. Social standing. Appearances. Money. None of that interests me. Well, maybe the money part, but only enough to get by. Unless I earn it doing what I love, and that’s acting. I guess I’m a woman who needs an audience. As a kid, my first word wasn’t Mom or Dad but look.
When Mom heard I’d tried out for a role in a toilet-brush commercial, she freaked. The very thought of her daughter appearing on national television and admitting she cleaned toilets would have mortified her. However, I was thrilled with the part and devastated when I learned it’d gone to someone else. But that’s all part of the business…And as Dad keeps saying, I’ve got a university degree to “fall back on.”
Liz, Clare and Julia are three surprises that came out of me finishing my credits to get my degree. I love these guys and I’m thrilled we’ve decided to keep meeting, just the four of us. Me and three smart, professional women. I don’t know what exactly I offer the group. My guess is comic relief.
The only reason I took that journal-writing class was because I needed an easy credit, and from the course description this was a simple way to raise my GPA. From the time I was a kid, I’ve kept a journal. There must be twenty spiral-bound notebooks tucked away in my bedroom closet, and they document my entire life. I signed up for the class, convinced I’d be bored out of my mind, and became friends with three of the most fascinating women I’ve ever met.
The English professor who taught the class was a real ditz. I knew more about keeping a journal than she did. But I didn’t miss a single session, and that’s only because of Liz and the others. They’ve kind of adopted me and I’m grateful. What I like is the perspective they give me, being older and all. Liz is the sort of person I wish my mother could be. Hey, if my mother wants to change me, then I should be granted the same privilege. If I’m a disappointment to her as a daughter, then she should know she’s not my picture of the ideal parent, either.
Unlike Mom, Liz has been nothing but encouraging about my acting career. I know what the chances are of actually making it, but I can’t allow unfavorable odds to dissuade me from trying. This is my dream. My life’s ambition. If I don’t go after it now, I never will. I honestly don’t understand why my mother can’t support my choices.
Enough already. This entire journal is turning out to be about my mother instead of me. I’d prefer not to deal with her today, or any day. Besides, Liz gave us an assignment.
I need a word before we meet next Thursday. We’re all selecting a personal word. It’s supposed to have special significance in our lives. Maybe I should use this as an acting exercise, do some free association.
Actually, I rather like that idea. Let’s see. Acting. Goal. Audition. Wouldn’t it be great to audition for a TV show like Friends? Friends. New friends. Liz, Clare and Julia. What I love about them is that they’re so accepting of me. I love that they laugh at my jokes and make me feel a real part of the group. If only my mother were half as accepting…
That’s it. I’ve got it! Acceptance. I want my parents to accept me for the person I am. I might not have turned out the way they envisioned, but I’m a good, decent, honest person. That should count for something. If my parents can welcome a twit like Roger into the family, they should be able to cope with a daughter who wants to act. And no, Mother, I don’t think performing in a toilet-brush commercial is beneath me. I was emotionally wiped out for a week when someone else got the role.
ACCEPTANCE. I’ve got to be me. Ol’ Blue Eyes really knew what he was talking about. Acceptance. I like it. My hope is that one day my mother will accept me for who I am and be just as proud of me as she is of Victoria.
Fresh from her first audition of the year, Karen excitedly wrote in her journal, sitting at her usual window table at Mocha Moments. The upscale coffee shop was bustling as customers moved in and out. She’d been the one to recommend the place to the breakfast group and felt good about the way they’d applauded her suggestion. Two summers ago she’d stood behind that counter, concocting lattes and serving up fiber-filled bran muffins. Despite being fired for repeated absences, she maintained a friendly relationship with the manager and often stopped by. She did almost all her journal-writing at this very table.
She was about to leave when Jeff