My Bully's Crush

“So, how was it being a child star? One of the very few who made it out on top?”

“Well, it had its ups and downs, if I’m being totally honest with you.” I fought hard not to pick at my nails or bounce my legs nervously, knowing that the camera never misses anything, and neither does the eye of a well-trained reporter on the hunt for the next big scoop.

“Explain.”

“As a child, I didn’t know anything more than that I was doing something I loved. How many people get to be on television and get to see themselves portrayed in a fun, wholesome way throughout their formative years?”

“To me, it wasn’t a job, you know; it was just something I loved doing and had so much fun doing it. I didn’t think about or understand the fact that it was so out of the realm of normal, you know. I guess I thought that all little girls and boys got to do what they loved, and we were all special.”

He nodded his head but didn’t respond with another question which left me in the awkward position of having to fill in the gap, which is the one thing I hate about doing these interviews. Well, one of the things I hate anyway because there’s plenty that I absolutely despise about having my life picked apart for the whole world to see.

“That seven-year-old only knew the joy of the fairy tale she was living. Even when the days were long, and I was tired, there was always someone there to distract me, to keep me on course, usually my mom.” I smiled over at her in the corner where she stood, always watching, always waiting to scoop me up if I fell.

No one knows the signs better than she does. No one is more prepared. I long for the days before my life became the hell that it is now. The days when our biggest worry was how many calories I could afford on any given day because there was a show coming up. As a teen, I used to think that was hell, but now I know better.

“Was it really hard then, being a child star? Do you feel like you missed out on being a child?” Why do they always ask that? No, be fair, Elena, there are plenty of reasons for them to ask because unlike you, who chose this for yourself, though you were too young to know, there are plenty who had been forced into the spotlight by money-hungry parents who saw their talented child as a cash cow.

“No, I didn’t mind much because I was living my seven-year-old dream. I was the one who wanted this, who pushed my mom so hard to help me get here. I have no regrets about the way things were, not really. The first few shows I did, which had very long runs, were all fun and light, you know. I guess they were what you would call age-appropriate, so in some ways, it was no different to being in a classroom, except you were doing it on a set, in front of cameras.”

“And then? What happened when you moved on to more grown-up shoes? When you got into that teen phase?”

“Then, I grew up really fast. That child starts to grow, she’s sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and the world looks completely different through her eyes.”

“My mom, who was my manager and the one who’d shielded me all my life, can no longer keep me away from all the darkness that comes with the profession.” There was a hitch in my voice, and I struggled to hold on, to hold it in. Each time I do one of these things, it’s like reliving my past all over again. But mom and the others say I have to do it to stay relevant, so here I am.

“That teenage me got to see a whole new side of the industry that she’d been guarded against before, and things are not as rosy as they used to be. You come to realize that you grew up in the public eye and that when you were that young girl living out your Cinderella dream, there were grown men and women critiquing everything about you. From the clothes your wear to how much weight you’ve gained and lost in any given year.”

“I see. What’s the worst thing about the industry that you’ve found? Or rather, what was your lowest low as you see it?”

“Having my whole life be center stage. Having my every achievement and failure broadcasted for all the world to see.”

He looked down at his notes and back up at me again, and I knew what was coming next. It’s the question they all ask. The one they’ve been asking for the past three years, the worst years of my life, and the question that cuts me deeper than any other.

“I know you’ve been asked this before,” so why ask it again? Can’t just one of you have an ounce of decency, just a jot of humanity in you? How much more will you take? Have I not bared my soul enough? Have you not seen enough of my underbelly?

I kept myself in check by digging my nails into my palms, hidden away from the view of the cameraman and his ever-ready device. The smile on my face felt plastic, but only I knew that I was dying inside.

The headlines will say that I looked flawless and fresh. The same old Elena that I’ve always been. And no one, except mom, of course, and my very best friend who was waiting at home, would know that I’d gone home afterward as I had so many times in the past to throw up until my throat was raw.

No one ever seems to see the pain and suffering I’ve endured all these years because I’d become too good at hiding it. My ears began to ring as he opened his mouth to speak, and I willed myself not to pass out, not to give into the fear and dread that crowded my throat as I anticipated the words.

“I’ve seen the documentary; it was very well done, very commendable. How are you doing after all of that has come to light? Any change?” It took me a second to realize that he hadn’t asked the dreaded question, and for a split second, I saw a glimmer of humanity in his eyes.

I felt my nails slip from the crevices they’d made in my palm but was still too unsure to relax my hold entirely. “It’s… it’s been fine. My fans have been amazing; the support I received is indescribable.”

“It must’ve been hard revealing so much about yourself. I imagine you felt rather vulnerable while you were doing it.”

“Of course, but it needed to be done, not just for my own mental health, but for everyone out there who’s just like me that doesn’t have a voice.” I relaxed even more now as I saw him relax, somehow interpreting that to mean that the danger had passed.

“I commend you for doing that, for being brave enough to do it at such a young age when so many others wouldn’t dare.”

“I understand why they don’t. The stigma of mental illness is not something easily lived down. But sometimes you just have to walk through the darkness to get to the other side, to save yourself.”

“Thank you very much, Miss. Elena Gianni, it was a pleasure talking with you.” I reached for his hand with a trembling one, not quite believing that it was over, that for the first time in too long to recall, a reporter had not asked the question that was bound to send me hurdling back into the dark.

His producer looked none too pleased, but the reporter, Devon Hash, a man in his early forties or thereabouts, seemed to ignore the harsh whispers as he packed up to leave. I have no doubt as to what was being said. Everyone wanted the scoop, and he was the first not to go for the jugular.

You’d think that three years after being left at the altar while my fiancé was across town marrying someone else, the hoopla would’ve died down, but it’s the only Hollywood story that didn’t seem to have an expiration date. At least not one in the near future.

I felt mom’s warm hand on my shoulder and looked up at her, fighting back the tears of relief. There were always tears, no matter how these things turned out. But for the first time in three years, the tears were tears of, if not joy, appreciation for the man that had shown me kindness where I least expected it.

I was hustled out of there and whisked away to the SUV that idled as mom, and my assistant, along with hers, followed behind. I called out answers of hello to the paparazzi who stood around outside the studio waiting for a glance at me. It was only when I strapped into the backseat behind the driver that the shakes started. “Mom, I’m going to be sick.”

“I know, baby, put your head between your knees. I’ve got your bag right here.”

The buildup to the dreaded question that evoked the darkest time in my life was too much for my poor body to take. A body that had been trained to expect the blow these last three years. The body that had suffered not only mentally but physically as well. And I wondered, not for the first time, how this had happened to me.