because not only would I be putting myself out of my misery, I’d also be making a political statement.
I knew if I ever came clean I would look like a complete jackass, so Jodi and I made a pact. She would confirm all my lies, and then after Christmas break the following week, we would slowly plant seeds that I was leaving the business. “I’ve had enough!” was the phrase we agreed I would use.
The teasing from the older girls had come to a screeching halt, and now when I walked down the halls, almost everyone said hello, and a couple of kids even curtsied. Surprisingly, Principal Hiller never called my house again. Jodi’s estimation was that he probably thought he had a psychopath on his hands and felt it was safer to take himself out of the equation.
The Friday afternoon before I was to return to school after Christmas break, Jodi and I were in my sister Sloane’s room trying on her training bras when my father yelled my name.
I ran downstairs wearing my sister’s bra and a pair of parachute pants when my father handed me a manila envelope without looking up. “You got something in the mail.”
I opened the envelope and nearly climaxed. I ran right up to Sloane’s room and jumped up and down. “Jodi! Jodi! Look at what I got!” It was a signed autograph from Goldie Hawn. She hadn’t inscribed it the way I had requested, and obviously I would hold that against her in any future negotiations, but it was made out to me, and it was signed by her.
Jodi and I were jumping up and down like a pair of newlyweds. We ran into my room and grabbed a Sharpie. Luckily Goldie’s handwriting wasn’t very legible, so I added “Mom” in parentheses at the end, and, after much discussion, since I didn’t want to continue with the lying but wasn’t willing to tell the truth either, Jodi and I agreed to leave the note open-ended. This is what I added: “My collarbone is on the mend. Can’t wait to start working with you, if the movie ever gets made. Aaargh! You’re a star!”
“Well,” she said, “it would sure take a lot of guts to come forward now.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I told her, putting the signed photo in my backpack. “Don’t let me forget to make copies of this to pass out at school.”
After the picture had made its way through school, things started to die down, and only once in awhile would someone mention my movie-star status. In those instances, I made sure not to overembellish the fantasies that played out in my head. I would downplay my role as a Hollywood starlet by telling people I was becoming more and more interested in behind-the-scenes work, and what I really had my eye on was directing.
The lesson I learned that year was a valuable one. If you’re going to make up an enormous untruth, make sure you tell it to people you are not spending the rest of the school year with. I can only imagine what Clay Aiken has to deal with on a daily basis.
CHAPTER TWO
I was twelve years old when I got my boobs. I was over the moon, knowing they were the last piece of the puzzle I needed to start my own business. After sitting my parents down a year earlier and demanding to know the exact status of their financial situation, it had become clear to me that in order for me to have the lifestyle and fulfilling travel experiences that I desired, I would have no choice but to branch out on my own.
“Listen,” I said to my mother and father as I began my inquisition, “how much money do you have saved for my bat mitzvah, if, in fact, I do decide to go through with it? Is there any money for sleepaway camp and/or a European teen tour? And last but not least,
The fact that we owned a summer house in Martha’s Vineyard led most people to believe that we were wealthy when that wasn’t the case at all. In the single most savvy business move of my father’s lifetime, he purchased ten acres on the Vineyard in the early seventies for a mere $28,000. While Vineyard real-estate prices had since skyrocketed, my father’s finances headed in precisely the opposite direction. Even though he owned a valuable piece of real estate, his liquid assets were on par with those of a homeless person-with no hands.
So, even with a decent house in the suburbs and a vacation house on Martha’s Vineyard, we had no money. My five older siblings had all decided that college was a necessary evil, leaving my father with even less money for me. I would lie awake night after night, praying that none of them would enter into a serious enough relationship that could lead to an expensive wedding, resulting in a zero balance in my father’s savings account-if he even had a savings account.
The afternoon I heard my older brother Greg mention the words “graduate school,” I nearly flipped my bicycle. My oldest sister, Sidney, kept reminding me to work hard in school so that I could get a scholarship to my college of choice. This may have been sound advice for an average adolescent, but college directly conflicted with my future plans of becoming a housewife.
“A dowry?” my father asked, as he looked over at my mother. “No, you don’t have a dowry.”
“Well, what exactly is the plan?” I asked them.
“What plan are you referring to?” my father asked.
“We are going to need to sell one of the houses,” I told them. “In my estimation, we could get over a million dollars for this house. I’ve already contacted a realtor.”
“Why would we sell the house, Chelsea?” my mother asked.
“Because things are just not working out,” I told them. “First of all, this house is a money pit, and we’re not getting any return on our investment. Second, I would like to go to Europe in the fall, not to mention Aruba, Jamaica, and the Bahamas. Third, if I am going to have a bat mitzvah, you can be sure as shit the party’s not going to be at a Ramada Inn! And finally, we really need to discuss my wardrobe.”
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” my father said as he got up and walked out of the room.
“Chelsea, please don’t use that kind of language,” my mother said, referring to my use of the
I had always been suspicious, but from that moment on, I knew without a doubt that my parents and I were not on the same page. We weren’t even in the same book. They had no idea how humiliating it was for me, living in a half-Jewish/half-Italian neighborhood where everyone else’s families planned big, expensive bar and bat mitzvahs at places like the Four Seasons, the Hyatt Regency, and The Manor. When I asked my parents where we could have mine, “backyard” was the last word I heard before I covered my ears and started making Indian noises. They also had no idea what it was like to watch all my friends prance around in their new designer clothes while I was left wearing hand-me-down Lee jeans from my sister Sloane, who was five years older and twice my size. “Relaxed fit” was an understatement.
My boobs came one May, and luckily for me-and all the men who’ve felt me up since then-they were full C-cups. I knew then that it was time to start thinking about how they could help me make ends meet. I would be spending the summer on Martha’s Vineyard with my parents and my sisters. My brothers were out of college at this point and had real jobs, so they weren’t able to take the entire summer off anymore. My father would commute back and forth from New Jersey to the Vineyard for his “business.” No one was ever really sure what “business” he was referring to, since he generated roughly the same income as a giraffe.
I was too young to work legally so I only had two realistic options: I could either start my own underground babysitting ring or become a prostitute.
Although I had developed a serious crush on our plumber that year, I wasn’t sure that I was ready for penetration. I had seen my very first penis on a porno tape I stole from my brother, and was completely flabbergasted. While I had heard a lot about the size and shape of the penis, no one had ever mentioned that there were going to be balls attached to it. Not to mention that there would be two of them, that they would be covered in hair, and that later in life, they would most likely end up smacking you in the face. I’m really glad I got the heads-up when I did, (a) because if I had found myself in bed with someone and seen his two little friends headed toward me with no prior warning, I probably would have lodged a formal complaint with Internal Affairs, and (b) because it gave me plenty of time to shop for the perfect-size chin guard.
After I took a good long look in the mirror at the two new accessories attached to my upper torso, I decided I could pass for twenty. Sloane said that I was being absurd and that the oldest I could pass for was fifteen. I stood cupping my new breasts, thinking it would probably be best to keep these robust treasures under wraps while I got to know them. So I opted for the babysitting ring and decided I would be sixteen.
Once the decision had been made, I took out the phone book and called every hotel and home rental agency on the island. I left my phone number and told them to direct any guests who needed childcare services my way. The next hurdle was a place to hide all the income I’d be bringing in. I hopped on my ten speed and rode to the hardware store, where I bought myself a safe.
“No one is going to call you back,” Sloane told me. “It’s a stupid idea and you’re not going to make any money. You’re certainly not going to need a safe.”
“Sloane,” I told her, “you either grab life by the balls or you can ride in the back of one of Dad’s cars for the rest of your life. With an attitude like that, you’re going to end up becoming the general manager of a bowling alley.”
Within the first week I received ten calls. By the end of my second week on the Vineyard, every night was booked for the next two weeks. I couldn’t believe what a genius I was. Every day and night was packed with a different client, and business was booming. This was a dream come true, and before long Sloane was begging to get in on the action. I would give her clients only if I was overbooked, and insisted she pay me a two-dollar commission per hour. She resisted, of course, but I maintained a level of professionalism through and through. I simply couldn’t cut her a break just because she was my sister. “What would my other employees think?” I asked Sloane.
“You don’t have any other employees,” she reminded me.
“Not the point,” I told her.
By mid-July, I had seven hundred dollars saved. Word was spreading like a forest fire, and I actually enjoyed the work. I had a couple of regular clients who were on the island all summer, but most of my clients were only in town for a couple of days or up to a week. Most of the kids were pretty good, and if they weren’t, I would just put them to bed as soon as their parents left. I preferred babies since they couldn’t talk and tell their parents that I’d spent half the night on the phone talking to my best friend, Jodi, in New Jersey, and the other half of the night going through their personal items.
If the children were annoying, I would play hide-and-seek with them. They would hide, and I would make myself a sandwich or an ice-cream sundae.
If the parents had unreasonable expectations, I’d have a sit-down with them and give it to them straight. “Listen, Melinda,” I told a mother who insisted I take her six-month-old daughter to swimming classes twice a week. “Are you trying to kill your baby? She can’t do that yet. She’s not a salmon.”
One day I got a phone call from a woman named Susan who was renting a house in town. She had two sons.
“My oldest is fourteen and my youngest is seventy-two months,” she informed me.
While I sat perplexed trying to figure out what seventy-two months added up to, I decided to focus on the bigger issue at hand.
“Fourteen?” I asked. Who hires a babysitter for a fourteen-year-old? I wondered if he was retarded. “Is he retarded?” I asked.
“No, he’s not retarded,” the woman replied, sounding a little shocked. “He’s just a little hyper, but he’s a good boy. It’s more to have someone else there who can be in charge of my youngest, Kyle.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, as I took a bite out of the apple I was holding and kicked my feet up on the sofa. “Well, I charge ten dollars an hour for two kids.”
She said that sounded reasonable, and we set a time for the next evening.
“Who was that?” Sloane asked as I hung up the phone.
“A client,” I told her. “I have to babysit for a fourteen-year-old tomorrow.”
“You can’t babysit for a fourteen-year-old,” Sloane told me.
“Why not?”
