I loved Los Angeles. I loved how the city went on and on, a river of buildings that flowed in all directions. I loved the wild mix of colors and cultures and cuisines, the way Koreatown fused into Little Armenia and Historic Filipinotown. I loved how there was so much to buy, endless shop windows loaded with things that sparkled in the dazzling coastal sun. The world felt big here, full of unimaginable potential, surreal and exciting.
And yet my world here was so small. Each morning my mother drove us to the studio backlot in Burbank where our “home” had been constructed on an enormous stage, and where we would spend our days sitting in dark corners, awaiting our scenes. Even the location days were mostly spent sitting in our trailer, perpetually waiting to be called. When we weren’t performing, there was “school,” with a retired schoolteacher who joylessly hammered us with times tables and spelling tests. Evenings were spent back at the apartment, eating takeout with our mom and memorizing our lines. Our mother had read enough magazine stories about the tragic lives of child actors and she wasn’t about to take any chances. (My problems would start a few years later, after her grip on me had started to slip.)
That first year, most of what Elli and I saw of Los Angeles was through the windows of our mother’s car, on our way to set and back.
This seemed to suit Elli just fine. Los Angeles intimidated her. In order to get to the backlot, we had to drive through Hollywood, where homeless teens panhandled on the streets and hustlers in superhero costumes hassled the tourists who marched up and down the Walk of Fame. The air there smelled like a party that was on the verge of veering out of control, like urine and sugar and French fries and vomit.
The first day that we made this drive, I put my window down and stuck my head out, trying to take in everything at once: the looming billboards selling handbags that cost as much as cars, the neon signs advertising wax museums and Scientology exhibits, the drag queens in platform heels who stomped their way against the traffic lights.
“Can we stop?” I said. “I want to see the Walk of Fame.”
No one answered. My mother’s hands were tight on the steering wheel; driving in city traffic made her nervous. From the other side of the back seat, I heard a click. When I looked over, I realized that my sister had locked her door.
“It’s not dangerous, silly,” I said. “Look at all the tourists.”
“It smells,” she said softly.
I reached across and took her hand. “Hold your breath.”
She stared at me, her eyes huge, her palm gluing itself to mine with the jammy remnants of our breakfast toast. “How long are we going to do this for, do you think? Be here, in L.A.?”
I thought forever but I didn’t say it because it looked like she might cry. I knew without having to ask that she was frightened of the scene outside the car, but also of this new life on which we were embarking. Of a life that was going to be spent onstage, with all eyes on her. For the first time, I felt a pang of self-doubt about what I had talked my sister into doing. What if she didn’t like Hollywood as much as I did? What if she was only doing this because I wanted to?
“It’s going to be fun.” I slid across the seat until I was beside her, our thighs touching through our brand-new jeans. Our mom had bought us identical outfits at Macy’s for this first day on set, and although I’d objected to it at the time—we hadn’t dressed the same for a while—I now felt a familiar comfort in our armored uniformity. The power of being two instead of one. A double force to contend with.
I put my arm around Elli, and together we watched Los Angeles slide past in all its gritty glory as we headed toward our new future.
* * *
—
Elli soldiered through production. She’d always been a better student than me, finishing her homework with plenty of time to do the extra credit and coach me through my math problems; and now she applied the same diligence to studying her part and hitting her marks on set. She dutifully served up her lines, her wooden delivery masked by the charm of her dimples and her ability to smile on cue. She was incapable of playing anyone but herself, but fortunately the scripts she received never demanded much more of her than that.
Was I the only one who noticed that her performances always felt vaguely colored by panic, as if she were terrified that she was going to disappoint? I hoped I was the only one who could see this, even as I studiously looked away.
I was the better actress, the one who knew how to disappear into the persona of Jenny Maxx. I couldn’t wait to get to set every day, where the crew buzzed around us, the hot lights illuminating me from the inside, the aperture of the camera like the world’s eyes fixed on me. I loved how complete acting made me feel, as if I were twice as interesting as I’d been before. I loved the way the grown-up actors treated us like little ingenues, bringing us powdered donuts from craft services and braiding our hair during breaks in production.
To the Maxx was a show for adults. There were never any other kids around. As a result, my sister and I were always together, more than we ever had been before. In Santa Barbara, over our objections, our elementary school had placed us in separate homerooms; but here, we were always within shouting distance. We sat together in the back of the set every day, snickering over the nonsense Mad Libs that we used to fill the time, or folding our scripts into miniature origami boxes that we would present to each other. At night, in the apartment bedroom that we shared, I would reach across the space between our beds and find my sister’s hand there, reaching for mine. We fell asleep like this most nights, our hands linked across the void, a defense against the dark.
* * *
—
We turned eleven six weeks after To the Maxx premiered on network television, five months after our arrival in town. To celebrate, our mother took us to an anodyne open-air shopping mall where the stores—Gap, Nordstrom, Crate & Barrel, Barnes & Noble—were reassuringly identical to the ones we’d left back in Santa Barbara. We watched a talking-animal movie starring another one of Harriet’s clients and then ate H?agen-Dazs by the synchronized fountains. Teenagers walked by in groups, loaded down with shiny bags from stores that we weren’t yet wealthy enough to shop at, gripping phones that our mother said we were too young to own. Who was there to call anyway? The only person I really cared about was always with me.
While we sat there, waiting for our mother to return from the restroom, a woman walked by and did a double take. She skidded to a stop, turned to stare at us. She was my mother’s age but looked nothing like her, in a gold-and-black tracksuit with Fendi printed across the front. The thick blond stripes in her hair made her look like an exotic cat.
The woman pointed a finger at me. Her fingernail had a rhinestone glued to the tip. “I know who you are. I’ve been watching your show.” This observation felt almost belligerent, like we were criminals she’d identified out of a lineup. “I didn’t realize there were two of you.”
Beside me, I felt Elli shrinking into the bench, trying to make herself invisible; but I fully intended to make the most out of this moment, the first time I’d been recognized. “We’re twins,” I offered brightly, as if this wasn’t already obvious.
The woman’s eyes were doing that familiar dance, jumping from Elli to me and back again, looking for differences and coming up empty-handed. “Which one of you is the one on the show?” she demanded. “Which one’s the actress?”
“We both are,” I said. But even as I said it, I noticed my sister pointing at me. I turned to stare at her, and she shrugged.
The woman was fishing a camera out of the baguette-shaped purse that dangled from one wrist. “Can I take your photo?”
Before either of us could respond, she’d snapped a picture.
A family of tourists—parents in identical muscle tees, a sullen teenage daughter—had been sitting on an adjacent bench, studying a star map while they drank their Ice Blended drinks. Now they turned to gape at us. The teen, thinking she’d sniffed out the presence of celebrity, reached into her backpack and pulled out a camera.