Lucky Stars Read Online Free Page B

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    I had butterflies the day of the premiere, was as excited as I’d been the first time I’d stepped on a stage at age eight. For me, the premiere was confirmation of my having “made it,” albeit in a minor way. The fact that I had scored a speaking part in an actual movie and that the movie was sure to be a hit and that I would be mingling with Hollywood’s elite along that red carpet gave me hope that I really was on the brink of bigger things, that my stint at the biker bar would soon be a distant memory, that from here on I’d never have to do a Taco Bell commercial again, never have to be told I wasn’t skinny enough or young enough or tall enough or that my lips weren’t the size of Angelina Jolie’s.
    People often ask me why I became an actress, why I subjected myself to the rejection, the rudeness, the assault on my self-esteem, and the answer is: I couldn’t picture myself doing anything else. The rush you get when you stand up there in front of an audience and manage to elicit a response—whether it’s laughter or dead silence—is so intoxicating that you can’t wait to feel it again. It’s like the effect of a drug, that rush of approval. Actors are basically pleasers—if we can’t please our parents, we might as well please somebody— so we’re addicted to being applauded. Sally Field was lambasted for her “you like me” unraveling, but every actor who made fun of her knew exactly what she was talking about. So I became an actress to win approval, to cause a reaction, to make an impression. But I also went into the business to become someone else. Imagine being a good girl in real life and playing a total bitch in a movie. Imagine playing any role to which you have to bring emotions and actions and words that are foreign to you in the everyday. Imagine getting to experiment with personalities that are the polar opposite of your own. Imagine leaving your insecurities and conflicts and inhibitions in the dressing room and emerging as someone else. It’s like a thrill ride, that’s what it is. And it’s that thrill ride that keeps actors in the game, not the fame or the money or the chance to hang out with Jim Carrey. I played his receptionist in Pet Peeve, not his leading lady, but I played her with everything I had and I loved the experience. It could only get better from here, right? That’s what I thought That’s what I really, truly believed.
    On the night of the premiere, my mother and I did the red carpet number. The cameras were out in force, the reporters clamoring for a whiff of anyone famous. It was such a glittering event that I didn’t even take it personally when a jerk from Extra! stuck a microphone in my face, then pulled it away, muttering, “Damn. I thought you were someone.”
    Undaunted, I smiled and waved at the crowd, was determined to enjoy myself. Who cared that my mother kept reminding me to stand up straight and get the hair out of my eyes? Who cared that she complained bitterly about the flashbulbs that were blinding her or the TV cables that were tripping her or the smog that was inflaming her sinuses. What mattered was that, once inside the theater, everyone seemed to love Pet Peeve, my mother included. She hugged me when the movie was over and the credits rolled, told me she was proud of me, called me her little Meryl Streep. Even Jim Carrey gave me a reassuring thumbs-up.
    I was off and running.
    And then came the movie’s opening day, three days later. At eight o’clock that Friday morning, my mother showed up at my door carrying every newspaper she could find and proceeded to spread them out on the floor of my living room and read the Pet Peeve reviews aloud.
    The Los Angeles Times mentioned me briefly but glowingly: “As Lola, the receptionist, the energetic Stacey Reiser is a scene stealer.” The New York Times mentioned me briefly but less glowingly: “In a small role as Carrey’s eager-beaver receptionist, Stacey Reiser is