I’ve got it!
I drove us to the gas station and parked off to the side. I turned to Jack. “Walk into the store, and when I come in, pretend like you don’t know me.”
I looked in the mirror and smeared my eyeliner down my cheeks to look distressed, as if I had been crying.
Jack smiled. “Ooooh, she’s getting messy for this one!” And then, quieter, “Um . . . Is there a plan or—”
“Go go go!” I pushed him out of the car.
I waited three minutes and then sprinted into the gas station convenience store, out of breath, and started sobbing onto the cashier’s counter. Jack was at the pop machine, filling up a soda while he watched me, wide eyed.
“I don’t know what to do! Oh my God, oh my God—my boyfriend just left me! He just drove away with my ID and all my money and everything I own!” I was bawling and hyperventilating.
The cashier looked very taken aback. He leaned as far away as he could from my sobbing body, and reached out from a distance to pat me lightly on the arm. “Oh, ma’am . . . I am so sorry . . . Is there anything I can do? I’m so—please stop crying onto the counter, ma’am. What can I do?”
I sniffled and looked up at him gratefully.
“Well . . . I could use some menthol lights.”
“Yes, yes okay, here.” The cashier grabbed them for me.
“And a lighter. Thanks. No, no, the pink one.”
The cashier grabbed that for me, too. I sniffled gratefully. “Bless you. I feel so much better.”
“No problem, ma’am, I’m so sorry to hear about your boyfriend—”
“Thanks!” I waved and walked away. He didn’t even card me.
Once we were outside, Jack grabbed my arm. “BITCH, ARE YOU KIDDING ME? That deserved an Oscar!”
“I know, right?” Then I lit up both our cigarettes.
It’s true that I did things like this to get what I wanted, but I was also addicted to the thrill of it. The adrenaline, the risk. I think it’s my addict personality. It was dangerous, high stakes, and there was always something appealing about that to me. It’s most people’s worst nightmare, but it was what I thrived on.
Many years later, in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, I met a woman who worked in the ER of a children’s hospital. She said to me, casually, “Yeah, children come in every day, age twelve and attempted suicide! And I have about five minutes to save their lives, if that.” She sighed dreamily, “I love my job!” I just stared at her, dumbfounded. Holy shit, right? How can a person live with that kind of pressure, let alone love it? But she thrived in those life-or-death, high-stakes situations. At least she channeled her addiction to that thrill into something positive. Saving lives is a slightly more productive use of that energy than stealing menthol lights.
Theater was my only source of relief at high school. I loved it and I tried hard during that class. I had the opposite perspective of most of my fellow classmates: the ticket to my future was not in chemistry or math or science—it was in theater rehearsals and the plays we put on. I took these seriously. Because of that, my theater coach, Mrs. Heiteen, was the only adult at school that liked me and saw potential in me—even when my GPA was falling down faster than a freshman doing shots.
During my senior year, when all my friends started getting into college and making plans for their futures, Mrs. Heiteen took a look at my grades. She approached me, very angry.
“Damn it, Laura. You fucked yourself out of 90 percent of the colleges in the country. And is that weed I smell in your purse?”
She was correct on both counts. No college was going to let an idiot teenager with a multiple-arrest history, failing grades, and a penchant for drunken idiocy onto their campus. And there was a lot of weed in my purse.
I truly didn’t care, because I was going to be an actress—there was no plan B! Luckily, I was very good at it. Because of that, it was the only thing I put effort into, besides finding drugs and places to do drugs. Let’s just say it was my only positive obsession.
I had joined the speech team during my freshman year. Speech is like competitive acting. You perform eight minutes of a play as one person or a duet, and then eventually compete with kids at other high schools in the area. If you’re good enough, you go to the state competition; and if you’re really, really good, you compete in nationals. It was a big deal, you guys. Especially to me.
On the first day of speech, we did Humorous Duet Acting. Mrs. Heiteen paired me with Tina, this socially awkward girl with pants ever so slightly too short. Tina was one of the girls that The Twelve had chosen to bully in junior high. She didn’t like me, and I didn’t know how I was going to be able to reach my comedic-genius potential with this dorky girl on my ass. We were going to have to rehearse together for months! So . . . fuck. Really, Mrs. Heiteen? Really?
But I have never been more wrong. We worked together day after day, and I realized she was one of the most hilarious people I’ve ever met. She was sweet and witty and so smart. And I just fell in love with being her friend. We became so close after that.
When I started taking speech seriously, it felt like I was working for my career to happen. I was memorizing the monologues I saw on television and in movies. I was trekking into the city with Andy Junk to take courses at The Second City. See? I knew how to focus . . . just not on US History. I tried my best in those Second City classes, but I still hated them. Even though comedy and acting were what I wanted to do, any sort of class made me feel stupid and not good enough to be there. Something about being in a class environment automatically made all my insecurities come out. I much preferred improv on the street with unsuspecting civilians.
The annual speech competition came around. I wanted to be ready. There was a category called Original Comedy, where you play all the characters in a comedic eight-minute play that you wrote. This was MY territory. I wrote a piece called Pink Slip, about a group of oddball students who got detention. For the first time, I was doing well at something in school.
I performed Pink Slip at regionals and won first place. Mrs. Heiteen ran up to me and gave me an awkward high five—the highest form of approval from her. I couldn’t stop smiling, holding my dinky medal. I remember thinking, Wait a second. Does . . . hard work . . . pay off????? Holy shit.
At the same time, I was battling my need to get high. When I was winning speech, I was winning against my demons. I was still smoking and drinking, but I was balancing it with my work because I had something important to focus on.
As the state competition got closer, Mrs. Heiteen became my personal coach—egging me on to focus, to practice, to stay clear. I could win this. She said I could; I knew I could. I was good, and people were finally going to see that. I would finally be on my way to the career I was meant for.
And then . . .
I won state. First place!
There was only one more step. Taking on nationals.
In the week leading up to nationals, I took a break from rehearsing and went out one night to dinner with Jack and our other friend, Kaylen. We were smoking cigarettes and chatting. Side note: Did you know smoking was allowed indoors in 2004? Maybe that was just a Midwest thing, but there was a smoking section at the Omega Diner.
One of the teachers at my school was there, too. She saw me smoking and reported me to the school.