Scrappy Little Nobody Read online

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  contents

  author’s note

  introduction

  a few disclaimers

  MY DOUBLE LIFE

  origin story

  jaded old chorus girl

  hell, thy name is middle school

  camp

  the mayor of squaresville

  LEAVING THE NEST

  a little night music

  moving to la

  BOYS

  boys and the terror of being near them

  i guess we’re doing this, or how does this scene end?

  he’s just not that interesting

  guys in la

  HOLLYWOOD

  fashion

  making movies is a fool’s errand

  twilight

  big breaks

  award shows

  SCRAPPY LITTLE NOBODY

  my grandmother’s funeral

  fake parties i have planned with the detail of a real party

  batten down the hatches

  the world’s most reluctant adult

  scrappy little nobody

  bonus reading group guide

  acknowledgments

  about anna kendrick

  To Mike, watch out for the icy patch.

  author’s note

  I’m sure I’ve mixed up the timeline and contradicted myself, but I’ve tried to get it right. I’ve changed some names to protect the innocent—and to protect my mother from people in her book club coming at her like, “That’s not how my kid remembers that day in preschool.” A lot of things that are meaningful to me didn’t make the cut because they just weren’t entertaining. For example, my childhood best friend Meg isn’t in the book at all because it turns out my mom was right: those stories really are only funny to the two of us.

  introduction

  1. braid hair

  2. arrange books by color

  3. do homework on the floor

  4. feng shui room

  5. magazine collage

  6. lie in yard with Walkman

  When I was thirteen I started making lists. I’ve always liked structure, and I thought if I broke it down into steps, I could will myself to fit in. My idea of “normal” came mainly from film and television, and with that as my guide, I wrote down the kinds of things a “normal” girl might be doing when a boy showed up unexpectedly at her house. Of course, the one time a boy showed up unexpectedly at my house, he found this list.

  Jared was one of the popular kids at school. We weren’t close, but he was a neighbor, so he occasionally came by. This was the only time he’d ever arrived unannounced. He spotted my notebook, opened it, and started reading out loud.

  “Oh god, that’s stupid. Seriously, put that down, it’s nothing.” I was in a full-out panic. Come on, Anna, why would you generate written evidence of your social and emotional ineptitude and leave it lying around?

  As soon as he left, I ripped the pages out of my journal and burned them in the bathroom sink. The fire made the house stink of carbon for days. When my mom and dad came home I told them I’d been burning incense. I doubt my parents believed me, but they could sense my desperate need to drop the issue, so they moved on. That night, I resolved to keep the crazy inside my head where it belonged. Forever. But here’s the thing about crazy: It. Wants. Out.

  Once I’d moved out of the house at seventeen and there was less threat of unwanted guests pawing through my belongings, I attempted to keep a journal again. I managed only about a dozen entries over a period of two years, but I never did burn it.

  Last year I found this journal. My handwriting as an angsty teen was appalling, yet somehow better than it is now. And the subject to which I devoted the most pages (besides my virginity) was the fear that I would fail—in all things—and have to go back home to Maine with my tail between my legs.

  I had thought my younger self assumed everything would work out—that I was possessed of some reckless confidence you only have in youth. Otherwise, how could I have been fool enough to try? But the journal wasn’t quixotic, it was fearful. The terror was so present, yet I was doing it anyway.

  Shit, I thought, I used to be tough. I used to be brave. I used to be a better version of me. Lately I can’t paint my bedroom walls without asking ten people for their opinion and eventually talking myself out of it altogether.

  I’d moved away from everything I knew and loved at seventeen in spite of how scared I was. I wondered if I would still have it in me to do something I found so daunting. Aren’t you supposed to get more independent as you get older? Shouldn’t I be bolder, more self-sufficient? Have I gotten comfortable? Have I stopped pushing myself the way I did when I was trying to “make something of myself”? Was that a fluke?

  I texted my brother.

  Me: I miss being a scrappy little nobody. I was much more capable.

  Mike: Dude.

  Mike: You’re still scrappy. You just get a lot more emails now.

  Mike: P.S.

  Mike: You’re still a little nobody to me.I

  As if I had asked the universe to send me an example of something intimidating—a test to see if I still had some nerve—the opportunity arose to write a book. Sure, it will be hard, but all you need to be a writer is perseverance, a low-level alcohol dependency, and a questionable moral compass. Is that not what you need? Well, I’ve got a bunch of embarrassing stories. And I’ll keep the rest of that stuff in my back pocket.

  Thanks to my old friend Jared, I’m a pretty private person. I never let anyone, not even friends, into my bedroom or my purse. I have a small stroke anytime someone asks to use my laptop; I only use that thing to look for porn and the definitions of words I should already know. Yet I’ve chosen to commit intimate details of my life and psyche to the page. So, step into my brain, kids!

  I wish I could have called this “It’s not that serious” or “A tweet, but longer.” So much significance is placed on something you put in a book, and I don’t care much for significance. Let’s agree now that we’re just having a conversation and I happen to talk more than I listen (true in real life as well). I tend to spew my opinions until someone interrupts me, and weirdly, my computer never gained sentience to save me from myself.

  There were actually several stories that my mother specifically asked me to include—mostly those rare instances in which I did something out of generosity or love or some other motivation found in emotionally normative humans. I suspect she worries I’m too abrasive and wants me to provide some indication that I’m not a terrible person. Alas, I’ve tried to be honest, because honesty makes me feel less alone, and I hope you are entertained.

  Maybe I should have learned my lesson about “written evidence.” It’s possible that in ten years, every word in here will send me into fits of humiliated paralysis. But the crazy wants out. Let’s do this.

  * * *

  I. Okay, he didn’t actually say that last part, but it would have been perfect if he did.

  a few disclaimers

  I’m Not Kool

  Jessica was the first person to mistake me for someone cool.

  When I was in kindergarten, both of my parents worked full-time, so I went to an after-school program. Every day, a van picked up a few kids from my class and made stops at local schools around the city before driving us to the YMCA in downtown Portland, Maine.

  I had recently discovered (thanks to an incident my m
other and father just love to recount) that I did not make a good first impression. Over the summer, we’d been to a family campground, and while other children met and became immediate playmates, that power evaded me. I sulked for the better part of a week and eventually asked my parents, “Will you find me a friend?” I don’t get why that’s so funny. That’s basically how I feel as an adult. Will one of you guys find me a friend?

  When we picked up Jessica from her school, she marched to the very back of the van—one row behind me—and tapped me on the shoulder. For a five-year-old, she was a deeply confident girl. Jessica was ready to judge her fellow passengers.

  “Are you friends with anyone else here?” she asked.

  My animal instincts knew she was The Alpha, and I needed to think fast to impress her.

  “Oh,” I said, “Dan . . . in the front seat. I know him.”

  I’d “known” Dan since eight o’clock that morning, but admitting I was friendless seemed like it would be worse than lying, so I took the risk. Then I had a terrifying thought: What if she talks to Dan next?

  I continued. “I know Dan, but . . .” I leaned in. “He’s kind of weird.”

  “Oooh.” She nodded her head in recognition. Being judgmental was really taking me places. She narrowed her eyes. “We won’t play with him.” If you say so, Jessica! Your alpha energy is making me feel alive!

  More kids got in the van and Jessica made her assessments swiftly. By the time we arrived, she had curated a small group of girls she deemed worthy and said, “We’re going to play together. We’re the cool kids club.” Hold up, Jess—I’m in the cool kids club? I was five years old, but I already knew that wasn’t right. Just hang in there, Kendrick. Don’t mess this up!

  The group decided we’d officially call ourselves the Cool Kids Club. Since kindergartners are so pressed for time, we decided to just use the initials. And since kindergartners are excellent at spelling, we called ourselves the KKK. When I proudly announced my new affiliation to my mother, she scrambled to explain that neither “Cool” nor “Club” starts with K, but I’d seen billboards for Kool cigarettes, so she wasn’t fooling me.

  The next day, during outside playtime at the Y, Jessica walked straight up to Dan and yelled, “We’re not going to play with you!” She stomped off dramatically and took the rest of the girls with her.

  What the hell was that, Jessica? I said the kid was “kind of weird,” I didn’t say he dismembered cats. You were only supposed to avoid him long enough that I wouldn’t be caught in my lie!

  Jessica became my first enemy. Like most enemies in my life, I hoped to punish her with passive-aggressive glances and silent—but passionate!—resentment. She retaliated by forgetting I existed. Ah, the moral victory.

  I Am a Very, Very Small Weirdo

  First grade was when I realized I was small. I was the smallest, youngest-looking child in every group, no matter the situation. In fact, this is something to bear in mind as we go. Whatever age I am in a given story, subtract three to four years and that’s what I looked like.I

  We were learning about outer space, and our teacher brought in a chart that told us what we would weigh on all the different planets. We were so excited to find out how crazy heavy we’d be on Jupiter and how crazy light we’d be on Pluto. My weight wasn’t listed. It became clear that I didn’t make the cut because there was no calculation for what I would weigh on Pluto. I would weigh nothing. Less than nothing. I would drift into space.

  Oh man. I wasn’t just the smallest one in the class; I was a freak. There was no metric for how deformed I was. It was one thing to be the Chihuahua in a group of Labradors; it was quite another to be the hamster.

  That night I cried to my mother, who assured me that she had been small at my age, too.

  Wow, that really doesn’t help me right now, Mom. When I calmed down, I saw her point. She’d turned out fine. She wasn’t living in a special community for the physically repulsive, so I decided I could go back to school the next day.

  Even adults thought I was younger than I was. This made me extra sensitive, and though they may have meant well, I became one of those little kids who didn’t enjoy grown-ups fucking with me.

  One summer, a Russian wrestling team came through my hometown. My dad had been a wrestler in college, and I believe he was a bit starstruck. He took me to watch their first match, and after letting me play “imagination” under the bleachers for a few hours, he pushed me at the imposing coach, an absolute caricature of a man.

  The coach eyed me and asked, “Vhat’s your name, little guirl?”

  “Anna.”

  “Ah. Anya!”

  Foreigners, I stewed.

  “No.” I spoke more slowly this time. “Anna.”

  “Yes, Anya!”

  Oh, this motherfucker thinks this is cute, I realized. He thinks we’re playing a little game.

  “It’s ANNA,” I said, and I put on my most fearsome face.

  “Aw, Anya.” He reached down and ruffled my hair.

  I snapped my head around to face my dad. Are you going to let him get away with this? This is the name of your beloved mother—may she rest in peace—which means that this man, this Russki, is making a mockery of your flesh and blood twofold!

  He noticed that I was on the verge of a tantrum and picked me up. “I think she’s a little tired.” Oh, is that right? And so I saw. I was going to have to fight and claw to be taken seriously in this life. And probably never quite succeed. I still try to be serious, but apathy has become a part of me now in a way that my six-year-old self couldn’t have foreseen. I’ve never been able to muster the righteous indignation of my elementary school years.

  Back at school, I tried to embrace the smallest things in every category. Favorite instrument in the orchestra? The piccolo. Favorite mammal? The shrew. Favorite country? Monaco. And my favorite planet? Pluto. (Screw you, Neil deGrasse Tyson.)

  Always being the smallest also gave me a specific role in life; it gave me an identity. Lining up by height? Excuse me while I give you a starting point. Gymnastics day in gym class? I’ll prepare myself to be thrown.

  On one “family cleaning” day, my dad bought an extendable duster to clean under low tables, and I lost my mind because I thought I no longer had a purpose in the family. He threw away the duster and went back to letting me do a mediocre job crawling under the furniture.

  First grade led to other discoveries, too. I was small, I was loud, I had ratty hair, but I suspected something deeper was wrong. One day, I tried to articulate this suspicion to my mother.

  “It’s like, it’s like I have a different heart. The other girls have one kind of heart, and I have a different kind.”

  My mom was understandably confused. “Are you saying they’re mean?”

  “No . . . I don’t know.”

  Saying other kids were mean felt like I was saying I was more kind, which definitely wasn’t it—more anxious maybe, more sensitive. I guess all I was feeling was that I was different.

  Sometimes I’ll be at work or a party and get that same feeling. I am not like these people. I don’t know what I’m doing here. And it comforts me to know that I felt that way as a child, too. Maybe that should make me feel worse, but it makes me calm and resolved. I’ve been prepared to be an outsider most of my life.

  I Remember Every Slight: You’ve Been Warned

  In fourth grade I managed to get a good thing going when I discovered the secret to female bonding: the sleepover. Six girls from school would come over to my house and we’d roll out sleeping bags in the spare bedroom above the garage. This became a regular thing, and for the first time I felt like I had a steady group of friends. Even if my attempts at social interaction throughout the school week became awkward and tiresome, by Friday it was sleepover time again and all was forgiven.

  One weekend I went out of town for a dance recital, and when I came back I was informed that a sleepover had taken place without me. Apparently, since my house hadn’t been an opti
on, Tori had offered to host.

  Tori wasn’t in the group, but she’d seen her opportunity to usurp me and she took it. I didn’t like Tori; Tori was mean. If I’d known what was good for me, I would have just shut up and accepted that we could alternate weekends. Maybe I’d even have to invite her over from now on, but that would be a small price to pay for true friendship. Sadly, my sense of justice would not allow me to make this sacrifice; I’d rather be right than happy. I reminded the girls that we, as a group, didn’t like Tori, that she was a bully. But no one listened.

  The next day on the playground I was standing in line for the monkey bars, thinking about what I would say if I ever met the cast of Boy Meets World, and then I was on the ground. Fuzzy black stars appeared and dissolved in slow motion, and when my vision came back, I felt a choking sensation. I was being dragged across the gravel by the collar of my army jacket.

  Tori!

  I scratched and clawed at her, but she was big for our grade. She towed me across the playground and under the slide. When I was put on my feet, I stood in front of a tribunal of the sleepover gang, who were standing in over-the-top indignant poses.

  The slide on this particular playground was flanked by a wooden climbing wall (a normal wall with an old rope on it), so when you were underneath it you had a degree of privacy. Students had taken to scratching their initials into the backside of The Wall’s soft wood, which gave this dark corner of the playground a kind of menacing, Victorian-asylum quality. Something new was there. Haphazardly written in some kind of Magic Marker were the words Mary D is a jerk. In fact, as my eyes began to adjust, I saw that hastily scrawled insults about almost every girl in our group now adorned The Wall. Based on the manner in which I’d been summoned to this meeting, I knew what was coming.

  I tried to protest. I didn’t do it! I was their friend! I mean, “Mary D is a jerk”? “Amanda sucks”? Why would I write a bunch of mean stuff about my friends?! Using such generic insults?!