Scrappy Little Nobody
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Authors: Anna Kendrick
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hell, thy name is middle school
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
making movies is a fool’s errand
fake parties i have planned with the detail of a real party
the world’s most reluctant adult
To Mike, watch out for the icy patch.
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.
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
W
hen 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.
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 mother 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?