turned to see Buster standing in the doorway to her room.
“You say that line one more time,” he said, “and I’m going to set the house on fire.”
“I’m rehearsing,” Annie said.
“You sound like a parrot,” Buster said, frowning.
“I’m rehearsing,” she yelled, and she threw the plastic cup back at Buster, who skulked back into his room, slamming the door shut.
“Sometimes I think my heart is in my tummy,” Annie said quietly, whispered to herself like a coded message. Her heart, in her chest, beat furiously with excitement.
A nnie was to play Nellie Weaver in a low-budget film called Knives Out, which was about a traveling salesman, Donald Ray, who goes on a cross-country, yearlong trip selling steak knives to get out from under the debt brought on by his gambling. She was the main character’s mentally challenged daughter. She was to have a single line in the movie.
There had been an open call in Nashville and Annie had begged her parents to take her. The Fangs had been skeptical. “Oh, honey,” Mrs. Fang said, “an actress? That’s one step away from a dancer.” Mr. Fang then said, “Which is one step away from a model.”
“I just want to try,” Annie said.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Fang continued. “What happens if this movie becomes a success and you start getting recognized by everyone when we create our happenings? We’ll lose the anonymity necessary to enact these events.”
This sounded like heaven to Annie. She would become Annie Fang, child star, instead of Child A, artistic prop. People would recognize her in the middle of a Fang event and they would ask for her autograph; her parents, not wanting to attract attention, would simply have to wait until all requests for photos and handshakes had been fulfilled. She could, effectively, ruin everything for her parents.
“Please?” Annie asked.
After a few days, Mr. and Mrs. Fang relented. In quiet discussions at night, they hashed out the various ways that they might disrupt the proceedings, to put their own stamp on the movie, if Annie was selected. “Okay,” they finally told her. “You can be an actor if you want to.”
For her audition, she performed a scene from All About Eve, her favorite movie, and as she brought the unlit cigarette, stolen from a woman’s purse in the lobby, to her lips, she said, “Slow curtain. The end,” and took a long drag. The director began to clap, smiling broadly, looking from side to side at the other people at the casting table. “That was wild,” he told her, shaking her hand, “just wild as hell.” When she walked into the lobby, her parents asked her how it went. “Fasten your seat belts,” Annie said, the cigarette dangling from her lips, “it’s going to be a bumpy night.” The Fangs had no idea what the hell she was talking about.
T wo weeks before she was to leave for Little Rock, Arkansas, the film’s location, to shoot her scenes, the Fangs sat in the waiting room of the JCPenney portrait studio to have their annual Christmas photo taken. Annie had been in character for the past month, eating with a bib on, struggling to tie her shoes, a dumb smile always on her face, the broad strokes of retardation that she hoped would add authenticity to her performance. She held a magazine upside-down, her nose running, while the rest of her family put on their fangs. “Honestly, Annie,” Mrs. Fang said, her tongue probing the points of her new teeth, “there’s something to be said for subtlety.” Annie almost broke character, the idea of her parents, wearing custom-made veneers to look like werewolves, calling for subtle gestures. Her mother cupped Annie’s face with her right hand and slipped the fangs into Annie’s mouth. “Don’t lose them,” Mrs. Fang said. “They’re expensive as hell.”
The fangs had been purchased from a cut-rate dentist open to interesting trades in exchange for services rendered. They had given him an antique quilt from the Civil War,
“You say that line one more time,” he said, “and I’m going to set the house on fire.”
“I’m rehearsing,” Annie said.
“You sound like a parrot,” Buster said, frowning.
“I’m rehearsing,” she yelled, and she threw the plastic cup back at Buster, who skulked back into his room, slamming the door shut.
“Sometimes I think my heart is in my tummy,” Annie said quietly, whispered to herself like a coded message. Her heart, in her chest, beat furiously with excitement.
A nnie was to play Nellie Weaver in a low-budget film called Knives Out, which was about a traveling salesman, Donald Ray, who goes on a cross-country, yearlong trip selling steak knives to get out from under the debt brought on by his gambling. She was the main character’s mentally challenged daughter. She was to have a single line in the movie.
There had been an open call in Nashville and Annie had begged her parents to take her. The Fangs had been skeptical. “Oh, honey,” Mrs. Fang said, “an actress? That’s one step away from a dancer.” Mr. Fang then said, “Which is one step away from a model.”
“I just want to try,” Annie said.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Fang continued. “What happens if this movie becomes a success and you start getting recognized by everyone when we create our happenings? We’ll lose the anonymity necessary to enact these events.”
This sounded like heaven to Annie. She would become Annie Fang, child star, instead of Child A, artistic prop. People would recognize her in the middle of a Fang event and they would ask for her autograph; her parents, not wanting to attract attention, would simply have to wait until all requests for photos and handshakes had been fulfilled. She could, effectively, ruin everything for her parents.
“Please?” Annie asked.
After a few days, Mr. and Mrs. Fang relented. In quiet discussions at night, they hashed out the various ways that they might disrupt the proceedings, to put their own stamp on the movie, if Annie was selected. “Okay,” they finally told her. “You can be an actor if you want to.”
For her audition, she performed a scene from All About Eve, her favorite movie, and as she brought the unlit cigarette, stolen from a woman’s purse in the lobby, to her lips, she said, “Slow curtain. The end,” and took a long drag. The director began to clap, smiling broadly, looking from side to side at the other people at the casting table. “That was wild,” he told her, shaking her hand, “just wild as hell.” When she walked into the lobby, her parents asked her how it went. “Fasten your seat belts,” Annie said, the cigarette dangling from her lips, “it’s going to be a bumpy night.” The Fangs had no idea what the hell she was talking about.
T wo weeks before she was to leave for Little Rock, Arkansas, the film’s location, to shoot her scenes, the Fangs sat in the waiting room of the JCPenney portrait studio to have their annual Christmas photo taken. Annie had been in character for the past month, eating with a bib on, struggling to tie her shoes, a dumb smile always on her face, the broad strokes of retardation that she hoped would add authenticity to her performance. She held a magazine upside-down, her nose running, while the rest of her family put on their fangs. “Honestly, Annie,” Mrs. Fang said, her tongue probing the points of her new teeth, “there’s something to be said for subtlety.” Annie almost broke character, the idea of her parents, wearing custom-made veneers to look like werewolves, calling for subtle gestures. Her mother cupped Annie’s face with her right hand and slipped the fangs into Annie’s mouth. “Don’t lose them,” Mrs. Fang said. “They’re expensive as hell.”
The fangs had been purchased from a cut-rate dentist open to interesting trades in exchange for services rendered. They had given him an antique quilt from the Civil War,
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