You Look Like That Girl: A Child Actor Stops Pretending and Finally Grows Up by Lisa Jakub Page A

him for spending time with me, but what I meant was, “I love you.”
    “I had a blast. I can’t wait to see your show when it comes out,” he said.
    “You mean hear it?”
    “Hey, no making fun of the blind guy.” He swatted at my shoulder and I melted.
    “I’ll make sure you know when it’s on.”
    “Do me a favor?”
    “Anything.” I meant it.
    “You know how you were telling me about that scene in the movie when you get really mad and throw stuff around? When you film that part, you should throw something through a window.”
    “Why?”
    “I’ll hear the smash and know you are doing it for me.”
    “I will. Promise,” I managed to say through the lump in my throat.
    We hugged good-bye and I inhaled the warm, musty scent of teenaged boy. I wanted to stay there forever, in Margaret’s living room, being held by this sweet, thoughtful, kind boy. He didn’t let go and I wondered how long it would be before someone peeled me off him. Eventually, Mom ushered me out the door and I stumbled to the car in my love haze.
    Soon after, I left for the shoot and spent the following four months working on the mini-series. I thought about Scott often and tried to make him proud of my authentic portrayal of blindness. I used the cane the right way and instructed the other actors, explaining that I needed to hold their arm just above the elbow if they were walking with me in the scene. I fought with the producers about how the role should be played and changed details to make them more realistic. It appeared that I was a devoted method actor; I was really just a kid with my first crush.
    While I was on location in Italy, my grandma heard from Margaret that Scott had received a scholarship to a prestigious blind school and moved across the country to live in the dorms. It was over, whatever it had been. I’d never see him again. I was heartbroken imagining him out there somewhere, feeling some other girl’s face and eating a better-balanced PB&J.
    Filming continued, despite the fact I was navigating my first broken heart. I threw myself into my work and enjoyed the distraction of being on location in a foreign land. Mom and I made friends with the waiters at the restaurant across the street who liked to practice their English. I attempted to get my schoolwork done, even though it felt ridiculous to try to study French in Italy. I found plenty of enjoyment from the education provided by wandering through Roman ruins and sampling every gelato shop in town.
    The day we filmed the scene of my emotional breakdown, I remembered my promise to acknowledge Scott in the show. During rehearsals, I saw that there was no window to smash, so I asked the director if I could throw a lamp.
    “It’s something my character would do,” I said with all the passion a twelve-year-old actor could muster.
    After checking with prop masters and sound people, the director reluctantly allowed it.
    “Let’s try to get this in one take, people! She’s gonna be breaking shit.”
    I broke that lamp with enormous intention, gratitude and love. I broke it for a boy who took things in stride, who lived his life with joyful gratitude and zero pity. A boy who didn’t surrender to the challenges of life and who taught me it was okay to laugh at my mistakes. A boy who smelled really good and waited for me to let go first. A boy who thought I was pretty, even though he never saw my face.
    It’s still some of my best work.

    One of the wonderful things about a film shoot is its intensity and ability to consume every moment of your waking life. Filming hours are demanding and it’s easy to become totally immersed and forget about one’s love interest back home. (This would be a skill I would perfect, to quite a fault, later in my career.) I worked hard, studied my script, and enjoyed living in Rome. It was always one of my favorite parts of film life, the opportunity to live somewhere new while on location for several months. I learned to shut off my