Free Stories I Only Tell My Friends: An Autobiography by Rob Lowe

decidedly middle class, the few who do have money are the popular ones, so there is plenty of the kind of talk that comes from cool kids with cash: exotic vacations, new skis, fun restaurants, new clothes, and what kind of party to have when parents are out of town.
    We can’t afford restaurants much. If we do go out, the rule is: No desserts. There is never a vacation. And no new clothes: When I attend a bar mitzvah, I realize I don’t own a belt and my mom gives me a camera strap to use. I am ashamed that I don’t have proper clothes for this special occasion. I want to be respectful, and that’s a hard look to pull off with a camera strap around your waist. But this is where my ability to ignore reality is a gift. I walk in like I’m dressed like James Bond. No one says a word, and in fact, one girl asks where I got the cool belt. Fake confidence on the outside, as I will later learn, often trumps truthful turmoil on the inside.
    Armed with this confidence, I’ve begun to put my toe into school politics. I’m savvy enough to know that I can’t compete with the handsome, older, and more athletic Emilio Estevez for “Boys’ Vice President,” so I choose an office that no one else wants: parliamentarian. (When I tell you I wasn’t a cool kid at Malibu Junior High, consider this entry from that year’s yearbook: “Evan is a babe, but you are gay, sorry, better luck next time!”) At the last second, a kid even more nerdy than I am runs against me. I crush him.
    As the first order of business, the new student council stages a skateboard contest fund-raiser. The winner is a great-looking kid, a year older, named Paul, who runs with a rough crowd from down in Santa Monica, or “Dog Town” as they call it. They are the pioneers of the mid-’70s skateboarding boom; Paul is the first person I ever knew to have his own poster. Looking at him doing one of the sport’s first aerials, I think: I want to be on a poster!
    A girl who I’ve been doing scenes with in my drama class, Holly Robinson, is popular. She’s a bit of an icon, being one of only two black girls in the school and having a father “back East” who appeared on Sesame Street . Holly is the star at all the talent shows and even people like Linda Ronstadt make the pilgrimage to our school auditorium to hear her sing. (Later in life, Holly will have a Hollywood career of her own, starring in tons of television shows. But now we do our scenes together in front of the drama teacher, who, the rumor goes, once stored a body in an industrial freezer—which seems outrageous to me, as there is nothing to indicate that the poor man even owns an industrial freezer.) Holly has the hots for Paul and is talking to him after the skateboard-contest award ceremony. She’s standing with her mother, Dolores, who is a fledgling Hollywood manager, and some guy I have never seen before. Holly and I are good enough friends now, so I walk over to say hi. Dolores knows I want to be an actor and she puts her arm around me.
    “How is it going?”
    “Okay,” I say, trying to be optimistic in front of someone legit.
    “Well, you keep pushing. You’ll get there,” she says.
    I look at Holly, but she is looking at Paul.
    “Oh, and I want you to meet my client,” she says, gesturing to the guy standing next to her. “I want you to take a long look at this amazing young man. Take this moment in and remember it, because I promise you that this time next week, he is going to be the most famous person in America.”
    I look him over. He’s not all that much older than me, really. Maybe nineteen or twenty. He’s black, with big, sweet eyes. I’m not sure what the hell Dolores is talking about, but she is deadly serious, so I am paying attention.
    “Hi, I’m Rob.”
    He smiles dazzlingly. “Hi, I’m LeVar.”
    By the following Friday, LeVar Burton was the most famous face in America. His performance as Kunta Kinte in Roots put him on the cover of Time magazine and changed