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

ushered into a limo that took us to the theater. As we drove, it was the first time I realized we really were in London. There had been so much to think about with the premiere that there hadn’t been the chance to take it all in. We passed the silly red phone booths, the double-decker buses, and women with black umbrellas, who could have been stand-ins for Mary Poppins. I loved how different it all felt. Going to North Carolina for work had felt exotic, but international travel was on a whole other level.
    When we arrived in front of the marquee, my heart froze. The street outside the theater was teeming with hundreds of people. It might have been thousands. When I panic, I hyperventilate, which often leads to blackouts. That had the potential to result in an unintentional royal head butt, so clearly it needed to stop.
    “That’s…that’s a lot of people.”
    Mom waved her hands dismissively at the crowd outside the tinted limo window.
    “They’re waiting for the bus. Look, there’s the stop right there.”
    She was right. There was a stop right outside the theater.
    “It’s London. Everyone takes advantage of public transportation here. It’s very smart. Environmentally responsible, too.”
    I was about to inquire as to why people would be waiting for the bus by crouching on top of the bus shelter with a long-lens camera, but my dad and Grandma beamed at me from the other side of the limo.
    “They’re just waiting for the bus,” they agreed. There was a lot of nodding.
    It seemed best to believe them and it calmed me down a bit as Mom pressed her thumb into my Breathe Button spot in the middle of my palm.
    My family took their seats in the theater and left me to join the other people from the film in the reception line. I waited for the princess’s arrival, between Lucas Haas, who played my older brother in the film, and Jane Robinson, the costume director. I was wearing itchy tights and a horrendous black, flowery Laura Ashley dress with a wide, floppy lace collar that seemed quite sophisticated to my pre-teen sensibilities. The tights had been a last-minute purchase from a Marks & Spencer in London. I had forgotten to bring tights and my grandmother gasped at the thought of me meeting a princess with uncovered legs. My itchy British tights crushed my waist and made me even more uncomfortable. The princess took a long time to arrive but she was a princess, so no one said anything. I fidgeted and my still-healing back was starting to ache from standing so long.
    The dark, rainy London night suddenly turned to daylight with all the flashbulbs and the air filled with the excited yelling of paparazzi. Moments later, Princess Diana stepped into the lobby of the theater and looked just as spectacular as you would expect. As she made her way down the line, being introduced to the representatives of the film, I triedto practice the curtsey in my mind. I slipped my foot behind my ankle a few times to make sure I could still move it.
    She chatted a bit with each person she met. It very much resembled a wedding reception line, except Princess Diana was both bride and groom and was more stunning than both put together. When she was presented to the person just before me, I started to freak out again. Do I look at her now? Or is that eavesdropping? Do I stare straight ahead? Do I look at my shoes and feign surprise when she gets to me? “Oh! Hello there!” As if there was some other reason I had flown to another continent and was wearing itchy tights?
    Before I was able to work out an answer, suddenly, Princess Diana was standing in front of me, reaching out her hand. I took it and curtsied, losing my balance a little and wobbling to the side. She smiled kindly and supported me with her other hand. Strike one. I was specifically told to not steady myself on the princess, as if she were some sort of bejeweled kickstand. But I was a clumsy twelve-year-old who tripped a lot in normal situations and was still nursing a