Kira Coplin - Pop Tart

‘I took a SPFX course over the summer a couple years ago–it was kind of cool–we did a lot of horror-movie-type stuff,’ I eagerly told her when it was my turn. I had hoped that would’ve impressed her, but she simply smiled and nodded.

‘I think I would be good at makeup–I’ve always had a knack for it. But…how would I even start?’ I asked.

‘To get the good jobs–to be a professional,’ the woman said, ‘you would need to align yourself with a big company…one that will commission you to travel and to work on events all over the world.’

‘Umm…and how do I do that?’ I asked confused.

‘You’d be invited in for an interview with a makeup line and to do a demonstration for them…but before you could even get an interview you’d have to have a working portfolio and a video reel,’ she sniffed.

‘Wow, okay. I mean, do you need to take classes someplace, or what?’

‘Most lines offer advanced classes for artists who are already considered professionals, there’s nothing for those that are aspiring.’ She stopped for a moment and then raised an eyebrow as if she was about to tell me a secret. ‘Your best bet would be to apprentice for an artist that’s already established. That way you can get your feet wet right away. Look, I don’t have anything right now, but I have a girlfriend who works for a line in Beverly Hills and she gets booked for entertainment and high-fashion jobs all the time. I’m sure she could use some help.’

A week later I accepted an apprenticeship with Sheryl Lane, or as the slogan on her website read, ‘Sheryl Lane, Makeup Artist to the Stars!’ I would be available to Sheryl five days a week, possibly more–starting at 8 AM and working as long as she needed me.

As I walked into the house, the smell of chicken roasting from the kitchen caught me off guard. My mother rarely cooked when I was in high school, and since I’d returned from Boston and settled back into the home I’d grown up in, it had become even more infrequent.

‘Special occasion?’ I asked, throwing my messenger bag clumsily on the floor near the back door. She looked up from the counter where she was preparing green beans to give me a disgusted look.

‘I’m just cleaning up in here, do you really have to leave your mess all over the floor?’

‘My mess?’ I asked before pointing down toward my bag that I left in the same place every day. ‘You mean this?’ Consumed with the green beans once again, she merely nodded. As I was scooping my belongings off of the floor, my father breezed through the back door, looking famished.

‘It’s almost done,’ my mother said seeing the look on his face. ‘Jackie, put out some silverware and get ready to eat.’

We ate in silence for the first few minutes until my father loudly cleared his throat. ‘Since we’re all here, we should probably talk.’

‘About?’ Though I had tried to conceal it in my voice, the aggression with which I forked my food back and forth along my plate hinted at my annoyance.

‘It didn’t sound to me, when we spoke on the phone today, like you are too interested in going back to school,’ my mother said slowly. Too interested? The way she said it made me cringe, as if I had been stringing her along, forcing her to cling on to some sort of hope when in reality I’d been brutally honest with her for months.

‘I’m not,’ I said.

‘So working at that makeup store, which is perfectly fine if that’s what you want , is the plan?’ my father asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yeah. For now, anyway.’ I didn’t know if makeup was something I wanted to do for the rest of my life, but it was something I was good at, and something I could even be great at–something that would take me places. I could tell from their frowning faces, however, that this wasn’t the answer they were looking for.

‘Well, if this is going to be your career it’s only fair that you start supporting yourself financially. A girl your age shouldn’t be living rent free,’ my father said. I scowled. I could only imagine what most of the kids I’d grown up with in Beverly Hills were up to. I could just imagine them now, lounging in the private screening rooms of their statuesque homes, playing doubles on the adjacent tennis courts above Sunset, and guzzling out of $400 bottles plucked from the wine cellars of their parents who were vacationing in St John for the next three months. For me, growing up here was far from fancy; in fact, I felt more ordinary here than I would’ve in Oklahoma City. I didn’t return to my family’s modest Spanish-style home on a square lot south of Wilshire to be pampered, I did it because I was unable to afford a place of my own.

‘Fine. I’ll start looking for apartments in Watts since that’s the only place I’ll be able to afford one,’ I joked.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, we’re not pushing you out into the ghetto. You can stay in the garage apartment, you’re just going to have to pay some rent.’

‘That’s right.’ My father nodded in agreement with my mother. ‘And that goes for your car too. I think it’s only fair that you take over insurance and maintenance.’

In shock, I looked out the side window at the sad-looking Jeep Wagoneer that I had driven since high school. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It wasn’t the money that upset me…sure, a few skylights and a fireplace may have been the fanciest features of our home, but that didn’t mean that we were poor. We were far from it. But we were also far from the type, like some I went to high school with, who took private jets and were driven around in limousines. These were the kinds of people my parents would complain about for hours…but they were also the ones that they gave their full attention to. As a kid I could never understand it. If these Hollywood folks were really so awful, why did my parents spend so much time tending to them instead of me? I wanted to know what it was like. I wanted to be a part of that world too, to be as fabulous as the creatures they cater to, and yet they found this to be unacceptable for me. And now I was being punished it seemed. Sometimes I wondered what I looked like through their eyes. Goofy, clumsy, never-able-to-finish-anything Jackie–she doesn’t have what it takes to work in entertainment .

Interrupting my self-loathing, my mother piped up. ‘You had such a good thing going for you back East. I’d hate to see you ruin that. I don’t want to see you get lost out here, like so many people do…’

‘I don’t want to live a life you’ve planned out for me,’ I said, the frustration rising in my voice and red flames burning up my cheeks. ‘Just because you’ve always been so miserable out here doesn’t mean I’m destined to be!’

‘That’s enough,’ my father growled, but I was unable to stop myself.

‘…You always talk about people following their dreams…so why is it you want me to give up on mine?’

‘Honey, it’s not that I want you to give up on your dreams–I just don’t understand what yours are?’ The way she raised her eyebrows with mock concern normally drove me absolutely crazy, but as I listened to her speak a feeling of relief began to settle over me.

‘Just because we don’t have the same one doesn’t make mine ridiculous,’ I said calmly before turning and walking out of the dining room. Cool winter engulfed me as I made my way up the rickety steps to the apartment over the garage. I had no plan, no idea as to how I was going to make extra money but at that moment I couldn’t have cared less. I had never felt so free in my entire life. Starting immediately, I would pay rent like any other kid my age, and make sure to save enough money for things like car insurance, oil changes, and gas. Well it may have been the end of my social life, which was scarce these days anyway, it certainly wasn’t the end of the world. Since the hourly wage that Sheryl paid me wasn’t enough to cover even half of my newly incurred expenses, I was going to have to take on another job, and quick.