Challenge Accepted!

Each year we would have a different compere for our concerts. One year it was Humphrey B. Bear (a fucking mute bear, go figure), another year it was Miss Colleen’s random son Brad, another year it was our singing teacher. I always dreamt of being that compere; I thought of this position as being much like when a Saturday Night Live cast member comes back to host, something I really wanted to do and aspired to.

This year we had some old, washed up local ‘entertainer’. I’m sure he was a great pimp back in the ’20s, and what seemed like the natural progression of his career was to then host nightly trivia on cruise ships and compere at kids’ dance concerts.

So, my costumes were set, I had just finished – sorry, SLAYED – my solo and I ran offstage, dodging my fellow not-so-professional teenage dancers as they made their way on with chairs and feather boas, and looked for my carefully placed gear.

It was exactly where I left it. YES, let’s get busy!

As I raced over to my things, adjusting my clipped-in wig, I noticed there was a stool placed over my stuff. No problem, I’ll just reach under said stool, grab my costume, throw it all on and be back onstage for the opening bars of ‘Big Spender’ – front and centre where I belonged, goddammit!

It was at this point that I realised the compere, a Big Fat Talentless Old Man, was sitting on this stool, preventing me from getting what I needed (oh, what a metaphor for life as a female). The Big Fat Talentless Old Man was talking to another Big Fat Talentless Old Man, and the two of them were having a jolly old time side stage at a kids’ dance concert. When they saw me approaching they smiled at each other, and the compere spoke to me.

Big Fat Talentless Old Man: What’s wrong, sweetheart?

Me: Um, I need to get my things.

BFTOM: Where are they?

Me: Um, they are under the stool.

BFTOM: Oh, I see.

And with that he looked at the other Big Fat Talentless Old Man and smiled.

I could hear the beginning of ‘Big Spender’; I needed to get my stuff and get the fuck out of there. When I realised what I needed to do to get my things and the smug looks on their faces, I froze.

The compere stared at me as he sat back in his stool – the fucking stool that was preventing me from getting to my things and my career! He crossed his arms, spread his legs open as wide as his creaking old hips would let him, and slid his crotch forward on the stool.

‘Well, you better get down there and get them, sweetheart.’

You’ve got to be kidding me. I walked slowly to the stool, feeling both their eyes on me, and instantly felt sick.

When I got to the stool I bent down to get my things as quickly as I could, and he spread his fat short legs further apart and slid his crotch further forward on the stool towards my face and groaned, and the other Big Fat Talentless Old Man laughed for a second time.

‘Fuck you,’ I wanted to say. But he was a man, and I was a female child. But fuck you!

As soon as I grabbed my stuff I thought, ‘Brilliant, I’m done, I can quickly get changed and get the fuck out of here, and tell my dad all about it after the concert so he and my uncle Ray’ – who wasn’t even at that concert but would have made the seven-hour trip – ‘can beat up these two predators.’

However, as we weren’t performing at the O2 Arena like we acted as though we were, there wasn’t a lot of room side stage, and I quickly realised that this exploitation wasn’t over. It had, as I was about to learn, only just started.

I realised I had nowhere to change except directly in front of the fat, groaning, objectifying men. I felt a wave of fear come over me. I had to either miss my dance – a dance that I was so excited about, my fucking dance – or get dressed in front of these two pigs, who seemed to delight in making a 15-year-old girl feel uncomfortable, unsafe, scared and as though it was her job to entertain them.

I kept my head down and got changed as fast as I could. They were staring at me the whole time. The only time they broke their stare was to wink at each other. I focused on the music onstage, knowing the quicker I ended this involuntary performance behind the black curtain the quicker I could get out onstage and perform in the light.

I got my skirt on, changed my shoes and ran onto the stage four bars into the song with tears in my eyes.

Tears soon turned to sweat as I danced my heart out, completely forgetting about what had just happened, to the point of thinking I had made it up and it hadn’t really happened at all.

My Jupiters Casino costume with alternating black and silver sequins. To be paired with a red feather boa of course.

Siblings by blood. Best friends because we are paid to be.

@khloekardashian

@kyliejenner

with Olivia Barber-Hays

The One About My Fake Brother, Michael

IN THE FIRST HOUSE WE LIVED IN, Dad built Liv and me a Costume Room off the back of the garage to keep all the dancing costumes my mum had sewn for our not-so-lucrative yet overenthusiastic careers as entertainers. It was awesome.

For my sister and me, the Costume Room was a magical place. It was where our two worlds collided.

Growing up, Olivia and I were completely different. She was cool and independent and ate 37 apples a day. And even though she was clumsier than a newborn trying to ride a unicycle, she was fearless.

Walking home from school one day, she said, ‘If I ran fast enough I could totally jump over that four-foot barbed-wire fence,’ and with that she ran full-force into said fence, which resulted in a busted knee, a trip to the hospital and 12 stitches.

At 36, she recently tested out her agility by trying to ride a skateboard – an obvious choice for a fully grown adult who trips over uneven grass.

‘Can I borrow your deck and have a roll?’ she asked Api one summer’s day.

‘Sure, mate.’ He is her biggest fan.

She jumped on that board like she was a seasoned pro. As the skateboard took off down the hill with Olivia atop it, laughing her head off, my darling Api was running alongside her, experiencing fear that only Olivia should have been feeling.

When it was starting to get a bit crazy he said, ‘All right, Livvo,’ (that’s what he calls her) ‘when you’re ready just jump off, keeping your weight even.’

‘Sweet!’ she screamed with excitement.

Of course, being a Barber she did the exact opposite. She took more of a one-footed flying leap off the skateboard, and as she was mid-air, under his breath Api said, ‘Oh, fuck! Not like that.’

She hit the ground like a sack of shit.

Mum, Dad and I didn’t flinch, as this was a common occurrence.

But Api was worried, and strangers who saw and felt the thud were concerned too. People ran over to see if she was OK, and a lovely homeless man who was sitting nearby offered her his walking stick.

I’m pretty sure Olivia laughed so hard she farted.

I’m a lot more precious than my sister. I wouldn’t be caught dead on a skateboard; I’m flat out trying to swing myself on a swing set without freaking out. I’m scared of everything. I check the bath for sharks and even mentioning the word ‘snake’ has me lifting my feet off the ground and placing them higher than my head.

This is a red rag to a bull for my sister: pissing me off was her job description as a teenager, and she was bloody good at her job. She’s the funniest person I know; she can laugh at herself like no one I’ve ever met.

Whenever Olivia and I see each other she still wants to wrestle me. Partly because she knows she can beat 50 shades of piss out of me, but mainly because she knows I’m going to scream her name, ‘OOOLLLIIIVVVIIIAAA,’ like Oprah does when she introduces a celebrity, while I throw my arms around like a helicopter to keep her away from me.

We went to different schools most of our lives.

Olivia went to the local public school, and was cool and awkward and fitted right in. I was more challenging and needed a smaller school with more attention. So I was off to the local private Catholic school that had only been open for a year.

Not surprisingly, we weren’t the best of friends growing up, as I didn’t understand the Keanu obsession (I was more of a Jonathan Taylor Thomas kind of gal) and there were only so many times she could tolerate me screaming at her through tears: ‘You just don’t get it, Olivia! The Spice Girls ARE better than The Beatles!’ But I loved her the regular little sister amount.

Over the years we have become really close, super-close. We talk to each other at least five times a day, have been known to have Skype dinners with each other and our families (we live in different states) and have entire conversations only using dialogue from Bad Boys.

Even though we didn’t have much in common as kids, we would hang out in the Costume Room Dad built us and talk about everything from which Corey she would marry, Feldman or Haim, to how plausible it was for me to wear the wedding dress from the ‘November Rain’ film clip to my own wedding, ‘because I really want to play to my strengths and show off my legs’. I was eight.

I remember a specific day in the Costume Room that changed my life forever. Olivia was using a blunt pencil to carve the lyrics of ‘Riders on the Storm’ into the chipboard floor, and I was wrapping myself up in tulle, humming along to ‘Anything You Can Do’, when she dropped a bomb.

Olivia: Hey, I need to tell you something.

Me: OK, want to make up a dance first?

Olivia: No, this is important.

Taking the sequinned bowler hat off my head, I was all ears.

Me: What’s wrong?

Olivia: If I tell you this you have to promise not to tell Mum or Dad that I told you.

WARNING: If an older sibling says they have information they want you to know but you can’t let your parents know you know, run for the fucking hills with your fingers in your ears screaming: ‘NOT LISTENING, BITCH!!!!’

Me: OK.

Olivia: You have to pinky-promise not to tell ANYONE.

Me: Fine.

Olivia: And if you keep the promise I’ll let you sleep in my room for a whole week.

This was just getting better and better: a pinky promise, street cred from my big sister AND permission to sleep in her room for a whole week. Let’s do this!

We pinky-promised and I braced myself for the biggest moment of my life.

Olivia: Ready?

Me: You betcha!

Olivia: OK. We have a brother.

I froze. I slowly put the tulle wrap back on the rack, next to the sequinned bowler hat, and walked over to her without blinking.

Me: UM, WHAT?!

Olivia: Yep, we totally have a brother. His name is Michael.

Me: Where is he? Is he upstairs?

Olivia: He’s dead. He died of a terrible disease.

Me: Oh, my God! What?

Olivia: He died of leukaemia.

Me: I don’t know what that is.

Olivia: It’s blood AIDS.

I started crying, I was so sad. The thought of having a brother was awesome, and I was so invested in this idea, then hearing he had died, and of something as terrible as blood AIDS, I mean, you can’t make this stuff up.

Olivia: It gets worse.

Me: How?!

Olivia: When Dad built this Costume Room he knew we would love it and be here most of the time.

Me: Dad’s so nice.

Olivia: So they buried Michael under the Costume Room so we would feel connected to him.

And with that she smiled, walked out, and closed and locked the door behind her, leaving me in there on my own, with dead fake Michael’s ghost.

That was the last day I ever went into the Costume Room. Mum would be up all night beading our costumes, and I loved sitting and watching her, imagining myself dancing around wearing her intricate craftsmanship, but as soon as Mum asked me to quickly go down to the Costume Room to grab something for her, the dream ended. I would refuse, point-black. It broke both of our hearts.

I love my sister more than I thought possible – she is my most favourite person in the world (well, her and Prince Harry) – but whenever we meet someone named Michael or Michelle, I need to take a deep breath and a big step back, and remind myself that my sister is blood, and there’s no way I would survive jail.

Eight-year-old Celeste (left) with 176-year-old Olivia (right) in Sacramento, California. If you look close enough, you won’t see the ghost of our fake brother.

The basis of any good relationship – trust.

@maxxharley

@rebeccaeliasek

@hothusband_

(Top photograph by Mark Del Mar)

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