In the picture, I am an angel. My small, heart-shaped face peers back at me, filled with hope and promise. Blond ringlets frame my eyes, tumble down onto my neck, brush against my cheeks. A sprinkle of freckles cascades over my nose. My hands are compliant but expressive. I am the picture of good behavior. A perfect child, who would give anything to feel special.

I press my knees together, feeling the knots of my bones. My slim, childish limbs arm held against one another, primly. The car was hot, but I remember being so conscious of my dress, a light blue number with lace trim and a tie belt in the back—pure ‘60s little girl chic. I tried not to sweat or crease it in the slightest way. I could feel my feet perspiring in my short white ankle socks and black patent leather Mary-Janes. It was the afternoon, and my stomach was grumbling. I haven’t eaten since morning. I forced myself to stay dry, promising to smile through whatever God sends. I must be stronger than all of it.

My mother sitting beside me in driver’s seat -concentrating. She was gorgeous, as usual, her strawberry blond hair glistening in the light. She wore a brightly patterned mini-dress and huge round sunglasses. To me, she looks like Jackie O, Marilyn Monroe and the Queen of Sheba, all rolled together. Glamorous, carefree, someone who clearly knows the score.

I was five years old, going to an “interview,” as my mother calls them. Several other children would be there, their hopeful, spit-shined faces like mine, carrying identical headshots and sporting the wearied intelligence of child performers who have done this so many times before. They would huddle with parents or acting coaches in their own personal corner, whispering as if in prayer, absorbing the hopes of those around them, promising to do their best, to book that part or get that commercial. Some would break under the pressure or forget their lines and cry. But the best of them would look on with something akin to boredom, as if to say: Step aside, amateur, this part is mine.

My mother leaned close speaking to me, and I tried to focus on her words. “Hilary, pay attention. Do you know your lines?” “Yes, Mommy.” I replied. “And you remember what I told U?” “Smile, look in their eyes.” “Look in their eyes when you smile. Do them together.” “Right.”

I wanted to look out the window, watch the greenish hills slip by as we wend our way towards Hollywood. I wonder if anyone has horses here, what it would be like to ride them, to feel their hot, furry flanks under my legs. I remember our own horses at home. Comfort wells inside me.

My mother pulled the car into a shaded space, shifted the car into park on the steering column. She turned to me, taking off her sunglasses. “You want to run your lines one more time?” “No, I know them.” I said. “You’re sure?” “Yes, I’m sure.” “Completely sure?” “Yes.” I was so clenched with anticipation I couldn’t feel anything, not fear of rejection, or happiness at getting to perform. Just concentration, focus. I wanted to be worthy of the picture on my lap. I wanted to become that girl who looks so bright your eyes almost hurt. My mother reached across the vinyl seat and grabbed my hand, squeezed tightly. “This part is yours, Hilary. All you have to do is go in and take it.” “Okay, Mommy.” I risked a smile, feeling that she’s on my side. She brought me here, right? We got out and go inside the casting office, where the hallway is crowded with other children. Organized chaos reigns, with casting agents calling out names, supervising the signature of various forms with parents or guardians and matching headshots with resumes and call sheets. My mother is charming with these people, shining her brightest smile on them and holding her body in a pleasing, friendly way. We are given a piece of paper and asked to join the others waiting in the hall.

My mother pulls me into the recessed area by the water foundation, where no one can hear us. “I want to make sure you’re ready to do this, Hilary. It’s important.” “Yes, Mommy, I’m ready.”

“You know your father can’t get a decent job and unless you get this, your brother and sisters are all going to starve. Do you understand?” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yes, Mommy.” “Why do you look at me like that? What, you don’t believe me?” I remained voiceless, to terrified to say the wrong answer. “Well, without you working, we’d all be out on the God damn street.” I forced my bare gaze to look down at the floor and seeing a silvery gum wrapper, I then lean down to pick it up. I turn it over and over in my hands. Her hands reached out to shake my shoulders. “Hilary, pay attention. You have to focus in your interview, or you won’t get it. Now go get that part, Missy. It belongs to you, so go get it!” She then spits into her hand, arranges the curls around my face, wipes a teeny speck of dust from my cheekbone that I can only guess blew in when I opened the car door. I have become a champion at staying spotless. Fifteen minutes later, my name is called, and my mother fills her lungs with air and breathes out loudly, as if she were the one about to audition. Rising to her feet, she clutches my upper arm and directs me towards the open door at the end of the hall. She relinquishes the piece of paper we were given and the casting agent smiled down at me warmly. “Hello, Hilary, how are you today?” “Fine, ma’am, thanks for asking. How are U?” Laughing a little, she says, “Very well, thank you.”

We pass through the door and I can see Charles Schulz and Bill Melendez sitting in office chairs. My mother catches sight of them, too, and she dazzles that smile in their direction. But the casting agent heads her off and says quietly, “No need to come in, Mrs. Momberger, they just want to see the children today.” “But I always come in with her.” My mother’s voice sounded slightly whiny and defeated. I could see the air rapidly leaving her sails. “Just Hilary for now, ma’am,” the casting director says, firmly. My mother didn’t dare argue. I turned towards the door as they were leaving and catch sight of my mother’s face: a mixture of fear, anger and surprise, that she won’t get what she’s come for, after all. I kept my focus and stared back at her. This part is mine. It belongs to me. I wanted to laugh out loud, to sing or roll around on the floor, get as dirty as I pleased. There was power surging through my little five-year old body, the knowledge that day, I’d done something I had never succeeded in doing before. I actually found it. The one place my mother can’t touch me. Charles Schulz was a gentle, soft-spoken man. I was not afraid of him in the least. He leaned forward in his chair when he spoke to me and asked me lots of questions about what I liked to do. I felt at ease because he was entirely calm, completely focused on me. I giggled and answer his questions, as any personality-rich little girl would. There wasn’t any singing or dancing, no memorized lines or practiced deliveries. Just me, being myself, which felt marvelous and indulgent. I felt so big inside I wanted to reach out and touch the walls on either side. I glittered and came to life. Bill Melendez had black hair and a Salvador Dali mustache. He was quirky and friendly, with a slight trace of an accent. As we got into the conversation, he teased me, asks me more questions, and made the whole experience fun. I didn’t mind a bit of it, because I knew the longer the interview lasted, the longer I could avoid getting back into the car with my mother.

After the interview was over, I met her in the car, and could tell before I had gotten the door closed that she was in a bad mood. Her sunglasses are on, her face was pinched between her eyebrows, and she was smoking, furiously, making broad gestures and allowing the ash to settle over the seat and drifting over to my light blue dress, no longer needed for impressions’ sake. “Who do they think they are? I mean, I’ve never been asked to wait outside one of your interviews. Never!”

She inhaled a few more times from her Kool cigarette, and I could practically c her heart pounding through the thin material of her dress. The ribbon in her hair had come askew, and I wanted to reach over and re-tie it, set it straight on the side of her head. But I knew not to do that. “I mean, you wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me. I was the one who had you, Iwas the one who gave you the gifts you have. I could have brought Evans and Siobhan, but they’re too pretty. I brought them you, which is exactly what they needed, and they treat me like that. What kind of people are they, huh?”

I shrugged my shoulders, uncertain about which response she wanted. Her hands were making chopping motions in the air as she detailed their list of abuses against her. “I have half a mind to …” She could go no further, realizing, as I did, that this was impossible. Still, I’m was willing to go along with whatever she had in her brain, imagining the storm she can become unleashed on the unsuspecting casting agents, on kindly Mr. Schulz an Mr. Melendez. She threw what’s left of her cigarette out the window and shifted in her seat. “How did it go in there? Did you get it? Did U?” “I don’t know …” “Did you say your lines? How did you do it? The way I told you to?” “Yes, Mommy.”

I learned to reduce her voice to the sound of a dull whine as I tried to look beyond hershoulder, to the birds flitting about the spikes of a palmetto tree. But I was a aware enough to be ready for anything. Her arm came toward me and I flinched, visibly. But this time she reached for her purse, clawing through it for her cigarettes. She lights one with a flip-top Zippo and closes it with a flourish. “You know, this is a big deal. This will be money, lots of it. If you get this show, you’ll have food, our house and the horses. We can have all the things you want, Hilary.” I felt my stomach clench with the knowledge that there’s nothing I could do about it now. All I could do was wait, and keep going to my dancing lessons, my singing lessons, my Latin and seemingly endless schedule of self-improvement tasks. On the drive home, my mother remained silent. But I notice the look on her face, the look that seemed to be planning my life—the interviews I will go on, the money I will mean for her, for the family. The work I will do, the things she will buy. The power I will transfer simply by becoming a perfect extension of her. One without a say. In the days that follow, I was able to forget, mostly, about this part. I played with our horses and swam in our pool, feeling the anxiety only when my mother mentioned that the casting agent had not called back yet, that I’d better have gotten that part. When my siblings heard her, they would exchange worried glances with me, fearful as I about what would happen if I didn’t get it. We all believed that wed live on the streets if I didn’t work, that our food sources would dwindle and cease. My father scowled at my mother and moved into the next room. We could hear them arguing. Soon, playing becomes more important to us, and our fear subside. The sun blazed down on us like it would never go out.

About a week later, the phone rings. I could tell my mother believes the call to be important because she was silent, listening, which she almost never did.

The silence was so beguiling that I hung around in the doorway so that she couldn’t see me. But I could keep an eye on her. “Yes, yes, that’s wonderful news,” she says. I can see her rummaging around the side table, then in her purse for a pen. She jots something down on a pad by the phone, rips off the page and holds her body in that pleasing way again, as if the person on the other end is standing there watching her.

But I am the only witness to her pose. “Certainly. I’ll have her there. And thank you again for the call.” My mother returns the phone to the cradle. A satisfied smile creases across her face. Her eyes lit up from within. I half expected her to break into a little dance of joy. “Hilary!” she yells. Her voice could really carry when she wants it to. My blood froze in my veins, and feel I’m nailed to the spot where I stood. I don’t know whether to I should run to her or dash outside, pretending I didn’t hear. Most times, her yelling one of our names meant a beating, or some other form of humiliation. Obeying will mean less hurt, right? That’s what I’d tell myself. I ran inside, and stood there, looking up at my gorgeous mother. “You’re going to play that little girl, Sally. You remember? Charlie Brown’s sister? U got the part.” Dimly, I remember going in for the interview, talking to Mr. Schulz and Mr. Melendez. But most of all, I could tell the reaction I’m supposed to have by looking at her face. I smiled back at her, reflecting her features like a perfect little mirror. Either I’d made my mark on them, or she had, but it didn’t matter now. It wasn’t consistent work, but it meant more pay coming in, and the residuals for the hours the show ran on television, plus any re-runs subsequently scheduled. My mom thrived on those, because the money kept coming in for work I’d already done. And she was already planning more. “I’ll talk to Mr. Stern to see about getting you in for more auditions now. They’d be idiots not to hire you with all this free exposure you’ll give them with Charlie Brown’s Peanuts.” I just drifted into a sort of reverie, watching her animated face construct my future. That means she cares about me, I think. I know she must really care.

When Charlie Brown’s sister Sally was born, he was so happy he passed out chocolate cigars. I find this out from Charles Schulz the first day I walk into the recording studio, and it reminds me of my older brother Gene. Though Charlie Brown doesn’t always understand his kid sister, he tries to protect her in any way he can. Gene tries to protect me as well; I know that in my heart. Mr. Schulz shows me pictures of what I would look like on the screen, an animated little blond girl, sometimes dragging a blanket behind her. Hearts throb in the space around me. I will be a cartoon, I thought. That cartoon girl is me. My agent at Charles Stern said he had a feeling that my voice would “get across” better than my performances. At five years old, I hadn’t had much experience acting, just being giddyand outgoing and silly. Maybe this was what adults think childhood should be like. I knew my mother was happy because she took me to Carl’s, Jr. for a hamburger and French fries afterwards. This was the measure I would use from now on to know whether I’ve done well in my auditions or failed at them miserably. Carl’s, Jr. became a symbol to me, of reward, of closeness with my mother, of power. I associate food with the communication of approval, because no other words of congratulations cross her lips. She was burning inside, incandescent, as if she had done all of this herself, and was just deigning to share it with me. My work didn’t feel like work at all. I was in a padded recording booth that was so soundless it felt like another world—a silent, protective womb. The other children from the show had already come in to do their parts, or were scheduled for later in the day, so I never meet any of them. I couldn’t read yet, so Mr. Shultz or Mr. Melendez said a line to me and asked me to repeat it back. I did so, eager for their approval. In between takes, I would sit in Bill Melendez’s lap and he seems like a real father to me, warm and concerned. He’d buy me Coca-Coca’s and treated me like a princess. I’d fiddle with his long black moustache, twirling it around my fingers.Every couple of weeks, I’d go in for a session, about four hours each time. Money started to flow in, as if from on high. I wasn’t unaware of any of this, and had no idea what money was, or what it could provide. I just looked forward to the next time I could see my new friends, when people would be nice to me and pay attention to what I said.

This is where it started to get strange. Years later, when I read over the press materials for the Peanuts cartoons, it started to resemble my life in a chilling way: “Sally always looks for the easy way out, especially at school, where her view of life reflects most of the frustration and confusion kids experience. Her speech is riddled with malapropisms. Uninhibited and precocious, she has a schoolgirl crush on Linus, her ‘Sweet Babboo.’ She may never win Linus’ heart, but she has her big brother wrapped around her little finger. Sally, writing letters or doing homework, causes pain and joy to her fans in roughly equal proportions.”

— “When no one loves you, you have to pretend that everyone loves you!” Sally