The Maddie Diaries Page 4

  Today Is a Beautiful Day to . . .

  Go tech-free. My mom is always getting on my case: “Maddie, get off your phone!” So one day, I literally put it down all day just to see if I could survive. You know what? I actually enjoyed it. I didn’t check my Instagram, I didn’t read or send any texts. It felt really peaceful and freeing. I suggest picking a Saturday or a Sunday and just shutting down and tuning out. It was amazing to me how much free time I had to do other things—like organize my makeup brushes and read a pile of fashion magazines I was dying to flip through.

  Dance like no one’s watching. I love to just crank up the music and let loose, not worrying about if my feet look perfect or my shoulders are straight. Dance it out!

  Volunteer. My mom has always taught me that the best gift you can give someone is your time. Pick a project, any project: an animal shelter, a home for the elderly, an after-school program at a local school. It should be something close to your heart that you feel strongly about. I’m involved with the Dancers Care Foundation (dancerscare.org). It raises awareness and funds to help prevent cancer and ultimately find a cure, and it was created and organized by dancers and dance-related companies who recognized their power to make an impact. Once you have a group you’re involved with, you can organize an event in your school to fund-raise (personally, I love a good bake sale!) and spread the word.

  I was two when I started taking ballet. I was teeny-tiny, and I couldn’t really reach the barre. All I remember doing is jumping and twirling around pretending to be a fairy princess or a butterfly—and occasionally stepping on my teacher’s toes. My very first recital was this little Nutcracker number, and I came offstage crying. There were tears streaming down my cheeks and my mom came over to ask me what was wrong. “I want to go back onstage!” I said. I didn’t want to get off the stage—I wanted to do it all over again. I guess that’s when I realized that performing was “my thing,” and what truly made me happy. I can’t explain how or why, but I do know this: When I’m up there, looking out at an audience, it makes me feel alive.

  When I was four, I started taking dance at the Abby Lee Dance Company. I knew what I wanted to sign up for: hip-hop, jazz, and tap. I told them the moment we walked in. I remember there was a big desk out front, and large studios with stars painted on the walls and tons of trophies on display. Eventually, those studios felt like they shrank in size, because I got bigger, but that first week they seemed ginormous. The ALDC teachers were probably thinking, Who is this pipsqueak who wants to come in here and tell us what classes to put her in? But I was always ambitious and never satisfied with dance classes that were my age level. I needed a challenge, something that I could work toward. Being in an older, more advanced group never scared me. People ask me all the time if my mom pushed me into becoming a dancer. Actually, it was me who pushed her. My mom never held me back, but she’s also never been one to say, “You have to do this.” She’s supported my dreams 100 percent, but if I had changed my mind and decided I wanted to be a doctor or a lawyer or a makeup artist, she would be fine with that, too. I danced because I wanted to. I look back now and think we should have kept a tally of how much time we spent in the studio—probably hundreds and hundreds of hours. My mom never complained (well, almost never), even when she had to sit around all day and wait for me or Mackenzie to finish class or rehearsal. I wasn’t aware of how many days and hours ticked by because I was working and having fun, but I bet my mom was. Dance moms are very, very patient.

  In the beginning, they put me in the recreational classes instead of the company ones because of my size and age. It took a year, but I got moved up to the company when I was five. To be totally honest, I was not a good dancer. I was always the youngest, and they put me in the back of all the numbers, which made me really sad and frustrated. I didn’t want to be in the background. I complained to my mom, but she told me I had to work hard and practice a lot—that was the only way to get recognized. When I first started the company tap class, the tap teacher told my mom, “She’s too young but she can sit and watch in the back.” I did what he asked, but as I stared from the sidelines, I moved my feet along to the choreography he was teaching—and nailed it. So he changed his mind pretty quickly and let me join in. That was always what happened. I didn’t have the best dance technique, but I was really good at picking up the choreography. If you showed me a step once, I could do it. Maybe I couldn’t do it perfectly, but I could do it.

  Slowly, I got moved to the middle and then the front of all the group dances. It didn’t happen overnight; I had to work my butt off. My teachers used to always say, “Sometimes it’s not the best dancer who succeeds in showbiz but the one who works the hardest.” Well, that’s me—the one who worked super hard. If it had all come easily to me, if I’d been born with natural talent, maybe I wouldn’t have felt the way I did. Maybe I would have gotten bored and moved on to something more challenging. But the fact that I wasn’t very good to begin with made me want it even more.

  I started doing tap solos and taking classes regularly. I took tap for a very long time—it was one of the first styles I fell in love with. I liked creating “music” and rhythm with my feet. It’s like you’re an instrument playing along with the song. A tap dance can look fast and frenzied to the audience, but it requires such control and precision to keep the taps clean. My teacher built me up and gave me so much confidence. He didn’t seem to notice how small or young I was; he just saw that I wanted so badly to dance and I had a passion for it.

  I started competing when I was five. I did a ballet solo, then a tap solo, and I lost both. I remember at the time thinking I did pretty well—I earned high gold, and that sounded like a gold medal in the Olympics to me. But the goal was to get platinum. The next year, when I was six, I started going to different competitions and conventions. I won and I kept winning. I remember this really cute tap dance I did to “Sunshine and Lollipops” from the movie Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. It was at a Jump competition in Pittsburgh and I was seven. I had this big pink bow on my head and I made all these kissy-faces! Soon I was piling up trophies (one that was six feet tall!), ribbons, plaques, and medals—eventually too many for the display case and shelves in my bedroom to hold.

  When I was eight, I had my first lyrical solo in a competition: “Cry.” It was actually supposed to be called “Somewhere over the Rainbow,” but at the last minute we had to change it for some copyright reason. People ask me a lot what the craziest part of competing is. I’d have to say it’s the element of surprise. Something always changes, goes wrong, tears, or breaks down. I’ve had my music skip, my props drop, and I’ve literally had to be sewn into costumes several times when the zipper or clasp broke just minutes before going onstage. Things happen—that’s the only given. And the more you compete, the more you learn to roll with it. I’ve always thought that in some way that’s a great life lesson: Don’t count on things going the way you think they will. The key is to be prepared for whatever curve ball comes at you. In the beginning, my teammates and I would freak out, but by the end of my time with ALDC, it took a lot to throw me. I’ve learned that great dancers exhibit grace under pressure. When your headpiece flies off, when the music stops playing, that’s when you really prove what you’re made of.

  When I joined the junior elite team, I thought it was going to be awesome. I loved being on a stage; I loved being a member of a group and feeling part of something bigger than myself. I really had no idea what to expect; I thought it would all be fun—the hair, the makeup, the sparkly costumes, traveling around to lots of different cities. I saw the older girls who competed, and they looked so grown-up and glamorous—I wanted to be like them. But as I got older, the competitions got much more intense. The fierce competitive side of all this was something I never saw coming. Through it all, our team stayed tight and tried to focus on us, not on what other teams were doing or saying, but it was hard. People ask me a lot if what they see on Dance Moms is real, i.e., the fighting with other teams
and between moms and coaches. Well, I can’t really answer that—I don’t watch the show. I’ve probably only seen one entire episode from start to finish. I don’t love watching myself—it’s kind of weird and I feel like, “Well, that’s behind me now.” I lived through it, so why do I need to watch it happen all over again? But I can tell you that competitions are stressful, and things can and do get ugly sometimes because people don’t behave like good sports. So yeah, sometimes people go a little crazy. But through it all, my teammates and I had each other’s backs, and if there was disappointment—if someone forgot a step or we lost first place to a rival team—there was no one person to blame. We were all responsible; one for all, all for one. Losing isn’t fun; no one wants to lose. But it happens a lot, and to everyone. Even if I was on a winning streak, I might have an off day and come in second or third or not even place. Because you won the weekend before doesn’t mean you’ll win this time—it’s never a given. And if you lose, it doesn’t mean you’re a bad dancer or a bad person. It just means it was a bad day.

  I’m a perfectionist, so especially in the beginning of my competition days, I would go over and over every dance in my head and pick out the parts that weren’t right—sometimes tiny details no one else would notice, but I just knew weren’t as good as they could be. I would dwell on the mistakes instead of focusing on what I had done right; I would pick apart every dance, even though my teammates and coaches were telling me I did a great job.

  I think it was just because I was young and inexperienced; I didn’t know better. I didn’t see the value in not winning, how it drives you and makes you work harder. So that was a really tough thing for me to learn—to let go and forgive myself for being human and messing up. I think what finally made the difference was expanding my horizons. The more things I did—like acting in movies and TV and making videos—the less competitive dancing defined me. I didn’t feel like it was the end of the world anymore if I didn’t take home a first-place trophy. I had other things going on in my life, and I was able to keep it in perspective. But I did a lot of crying in those early competitions. My nerves were really bad, because I felt so much was riding on every single number we performed. If you watch me in the wings, you’ll always see me biting my nails—Kenzie’s right about that habit of mine!

  I put a lot of that pressure on myself; I didn’t want to disappoint anyone—my teachers, my teammates, my mom, our audience—and I was so insecure in my talent and abilities back then. When I think back on it now, I was a different person. This Maddie has much more confidence and doesn’t need a title to feel good about herself. I actually like to lose sometimes—it’s like someone is lighting a match under me, firing me up for next time.

  There were many, many times I had to push through and compete, even if I was feeling sick. I remember I once had bronchitis and I could barely breathe without coughing, but I had a solo and a group number to get through. I literally had to hold my breath through the numbers so I wouldn’t start a coughing fit. I haven’t loved every dance we’ve done—some I thought were a little weird or silly, or even inappropriate for kids our age. My favorites are always the emotionally charged ones that really speak to the audience. If I had to pick my least favorite dance, I would say “This Girl’s Gotta Be Kissed,” a musical theater duet I did with Gino Cosculluela. I was eleven at the time, and to this day, it remains the most embarrassing, humiliating moment of my life! I had to kiss a boy in front of millions on national TV. There was no marking it; every time we rehearsed, we had to actually lock lips. Gino and I were friends who kind of crushed on each other—but then this dance totally cured me of that. I didn’t even want to think about the dance, because I was mortified. My mom says you always should learn something from a new experience, so here’s what I learned: If I can survive this, I can survive anything. It was the most miserable week for me, and I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Maybe I am being a little overly dramatic, but I’d rather have a root canal than relive it.

  Drama seems to go hand in hand with being on a reality TV show. Not a lot of competitive dancers have to deal with cameras on them 24/7. At first it was weird, but it didn’t bother me—I was eight years old at the time, and there were cameramen following me around everywhere I went. I would just ignore them and go about my business. Eventually, you feel a little exposed because you’re “on” all the time. Your life is what the show is about, but you’re also trying to live it. I just wanted to dance; I didn’t want all the drama. As soon as Dance Moms aired in July of 2011, we became reality TV personalities, and everywhere we went, especially in the dance competition world, people recognized us. Two million people tuned in every week; that’s a lot of people watching. We started to get a big fan following. I remember one of our first appearances in a mall in Westchester, New York. It was me, Mackenzie, Chloe Lukasiak, and our moms, and we expected maybe a few dozen fans to show up. We were dancing and also modeling in a kids’ fashion runway show. Well, we got to the mall and it was crazy: a thousand screaming fans, pushing and shoving and trying to get close to us. Where did all these people come from? It was pretty scary, and they had to call extra security. We actually had to hide locked in a store for a while till the crowds thinned out and the screaming stopped. Afterward, we still sat there for hours, signing photos and posing for selfies. I was only about nine, so I didn’t really know what to make of all the attention; I thought it was a little weird. I mean, why were these people so excited to see us? It’s not like we were the cast of iCarly or something. That I would understand. I remember asking my mom, “Is this all for us?” and she nodded yes. Her eyes were wide and she looked shocked, too.

  When it came to competing, being recognized was a good thing but also had its downside; people expected us to be the best because we were the ones with the TV show. That was a lot of pressure—we had a reputation to live up to. Sometimes it felt like we had to prove ourselves over and over again. But we had our moms there to remind us that winning wasn’t everything; what was more important was the fact that we were learning and growing as dancers, and that we gave it our all. My mom cried whenever I cried, but she helped me shake it off and move on—I’m stronger because of her pep talks. I honestly don’t know how I would have handled it all without her being there—not to mention my teammates, who became my best friends. I love them all and we have a special bond that comes around once in a lifetime. We cheer each other on; we support each other’s dreams—it goes way beyond our team. They’re really my family and I know we’ll be in each other’s lives forever. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t text several if not all of them (JoJo is Snapchatting me right now). I had my last competition in Vegas this past summer, and it felt sad, like a chapter in my life was ending. I’m excited to be moving on, to be doing other things beyond competing, but there is part of me that will miss it. It was my childhood. It was all I knew for so many years. I was in the studio more than I was in my own home.

  A lot of crazy stuff happened over the course of those years competing—stuff you don’t get to see on TV but that we all lived through and experienced. Like the time our team bus broke down on the side of the road in California en route to a competition the next day. It was blazing hot, and we had to walk on the highway to find a place to get something to eat. We cheered when we found a Panda Express Chinese restaurant, and ordered practically everything on the menu. It took nearly three hours for them to send a new bus to rescue us. My mom was convinced we would be sleeping in Panda Express—or on the side of the road—that night!

  There was also a lot of last-minute costume creating that went on. All the dance moms would gather in my mom’s hotel room on the Friday before competition weekend and start gluing and sewing our outfits. Sometimes I wouldn’t even get mine till fifteen minutes before I had to go on and perform—and I was praying it would fit. I remember one time the moms were handed a sports bra and booty shorts and told, “Make a cowboy outfit.” My mom scratched her head: “Out of this?” They always had to be
really creative and have a hot glue gun ready to go. Sometimes, things come apart at the seams: I had this cute tap number, “You and Me Against the World,” where I was wearing a pink apron. The ribbon around my neck came undone and the apron started to fall down in the middle of the number. I just kept going. I figured if I stopped, I’d miss a step, so I kept tapping with only half a costume.

  The nights before competition we stayed in the hotel—which was like having a giant slumber party. We would all get together in one room, get into our PJs, and order room service while our moms would go downstairs to the restaurant and hang out together. Girl bonding on both sides! I remember one time our moms came up after dinner, and we were all dancing around with travel pillows on our heads in the shower making videos. We have a lot of fun ways of blowing off steam. Kendall and I like to choreograph dances with our hands! Seriously, we would be sitting on a plane on a long flight somewhere, and we would use our fingers to dance across the folding food tray. And sometimes backstage waiting to go on and compete, we will do runway walks in the dressing room—but walking on our hands! When we were waiting for the grand opening ceremony at L.A. ALDC, we jumped out our pent-up energy on the trampoline in one of the studios. A lot goes on in that studio! Kenzie learned to ride her hoverboard there, and I took my first spin as well—Kendall had to hold my hands while I screamed, “I’m scared! I’m gonna fall!” But eventually we got it. We’ve also been known to break out into some spontaneous silly dances when rehearsals get a bit too intense—like the Whip/Nae Nae and the Macarena or some crazy improv moves (we just make sure none of our teachers are watching!). I also recall a competition in Vegas where we got our hands on some silly string—and decided to let it fly to celebrate our group dance win. The only way to balance out the stress of competing is to get wild and wacky. Looking back on those times, they’re some of my favorite memories with my team—which our moms usually manage to capture on video to remind us how crazy we are!