Read Online There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me by Brooke Shields - Free Book Online

“Dad! I just learned how to shoot pool from behind my back,” I remember him saying: “Where are you?”
    “At a bar,” I said.
    “Jesus Christ.”
    I’m sure Dad wasn’t thrilled with any of this, but I was seemingly safe and having fun, and my mother seemed in control. The argument was tough to have.
    The most useful bar talent I acquired—before learning how to tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue—involved holding up twelve sugar cubes stacked in between my thumb and pinky finger. It was this skill that I would use as the beginning of a conversation with the one and only Jackie Onassis.
    Mom and I were at her long-standing favorite bar, P. J. Clarke’s, when Mom spotted Jackie and Aristotle sitting at the tiny window seat in the empty middle section of the restaurant. It was their table! Mom said, “Brookie, that’s the mother of the boy you are going to grow up and marry.” Without waiting for permission, I leapt up and went over to the table to politely introduce myself.
    I evidently went right up, said, “Hi, when I grow up, I am going to marry your son.” Jackie said, “Oooh . . . ,” as if the thought of her littleboy growing up was too much to think of. I then showed her how to hold as many sugar cubes as she could between her two fingers. I simply showed her how to do this trick and then returned to my table. My mom claimed she was embarrassed, but it made for a great story and she loved to tell it.
    Mom’s version of discipline was unconventional. She was creative with punishments. I once begged her to let me have Devil Dogs for dinner. I cried, pleaded, and threw a tantrum, wanting this cakey, creamy, artificially made dessert snack for my meal. Mom finally conceded but said that if I really wanted Devil Dogs for dinner, I’d have to eat twelve of them. I thought I had hit the junk food jackpot until the third one brushed the roof of my mouth. I started to feel sick and ended up throwing up all over the bathroom. Mom simply asked if I ever wanted Devil Dogs for dinner again. I don’t believe I have ever had one since. (Two major cakey junk foods crossed off my list!)
    She wasn’t afraid to embarrass herself, if necessary, to make a point. She once took my cousin Johnny to see Godzilla (which he called Godzillabones ) and he threw a tantrum when leaving the theater. She immediately got down on the floor and threw her own tantrum, shocking Johnny and showing, once again, how creative—nd effective—her discipline could be.
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    Some of the stories Mom thought were funny could also be scary. She was great at imitations, and most of them I loved because they made me laugh. But the one I did not enjoy at all was her imitation of the Witch in Snow White . In the animated movie the witch had this horrible and terrifying cackle that my mom could copy flawlessly. She would do it randomly and it unsettled me horribly. I’d beg her to stop; she’d continue the imitation for longer than I would have liked. I loved her ability to mimic and I consider my talent in this area a giftfrom her, but the minute Mom started with the voice, I’d start chanting, “You’re my mother, you’re my mother!” She simply wanted to do what she wanted to do and loved the attention. I don’t think Mom ever knew I was actually, honestly scared. She would later tell this story and beam with pride at the fact that I kept repeating that she was my mother.
    During these years my modeling career really began to take off. Mom was my manager, but she was hardly the typical “stage mother” one would have expected. She’d ask if I wanted to go in for a job and then simply let me do my thing. She never grilled me on how it went inside the rooms and instead waited for me to volunteer information. I am sure she would have loved getting feedback, but I don’t remember her ever pressing me. When I did not get the job, she would just brush it off and we’d discuss what we should do with that free