Challenge Accepted!: 253 Steps to Becoming an Anti-It Girl. Celeste Barber

fix anything. Between them they have built two houses – Mum designed them and Dad built them – had two daughters, and put a lot of effort into naming their pets as though they were a barren couple and their pets were all they had. When I was born we had a silky terrier, Phoebe Josephine, then we got a schnauzer, Lucinda May, followed by another silky terrier, Bronte Isabella, and Mum is currently treating her second schnauzer, Clover Lee, like a misunderstood genius child.

      Liv and I were lucky kids; we never went without. We had our own rooms, we could eat cheese whenever we wanted and, when we were annoying – and our parents sent us outside because we were being too loud – we had enough outdoor area to whip sticks at each other without doing any real damage.

      I wasn’t really great at school, it just wasn’t my thing. Every now and then I’d pretend I had slipped into a deep coma, so when my dad came in at exactly 6.55am EVERY. SINGLE. MORNING to get me up for school, I would squeeze my eyes shut and go as stiff as a board, behaviour commonly associated with coma patients, so I wouldn’t have to go to school.

      I just kind of hated the idea of it. I struggled academically, I couldn’t concentrate, I was bored easily and I just wanted to do anything other than having to stay still. Turns out I had ADD, and the small private Catholic school on the Far North Coast of New South Wales didn’t have that on their syllabus.

      I love making people laugh – at me, with me, whatever. As long as people are laughing because of me, I’m happy. At school, I was the perfect scapegoat for my mates, who liked to stuff around, and also a good victim for teachers to unleash on.

      English, PE, Science – basically any subject that didn’t require a microphone – were my least favourite. I remember Science was the most painful.

      We had to line up outside before each Science class. All our bags had to be left outside, so we would get our books out and walk in single file past our teacher, who was standing at the door to see if she was happy with how we were standing. If she was satisfied with our posture, we were allowed into the classroom.

      I was usually at the back of the line with my two unsuspecting partners in crime, Sean and Doug. They would have their stuff all ready to go, especially Sean – he was a really smart dude who Doug and I would playfully tease to make ourselves feel better.

      On this one day, as I’ve always been a clusterfuck, I was probably asking to borrow a pencil from a girl who was already annoyed at me, and not listening to anything being said to me. As we were filing in, Mrs Science put her arm up in front of me. I thought she was looking for a high five, or at very least a fist bump, but I soon realised this wasn’t the case. She was ‘dealing with me’.

      ‘I’ll just get you to wait outside, Celeste,’ she said, without making eye contact.

      ‘What for?’ I protested.

      ‘We could do without the distraction today.’ And with that she closed the door.

      The rest of the class had already filed in, including Sean and Doug, and I watched them longingly, much like the way Rose looked at Jack when he slipped off the door in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean at the end of Titanic.

      I was so embarrassed, but because this soon became her standard practice, I learnt how to channel the shame.

      But really. Distraction? You think not allowing me into the classroom, and leaving me outside with everyone’s bags and a wall of windows in which EVERYONE can see me, would stop me from being distracting? I guess not all scientists are smart.

      For a comedian, being sent out of class before it even started due to the risk of being distracting is like Bill Cosby being given free Rohypnol and a private suite at The Plaza. If I had an unobstructed view of Sean and Doug, then shit got really real.

      For these kinds of impromptu performances, I had a few standard gags that were my staples. The elevator travelling down and pretending to be pulled offstage were my go-to gags; they always got a laugh. Pretending to be attacked by a bee was another crowd-pleaser. Or, if I could get someone’s attention while Mrs Science had her back turned, then I’d mime asking them a question though the window, and when they responded I’d mime, ‘I can’t hear you.’ It brought the house down.

      The main attraction was my disappearing act. When Mrs Science turned around to see what everyone was laughing at, I’d jump on the ground out of sight, buried in everyone’s bags. Eating people’s unattended food was the payoff.

      I wasn’t a naughty kid; I was too scared to be naughty. I was just loud – loud and funny – and most of my teachers didn’t dig it. But I was OK with it. If anything it helped me. It helped me work on being a funnier lady, a stronger lady and a more resilient lady.

      Being diagnosed with ADD (or maybe it’s ADHD, I can’t really remember, I wasn’t paying attention) was the greatest thing that could have ever happened to me – well, that and getting tickets to Janet Jackson’s ’98 Velvet Rope world tour. (People say Rhythm Nation was her greatest album, but I’m telling you The Velvet Rope had everything: badarse beats, haunting ballads and enough Auto-Tune to turn any of the straightest ladies gay.)

      I always had the best intentions. I would organise to study like a boss. My parents had set up a study area for my sister and me, and I’d get my pens out and put them alongside my school books. My calculator was in prime calculator position, and I’d even write up a study timetable, using every colourful pen at my disposal. Red for Maths, pink for Drama, and then I didn’t care about the rest. The timetable would be stuck on the wall directly in front of me.

      I’d have a lovely glass of room-temperature water ready to go, and I’d pick up my pen, keen to get my study on, then … that would be the end of it. I’d be distracted by something, anything. The dog walking past, an unfolded towel in the corner of the room, my mum sneezing from the neighbours’ living room, anything would catch my attention and I’d be out of there. This, my friends, is what they call in The Biz ‘classic ADD behaviour’. I had all the best of intentions of sitting and doing work, I was even excited about buying all the stationery and desk accessories, but I just. Couldn’t. Do. It.

      Mum and Dad took me to see a specialist when I was 16, in the hope of getting answers. Even though I totally had boobs and had been bleeding monthly for approximately two years, I still had to go to a children’s doctor. The waiting room was full of toys and copies of Spot the Dog. There were posters on the wall featuring the letters of the alphabet, with pictures next to them: A for Apple, B for Butterfly etc.

      As I went through the letters, enjoying the distraction from the doctor smell of the waiting room, they all seemed to make sense – yep, K is for Kite and L is for Lion – until I got to Y. Next to the letter there was an unassuming photo of a boat. A blue boat with white bits. The word under it started with Y, but I couldn’t figure out what boat starting with Y was spelt like that. I turned to my dad and asked, ‘What’s a Yak-a-Hat?’

      The receptionist looked over her desk with an ‘oh, bless her, this must be a hard struggle for you, Dad, having to deal with such a challenging daughter’ look on her face. Dad looked at me, and through tears of laughter said, ‘It says “Yacht”.’

      ‘Well, why the hell isn’t it spelt properly?’

      ‘Good question, Princess, I don’t know.’ My dad’s my biggest fan – well, just behind my mum, who is a close runner-up to my sister.

      If the doctor had overheard this conversation it could have saved my parents a lot of money in doctor’s fees, as he would have given me the tablets right there on the spot and I would have been on my merry way, feasting on Ritalin sandwiches.

      When I went into the appointment, Mum, Dad and I sat in three chairs that were all in a line. My chair was closest to the doctor, as I was the main event. Here is where I learnt that ADD is hereditary and is commonly passed down to the child by the dad.

      Holy shit, didn’t this make sense?! My dad and I are exactly the same! I wondered if this information would upset him. I looked over to him and saw that he was focusing on a fly that was wedged between the glass window