One of Nickelodeon’s brightest stars in the 2010s was Jennette McCurdy, who played the petulant prankster Sam Puckett for six seasons on iCarly before coleading Sam & Cat, a spin-off costarring Ariana Grande that lasted just a single season. In her debut memoir, I’m Glad My Mom Died—out August 9—McCurdy strips away the candy-coated facade of her sitcom experiences, which were often dictated by an allegedly abusive boss she refers to only as “The Creator,” getting candid about her eating disorder, and her difficult relationship with her mother.

In this excerpt from her memoir, McCurdy details the inappropriate behavior she claims “The Creator” exhibited, including pressuring her to drink while underage; massaging her at work; and being offered $300,000 by Nickelodeon to keep it all quiet. (Vanity Fair has reached out to the network for comment.)

“Come on, take a sip.”

“No thanks.”

“Come on.”

“I’ve never had alcohol before. And I’m only eighteen. Couldn’t I get in trouble?”

“No one’s looking, Jennetter. You’re fine.”

“I dunno.”

“The Victorious kids get drunk together all the time. The iCarly kids are so wholesome. We need to give you guys a little edge.”

The Creator always compares us iCarly kids to the kids on his other hit show, Victorious. I think he thinks it’ll make us try harder.

“I don’t know if drinking is what gives a person edge.”

I look at The Creator’s drink. He picks it up and sloshes it around.

It’s some sort of whiskey mixed with coffee and cream. I do like coffee. “One sip.”

“Okay.”

The Creator hands me his glass and I take a sip. I hate it.

“It’s great.”

“Don’t lie to me. I don’t like when you lie to me.”

“I hate it.”

“That’s better, Jennetter.”

The Creator laughs. I’ve done well. I’ve pleased him. Mission accomplished. It’s the same mission I have every time I get dinner with him, which has gotten more and more frequent lately as my new contract for the spin-off he promised me is being worked out. The Creator is doing the thing that I’ve heard from my co-stars he does with every new star of a show that he’s making—he takes you under his wing. You’re his favorite. For now. I like being his favorite for now. I feel like I’m doing something right.

“So are you excited to have your own show?” The Creator asks.

“Sure.”

“Sure? That’s it?”

“No, of course I’m excited. I’m so excited.”

“Good. ’Cuz I could give a new show to anyone, you know. But I didn’t choose anyone. I chose you.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, I chose you because you’re talented.”

I’m confused. He just said he could choose anyone, which made me feel not special and now he’s saying he chose me because I’m talented, which makes me feel special again. This kind of confusion is normal around him. I take a sip of water while I try and figure out what to say next. Luckily, I don’t have to.

“How’d you like the steak?”

“It was good.”

It was terrible, actually. Well, great and terrible. Great in terms of flavor, terrible in terms of how much I’m gonna be fixating on it for the rest of the night. I ate too much of it, and too many roasted potatoes, and too many brussels sprouts, and a roll, and glazed carrots. I couldn’t stop myself. I ate everything. I feel so full. I’m disgusted with myself.

Mom’s got me on a Nutrisystem diet again like we did back when we were in Nashville. We do it together, when we’re together. But that’s the thing—we’re not together as often these days. She’s consumed with her cancer stuff and I’m consumed with my TV stuff.

When Mom’s not around to motivate and coach me, I can’t seem to force myself to eat a cardboard cinnamon roll that tastes more like a protein bar wrapped around itself. I can’t seem to order the dressing-less salad. I can’t keep up my diet without Mom. I’m a failure without her.

“Are you okay?” The Creator asks.

“Of course.”

“Good, ’cuz you should be okay,” he says gently. “You’re about to star in your own TV show, for crying out loud. You know how many kids would kill for that opportunity? Every last one of them.”

I nod along. He reaches out and places his hand on my knee. I get goose bumps.

“You’re cold,” he says, concerned.

I don’t think that’s why I got the goose bumps, but I agree. It’s always best to agree with The Creator.

“Here, take my jacket.”

He takes his coat off and drapes it around me. He pats my shoulders and then the pat turns into a massage.

“Oof, you’re so tense!”

“Yeah . . .”

“Anyway, what was I saying?” he asks while he keeps massaging me.

My shoulders do have a lot of knots in them, but I don’t want The Creator to be the one rubbing them out. I want to say something, to tell him to stop, but I’m so scared of offending him.

“Oh, right,” he says, remembering his train of thought without my help. “Every kid out there would kill for an opportunity like the one you’ve got. You’re very lucky, Jennetter.”

“I know,” I say while he keeps rubbing me. And I do. I do know. I’m so lucky.

I’ve been going through the motions at work for weeks. I glance at my lines in the mornings, making no effort to memorize them for rehearsals. I completely tune out between takes and for press—the back half of lunch break is typically crammed with interview after interview for all the teenybopper magazines. Ever since the directing situation, I’m counting down the days until the show is over.

Twenty days left after today. Just four more episodes. And even still, I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to push through until then.

I’m starting to expect I’ll have a bulimia-induced heart attack. I’m mortified to admit it, but a part of me actually wishes I would. Then I wouldn’t have to be here anymore. My thoughts have gotten dark and dramatic like this in recent weeks. And while at first I was aware of the shift, and concerned, it no longer feels like a shift. It just feels like me.

The disappointments in my life are piling up, and with each added disappointment, so grows my misery. Mom’s death alone would’ve taken everything out of me, but since then, the pile has gotten bigger and bigger.

I can’t get a hold on my bulimia. It’s taken me over and I’ve stopped fighting. What’s the point? It’s stronger than I’ll ever be. It’s easier not to fight it. It’s easier to accept it, embrace it, even.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that I don’t like acting. While I was able to push through the season for the promise of directing, now that that opportunity has been taken away from me, I feel that all I’ve ever been and all I ever will be is an actor. A has-been actor, because who’s gonna wanna hire me when I’ve spent almost ten years on Nickelodeon? How will I ever get a “real” acting job, anything out of this phony, bizarre sphere? I never went to college and have no real-life skills, so even if wanted to get a profession outside of the entertainment industry, I’m years away from that being a realistic option.

Men are not doing it for me either. They all just feel like distractions. And even so, I’d rather distract myself with a bottle of wine a night, or a full glass of straight whiskey, whatever’s on hand. I’ll even drink vodka, even though my body’s started rejecting it by breaking out in hives and puffy welts every time I have some. Doesn’t matter to me, the buzz is worth the welts.

I’m hopeless. And I can’t help but carry that hopelessness with me. I walk slowly, my shoulders hunched. My eyelids are in a perpetual droop. I can’t recall the last time I smiled unless it was for a scene.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say my bad energy is what’s rubbing off on everyone around me and bringing the on-set vibe down to the miserable slump it’s been in lately. But I do know better. I know the real reason.

The Creator has gotten in trouble from the network for accusations of his emotional abuse. I feel like it’s been a long time coming, and should have happened a lot sooner.

I appreciate the amount of trouble he’s gotten in. It wasn’t just a slap on the wrist sort of thing. It’s to the point where he’s no longer allowed to be on set with any actors, which makes communication in between takes complicated.

The Creator sits in a small cave-like room off to the side of the soundstage, surrounded by piles of cold cuts, his favorite snack, and Kids’ Choice Awards, his most cherished life accomplishment. He watches our takes on four separate monitors, one for each camera, that are set up in his lair. Whenever he wants to give us a note, he tells it to an assistant director, who then has to run across the entire soundstage to give it to us. So our shoot days went from about thirteen hours to about seventeen. The general on-set vibe these days can best be described as malaise meets “dear God please let’s get this over with.”

We’re on the last scene of the day, one that takes place in one of our main sets—a robot-themed restaurant where all the waiters are, you guessed it, robots. My character is supposed to jump up on a table and tackle someone . . . or something. I don’t know or care. The scenes, the actions, the lines—they all blur together at this point.

I’ve done the stunt a few times. Between the stunt and the not sleeping and the bulimia, I’m spent. All I want to do is get home to some whiskey.

Finally, just past one in the morning, we wrap. I get home, pour myself a full glass, and down half of it before showering off my false eyelashes, my caked-on foundation, and my hair spray–stiff hair. By the time I’m out, the whiskey’s kicked in. I’m bleary-eyed when I check my email. Messages pile in - half of which I won’t even look at because I apply the same haphazard approach to my inbox folder as I do to every- thing else in my life these days. I’m about to X out of the window when I spot an ominous subject line hovering near the bottom of the unread email string. It’s from my management company, saying we need to talk first thing in the morning.

I click out of my email, top off my glass, and try to fall asleep.

The next morning I’m on the phone with Agents 1–3, Managers 1 and 2, and Attorneys 1 and 2. I don’t remember when exactly the team got so big, and I’m still not sure why—I can’t remember the last excit- ing idea anyone on this team had and half the time they just echo what someone else on the conference call said then laugh for too long—but apparently this is what you do when you get successful in showbiz.

“Wait, they’re cancelling the show?” I say, totally unable to hide my glee.

“Yep, we knew you’d be excited,” Agent #1 says.

“Best part is . . . ” Agent #2 starts in, pausing for dramatic effect (I swear agents are the best performers.) “. . . they’re offering you three hundred thousand dollars.”

I pause. This doesn’t sound right to me. “Why?”

Manager #2 chimes in. I can tell he feels intimidated by the rest of the men, so by the time he finally chimes in, whatever he says spills out rapidly as if he’s been prepping himself to say it, working up the confi- dence while the others have been talking.

“Well-think-of-it-like-a-thank-you-gift,” he blurts out in one mushed-together phrase. He lets out a sigh of relief after he spits it out, like he’s done his part and now he doesn’t have to speak again for the rest of the call.

A thank-you gift? That doesn’t sound like Nickelodeon. I’m suspicious.

“Yeah, a thank-you gift,” Manager #1 repeats. “They’re giving you three hundred thousand dollars and the only thing they want you to do is never talk publicly about your experience at Nickelodeon.” Specifically related to The Creator.

“No,” I say immediately and instinctively. A long pause.

“N-no?” Agent #3 finally asks.

“Hell no.”

“It’s free money,” Manager #1 offers.

“No it’s not. This isn’t free money. This feels to me like hush money.” A strained silence. One of them clears their throats.

Through the years, I’ve slowly learned that the entertainment business is one where what’s being said is rarely what’s being talked about. This way of operating not only disagrees with me but seems genuinely impossible for me to adapt to. Everyone else seems so able to position things discreetly and choreograph their phrasing so that the heartbeat of what’s being said is delicately danced around, but what winds up hap- pening is that I usually just don’t understand what’s being talked about and have to ask outright.

There are occasional times, however, where I do get exactly what’s happening, like this time right now. And in these instances, instead of asking outright what’s going on, I’ll just say it. The results vary. Sometimes it’s laughter. Sometimes it’s discomfort. This time it’s discomfort.

“Well, I-I wouldn’t think of it that way if I were you,” Manager #1 says with a nervous laugh.

“That’s what it is, though. I’m not taking hush money.”

“Well, um, okay. If you’re sure . . . ” Agent #1 or #2 says (their voices are indiscernible).

And with that, they all hang up. Click. Click. Click. Until I’m the only one left on the conference call line. I hang up too and sit on the edge of my bed.

What the fuck? Nickelodeon is offering me three hundred thousand dollars in hush money to not talk publicly about my experience on the show? My personal experience of The Creator’s abuse? This is a network with shows made for children. Shouldn’t they have some sort of moral compass? Shouldn’t they at least try to report to some sort of ethical standard?

I lean back against the headboard of my bed and cross my legs out in front of me. I extend my arms behind my head and rest them there in a gesture of pride. Who else would have the moral strength? I just turned down three hundred thousand dollars.

Wait . . .

I just turned down three hundred thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money. I’ve made a decent amount on this Sam & Cat spin-off, but definitely not enough that three hundred thousand dollars doesn’t make a difference. Shit. Maybe I should’ve taken it.

I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy. Copyright © 2022 by Waffle Cone, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster.

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