Being Hartley

by Rushby, Allison

  Erik must pick up the phone immediately, because Mom starts talking only seconds later. "Erik, it's Cass." I expect her to go into a full-blown rant, but instead, she sinks back down on her seat. "Oh, thank God," she says, her hand moving to cover her heart, just as all my internal organs were starting to seize inside my body as I was thinking the worst. "She's fine." Mom glances over at both me and Dad before returning her attention to Erik. After that, we get only patchy comments: "Over twenty-four hours?…Yes, you should have definitely called the police!…Who cares about the show?" and "The new boyfriend? Is it really? I see."

  My ears perk up at this one. The new boyfriend thing again. Either Rory's making it up, or Uncle Erik is imagining things. Rory and Allie and I tell each other everything. Everything. If there was even a hint of a new boyfriend, I would have known about it months ago. But then another comment from my mom stops me in my tracks. "To LA? Now? Oh, Erik. I don't know…" There's a pause. "Of course I want to help Rory. Don't try that emotional blackmail our mother used to use, Erik. I won't have it! Look, the best I can do is to talk about it with Rob and call you back later."

  As Mom hangs up the phone, I'm on the edge of my seat again. "Uncle Erik wants us to go to LA?"

  "Surprise, surprise, it is about the show." Mom ignores me, turning to Dad.

  "So she's fine?" he replies.

  "Yes. Totally fine. Thanks for asking." Mom gives me a pointed look now.

  Unfair! "You said she was fine." My mouth drops open. Honestly. Sometimes my mom can be such a you-know-what.

  "She took off to see the boyfriend. Apparently." She ignores me again.

  I roll my eyes, but I keep quiet. Obviously, Rory is using this fake boyfriend as some kind of excuse, so I let it go for now. "Can we get some clarification here? This is all about Saturday Morning Dance?" I frown, my eyes zipping from Mom to Dad and back again, like I'm watching parent tennis. I mean, I knew Rory wasn't exactly loving SMD anymore—she'd been there forever, and she was pretty much over it, but I didn't know things were that bad. "Are they firing her because of this? Or is she leaving? She can't, can she?"

  My mom sighs. "You don't have to sound so hopeful, Thea."

  "Oh, come on," I say. So much for trying to behave myself this trip. How can I when I have to deal with this? My mom knows it's my absolute, utter, total dream job—dancing on SMD, the most popular dance show on TV. For five years, the show's been a huge hit worldwide—teaching kids all the latest moves from the most recent music videos every Saturday morning. There's something for everyone, too, from basic routines for beginners to advanced segments for people like me who've been dancing a long time. And, yes, I know Rory has her problems with the management on the show, but a big part of that is because she's been there for so long. I know I'd love it, though. I was born to be on that show.

  Not that there's even the slightest chance that could ever happen.

  Because my absolute, utter, total, dream job? It's simply not possible. Most people think my mom's primary goal in life is to pick the best acting roles out there and polish her craft. After all, that's what she's famous for. No Transformers XIII sequels for her. But the truth is, my mom's main aim in life is to stop me, her one and only child, from ever entering the entertainment business in any way, shape, or form. She's probably the only mother in the world who dreams of her child being a dentist.

  Fluoride, anyone?

  My dad steps in to defuse the situation (he's an expert at this by now). "From what Erik told me before, there's been some trouble—a few warnings and such. She's been missing practice sessions, sometimes with an excuse, sometimes without. Not being where she said she'd be. That kind of thing. But this…missing for twenty-four hours. This is serious. I think he's scared she's really going off the rails."

  "And what does Erik want me to do about it?" my mom replies. "I'm not her parent."

  Now my dad really sighs. "Come on, Cass. Don't you think it's because…well, because you went through the same thing at her age?"

  "What? No, I…" I glance over at Mom to see her finally get what's really going on in her brother's mind. "Oh, but Rory…" She pauses, then her eyes widen. "Goodness. I never really thought about it until now, but I suppose she is the same age as I was, isn't she? I can't believe it. She's transitioning…"

  I frown. "What do you mean? What's transitioning?" I'm starting to think I need subtitles to understand what's really going on in this conversation.

  My mom continues staring at a spot on the floor. "Transitioning. As in, from child star to adult star. The problem is, they're two completely different things, and sometimes people don't weather the change too well. Or, at all." She huffs slightly in disbelief before she looks up at us. "I really can't believe she just turned seventeen, but she has, hasn't she…?"

  The seventeen thing—the year she turned seventeen was a big year for my mom. And as much as I'm sure she wouldn't want me to know all the gory details, I do, because they're out there on the Internet, reported on thousands of websites and in hundreds of thousands of searchable articles. All about how she discovered her tyrannical parents had been handling her money poorly, how she fled Hollywood mid-film to escape a lecherous leading man, legally emancipated herself from her parents, and then laid low for years, traveling undercover as best as she could (there's only so far undercover you can go when you're Cassie Hartley and the whole world is looking for you).

  "I think Erik has the idea in his head that Rory needs a mother figure in her life right now. And maybe a little guidance from someone who's been there before," Dad adds.

  My mom's lips set into a thin line before she speaks. "What Rory needs is to get off that show and go to college. Especially now that she's graduated high school. And she should travel a little. See the world. Not just the inside of some studio in LA."

  Here we go, I think. I stick up for my cousin. "Rory does want to go to college at some point. You know that."

  "Yes, and I'm sure SMD is keeping on top of that one. I'm sure they're more than encouraging," she huffs.

  "Ladies," my dad says, intervening. "This still leaves us with the little problem of Erik. And LA."

  My mom stays silent but runs a hand through her short curls.

  As for me, I keep my mouth shut and my fingers crossed as she deliberates. Mom's younger brother Erik and my cousins Rory and Allie (Aurora and Allegra, really, but they're only ever called by their real names when they're in trouble) are probably the only people in the whole world my mom would brave LA for, besides me and my dad. Mom has two brothers and two sisters, and her mom is still alive, but Erik is the youngest and the only member of the family she still sees. The rest of them all de-Hartley'd her when she de-family'd and de-LA'd at seventeen. It can be kind of hard to avoid them, since they all travel in the same entertainment circles, but somehow she seems to manage, most of the time.

  "Well…" she continues, then pauses to sigh a long sigh. "If Rory needs me, Rory needs me. It's that simple. I guess I could go back for a few days. By myself."

  My dad grimaces. "Ah, yes…" he starts. "Then there's the other little problem…"

  -

  3 -

  A steely look comes over my mom's face when she digests my dad's words. "What other little problem would that be?" she finally says.

  "Um, well, the thing is…it seems I might need a quick trip to Rome for a few more rewrites on-set. Things aren't going well with this one."

  "Oh, Rob…" My mom's shoulders slump. "We were supposed to have this month off!"

  "And I thought we were going to, honey. I'm sorry. Sorry, Thea."

  Looks like everyone's sorry. Except for me. I haven't exactly been looking forward to our time together in Tasmania. Lately, the time we spend here together in our glass-walled home feels like being in a fishbowl where the water is evaporating fast. Over the last year, we've been bickering more and more, and the closer my mom tries to pull me toward her with artificial family vacations, the more I just want to pull away. LA will
be my perfect out. Especially since Beth (my tutor) has already taken off on two weeks' vacation. And Anna and Deb travel with Mom, so…

  "How busy are you going to be in Rome?" Mom's eyes size me up before moving over to my dad. I can see exactly what she's thinking—there's no way she's taking me to LA unless every single avenue of keeping me out of the spotlight has been exhausted first.

  "Disgustingly busy. No sightseeing, and take-out pasta all the way. Thea had better go with you."

  I try not to grin, but instead plaster what I hope looks like a "Wow, what a tough break for you both" concerned frown on my face. "It'll be good to see Rory and Allie," I say, trying to look awfully, terribly sincere. "I haven't seen them in ages."

  "You saw them less than three months ago!" Mom counters.

  "Which means it's been approximately three months since I saw anyone my own age, so, like I said, it'll be good to see them!" I can't help myself—the comment is out of my mouth before I can swallow it.

  "Thea," my dad warns. "I don't think this is the best time."

  "Fine," I say sulkily. It's a long-running, ongoing argument and the one I was supposed to keep quiet about this vacation if we were to have anything close to a decent time together. I've been begging to ditch tutoring for some time now and go to a performing arts school, or even a normal boarding school, but my mom won't have it. For a while last year, I pestered so hard for so long that I thought Mom was going to cave and let me move in with my Uncle Erik and go to school with Allie. But then Allie got sick and it wasn't possible.

  My dad, I think, could be converted to my way of seeing things. He seems to get it that following your mom around the world with a tutor is just as abnormal a way to live as growing up singing and dancing your way around the world with barely any schooling at all, like my mom did. But Mom doesn't want to hear it. And my mom is tougher than my dad. Way tougher. When it comes to me, what she says goes. "I was only saying it would be nice. For me. And for Rory and Allie too. Why are you taking absolutely everything I say the wrong way?"

  "Right." Mom glosses over my question and looks at the phone in her hand. "LA it is. Yet again. I can't believe Erik tried to pull some 'don't you care about your niece' line on me. What do they say? You can pick your friends, but not your family. Well, amen to that."

  I think about saying some of us can pick our friends and some of us can legally emancipate ourselves from our family but decide against it. Like Dad said, it might not be the best time.

  * * *

  I wake up at 3:24 a.m., mid-dream, my heart racing. Something about SMD and not being able to master some step or other because I have to hold a tray of pain au chocolat (which wouldn't make sense, but before LA, we'd been in Paris for a couple of months and I'd been slightly pain au chocolat obsessed, and I am now having serious pain au chocolat withdrawal).

  Mom had called Uncle Erik back and agreed to go to LA. Then she spoke to him for ages about Rory. I tried to listen in, but she waved me away. I also tried emailing both Rory and Allie, as well as texting them, but they didn't respond. Things were truly bad if the lines of communication had been severed.

  The rest of the day was spent packing and redoing Mom's schedule. Mostly, I kept out of her way, because she was not in the best of moods. It wasn't until dinner that she broke the big news to me. "It appears as if we'll be going on the road," she said, through gritted teeth.

  At first I didn't understand—I thought she was talking about traveling from Tasmania to LA. But she wasn't, and it took a bit of coaxing to get her to explain. Apparently, we were only going to be in LA initially, and then we'd be heading off with the SMD team on the road to Las Vegas, where they were shooting a couple of live shows.

  Seriously, I almost hyperventilated when she told me that. On the road! With the whole SMD team! Going to Las Vegas! If I hadn't choked on my burrito and needed a whack on my back from my dad, I would have thought I was really dreaming. I couldn't believe my mom had agreed to that, because every cell in her body would have been fighting even the suggestion.

  Why? Well, the thing with my mom is that she expends a whole lot of energy keeping her work and family lives separate. It's like church and state to her. The two should never, ever mix. And she's good at keeping them separate, too. Really good. Pretty much everything gets dealt with either by her agent in LA, her office in London, or Deb, her PA. In fact, Mom is so good at keeping her work and family lives separate that there have only ever been three photos of us taken together in public. Three. That's it. And I'm fifteen years old and my mother is an Oscar-winning actress.

  That's saying something.

  Usually when I get to see my cousins, we're either vacationing together somewhere private (like on this tiny private Hawaiian island we went to last year), or they come here for a break (seclusion plus), or we stay at their house and rarely go out. I've only met Rory's dance partner, Noah, once. He dropped by their house and even that was by accident (a very, very happy accident, as Noah is beyond cute). I've never met any of the other cast members from the show, though I know all about them from Rory.

  "Great," I finally managed to answer, after half a glass of water and a few hiccups.

  Mom didn't say anything and simmered away in silence instead.

  In bed, my heart, which had been starting to calm down, starts beating faster again, as I think about where we're going and what I'm about to be a part of.

  SMD. Finally, amazingly, unbelievably, I'm going to get to be a tiny part of it. Ever since the show started five years ago with Rory as an original cast member, I've watched it religiously. Taping it, replaying it, learning the routines until I can perform them perfectly—as perfectly as Rory, Lucia, and Valentina, the three lead female dancers on the show. Oh, and Mara, of course. Mara is the female understudy, who performs when the other female dancers are sick, or injured. Rory can't stand Mara. In fact, it sounds like no one involved with SMD can stand Mara, but there's no denying she's good. Technically, she's even a better dancer than the others, but there's something missing when it comes to Mara—her dancing's just not as likeable. Like her, it seems.

  Until last year, when it came to hip hop, I was pretty much self-taught. Like I said, I've been dancing practically since I was born. In fact, when I was born, my dad swears I came out kicking my legs and singing in time, rather than crying, and the doctor swore he'd never seen anything like it. As for Mom, her first question wasn't whether I was a boy or a girl, but about my hair. And when the doctor had told her I was a girl and that I had a head full of curls, Mom had hemorrhaged, needed a blood transfusion, and almost died. That's how much she didn't want me to be an entertaining Hartley. (So you'd think she'd be happy that, these days, I couldn't carry a tune to save my life, but no.)

  When I was about five and had already been begging steadily for years for dancing lessons like my cousins had, Mom finally gave in and let me start ballet. Even then, I knew it wasn't my style of dance, but Mom would push it at every opportunity ("So good for the posture!" or "Such a pure form of dance!"), so I rolled with it because I liked to dance and at least that was dancing. Wherever we were in the world, Deb would arrange classes for me, at dance schools, or privately, and my tutor would take me there.

  As I got older and pushed harder, Mom let me go to a few weekend workshops and intensives in other styles, but the more I pushed to dance hip hop, the more she started to find "amazing opportunities" for me. If I mentioned there was this hip hop workshop coming up that looked good, she'd suddenly find this "amazing opportunity"—a two-week French language intensive in Paris, a Thai-fusion long weekend at a cooking school in NYC, a week's sailing on a replica eighteenth century ship, an ikebana master class for teenagers in Kyoto…

  Don't get me wrong, I know I'm super lucky to get to do this kind of stuff. But I'm also not so dumb that I don't realize why—it's much easier to keep me out of the entertainment spotlight if I go undercover doing flower arranging or something like that. "You're a fantastic dancer, Thea," Mo
m would always tell me. "But don't lock yourself into one thing at your age. Explore everything! Find other things you're good at!"

  Like dentistry!

  Seriously, if there'd been a "Dentists of the Future" conference, she'd have sent me to it, no matter how much it cost.

  Anyway, last year on vacation in Hawaii, I think Rory might have realized that with all my home-based SMD practice, my dancing had progressed. A lot. She spoke to my mom, and since then, Mom has been a tiny bit more okay with the odd hip hop class here and there. Still, she wouldn't let me attend the workshop in London that a few of my dancing friends are at right now. It sounds amazing, too, from the couple of texts and email messages that have started to filter through.

  And I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but I guess I'm lucky she didn't let me go. Because this—this is better. The best. On the road with SMD.

  Be careful what you wish for, Mom has said to me. Well, I don't need to wish for anything anymore, because all of my wishes have just magically come true.

  -

  4 -

  Unlike Miley, I hop off the plane at LAX, not with a dream, or a cardigan, but with a hoodie and a mother who's dragging her feet, lagging way behind her peeps (aka Deb and Anna and me).

  As we make our way down the long corridor toward immigration, my mom texts Dad to tell him we've arrived, then pulls a Hermes scarf out of her purse and ties it around her head, leaving only a few trademark blonde curls peeking out the front.

  I walk backward for a few steps, other first class passengers passing by and taking in her airport outfit modification. "You know they never let you keep it on," I tell her, shaking my head. Honestly, I don't know why she bothers. She used to get away with it years ago, but immigration is way stricter now. She hasn't been allowed to keep a scarf on since I don't know when. I've told her—if she really wants to fly under the radar, she'd be better off borrowing one of my hoodies, flying coach, and ditching her fancy luggage, her in-flight pashmina, SK-II beauty regimen, Hermes passport holder, her staff, all that stuff.