Being Hartley

by Rushby, Allison

  * * *

  We take in a little TV, and Rory pops out and grabs us a couple of cinnamon and raisin bagels and some orange juice. We're munching away quite happily, and the whole Melinda incident seems to be almost forgotten when there's another knock on the door.

  "Yes?" Rory calls out.

  The door opens, and Rory instantly sits up. "Oh, Sonja. Hi." She stands up now, muting the TV.

  "Hello." Sonja's bright blue eyes only meet Rory's for a second before they hone in on me.

  I stand up next to Rory. Something tells me Sonja's not the kind of person who's keen on anyone lounging around. She'd at least want Rory to be stretching or something.

  "This is my cousin, Thea. Thea, this is Sonja, SMD's producer."

  "Nice to meet you," I say. I would have known who Sonja was without the introduction. Rory's told me quite a lot about her since her arrival mid-last season. Sonja is kind of tall and skinny and scary with a platinum blond crop. Sonja knows everything that goes on at SMD. Everything. Sometimes even before it happens. Right now, Sonja's eyes are traveling up and down my body, assessing me.

  "You have to be a Hartley," she says, eventually, squinting at me slightly.

  "Sort of," I tell her. "I'm a Wallis. I'm Cassie's daughter."

  Sonja becomes a whole lot more animated with this, staring at me in disbelief. "Cassie's daughter? No, you can't be. She's about six!"

  "I was six once," I say, with a shrug. "But not anymore."

  She tilts her head to one side, assessing me and not even trying to hide it, either. "Well, I never. Cassie Hartley's daughter…"

  "She can dance, too," Rory says, and Sonja's eyes dart over hers before moving sharply back to me again.

  "Rory!" I hiss.

  Sonja gives me another unashamed once-over on hearing this. "Ballet?" she says, slightly dismissively.

  Rory answers for me. "It's really hip hop she's into. And she's good."

  Sonja's interest heightens considerably with this. "Is that so! How interesting! Well, I must fly, but I'll be watching you, Thea Hartley." She points a long, skinny finger at me.

  "Um, thanks?" I say, not quite sure how to take this. "But it's not Hartley, it's Wallis. Thea Wallis."

  "Ah, yes. Of course," Sonja says, dismissively. "Either way, I'd love to see you dance this trip. I mean that." Done with us, she's across the room in a second, opening the door again.

  "Wait, Sonja," Rory calls out as Sonja's form disappears. "So it's okay if Thea comes to the rehearsal?"

  "Of course!" Sonja replies as the door closes.

  We stare at each other in the silence. "See? I knew it'd be fine," Rory tells me. "She practically ate you up with a spoon."

  "Sure," I tell her. "But only after she realized I was Hartley-flavored."

  After Sonja's exit, the room seems suddenly very large and very quiet. "So, um, now what?" I ask Rory. "Don't you usually hang out with the others or something?"

  Rory goes over to flop into the large armchair. "There's a communal room…" she says, kind of reluctantly.

  "And?"

  "So, I'm not feeling very communal lately." She eyes me. "Technically, this is a rest day. Which means they'll only work us half as hard as normal." She snorts. "If I don't want to feel like being communal, I'm not going to."

  "This is a rest day?"

  "Believe me, if it was a normal day, you'd know it. We'd be going six a.m. to eleven p.m. nonstop. There'd be at least four hours of dance, plus stretching and physical therapy, wardrobe, rehearsal, tapes...not to mention schoolwork. At least I'm done with that now. Anyway, if it's okay, can we just hang out here for a bit? You will get to see everyone, promise…"

  "No, no," I say quickly, shaking my hands. "It's not that. I just meant you don't have to hang out here with me if you don't want to. I'm fine. Hey, I'm used to hanging around waiting for people!" Or one person.

  There's another knock on the door. "What did I tell you about half as hard?" Rory shakes her head at me. "Come in!"

  "Aurora." Someone else enters—a short, round man with a tie and glasses. "Have you got a minute?"

  Rory groans. "Dr. Morgan, I just peed fifteen minutes ago." She turns to me and switches on a fake grin. "Time to check I'm not on drugs. Or pregnant. Or both!"

  "Here you go." He comes over to pass Rory a small plastic jar and a paper bag.

  "You always bring me the nicest gifts," she tells him as she gets up. She doesn't sound too impressed, but she takes the jar and goes into the en suite.

  While Rory does what she has to do, Dr. Morgan and I try not to look at each other too much. I'm sure he has, but I've never had to wait for someone to pee in a small plastic jar before. When Rory emerges, she passes him back the paper bag. "Hopefully the crack will have worn off," she says, sourly. "Want to weigh me now, or later?"

  "Later will be fine," he nods, retreating. "I'll weigh everyone together."

  "Great! Like cows!" Rory replies, flatly.

  "Er, no. Not really. Goodbye." Dr. Morgan closes the door behind himself swiftly. I don't blame him. I would, too.

  "What was that about?" I ask as Rory flings herself into her armchair. "You never told me you do urine tests."

  "You only do urine tests when they think you need them."

  "Ohhh…"

  Rory crosses and uncrosses and then crosses her legs again as she sits in her armchair. She's twitchy, and I don't really think I've ever seen her so nervous before. Okaaay. Think of something, Thea. It's what you're here for. Then it comes to me. "Hey, want to do some yoga while you wait?"

  "Yoga?" Rory looks up, surprised.

  "It helps Mom."

  "Really? Your mom still gets stage fright?"

  I nod. "Sure."

  "Huh. I didn't know that. Well, um, okay."

  I think fast. What would Anna do? No, maybe that's not the best idea. Anna's way of taking your mind off things is pretty much to force your limbs into such painful positions you can't worry about anything else.

  But before I can start, there's yet another knock on the door, and a woman from costuming comes in and takes about ten measurements of different parts of Rory's body. "You've gained," she tells her. "You'll have to cut back, or we'll need to alter some of the upcoming costumes for the new season."

  Rory doesn't say anything to this, but after the woman leaves, she moos a telling moo at me.

  -

  10 -

  I run Rory through a few poses until it's time to head to rehearsal. Rory sits me down on a chair in the corner of the mirrored studio, and I try and act casual about watching the SMD team rehearse.

  Casual! Ha! The truth is, underneath my T-shirt and cut-offs and "I'm so down with this, this is no big day for me" exterior, I am screaming inside like a crazed fan. The truth is, I want to jump up and down and scream. "Hello! I am sitting here in the midst of an SMD rehearsal. Hellooo! Look at meee!"

  The thing is, people always expect me to be oh-so-cool, calm, and collected when it comes to hanging around stars. After all, my mother is one—one of the biggest ones. But what they forget is a) she's my mom—she could be the president, and I wouldn't be the slightest bit impressed. That's how it goes with parents, right? When someone has changed a thousand of your stinky diapers and cleaned up your vomit, it's kind of impossible to think they're all that anymore. And then there's b) the fact that my mom keeps anything and everything fame-related that she can from me. And like kids who aren't allowed a scrap of sugar their whole childhood and then go absolutely crazy at parties, shoveling in candy until they turn green, I'm the same with stars who aren't my mom.

  Being here, for me, in this studio, is something else. I might be used to the trappings of stardom—town cars and fleets of SUVs with blacked-out windows, first-class flights, flash hotels, and penthouse suites—but that's where it ends. As soon as I see an actual living, breathing star, I'm jaw to the ground like everyone else, and right now, I'm about as far from cool, calm, and collected as you could possibly get. The only thi
ng saving me from embarrassing myself is that I'm speechless. I couldn't talk even if I wanted to.

  The team are rehearsing the live show they'll be performing four times in Las Vegas. They've been rehearsing for a couple of weeks now, as well as rehearsing and performing for their normal TV time slot, working even longer days than usual—about seven a.m. to eleven p.m., apparently. And even though there hasn't been enough time to fit in all the work they need to do, their routines are pretty close to perfect. To my eye, anyway. As I watch, I'm surprised to see that the understudies, Mara and José, are dancing alongside everyone else with their own parts, even though all the cast members are present. I guess they need the numbers when it comes to filling the stage for a live show.

  "Be careful not to drop that arm, Valentina." The choreographer paces in front of them as the music booms through the studio—Rihanna's latest number one. "That's better. Noah, don't concentrate so hard. Smile. Enjoy it. Rory, keep the energy up. Great, Mara. Nice. I like it."

  My eyes don't move to Noah when the choreographer mentions his name. They don't move for a reason—they've barely moved off him since he entered the rehearsal studio. There's something about Noah, and it's not just about his looks. It's much more than that. He just…stands out. He has that X factor people talk about, and I know it exists because (as much as it hurts me to admit it) my mom has it. There's this kind of buzz that comes from simply being in the same room as people like them. I don't even think it's something you can develop. You're either born with it, or you're not. Anyway, Noah has it. And then some.

  Maybe he senses me watching him, because he glances over at me and smiles a small smile. I jump in my seat and look over at Rory next to him, pretending it's her my eyes have been glued to the whole time. How on earth can she be sick of SMD? If I got to dance next to Noah every day, there's no way I'd be able to get sick of hanging around this place.

  Ever. Not in a million years. Or in a trillion years, or…you know, whatever comes after that.

  I try so hard not to, but within another thirty seconds (fine, okay, more like ten) I can't help it—my eyes slide back to Noah, and this time, I find he's still focused in on me. He smiles wider now, catching me at it, and there's nothing left to do but give him a half wave and die a little inside. How embarrassing. At least he smiled, though he's probably being nice because he thinks I might just be crazier than the girl who jumped into his car uninvited. Maybe the kind of crazy who could go one step further and set up camp on his front lawn or something.

  After this, I try not to stare at him.

  Much.

  The eight dancers run through all the dances they'll be performing and what will be happening in between. It sounds like there'll be some kind of audience participation as well—where people from the floor will be invited up onto the stage.

  Sonja comes into the studio close to the end of the rehearsal and takes a seat behind me as the team winds up.

  "Where's that energy, Rory?" she calls out loudly at one point, when I'm least expecting it, making me jump.

  I'm not sure where to look when she says this, either, because I can't help but notice that the choreographer has said it a lot this morning—maybe three or four times now. At least once during every dance. And the truth is, it's kind of deserved, and I'm getting really worried now, because Rory…

  She's lost her edge.

  Watching her is like watching someone go through the motions. She's there, and she can do everything and do it well, but you can tell her heart's not in it. Not like it used to be.

  With this reminder from the boss, she steps up the pace again. The smile becomes brighter, her movements that bit more precise, her hair that bit bouncier. But there's no sparkle. Nothing extra. Just one hundred per cent. And anyone who's ever had anything to do with showbiz knows that one hundred per cent isn't enough. One hundred per cent is the absolute bare minimum and likely to get you fired and replaced by someone who can give a whole lot more.

  Sonja stands up from her seat as the final song winds up. "Right, everyone hit the showers, grab something to eat, and be on the bus by ten. As I'm sure you all know, it's an off day, and to make up for having to work, I've got a little treat for you. Review tapes on the bus…"

  Groans start up all around the room.

  "And something else—a Hawaiian lomilomi masseur. In fact, I've flown in the guy you liked so much from the resort we stayed at in Hawaii last season."

  The groans end and the whoops start.

  Especially from the girls.

  Sonja continues. "I want to make sure you rest up on the bus because, as you well know, we've got our first show this evening. There are only two hours of tapes and a bunk for everyone, so no excuses. Off you go, team."

  I stand up as well and wait for Rory as everyone else grabs towels and starts to file out the door back toward their dressing rooms. I'm doing quite well at avoiding staring at Noah when I notice in one of the mirrored walls that he is, in fact, coming straight for me. Panic stations! I'm suddenly freaked out that I'll have to form a coherent sentence in his presence. I inspect the floor, then look back at Rory, who's talking to the choreographer, then at the floor again, then once more at the mirror. OMG. He's still coming!

  Finally, I get brave enough to peek at the guy himself. And there he is—Noah Hoffman. He's really, truly looking at me. Not behind me, or beside me, but at me. Me. He does that grin again now. Same as the one he gave me before. Same as the one he gives all the time on SMD that makes my eyes widen in shock that anyone could be that cute and not be locked up in a zoo or something, where people can stare at them all the time for entertainment purposes. With popcorn.

  And he's almost within talking range now. Maybe five more steps. Five, four, three…

  "Noah!" Someone flies in from nowhere, spins neatly around between us, takes his arm, and starts dragging him off toward the door. As in, away from me. "I have to ask you something…" she starts.

  "Mara, I…" I hear Noah say, his eyes sliding back toward me.

  And me? I give Noah that same, sad, half wave I'd given him before, and our eyes disconnect.

  "It won't take a second. I'll walk with you to your dressing room," Mara informs him. It's only then that I get to take a closer look at her hair. She's cropped it right off into a tight cap of curls, like my mom, but maybe even a bit shorter. A bit more out there. And while it used to be a kind of medium brown, it's now jet black. As far away from blond as you can get.

  And then, just like that, Noah's gone.

  "Hey," Rory says, running over. She catches my expression. "Thea? What's up?"

  I drag my eyes away from the door toward my cousin. "I think I just got Mara'd," I say quietly.

  "What?" Rory asks, taking my arm and guiding me outside.

  I explain how I was about to say hello to Noah as we head back down the hall toward Rory's dressing room and get a wave of her hand in response. "Don't worry about it. I'll get you some Noah time."

  I laugh at this. "Um, that's not what I was saying. I wasn't angling for time with Noah." (Much.) And I'm about to keep making pathetic excuses when Melinda, the producer's assistant, comes barreling up the corridor toward us.

  "You've got your family waiting in your dressing room for you, Rory. Make sure you keep track of the time. Sonja wants shower, food, on the bus. In that order. Okay?" she says as she passes us by.

  When she has her back to us, Rory salutes her and keeps walking toward her dressing room, only a few steps further down the corridor. She's just about to reach out for the doorknob when I grab her hand and pull her back, confused. Rory's always been like my mom—super-professional. Giving sass and saluting on the job isn't really her thing. "Rory…?" I say under my breath.

  She gives me a quizzical stare, as if she doesn't know what I'm talking about. Like she hasn't just been super-rude to Melinda.

  "You're acting weird," I tell her. "Having to be asked to give it your all, rolling your eyes. It's like everything's too hard. Nothing's
ever too hard for you."

  Rory doesn't reply, but her breathing seems to quicken.

  "Rory?" I try again.

  And in that moment, there's the first real crack in Rory's shell. Her jaw, set hard just one second earlier, wobbles for a second before she finally answers me. When she does, the words come tumbling out of her mouth, tripping over each other. "It looks like everything's too hard? That's because everything is too hard. And it gets harder and harder every single day. That's why I'm acting weird, Thea. And if you understand any of that, feel free to explain it to me, because I don't understand it at all."

  "Girls!" Uncle Erik's voice rings out as the door opens beside us.

  "Um, hi," I say, frozen, my eyes stuck on Rory's face.

  But, in an instant, she's smiling that big white-toothed smile, completely masking whatever she'd been feeling just a split second before. She turns away from me as if nothing's been going on and breezes on in to her dressing room. As for me, it takes me another second or two to pull myself together and follow her inside, where Mom, Allie, and Uncle Erik are waiting.

  * * *

  "So, Cass's coming with me." Uncle Erik's firming up travel arrangements as we hang out in Rory's dressing room. Rory herself is standing in the doorway of the bathroom now, bent double, towel drying her hair, her pink tracksuited legs sticking out the bottom. "How about you, Allie?"

  "I'm going with you guys," she says to Uncle Erik.

  From my perch on the long counter, my gaze moves from Allie to Rory. I thought Allie might've been coming on the bus with us, but Rory doesn't seem to be taken aback by her not wanting to.

  "Thea's coming with me," Rory says, her words muffled underneath her towel.

  "On the bus?" my mom says quickly, glancing over at me. "Are you sure that's okay?"

  "It's fine," Rory says, continuing to scrunch her towel over her masses of hair. I feel her pain—I know how long it takes to dry hair like that. You have to scrunch, not rub, or your curls go completely haywire. "Sonja will be more than happy about it, don't worry."