Being Hartley

by Rushby, Allison

  But my mom sorts this out for me by speaking. "I…can't believe you just said that to me," she says, not looking at me, but at spot on the carpet in front of her. "Those exact words. I can't believe it."

  I stay silent, hovering above.

  "Exactly the same." Her brow furrows, and her mouth remains slightly open. But then her eyes raise to mine. "I said that to my own mother," she explains. "Before I left for good—that I was tired of my life being defined by my family. And not by who I am."

  "Oh," I say quietly. My mom has barely told me anything about her mom, except for what she told me the other day, about the painkillers, and of course, I've always known the main thing—that, over twenty-five years later, my grandmother still won't speak to her daughter.

  Everything else I've had to find out by myself, via the internet, or entertainment shows on TV. I try not to focus on the details, which might not be true, but there's no denying the basic facts—my mom comes from a long line of entertainers who haven't always done the right thing by their kids. Money has gone missing, children have been pushed to the brink of exhaustion, education hasn't exactly come first, drug and alcohol problems have been hidden instead of fixed. My mom and Uncle Erik are a couple of the only ones out of their many siblings and cousins who've gotten out of the family stranglehold and seem…okay. To a point.

  My mom's eyes move to the floor again, glassy and kind of vague. "I can't believe I've tried so hard not be like her in every single way and things have turned out exactly the same. She pushed me into the business, and I thought that by keeping you out of it completely…" She doesn't finish her sentence, or can't. "And we've wound up at the same place anyway. I wanted things to be so different for you."

  "Mom," I say, every single ounce of anger gone. "It's not the same. It's not the same at all."

  "Isn't it?" she says. "Because it looks like it is to me."

  "It's not. I mean, yes, we need to make some changes. Yes, we need to talk about things more, but…"

  Mom's cell starts ringing, cutting into my thoughts. I wait for her to answer it, but she doesn't seem like she's going to, or maybe she's not even capable of answering it in the state she's in—she's still awfully pale. In the end, I reach over and pull it out of her vest pocket.

  "It's Deb," I say, inspecting the screen. "I'm going to answer it."

  As it turns out, it's Deb wondering where Mom is as she was due at an interview three minutes ago. I end the call and bend down in front of my mom, level with her eyes. "You've got to go, Mom. There's a journalist waiting for you in Deb's suite."

  "No," she says, staring straight at me. "Not now. We need to talk about this. It can't be the same. It can't."

  This is really unlike my über-professional mom. And while I'm really freaked out, I try and pull myself together, because I think she's even more freaked out than I am. Right now, I need to show her how grown-up I can be when I want to.

  "We'll talk about it," I tell her. "But it can wait a few hours. And don't think for a second that it's the same. It's not even close to the same because I'm not going anywhere, Mom. Things aren't right, but I couldn't be without you, and I'm not going anywhere." My eyes well up as I say the words, because they're more than true. I could never go any amount of time without talking to my mom. She might want different things for me than I want for myself, but I know the truth behind this—it's only because she loves me. Whatever we've fought about, not for a second have I ever doubted this. The sad thing is, I don't think things are even close to this when it comes to Mom and her own mother.

  "Come on." I get up and offer her a hand up as well. "It's show time."

  * * *

  After a few more minutes, I finally persuade my mom to go to Deb's suite and meet the journalist who's now been waiting for her for some time. She's still acting a little odd, so I walk her down the hall myself and deliver her to her assistant personally. After this, I head back to our own suite.

  When I get back inside and am on my own, that's when it really hits me as to what's just gone on. I've never seen my mom drop the ball in front of me like that. Never. It changes almost everything I've ever thought about her—that she's so together, that she's so strong, that she could make people think or do anything, just because of who she is—Cassie Hartley.

  The truth is, she's just like everyone else. She feels things just like everyone else. She's not invincible. She has all the same feelings I do—fear, pain, anger…

  After a while, I think about calling Dad, but something about it feels wrong. Whatever's going on here, this is between Mom and me, and I get the feeling dragging Dad into it won't help things.

  Eventually, the room itself starts to make me feel uncomfortable. I can't stop thinking about what's just gone on in here, so I throw on a hoodie and decide to go for a walk. When I get out of the elevator on the ground floor, I pause, unsure of where to go, then walk straight ahead and take a right, out through the lobby, and then the main entrance. It's dark now, but there are still plenty of people around, and as more gather, I realize the fountain is going to do its thing again very soon.

  I follow the general direction of the crowd down the winding road to get a better view of the fountain, and end up in almost exactly the same spot Noah and I watched the fountain from the other night, right beside the lamppost he'd hung off. I reach out and touch it now and smile a little, remembering. Even though things couldn't go any further with us, I'll never forget that evening.

  I ooohhh and aaahhh my way through the show, and it's nice to belong to the crowd for a while—to blend in and be a tourist. To forget about everything else that's going on in what's turning out to be the least restful vacation ever. Just as we're moving into what must be one of the last songs, I catch sight of something moving quickly out of the corner of my eye. It's a jogger. But it's not any jogger—it's Noah. Instinctively, I quickly turn back to the fountain again, hoping he hasn't seen me. I don't think I'm in any kind of state to be with other people right now, and he'll probably think I'm stalking him or something.

  But it's too late—he has seen me. "Thea?" He pulls up beside me, puffing.

  "Oh, hi." I step away from the few people around me, not wanting to disturb their view.

  Noah stares at me for a moment or two. "You okay? You look a bit…odd."

  I take a deep breath, trying to push back the tears that instantly spring up in my eyes. "Um, yes. Well, no. Not really," I say, with a gulp, all my problems colliding in my head at once.

  "Hey? What's wrong?" Noah frowns, taking my arm and pulling me away from the crowd of people watching the fountain.

  I shake my head. "Everything's just…" I say, stopping myself. I'm scared that if I keep speaking, I'll simply burst into tears.

  "What's up? Did your mom find out about the audience participation thing? I hope that was okay. Sorry, I didn't realize…"

  I interrupt him. "No, it's not that," I start. "I didn't have to dance with you if I didn't want to. That was totally up to me." The truth is, I can't even begin to tell Noah what's going on. "My mom…" I start. "Oh, I don't know. This trip has brought a lot of things up for everyone." I don't want to talk about Emme. I can't talk about Emme. Anyway, Emme is none of my business.

  "I know what you mean," Noah tells me. "I certainly didn't know about Asher."

  I nod. "Yeah, me either. Or Allie."

  "Oh." Noah instantly gets what I'm saying. "The thing is, though—maybe we shouldn't think too badly about that. I mean, I was surprised that she hadn't told me, but then I figured…well…"

  "What?" I look up from the ground now, and Noah meets my eyes.

  Noah shrugs slightly. "It would be nice, I guess. To have something that was just for me. That nobody else knew about. That nobody else could talk me into, or out of, or that I was contracted for," he says, quietly. "Huh. Does that even make sense?"

  I nod, because it does. It makes perfect sense. Maybe that's what things are like for him with Emme. Maybe that's what he's trying to tell
me here?

  "Yeah," Noah continues. "It's weird, but I was almost saying this exact thing to someone the other day over lunch."

  "Oh?" I freeze on the word "lunch." As in, lunch with Emme?

  "You know Emme Conroy? Who I used to date?"

  Breathe, breathe, breathe. "Not personally," I manage to squeak.

  Noah laughs. "Yeah, well, she's in Vegas on a promotional tour, so we caught up for lunch. And I was telling her that I thought that was one of our big problems. When we used to date, I mean. That we let the media know too much. I guess it doesn't matter anymore, seeing as it's all over, but I won't forget it. For next time."

  "Oh," I say, after a while, my brain trying desperately to register that it's true. He's not seeing Emme again. Rory was right. And I guess Allie had been right, too—Mara really was just trying to get to me.

  Noah continues talking. "I've been thinking about things like that a lot recently. You know, a couple of weeks ago, I went home. My family's not like yours, right? They're normal…"

  I laugh a half-hearted laugh at this, trying to catch up—my mind a whirlwind, and Noah laughs too.

  "Sorry, you know what I mean. Anyway, I went home, and my two younger brothers, they're getting older now, doing stuff on their own. And they had all these friends over and were going out on dates and…well, they had these lives. They made all these decisions for themselves without consulting people. And there was all this stuff that wasn't even on my radar that was going on with them—school, sports, friends, and parties, and this…existence that I wasn't a part of and would never know. And I realized I'd never had that, and I wouldn't have it…couldn't have it."

  "But you have your own world. You're such a part of the show," I say. "You've been part of it forever."

  Noah shakes his head. "But it's not real. And it's not my world anymore. Or not one I want to be a part of. I know I've been distancing myself. I'm ready to get out, same as Rory. Seeing my brothers, I worked out something so basic it's embarrassing."

  "What's that?" I ask.

  Noah shakes his head as if he's reconsidering telling me before finally looking into my eyes again. "I'm…lonely. Everyone thinks I'm so popular and funny and that everyone loves me. But so few people really know me. If I left the show tomorrow, I'd have no one. How pathetic is that?"

  "Lonely," I echo. It's not a tag I've ever applied to myself, but now I realize it encompasses so much—why I cling to my cousins the way I do, why I've been bickering with my mom so much about wanting to go to school, why I feel so isolated chasing her around the world. I'm in different places, seeing different faces all the time, but the bottom line is—I'm lonely. Just like Noah.

  "Embarrassing, huh?" Noah bites his lip in front of me. "I can't believe I just admitted that to you."

  I stare over at him in amazement. Amazed that Noah Hoffman, goofy, popular, gorgeous Noah Hoffman could feel any of the same feelings I feel on a daily basis. Amazed that he's anything like me. "You're lonely?" I repeat.

  "Now I'm really embarrassed." Noah looks like he wants the asphalt to swallow him alive. He goes to turn away.

  "No," I say, quickly, stepping forward, closer to him, to grab his forearm. "Don't go. It's not embarrassing," I tell him, turning him back around. "And if it is, I'll have to be embarrassed with you. Because I know exactly how you feel. Noah, I'm lonely every single day of my life."

  Then, before I can even think about what I'm doing, I pull Noah Hoffman toward me and kiss him.

  And just like that, I don't feel lonely anymore.

  * * *

  Noah and I sit on some steps beside each other and chat for the next twenty minutes or so until I realize the time.

  "Oh, wow," I say, checking my watch. "I'd better go back up. If Mom gets back to the suite and I'm not there, she might really freak out."

  "Let's walk," Noah says, standing, then giving me a hand up. When I'm beside him, he pauses. "Where are Rory and Allie this evening?"

  "Allie's with her dad, I guess. And Rory's going out for dinner with Asher."

  "Ah, Asher," Noah says, sounding kind of flat.

  "Don't you like him?" I ask.

  Noah waves a hand. "What's not to like? He's a great guy. One of those guys you'd love to hate, but you can't."

  "Love to hate?" I'm not quite following.

  "You know, painfully good looking, really nice, totally funny, steals all the attention from the girls when he hangs out backstage." He turns to look at me when he says this last part.

  "Oh," I laugh. "Rory asked me to babysit him, that's all."

  "All that hair," Noah says, gloomily. "The girls are crazy about it, aren't they?"

  "Well…" I say slowly, not sure what Noah wants to hear. "It is a bit…luscious."

  "See!" Noah runs a hand over his buzz cut now. "Do you think I should grow mine?"

  "No!" I take a half step in front of him now, effectively stopping him in his tracks. "Don't be crazy! You've got one of those perfect heads for a buzz cut. It's totally hot. Don't grow it."

  Noah's eyes move down to meet mine, his dark eyebrows raised. "It's totally hot?"

  I grin back at him. "Well, yes. Way hotter than Asher's. In my opinion."

  Noah laughs at his. "Uh oh, I may have to change my mind about you."

  "Change your mind?" I'm not following.

  Noah shrugs. "There are always all these girls hanging around me, telling me bits and pieces of me are hot. But that's what I liked about you from the start—you weren't trying to impress."

  Wasn't I? It was more like I was so impressed I couldn't speak. "Still, lucky you," I end up replying. "There's never anyone hanging around me, telling me bits and pieces of me are hot!"

  Noah laughs at this. "They should be! But, hang on, this is about me, remember? You were telling me my hair's…what was it again?"

  "Um, hot," I say, with a cough.

  "Yes, that's it. Hot. As in hotter than Asher Evans's hair, you mean?"

  I try and look serious. "Oh, yes. Way hotter."

  "I'll just take it as you being really honest, rather than trying to impress me."

  Now I can't help but laugh as we stand and stare at each other.

  It's Noah who ends up speaking first. "Anyway, if you need to get back, maybe we should…" he says, gesturing toward the hotel.

  "Oh, right. Yes. Sorry," I say. "It's just that I was mesmerized by your hot hair."

  * * *

  Noah and I make our way back to the hotel. We then split up when we get to the guest elevators.

  And maybe he kisses me again and maybe he doesn't.

  Okay, so he does (blushing).

  I grin all the way back to the suite, when I remember my mom again. As it turns out, she isn't back yet, and I text her because I know she'll be fretting about ending her interview. I tell her that I'll wait up. Then I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, throw my pajamas on, and climb into bed, even though it's still early. After the day I've had, I need a rest.

  I read for half an hour or so (fine, it's not so much reading as staring at one line of text and replaying the events of the last half hour over and over again in my head), then flick the TV on and channel surf. I stop when I get to this old Woody Allen movie that has, of all people, my mom in it. For some reason, the moment I see her working, I remember Rory telling me I don't give her enough credit. I also recall how impressed Asher was about working with her, too. Now, I put the remote down on top of the comforter and frown slightly as I take in the story being played out before me, trying to see this person in front of me not as my mom, but as Cassie Hartley—person who is affected by more things than she lets on.

  I watch at least an hour of the movie when I hear a voice.

  "Thea?" my mom says, poking her head around the door, and I jump slightly. I hadn't heard her enter the suite.

  "What are you watching?" she asks, taking a few steps into the room. When she spots the movie on the TV, her eyes widen. "Goodness. That was a long time ago," she says.
<
br />   "When was it made?" I ask, interested.

  "Well, you must have been…oh, I remember now. You were just a toddler. Maybe eighteen months or so? It was shot over one summer in Manhattan, and it was unbelievably hot. Your dad took you to Central Park every day to escape the heat. We had a fantastic time, that summer. It was really special." She stares at the TV as she says this, reminiscing. "I loved making that movie. In fact, it's probably one of my all-time favorites."

  "That's a big call," I say, glancing up at her.

  She laughs slightly at this. "I guess so, but it's the truth."

  I turn back to the TV for second.

  "Well, I'm tired. I guess I should take a shower…" my mom says. I can feel she's testing the waters—should we talk now, or later?

  "I'm tired, too," I reply, which is code for "We can talk tomorrow." "But don't you want to watch?" I ask her.

  "Oh, I…" Like the other day, when I'd ask her to watch the fountain with me, she seems quite taken aback by this, and I realize we have a bit of ground to cover together to make things okay between us again.

  "Come on." I shuffle over and lift up the comforter on the side of the bed she's standing next to. "Get in. We'll watch together." Maybe not everything needs to be broken down and discussed and made sense of.

  She gestures at her outfit. "But…"

  "You've been in Deb's suite. Not rolling around in mud. Come on."

  My mom chuckles at this. "You're right. I guess I'm not that dirty. Actually, that reminds me. You know how I told you your dad took you to Central Park every day when I was filming? Well, there was this one time…" And then, as she gets into bed beside me, she tells me this very my-dad-like story about how they were in the middle of shooting a scene and had to stop because of this emergency phone call. It was my dad freaking out that I'd done something awful in my diaper at the park and that he hadn't brought a change of clothes for me, or him, or baby wipes, or anything he might have possibly needed other than his cell and his wallet. "In the end, one of the other actors told him to make like a caveman and find some leaves and then hung up on him."