Being Hartley

by Rushby, Allison

  * * *

  In the end, it's Rory's new agent who sorts out the YouTube fiasco. As it turns out, it is Mara behind the video (surprise, surprise) and (actual surprise) she winds up getting fired from SMD for the incident. Before Rory's agent sorts out the mess, we're intent on forming a posse and heading over to Mara's house, but again, it's Allie who stops us.

  "It's what she wants," she tells us, just like she had the other day, when Mara had tried to get a rise out of Rory on stage. She makes us promise we won't have any contact with her.

  But the truth is, I do. At least in my own small way. Before the video is taken down, I post my own comment underneath from "anonymous dancer."

  Mara, you think you're missing one thing that's standing in the way of your success. And you are. But it's not your last name—it's humanity.

  However hard you try and shine, you'll never have it until you can stop making excuses and look for the truth. Until you can do that, you'll never be as successful or as loved by the public as Rory. It's not just because of her last name that she's gotten where she is today. It's because she's a decent human being who's kind and honest, cares about others and loves what she does. You know, there's something wrong with you if you can't say, "I'm sorry your sister's sick" to someone you've worked with for years when they have a family member in the ICU. There's something missing. I don't know if you can find that piece of you and replace it, but I hope so.

  Anyway, I hope you can put everything that's happened to one side for even five minutes and think about this. Because it's probably the only way forward for you. Good luck, Mara. I mean that. I know you've had to deal with unfairness in the past. This could be a great chance for everyone to start fresh.

  After I post this, I lean back in my chair and take a deep breath. I know Mara will read it. She's the kind of person who will read every single comment just to see what people say about her. The thing is, if this was a movie, Mara would read what I had to say and realize I was right. She'd completely change her ways and head on over with a bunch of flowers for both Rory and Allie.

  Unfortunately, this might be Hollywood, land of the happy ending, but this isn't a story. And as you get older, you realize life isn't fair and that pretty much all you can do is try and keep the Maras out of your own—like my mom's so good at doing. Anyway, from what I've seen of Mara, I'm quite sure her reaction to my comment won't be to "think about this," but to want to come after me with a fork and poke my eyes out. But I meant what I said, and it made me feel better to say it, and all I can do is hope that she'll take even part of it in. Plus, I kept my promise to Allie. In a gray area-ish kind of way. That's all that matters, really.

  The funny thing is, the YouTube video turns out to be less fiasco and more fantastic stepping stone to the perfect idea for the next chapter in Rory's working life. It's as I'm writing my secret post to Mara that I get the kernel of an idea. Part of it comes from what I know about Rory herself—about her very essence. And part of it comes from things that have been said to me this trip. Things like Allie explaining Rory's love of dance vs. the politics of SMD, and Rory talking about her original contract and how what she'd loved had changed. Over the next twenty-four hours, I steal a few moments away with a writing pad to sketch out my thoughts, which end up being so good, I decide to save them all up and present them at Rory's celebration dinner the following evening.

  Rory chose her favorite restaurant, The Little Door, for her dinner. And now that we're all here and seated, I can see why. It's gorgeous—small, hidden away, and dark. Candles, ferns, and fountains complete the atmosphere. She reserved a small, cozy room called the piano room where the orange walls and blond floor make the evening seem even warmer and the company more intimate. Everyone's here—Mom, Dad, Uncle Erik, Rory, Allie, Asher, Noah, me.

  It couldn't be more perfect.

  Not even the news we got on the way here from Rory's agent could dampen our spirits. She'd heard through the grapevine that Mara was already snapped up for a new project—a Pussycat Dolls-style girls group that looks like it will be launching itself in a big way very soon. It's looking like it's going to be huger than huge, and Mara will no doubt go supernova with it. Which is everything she's always dreamed of. To be honest, it doesn't really bother me that Mara's getting what she wants. Maybe that's what she needs to be a better person?

  I push Mara from my thoughts and hug my idea to myself, waiting until after my monkfish tagine to even think about bringing it up. By this point, the room is practically rocking, we're all having such a great time.

  After our waiter has cleared everyone's plates, I tap my spoon against my glass a couple of times, and eventually, the commotion dies down, and everyone looks at me, surprised, waiting to hear what I have to say.

  Suddenly, I feel awfully embarrassed. "I, um…" I start. "I have something to say."

  "Uh oh," Allie says, from across the table, but Rory shushes her.

  "What is it, Thea?" Rory asks, genuinely interested.

  "Well," I say, feeling foolish. I'd thought it was such a good idea yesterday. And today. Even five minutes ago, in fact. But now I feel…I don't know…young and stupid. Like I don't know anything. I mean, what do I know about show business? I'm the outsider, remember?

  "Thea?" Rory says, quietly.

  I look up from the spot I'm staring at on the white tablecloth into her eyes. And that's when I realize I might not know anything much about show business, but I know my cousin. My cousin who I used to jump on the trampoline with and sing stupid songs. My cousin who I've spent the last week helping out, who isn't so far removed from that eight-year-old trampoline junkie as everyone might think.

  Rory smiles at me encouragingly, and just as suddenly as it had washed over me, my feeling of foolishness disappears. It is a good idea. I know it is.

  "Okay," I say, starting over again, my attention focused only on Rory this time, so I don't chicken out. "I think I know what you should do next."

  "Really?" Rory says. "What?"

  "I got the idea from the, um, Ingrid incident. And from the meeting with Sonja. And from lots of other things you said, I guess. Oh, and from watching you dance with Allie's group."

  Rory nods, urging me on. "Mmm?"

  "Okay, basically, I think you should do your own show. Kind of like the earlier SMD, but not about music videos. More like about dance essentials. A dance show that isn't about being perfect, or tall, or blond, or pretty. A show that's just about loving dance. About it being fun. And for everyone. So, one week, you could do a bit of tap, the next week some salsa, some ballet, swing…everything, really. And it would be for old people and young people. For everyone and anyone who loves to dance."

  Rory stares at me in silence.

  "Or, you know…not," I add, as the silence continues, and I start to think I'm way off and it's the worst idea she ever heard.

  "Thea," she finally says, and I wince and close my eyes, waiting for her to start laughing. "That is a really good idea."

  I open one eye. "Really?"

  "Really." Rory becomes much more animated. "I like it. A lot. My own show. My way."

  "I like it too," Noah says, grinning beside me. "When did you come up with this?"

  I try and act cool and fail miserably. "Oh, you know. It's something I've been working on for a while now. Well, okay…since yesterday." I laugh.

  "What does everyone else think?" Rory glances around the table, seeking out opinions.

  One by one, everyone agrees, and then, talking over each other, they add their own ideas to the mix.

  Finally, I add some extra spice too. "And you could have guest spots, and I could even help you out because I'll be here, living in LA, going to school with Allie."

  Everyone stops talking again.

  Allie cuts through the silence first. "Are you serious?"

  "I hope so," I squeak, looking from my dad to my mom and back again. Since Dad got back from Rome, we've had a couple of long talks about how things have been going for
all of us lately and how we might be able to make them better in the future. After our last talk, going back to school with Allie had seemed like it might even be in the cards.

  Across the table from me, my mom sighs a worn-out sigh. "Fine. I guess I'm outvoted," she says. "Your father won't have to travel so much if he's here. And I can't see you letting go of the idea. Maybe I could bear a couple of years in LA while you finish high school…"

  There are a lot of whoops and clapping at this news.

  "Outvoted by a majority of Hartleys," I grin at my mom.

  "Plus an Evans, a Hoffman, and one Wallis," Noah adds, squeezing my hand under the table. And he looks almost as happy as I feel.

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  About The Author

  Allison Rushby is the Australian author of a whole lot of books. She is crazy about Mini Coopers, Devon Rex cats, Downton Abbey and corn chips. You can find her at http://www.allisonrushby.com, on Facebook, or procrastinating on Twitter at @Allison_Rushby. That is, when she's not on eBay, or Etsy, or any other place she can shop in secret while looking like she's writing...

  Don’t miss the excitiment!

  BLONDTOURAGE

  Rich Girls.

  It's only the hottest, most talked about, highest-rating reality show on TV.

  Romy and Anouschka, the stars of the show, are born gorgeous, have never worked a day in their lives and shop and party their way from country to country. Who wouldn't want to live like that?

  Um, fourteen-year-old Elli Adamson, that's who. Elli feels like she's the only person in the world who thinks the Rich Girls are Not All That. But when her chef-to-the-stars mother is headhunted to cook for the Rich Girls, the offer is too good to pass up.

  Soon enough, Elli finds herself living a new life in the blondtourage, the behind-the-scenes crew that keeps the Rich Girls on the road. But as they travel, Elli starts to see that reality and reality TV are two very different things indeed.

  Maybe she has more in common with the Rich Girls than she could have ever imagined...

  OMG!

  "Okay. I can handle this. I can. I can, I can, I can. No, wait a second. I so can't. I can't, I can't, I can't, I…"

  I roll my eyes as the voice drones on in my ear until finally, I've had enough. This has been going on for fifteen minutes now, which would be approximately thirteen and a half minutes too long. I'd stupidly dialed Steph's number just as the cab pulled up to the curb. (Why? Why?! I blame long-flight-induced insanity.) Thus, the babbliest babbler of them all has been babbling since JJ and I exited the car downstairs, while we were being vetted by the doorman, heading over the marble floor into the elevators, whizzing the long way up to the penthouse suites, and finding our way into the gigantic kitchen we're now standing in. The gigantic kitchen that is JJ's new workplace and my new…well, home, I guess you'd have to call it. But back to the babbler and her babbling. Ow. Seriously. My ear hurts.

  "I really can't. I can't, I can't, I can't, I…"

  That's it. "I think you probably can handle it from halfway across the world, Steph. I'll talk to you later," I tell my best friend/cousin, and then end the call. Looking on, JJ laughs at both Steph (who the whole of Manhattan probably just heard) and me. Why laugh at me? Okay, so it's fair enough. My guess is she's laughing at my surly expression, which I've been perfecting all the long way over from Sydney to New York City (and that's some serious surly practice).

  "Oh, come on, Elli." JJ gives me a look as I try with all my might to take it up a notch to über-surly. "You've got to admit it's just a little bit exciting."

  Exciting, huh? Well, let's see. Hmmm. I take a sweeping look around me. At the gorgeous chef 's kitchen with its pale blond wood floor, its spotless stainless steel work surface that goes on forever, and the gigantic oven. Oh, wait a second. Make that two gigantic ovens. (One for Hansel and one for Gretel? Who knows?)

  "Well…it's not too bad, I guess." I shrug half-heartedly, but then can't help smiling a tiny smile at my mother (that's JJ—I'll explain about the name later). All right, all right, I have to admit it—even for me, little Ms. Über-surly, this is all a tiny bit exciting. I mean, even though I don't watch the show, you always see bits and pieces of it on the commercials, don't you? You still hear about it on the news and from friends and stuff. And this is it. Actually it. The kitchen. Romy and Anouschka's kitchen. The kitchen that millions and millions of viewers all over the world see when they tune in to Rich Girls every Sunday night (or whenever prime time is wherever you are).

  So, yes, all right. It's a tiny bit exciting.

  "That's better." JJ beams back at my miniscule "it's a tiny bit exciting" smile. And then she pulls me in for a sideways hug, which, of course, I start to squirm out of as soon as I can.

  "Don't get me wrong." I squirm harder still, trying to make my escape, and start in on my point. "This doesn't mean that I approve."

  "Of course not." JJ nods.

  "I'm still here completely against my will."

  Another nod. "Duly noted."

  "And…" I'm about to start in on one of my "Rich Girls—step aside while I vomit" speeches, when another glance around the kitchen sees me spot something that wasn't there before. Two somethings, in fact.

  Something one: Romy, and something two: Anouschka.

  Yikes! Two somethings! Two somethings who are staring straight at me.

  At first, I don't quite believe what I'm seeing, but then I check again and it seems, unfortunately, that it's true—the two most photographed, most talked about girls in the world are staring at me. Me. With my "I've been on a plane for approximately twenty-two hours" static headrest-hair, mustard-stained jeans (pre-flight hotdog), T-shirt with a fresh chocolate smear (soggy airline chocolate croissant for breakfast) and my oldest, comfiest sneakers on my feet. (I'm no Rich Girls wannabe. I travel in comfort, sweetie, not in style.) So, um, yes, again…yikes!

  Quick but important disclaimer: Not that I care a jot what the cover girls for materialism think about anything, of course, and especially my economy-seat fashion story, but to tell the truth, I'm lucky they let me into the country at all looking like I do right now, let alone into Manhattan and the headquarters of Rich Girls.

  So, have I said those two words enough yet? Rich Girls. That's right. Rich Girls. Of course you know about it. It's the hottest, most talked about, highest-rated reality show on TV. And what's not to like? I mean, who wouldn't want to be born gorgeous, disgustingly "sorry, but I can't count that high" rich (hey, they probably can't count past twenty—the number of digits on their hands and feet) and never have to work a day in their lives?

  Um, me. That's who.

  Yes, call me a freak, but I, Elli Adamson, seem to be the only person in the whole wide world who considers Rich Girls to be Not All That. Even my grandfather and his Jack Russell terrier, Stinky Jack, love the show (sad, but true). But no, not me. "Stupid Girlz," I like to call it (yes, with a "z"—everything is cooler if it's misspelled, right?)…but I digress. We'll get to all that some other time, because, right now…

  Well, I'm kind of busy. Remembering where I am and whose eyes are currently on me, I step sideways a tad, ducking the limelight. I wind up slightly behind the kitchen counter, in the hope of hiding that hideous mustard stain. And, again, it's not because I care what Romy and Anouschka think. It's because, well … I may be Normal Girl to their Rich Girl, but only three-year-olds have mustard stains on their pants, right? Okay, so I guess I should say something. And so, to impress them with all the wit and knowledge that I'm always going on about that they lack, I use my Normal Girl voice and say�
��

  "Guh."

  Oh, great. Just great. Nice one, Elli. "Guh." It's not even a word, is it?

  In front of me, Romy, milk-chocolate-haired and looking gorgeously, effortlessly casual in jeans, ballet flats, a floaty white-beaded shirt and tinkly silver bangles, blinks and half smiles at me before glancing back at JJ, looking like she's wondering who I am. Anouschka, sharp and blond in a tightly cinched green geometric print wrap dress and killer black stilettos, doesn't smile at all. Her look is more of a glare. A "Child, you're of less use to me than the tissue I just blew my nose on and subsequently discarded" glare.

  JJ, however, doesn't seem to notice Anouschka's look. Either that, or she simply doesn't care. "Nice to see you again Romy, Anouschka." She looks over at them, grinning. "This is my daughter, Elli," she says. "Elli, I'm sure I don't need to introduce to you to Romy and Anouschka. She loves your show. She watches it every week."

  I shoot JJ a look with this one. Ha! As if! If I wasn't so busy guhing, I'd laugh for real. I love their show? Um, no. I don't think so.

  Having been introduced, Romy and Anouschka turn back to look at me once more, probably expecting me to gush, or run over and kiss their feet, or something, I suppose. I try to open my mouth and let out that witty one-liner that will no doubt come to me at about one a.m., but I think I left my brain on the luggage carousel where it's probably still circling over at JFK. Just when I'm about to guh again to fill the silence, Romy saves the day.

  "Cocoa butter," she says cryptically, sniffing the air (how anyone can sniff the air and look angelic doing it is beyond me, but Romy can do it. I suddenly wish I could as well, but I'd be more likely to look like a dog who thought something, somewhere, was on fire). "Mmmm," she says, thinking aloud. "Cocoa butter from Ghana, beeswax from northwest Zambia, and olive oil from Italy."