Being Hartley (7 page)

In the hallway, my eyes widen with this one.
Go Uncle Erik! Way to stand up for yourself! I lean into the wall and get ready to stay put for the long haul. This should be good.

"As close as I can get to normal for a Hartley, she does," is my mom's response.

Uncle Erik laughs at this.

"What?" my mom says.
"What's so amusing?"

"Cass.
You saw that footage of Thea tonight. You're in denial."

"About what, exactly?"

"She's a Hartley. Through and through."

"She's a Wallis," Mom retorts.

"In name only," Uncle Erik replies. "She's a Hartley and then some. As much as you want to deny it, she's an all-singing, all-dancing, star-spangled, curly-haired Hartley. You think she doesn't see through all those classes and things you send her off to? She's fifteen now! You can't keep her out of the spotlight forever."

In the silence that follows, I quite seriously think my mom might be strangling her poor brother.
But then I hear her sigh. "I can try and deny it," she replies, sounding defeated. "I can…delay it. I just need her to be old enough and wise enough to see things as they really are."

"You don't give her enough credit, Cass.
She's a smart kid."

"I know that."

"Does
she
know you know that?"

My mom sighs, but no one speaks for some time.

"That video made me think." It's my mom who cracks first. "It was so easy when they were that young."

A loud snort exits Uncle Erik.
"Obviously you don't remember the sleep deprivation."

Mom laughs at this.
"Oh, yes. That's true. Remember that trip to Mexico when Allie was tiny?"

"And Rob was off working somewhere or other and we went all earth-parent and thought we could have a vacation.
Just us and the kids and no nannies."

They both start laughing now
, and I think I even hear someone slap the marble counter.

"What did we last…two days before we started scouring the countryside for help?"

"It felt like a month!" Mom sounds like she's crying now she's laughing so hard. "That wasn't a vacation. That was baby boot camp. All we did was change diapers, make bottles, and force Rory to watch TV so we had more time to change diapers and make bottles! I think we got to the beach once. Maybe twice."

"And the tantrums," Uncle Erik adds.
"Don't forget those."

This time, it's Mom who snorts.
"Forget the tantrums? How could I? We're both still getting those."

-
8
-

Mom and Uncle Erik start reminiscing about the good old days after this
, and I wander back to bed. It's only when I get there that I remember what I was heading to the kitchen for in the first place and realize I don't even feel hungry anymore.

I try and go back to sleep again, but can't.
I read for a while, but my eyes simply can't concentrate on the page. And then my legs start getting twitchy, and when this starts, I know the sleeping, or even resting, thing is just not going to happen. So, I get up and stretch for a good twenty minutes or so. And then, when I still don't feel tired, I give up, change into a crop top and running shorts, grab my iPad, and I'm off.

* * *

It's nice to have a cousin who has a fully decked-out private dance studio, I think to myself as I pause to wipe the sweat from my neck with one of the studio's soft white hand towels. One song down, four to go, I check the homework list on my laptop to see what's next.

I set this homework as a New Year's resolution for myself.
The thing was, I knew I spent all this time whining that I couldn't go to this hip hop class, or that hip hop workshop. It took one of my dancing friends to point out that maybe I could use what I did have to my advantage—time and space. I had a bit more time than a lot of the other dancers I knew. I was tutored instead of going to school, so there wasn't all that driving, or walking to and from school, or minutes wasted getting to the next class. And, being an only child, I generally had a whole lot of space wherever we were—home, London, or even if we were in rented accommodations because Mom was filming somewhere else.

So, I made a plan.
I was already learning all of the
SMD
routines by heart each week. That was a good start. To this, I added a new goal. I'd copy the routines from three music videos in the top fifty each week. After all, there was usually a whole lot of hip hop in the top fifty, and to stand out, the dancing had to be pretty amazing. Even if there were only a few sequences to learn per clip, that was something.

Anyway, that's what I did.
I stuck to it. And after just three months, I already knew for sure that I'd made a huge improvement. My dancing was way tighter. I had to think about it less. It seemed to come more naturally. When three music videos started to get easier for me, I stepped things up to five. At this point, I found I had to start using the top one hundred chart, because the singles wouldn't move around enough week to week. And, every so often, to mix things up a bit, I'd add in something for some fun—I'd do something like go back a decade and pick out a music video from that same week ten years ago.

I'd been a decent dancer before, I knew that.
But now, eight months into the year? I knew I was getting up there. Sure, I was weak in some areas, like tap. And pretty nonexistent in others (hello, ballroom). I was no all-rounder. But when I got to dance how I wanted to dance, I was good. Bordering on really good.

Of course, I still have no idea how being "really good" is going to be useful to me (studying dance at college, maybe?
I don't know…). I used to ask myself that question a lot but stopped when one of the teachers at a workshop I was at pointed out it didn't matter. For now, she told me, I should simply enjoy the fact that I felt good about dancing while I was dancing. Maybe that was enough.

With a shake of my head, I remind myself to move on to the next clip before my body really does get tired.
I take one last wipe at my sweaty neck, watch the clip again carefully, trying to memorize the sequence I'm supposed to be getting down. Then, when I think I've got it, I turn the music back up.

It's as I take a couple of steps forward closer to the mirrored wall that I notice a bright pink flash out of the corner of my eye, just outside of the studio doorway.
Is that…? Yep, it is. I go over and switch the music off again. "Uncle Erik," I say. "You can come out now."

"Ah, yes.
Thea. Hello!" Uncle Erik steps into the studio, half-hiding something behind his back.

"Off for a game of tennis?" I eye the ultra-pink racquet.

"Ha ha. Well, no. Not really." He looks sheepish.

"Isn't it meant to be a baseball bat that you beat up intruders with?"

He pauses. "I couldn't seem to find my baseball bat."

I nod. "Well, I hope I wasn't too noisy," I say.
"Sorry, I should have closed the door."

"No, it's fine.
I'm afraid I'm not sleeping very well these days. Any little noise, and I'm up."

I'm not sure what to tell him.
He looks like he's having a pretty tough time of things. "Want me to get you a glass of warm milk or something?"

"That's sweet, but no thanks.
How about I run you through whatever it is you're doing, instead?"

This makes me laugh.
Typical Hartley. When in doubt, work. "Thanks, Uncle Erik." I grin. "That would be great. And remind me to get you a black tennis racquet for Christmas. Apparently, it's what everyone's beating up intruders with this season."

* * *

Someone whispers in my ear, "Thea? You awake?"

"I can't tell anymore.
My body's on strike." I roll over in bed to take in Rory. She's dressed in her hot pink
SMD
tracksuit, her hair pulled back into the regulation high ponytail, her curls exploding out over her shoulders. "What time is it?"

"Almost six.
I'm going into the studio in fifteen minutes or so. We've got a rehearsal before we hit the road. I thought you might like to come."

My brain struggles to process this information and make a decision.
Would I like to get out of bed? Not really. Would I like to go to an
SMD
rehearsal? Um, yes. Yes, please. "I'm up," I say, throwing back the sheets and springing out of bed. "What about everyone else?"

Rory shakes her head.
"They'll be coming later. Dad's driving to Vegas anyway, and you know Allie doesn't get out of bed until the last minute she absolutely has to. It's just you and me."

"Well, you and me
, and the big pink Bentley."

Rory doesn't look impressed.
"Yeah, great. Thanks for reminding me."

* * *

After a quick shower and an even faster minute or two of stuffing back inside the few items of clothing I'd bothered to take out of my suitcase, we leave a note for my mom to say that I'll be with Rory.

It's almost six thirty now and nice and cool outside with a gorgeous wide blue sky.
If I stare straight up, I could swear I'm back in Tasmania, but one deep breath is all it takes to remember my exact location. Seriously, if you lived here, your lungs would not know what to do with Tasmanian air—too much oxygen, not enough smog.

We throw our suitcases into the trunk and hop in the car.
As Rory pulls out of the garage, she reaches up with one hand and flicks the roof. "Don't ask me to open it. We're not allowed," she says as she drives out of the gates and onto the road.

I check to see if she's serious.
"What? They buy you a convertible, and then you're not allowed to open the roof? What's that about?"

"I know.
Pretty stupid, huh?" But then a smirk creeps over Rory's face. "It was all because of Noah."

"Noah?
What did he do?" It can't have been anything bad, is my first thought, because, in my eyes, Noah Hoffman can do no wrong…

Rory waits for a couple of cars to pass
, and then takes a right onto Sunset Plaza Drive once more. "He stopped at a set of lights, and this crazy fan jumped right in the back! He couldn't convince her to get out of the car. He was driving to the studio anyway, so security had to pry her out of there at the gates. It was pretty funny. Thankfully, she was totally harmless."

We chat all the way to the studio
, and Rory seems fine until she indicates and then turns left onto a palm-tree-lined immaculately groomed avenue. "So…here we are," she says. "You ready for this?" She glances over at me.

"I don't know," I tell her honestly.
"The important thing is, are you?"

Rory concentrates on the road again, her expression difficult to read.
"I don't know either," she finally says. "Don't ask me. I don't know anything anymore. I just work here."

"What does that mean?"

Rory doesn't answer me for a minute or two. "I used to love this job…" she trails off.

"And now?"

She seems confused, her brow furrowed, her hands gripping the steering wheel just a bit too tight. "Some days it's okay. Bearable. Other days I just want to run out the studio gates and not stop until I get to Tijuana."

"That's some run." My eyebrows shoot up.
Wow. Things are worse than I thought.

"Yeah, well, some days I hate
SMD
so much I think I could make it."

"There's no shame in getting out, Rory," I tell her.
"If that's what you want?"

Her eyes remain glued to the road.
"There is, before your contract ends. They'd have my head. In fact, they'd probably impale it and stick it out the front of the studio. And, anyway, I don't know what I want."

"Huh.
That makes two of us."

"At least we have each other!" This gives Rory a laugh. "You still don't have plans for when you finish school?"

I shake my head. "No. I mean, I love dancing, but I love a lot of things."

"All your 'amazing opportunities,' you mean?" Rory cackles.
"I'm only teasing. You going to go into ikebana? That class sounded interesting."

"At this stage, anything's possible.
Maybe I'll just take your job if you're leaving," I joke. "How long before your contract's up?"

"Another year yet.
Fit in with your plans?"

"Sadly, no."

In the silence that follows, I think about how I don't really understand what's changed for Rory so suddenly that she wants out of
SMD
yesterday.

Rory snorts, grabbing my attention. "You'd think they would have expected a little diva action when they signed me up.
It's practically genetic, right?"

The Hartleys are kind of known for their diva antics. Especially our grandmother, who, at the age of seventy-nine is still something else when it comes to stalking off set, swearing at the crew
, and demanding take after take after take, or only one take if she feels like it. My mom, however, prides herself on being known as the opposite—the cool, calm, collected professional.

"It doesn't help to have Mara breathing down my neck the whole time, either," Rory adds.
"That girl is so desperate for my job it's not funny. I know it's hard for understudies, but some days you half expect her to push you down a flight of stairs or something just so she can have her turn in the spotlight."

"Are you for real? I mean, does the production team know about this and everything?"

Rory laughs. "Everyone knows! In fact, it's so obvious, they've been pushing us together, which only makes it worse. A couple of weeks ago, when I mentioned I was going to one of Allie's dance classes, they pretty much forced Mara to go along too, as a little happy friendship-building exercise. You can imagine how much Allie loved that."

"Not much, is my guess," I reply.
"Poor Allie."

"I know.
At least they
pay
me to hang around Mara."

We're approaching the studio gates now
, and Rory pulls up next to a boom gate and a guard and lowers her window. "Hey, Tiny!" Rory smiles up at a guy who, not surprisingly, isn't at all Tiny. "This is my cousin, Thea."

Tiny bends down to Rory's window, which is a long way for Tiny.
"Hey, Rory, good to see you, girl. You, too, Thea."

"Hi," I say.

"So, what's the score? Am I last?" Rory bites her lip, her eyes on Tiny's clipboard as he stands up again.

"Nope.
Still got Noah and Lucia to go," he says.

"Sweet," Rory seems relieved.
"Thanks!" she says as Tiny lifts the boom gate for us to pass through. "Looks like I'm the good little Hartley today. That's something, I guess."