Authors: Allison Rushby
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4
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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.
In front of the immigration officer, it all goes exactly the way we both knew it would.
"Remove your scarf, please, ma'am," the guy says, and Mom complies. He looks down at her passport, then up again with a slight frown. Then down again, then up again with a wide smile. "Lovely to see you home, Ms. Hartley."
Next to me, I feel my mom tense.
"Well…" is her reply as she reties her scarf, angling to get moving again. Thankfully, she doesn't stop to point out that "home" is now in Tasmania. She finishes off with a jaunty knot and a "Thank you." My mom prides herself on being one of those stars who values her privacy, but who also signs autographs when asked and who doesn't actually throw things at the paparazzi. (But to be fair, she did once beat one half to death with a rolled-up magazine when his camera flash woke me up from my toddler nap in my stroller and he snapped one of those three photos I mentioned, but everyone thought that was totally justified and he dropped the charges because his mom made him.)
Of course, by the time the rest of us have been processed, with our luggage collected from the conveyer belt and our group passed through customs, the fact that Cassie Hartley is in the terminal is practically old news.
By this point, there's an airport security guy assigned to us, and as we head out of arrivals, there are already about thirty paparazzi waiting for us.
"The car's waiting." Deb nods at Mom, cell to her ear.
"We can go now." She turns to the security guy. "It's a black Mercedes SUV. Right out front."
"We're waiting on security at the other end," the guy says, but then he gets a call on his radio.
After he answers it, he points forward. "He's there, so we're good to go. Straight through. I'll lead the way. I'm sure you know the drill by now, Ms. Hartley."
Mom turns to Deb, Anna
, and me. "Like I told you. No stopping. Not for anything. And try to keep Thea between you two."
"Mom," I groan.
"I'm not a baby anymore."
"And no arguments!" she snaps at me.
We've only just landed in LA and she's already had enough.
"Al
l right already!" I say.
We walk quickly
—the security guy first, then Deb with a luggage cart, then Mom, me and Anna bringing up the rear with another cart. The flashes start almost instantly, bright and blinding, the voices yelling over the top of each other to get Mom's attention. I'd been feeling okay before, but now, with all the confusion, I'm suddenly a bit woozy from the long flight.
"Cassie!
Over here! Here! Cassie!" they call out, and Mom's hand grips mine tighter, pulling me toward her. "Cassie! Hey! Oh my god, I can't believe it! It's my lucky day—it's her daughter!" I hear as we keep walking. "Cleo! Over here!" someone else calls out. "It's not Cleo, it's Tia. No, Thea, that's it! Lose the hood, kid! Hey, Thea! Show us the hair!"
When she hears my name, Mom pulls my hand again
, and I jerk forward, losing the hood on my head that she made me pull up seconds before we hit arrivals.
And there it is, in all its glory.
The Hartley hair. The paparazzi go absolutely wild. The yelling gets louder and the flashes flash faster.
"Thea!
Thea! Hey, kid! Over here!"
But it's too late.
In a second we're outside, and I'm being shoved unceremoniously into the back of the SUV.
As my mom sits down beside me and buckles up, she glances at my unhooded head and doesn't look one bit impressed.
"Not. My. Fault." I point one finger at her. "You pulled me forward and it fell down."
She leans back into the tan leather seat with a sigh and stares out the window, not even putting up a fight or pointing out that after my hood fell down, I didn't exactly rush to pull it back up again.
"Ugh, I
hate
LA," she says, petulantly. "That Erik…"
As for me?
Well, as my mom is dealing with the fact that my hair and I are about to be seen by millions of people, I look out the window trying to hide my grin, because how my mom feels about LA? I have to admit I feel exactly the opposite way.
* * *
"Thea!" Rory waves and comes bounding down the wide front steps of her family's enormous Mediterranean-style villa as soon as the huge metal gates creep open. The paparazzi, lying in wait, snap the few shots they can before the gates close again, and we drive the short distance to where Rory's standing, waiting for us.
I tumble out of the car like an overeager puppy and hug my cousin.
Then we jump up and down a bit and hug each other again.
"You two.
Really. You saw each other a couple of months ago. And you Skype at least once a week!" my mom calls out as she exits the car behind me, pulling off her scarf as she goes. She steps forward to give Rory a kiss. "And how are you, sweetie?" She gives her niece a look.
"Um, okay.
I guess." Rory looks sheepish. "I'm sorry if you were worried or anything."
"Honey, you know we just want what's best for you, right?
If you called me, maybe I could have helped."
"I know.
I just…didn't think."
"Well, I'm sure you've talked about it enough for now.
We'll have a chat later." Mom gives her another hug. "I'm just glad you're okay." With a final squeeze, she heads behind the car with Deb and Anna to sort out the luggage.
Now that Mom's out of earshot, I give Rory my own look.
"What is going
on
?" I hiss at her. "No text? No email?"
She frowns at me.
"Shhh. Nothing. Leave it alone."
"As if!
And what's all this you made up about a new boyfriend?"
Another "let it go" frown.
Fine. So maybe right now is neither the time nor place. "Later, you will tell all." I dig a finger into her ribs.
"Ow!
Cut it out!" she tells me, taking a step sideways.
"Where's Allie?" I look around and then behind Rory at the open door, wondering where she is.
Usually it would be the pair of them running down the steps, or just Allie if Rory was working.
Rory seems relieved to change the subject. "She's out with Dana, her tutor.
She had a physical therapy appointment this afternoon, and she's off to her dance class in about an hour. I was kind of hoping you'd get here in time because I was thinking of heading over to help out. I arranged with Dana and Dad to pick her up. Want to come?"
"Great.
Then we can really talk." I check for my mom. "Mom!" I holler in her direction.
She's already stepped out from behind the car to size me up, having eavesdropped on our plans.
"Well…" she says slowly, one hand on her hip, but then her eyes move to meet Rory's and she thinks twice about saying no. "I guess I don't see why not," she finally says. "As long as you keep a low profile."
I shoot my mom my most sincere look.
"You know me. I am all about the low profile."
"Yes, as you demonstrated at the airport."
"Come on, Mom. I didn't do that. I told you."
"Hmmm." I get another assessing stare. But I can tell she believes me about the hood thing (not that I'll be keeping a low profile using hoodies from now on, because, unlike the Tasmanian winter we've come from, it is
hot
here).
Next to me on the steps, Rory shakes her head.
"I can't even imagine what you did at the airport."
"I flashed," I say, raising one eyebrow at my cousin.
"You flashed." Her mouth twists. She doesn't believe me for a moment.
"My hair," I add.
"Ah, now I get it. Well, you might be a Wallis, not a Hartley, but it's still your hair the paparazzi will be the most excited about." She turns back toward my mom and waves a hand. "Don't worry, Cass, I know the drill."
* * *
"Hey, Uncle Erik!" I race through the kitchen to give my favorite uncle (fine, the only uncle I really know) a hug.
"Okay, yes, I hear you on that.
I'll have a word. Anyway, I need to go." He ends the call he's on. "Hey, kiddo! Good to see you!" He pinches both my cheeks at the same time, then pinches my nose, then ruffles my hair. (Don't ask, it's a weird Hartley greeting thing they stop doing to you when you turn twenty-eight or so.)
"Sorry, I didn't know you were on the phone," I tell him when he's done rearranging my face.
"Don't worry about it," he replies. "Nothing important." But I notice that he looks kind of grayish—tired, and like he needs a good vacation and a bit of sun. His eyes move to look at Rory as he speaks, and I guess that whatever the call was about, it was a) important, and b) about her. There's something else, too—a kind of approaching thunderstormish tension in the room that I normally don't feel here at all, but am more than used to feeling at home whenever I'm about to have another bust-up with Mom.
"Erik!" My mom sweeps forward from behind us in a distinctly old-Hollywood move that makes me double-check she's still wearing the same tailored jeans and white linen shirt she got off the plane in and hasn't changed into a ball gown.
It's like she turns into this totally different person in LA.
"Thanks for coming, Cass," Erik says.
"I mean it."
"Well, I won't say it's my idea of what I should be doing on vacation, but anything for you guys. You know that."
"Um, Dad," Rory says, making everyone look at her. "I thought Thea and I might head over to Allie's dance class. I said I might be able to help out today…?"
Nice way to change the subject, cuz.
Real subtle.
"I guess that would be okay.
Allie would love that," Uncle Erik says. "She'll be thrilled to see Thea, too."
"We might, um, head out then and grab a juice on the way," Rory says before halting in her tracks.
"So…I was thinking of taking Frank? My other car might be low on gas."
Uncle Erik's face instantly hardens.
"Rory, you're in enough trouble as it is. Don't push things. You know the studio will fill the car for you anytime you ask."
Beside me, Rory hmpfs.
"Fine, then. See you at dinner." She grabs me by the arm as she heads for the front door.
"Um, bye!" I say as I get dragged along.
* * *
"What was that about?" I ask Rory as we close the front door behind us and make our way down the front steps and over to the garage.
"That was about this…" Rory presses a button on her car keys, and one of the garage doors opens. Inside is not her usual silver Prius, Frank, but a very expensive looking, very pink convertible with vanity plates that say RORY.
"Holy…" I start.
I want to look away, but can't. "What is it?"
"That is a Bentley Continental GTC.
That is
my
Bentley Continental GTC, which I am contractually obligated to drive. You know, so it's easier for someone to find me and kidnap me. The girls have pink ones and the guys have blue ones. It's trés cute. Apparently."
"It's awfully…pink." My brain, shocked by the color overload, can't seem to come up with a more appropriate adjective on such short notice.
"Really? Pink?" Rory double takes. "Is it? I hadn't noticed. Now stop pointing out the painfully obvious already and get in."
"Okay, but hang on a second." I race back over to the steps and pull my cell from my pocket.
I hold it up, click a button, and then, by the time I've run around the car, slid into the smooth, beige leather seat and buckled up, my dad already has the photo. "Just hoping Dad will buy me one for Christmas," I tell Rory.
Rory just sighs and backs out of the garage. "You know something? You're the annoying younger sister I never had." She glances over at me.
I frown, thinking about this for a second. "But you've got a younger sister."
"Yes, but she's not annoying like you."