Fifteen-year-old Thea Wallis was born to entertain. Her mother, Oscar winning actress Cassie Hartley, thinks differently and has kept her daughter out of the spotlight since day one. Coming from showbiz royalty, it hasn't been easy to go unnoticed, but mismatched surnames, a family home in Tasmania and a low-key scriptwriter father has made this possible.
Just like her cousin Rory on the hugely popular TV show Saturday Morning Dance, Thea loves to dance. She learns the show's routines off by heart each week, despite her mother's attempts to convince her that dentistry would be a far more fulfilling career choice.
However, when Rory goes off the rails in LA, Thea's mother is suddenly left with no choice at all – Rory needs them and to LA they must go. Within forty-eight hours, Thea finds herself a long way from Tasmania and living her dream – on the road to Las Vegas with the Saturday Morning Dance team.
It doesn't take long before Thea's talents are discovered and she's offered everything she's ever wanted on a plate, including the dance partner she's had a crush on forever. But, as her mother has always told her, Hollywood dreams come at a price. Thea soon realizes she will have to work out just how much she's willing to pay. And, ultimately, discover her own way to be Hartley.
- 1 -
"Thea?"
I hear my mom call out from the kitchen. Her voice distracts me from what I'm
doing—what I've been doing for the last forty-five minutes—and I miss the step
I've been getting wrong over and over again. Ugh. What is wrong with me today?
I press pause on the remote and take a deep breath, trying to refocus. Okay,
one more time. I rewind a few seconds, and it's only as I'm ready to start over
that I frown, realizing that the "Thea" I heard might not have been
the first time Mom has "Thea'd" me in the last ten minutes or so.
I take a couple
seconds to think about how annoyed she sounded.
Maybe about a
seven?
"Coming!"
I yell back, hoping that I can buy myself a few more minutes. "I just need
to…" I let my words trail off, because not only does Mom already know what
I'm doing up here (the
thumping on the
floorboards is a dead giveaway), she doesn't entirely approve.
As I press play
again, I decide, this time, to concentrate on my cousin Rory's image on the
screen. She and her partner Noah aren't the lead dancers in the advanced
segment on Saturday Morning Dance today, but it's easier for me to follow
someone I'm so familiar with, even if she is in the background.
The only problem
is, as soon as I focus on Rory, I don't get any further than before, because I
simply lose it. The show today is a special eighties show, and the two songs
we're dancing to in the advanced segment are both Michael Jackson. The first
one was "Thriller," which was a whole lot of zombie fun. This one is
a song I don't think I've heard before—"P.Y.T." I'm loving it,
though. And Rory obviously thinks it's a find as well, because she is goofing
around back there with her partner, trying hard not to laugh—if that smirk on
her face is anything to go by. Fair enough, really. After all, there's some
pretty weird stuff going on in that song, including…
"Michael
Jackson's 'Pretty Young Thing,'" a voice says, and I turn to see my mom
behind me, leaning against one of the house's tall metal columns. "I
haven't heard that song in years. I thought I recognized that grunting and
panting. Oh, and let's not forget the odd chipmunk vocals at the end…"
I press pause on
the remote again and raise one eyebrow as I stare at her. "Um, I hate to bring
this up," I remind her, "but you're the one who dated him."
"Once. One
date. Before all the…fuss. And I was seventeen. It hardly even counts."
She shakes her head with its tight cap of trademark blond Hartley curls.
My eyebrow
travels even higher now. "Hate to break it to you, Mom, but I think any
number of dates with Michael Jackson counts. Especially now."
She sighs at
this, defeated. "Yes. Especially when people won't let you forget about
them. Wait, hang on. Not that there was 'them' as in, plural dates. It was one
date. I've told you before. We got ice cream. It lasted forty-five minutes max.
It was nothing! A publicity stunt, really. Now, dinner in five minutes.
Understand?"
"I'll be
right there," I say, going back to the TV. There's no point quizzing her
on how many scoops and what flavors MJ got, because I've asked her a hundred
times before and she can't remember. Yet—and this is just unbelievable to
me—she can remember the exact outfit my dad, the scriptwriter, wore on their
first date. And every course that he ordered. And how she fell for him when he
somehow accidentally dunked his tie in his glass of red wine, then tried to
pretend it was some kind of sophisticated wine-tasting maneuver. (I'll stop
here before I vomit.) Sure, I love my dad, but come on, Mom…really?
"Oh, and
Thea?"
I look back at
her now, in case she finally has remembered Michael Jackson's ice cream
preference. "The problem is you're not hitting the fourth beat hard
enough. Hold it for a half second longer and you'll get it." And, with
this, she steps forward and pulls off the move effortlessly. "One, two,
three and four. See? Don't be in such a hurry all the time."
"Um,
okay." I rewind, ready to start over, my eyes wide. How long has she been
standing there? And how can it be that easy? Anyway, I take what she said and
run with it. After all, my mom's been in the entertainment biz for
forty-one-and-a-half of her forty-two years. (She started at six months with a
soap commercial—six months pretty much being the average age every Hartley
enters show business. Oh, except me, of course. I'm banned.) She knows what
she's talking
about when it
comes to stuff like this.
Ready to give it
another try, I choose not to focus on my goofy cousin. Instead, I opt to follow
Lucia and her partner Tobias. Nice and safe. And when I get to the step I keep
messing up, I hit the fourth beat harder and hold it that half second longer.
And my mom's
right.
I've got it.
With a big smile
on my face, I press pause one more time and swivel around to see my mom still
hovering. But she doesn't look equally happy that I've mastered the step that
was tripping me up. In fact, she doesn't look happy at all—she looks kind
of…deflated. She takes the few steps over to me then reaches out to push some
of my sweaty curls back behind one ear. "Oh, Thea," she says with a
sigh. "Honey, be careful what you wish for."
- 4 –
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.
"All 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, its
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.
- 5 –
Rory cranks the
radio up, and we drive out through the gates and start down the twists and
turns of Sunset Plaza Drive.
We chat as we
stop at all the stop signs and slowly make our way to Sunset Boulevard. At one
stop sign, someone honks and waves at us, and Rory waves back. "That's
Cindy, one of our neighbors," she says before moving forward again.
"Hey, you'll love this juice bar. It's fantastic—everything's organic and
they use this raw sugarcane sweetener…yum."
"Sounds
good," I say as we make a right-hand turn and hit the main road. As we do,
someone sitting and waiting at the set of lights honks and waves. "Who's
that?" I ask Rory.
"Beats
me," she says. "We'll get a lot of that. Just ignore it."
"Oh, right.
I see." I guess the combination of pink Bentley and RORY plates attracts a
bit of attention. Which is what SMD is after, I suppose.
Over the next
few minutes, I get to see why Rory's not so keen on her new wheels. The few
times I've been allowed to let Rory drive me somewhere in Frank, I didn't
realize there were quite so many sets of lights on Sunset Boulevard. Back then,
she went largely undetected, especially if she wore a baseball cap, and I was
free to enjoy the views, the palm fronds bobbing high above us, the unfamiliar
billboards, everyone busily coming and going. Sure, there were a few paparazzi
who knew her regular plates, but not too many. But now…every time we have to
slow down for traffic or stop at a red light, people honk, people stare in the
windows, people wave. At one point, we pull up next to a yellow school bus, one
kid spots us, and then the whole bus begins rocking as the kids jump up and
down in excitement at seeing Rory going about her everyday business.
"Am I
supposed to wave?" I ask Rory.
She shrugs.
"If you want."
I give a small,
half-hearted wave at the kids, and they go absolutely crazy. "Hmmm, maybe
that's not such a good idea," I tell her as one kid in particular waves
her arms around, tries to get closer to the window, and accidentally slams
another kid's face into the glass.
"I know you
guys don't travel together and everything, but you really don't ever get this
with your mom?" Rory sounds confused.
"You know
how she operates." I shrug. "Mom and Dad tag-team it—one of them
works and the other one sticks with me. If we do have to travel together, I
stick with Beth, my tutor. And believe me, no one's the slightest bit
interested in Thea Wallis and Beth Gibbs, her tutor."
"Well, I
am," Rory says as we pull away from the school bus and leave the kids
behind.
"Thanks,"
I say flatly.
"What's
up?" She frowns, concentrating on the road.
"Oh, the
usual. Can't go anywhere by myself, can't do anything for myself. If Mom had
her way, I'd still be collecting Barbies and getting pushed around in a
stroller."
"Ah,
that," Rory answers me, her voice sympathetic. "Maybe now that
Allie's better we could start hassling them about sending you to her school
again?"
"Maybe."
The truth is, however, I can't see my mom changing her mind. Still, I let it
go. I don't really like complaining about my mom issues in front of Rory and
Allie, who don't have a mom. Well, not one that's around, anyway. Rory and
Allie's mom, Margaret, left when Allie was two. They still see her now and
then, but she remarried and they bought the whitest penthouse you've ever seen.
There doesn't seem to be a whole lot of room in her new life for Rory and
Allie, though I bet she likes to brag about Rory plenty. Every so often, when
Mom forgets I'm in the room, she'll say something nasty about Margaret that I'm
not supposed to hear. I get the feeling my grandmother might have hand-picked
Margaret (the daughter of a senator) for Uncle Erik. And Uncle Erik did what he
was told. Which is probably why Uncle Erik sees more of my mom now than my
grandmother. I guess they have a lot in common.
I shake my head
slightly. "Anyway…" I reach forward and turn the radio down.
"We're supposed to be talking about you. So, spill already."
"About?"
"Please."
Rory shrugs.
"What am I supposed to say? Ugh…I don't know. I'm just over it, that's
all. There're changes going on at SMD, okay? Big changes I don't really agree
with."
"Oh?"
I say, hoping she'll continue and tell me more. "Like?"
She pauses then
seems to brush my question away. "Oh, I don't know. Lots of things. And I
can't wait to get going on this Vegas bus trip tomorrow. Cooped up for three
days with Sonja, her gutless assistant Melinda, and Mara. That's my idea of a
good time." She couldn't sound more sarcastic if she tried.
"Hang
on," I say. "Sonja's the new producer, right? The crazy one?"
Last season, the SMD ratings had started to dip, and a new producer had been
brought in. Sonja was that producer, and from what it sounded like, she was
going to make this show successful again if it was the last thing she ever did.
"Crazy's
the word," Rory agrees. "As in, crazy about making SMD the
highest-rated show every single week forevermore. Talk about driven. And
speaking of driven, she's making us drive to LA. Together. Wait till you see
it—we've got this big touring bus with SMD plastered all across the side.
Almost as inconspicuous as this car. We're supposed to be bonding."
"But…"
I start.
"I know!
We've been a team for the past five years. And some of us for years before
that, on Saturday Morning Kids. You'd think we'd have bonded by now if we were
going to, right? Anyway." Rory sighs. "It doesn't matter. Let's not
talk about that right now. I'm even over talking about it, which is all Dad
ever wants to do—talk, talk, talk, talk, talk."
"Mmm,"
I answer, really uncomfortable with how all this is going. Rory is acting… very
un-Rory-like. Kind of hyper and odd. And I can't remember a time she actually
told me she didn't want to discuss something before. Maybe now's not the best
time to bring up the fake boyfriend?
"Hey, we're
almost there. Only one more set of lights. The owner is really sweet. He lets
me park in the back so the car's hidden away, which I totally love him
for."
We pull up at
the set of lights Rory mentioned, and she points across the road. "It's
over there."
I'm craning my
neck to see the shop she's pointing to when I'm distracted by a tapping on my
right-hand side. When I check to see what's going on, the guy from the lane
next to us is holding a piece of paper up to the window.
"Is that
his cell number?" I say, not believing my eyes.
Rory glances
over. "Well, I doubt it's his IQ," she says, unimpressed. "It's
about eight numbers too long."
I take a second
look. "He's, um, pretty cute. And so is his friend."
Rory takes a
second look as well now. "Maybe. If you like that kind of thing. Not my
type, though."
"What's
your type?" I ask her.
"Guys who
don't pick me up at the lights."
I laugh at this.
"Not all of us can be so choosy. I'm not lucky enough to have a 'type."
Rory becomes a
tad more animated on hearing this and twists around in her seat, her hands
still gripping the wheel. "Wait. What are you saying? Are you into boys
now? My little cousin is into boys?"
"I was
always into boys. They just weren't into me. Or aren't into me. Or don't know I
exist. Or something."
"What? You
can't be serious. Guys don't like you? I don't believe it." She frowns.
I think about
this for a second. "Well, maybe that's not fair. I don't ever actually get
to meet any boys, guys, you know—members of the opposite sex. Maybe a few at
dance workshops and stuff, but they're pretty few and far between. It's mostly
girls who go to those."
Rory gets an
expression on her face then. One I've seen before—one that generally means
we're about to do something that could get us into a lot of trouble, but we'll
be sure to have a good time doing it. This is a girl hell-bent on looking for
distraction. "Well, how about it, then? Want to meet some?"
I glance over at
the two guys then back at Rory. "Them?"
"Yes, them.
I think they might be willing. You know how I can tell? Because they're holding
up a cell number to the window."
"Very funny."
I throw her a withering look.
"Well?"
Rory's waiting for my answer. "What'll it be? Yes or no?"
"Um, yes?
Maybe? I don't know?"
"Oh, for
goodness sake." Rory leans over me now and points out the juice bar we're
going to, then gestures for the guys to follow us.
And then, as the
lights change to green, they do.
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 often find her procrastinating on Twitter at @Allison_Rushby or on Facebook. 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…
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