Becoming Mila by Estelle Maskame
10
“He used to play in the cricks till the sun set, then come home for supper soaked through and covered in hives,” Popeye says. “And one time when he must have been around thirteen, I had to get into Lake Van and drag him out by my bare hands. I could’a strangled that boy half the time.”
It’s late Friday morning and Popeye and I are relaxing together on the porch, drinking his favorite sweet tea while he shares stories of the past. The sun is exceptionally bright today, so I slump back in the canvas lawn chair with my legs crossed and sunglasses shading my eyes. Aunt Sheri is busy doing what Aunt Sheri does best – never quite sitting still, always keeping herself occupied with the maintenance and upkeep of the ranch. I can see her off in the distance, popping in and out of the stables.
“Did he always want to be an actor?” I ask Popeye.
“Not always,” Popeye says, a slight tightness to his words. He’s positioned in a shaded spot across the porch from me. It’s so peaceful out here, breathing in the fresh air and basking in the warmth and the silence. “We thought it was a phase. Just a teenage hobby that he’d eventually grow out of. But oh no, he pursued it straight into college. It’s beyond me that theater and drama is even a real degree.”
I steal a cautious glance at him out of the corner of my sunglasses. Diving into the world of theater and drama is of course a real ambition to have, but Popeye seems disgruntled. “Are you disappointed?” I ask, treading carefully. “That Dad didn’t stay here to help run the ranch with you?”
Popeye looks at me, and I quickly tilt my head in the opposite direction, so I don’t have to meet his eyes. “Well, that was the dream,” he says quietly. “I took over from my father and have been proud to carry on the family tradition, so of course I hoped for Everett to do the same. I would never stand in the way of what he wants, but I just wish he had a real job.”
“Acting is a job, Popeye.”
“Learning a script and fooling around on a film set?” Popeye scoffs, dismissively waving his hand as though he can’t bear to even think of it. “That’s an easy life . . . Sitting in a trailer getting his hair styled by three people at once – how can that count as work? I guess I’m a bit old-fashioned. All that hoo-ha for posing in front of a camera, I just don’t get it,” he grumbles.
“Learning a script like the back of your hand is actually really hard. Dad stays up all night sometimes, he’s always walking around the house practicing his lines,” I say defensively, Popeye’s scornful tone making me feel uncomfortable. His son is a global superstar, his success recognized in every corner of the world . . . Surely Popeye can appreciate the hard work Dad put in to achieve such a status? Surely Popeye is proud of his son?
“Oh, Mila, of course I’m glad it all worked out. It would have been a real shame if his choice of career meant he wasn’t able to provide for his family . . . It was a huge gamble,” Popeye mumbles, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “Still, even if the risk paid off, he should visit more often. Or even call. I haven’t spoken to Everett since . . . Oh, since February.”
“What?” I sit up and lift my sunglasses. “You guys haven’t spoken in months?”
“No.” Popeye’s smile is cracked with hurt. “But don’t you worry about that, Mila. I’m just glad that I get to speak to you.”
I lower my sunglasses back over my eyes and stare off at the walls in the horizon, keeping us safe in our own private bubble. A million different thoughts race through my mind. I know Dad has been busy and he hasn’t kept in touch with Popeye or Sheri as well as he maybe should have, but I didn’t realize just how distant he really is. He hasn’t called his own father since February? Visiting isn’t always possible due to Dad’s hectic schedule, I know that, but how difficult is it to pick up the phone every once in a while? And to think I felt guilty for only calling once or twice a month . . . But now it seems I’m the one who calls the most.
“Mila!” Aunt Sheri calls. She strides through the long grass, approaching from across the field. Her face is in shadow beneath a cowboy hat and she holds up the remote for the gate. “Your friends were outside. I’ve let them in. The technician did a good job for once – and the system is up and running again!”
Friends? I don’t quite think I have any friends here yet, but I leap to my feet anyway and head toward the gate. It’s fully open by the time I get there, and Savannah and Tori are taking apprehensive steps onto the property, their movements cautious as though the ranch is a minefield.
“Are we allowed in?” Tori asks. She spins around in a slow circle, taking in the ranch in all of its not-so-glory.
Ever since those walls were erected a few years ago, the ranch has been closed off to anyone who’s passing by and that’s probably left people wondering what exactly lies beyond them, but there’s not really much to look at. People most likely imagine the ranch to be kept in pristine condition, with its own farmhands and pedigree horses and a newly built mansion home. So not true. The Harding Estate is nothing if not humble.
“Why wouldn’t you guys be allowed in?” I ask with a laugh, gesturing for them to come forward and join me. Aunt Sheri must be watching from afar, because the gate begins to close behind them.
“Well, it’s just . . .” Savannah starts, but then relaxes her shoulders and smiles brightly. “Never mind.”
It takes me a second to figure out what she was about to say. This is Everett Harding’s former abode, or something fan-girly along those lines. I shake the thought away and swiftly move on.
“So, what’s up?”
“We thought we’d drop by and see how you are,” Tori says.
The nose piercing she sported at the tailgate party isn’t there today and her look in general appears more conservative. I stare at her ankle boots, wondering how they don’t make her feet swell in this heat. I’m wearing flip flops, which isn’t exactly ranch attire, but at least they keep me cool.
“And my mom says Sheri still keeps horses,” Savannah says with an excitement that really isn’t all that subtle, her eyes roaming the fields over my shoulder in search of our stables.
Tori rolls her eyes and cups her hand over one side of her mouth as she whispers to me, “Yeah, she’s one of those horse freaks.”
I look at Savannah and smile. “So, you’re here to saddle up?”
“Seriously?” Her blue eyes grow wide and she looks as though she may burst like a firework, childlike happiness radiating across her face.
“Sure,” I say. “We all can.”
“Wait, wait,” Tori says, panicked. “Me? On a horse?”
“It’ll be fine,” I reassure her, even though my confidence is lacking just as much. I’ve helped Sheri out with the horses over the past week, sure, but grooming a horse – including brushing and braiding their mane – is a lot different than actually riding one. And I haven’t done that yet; the whole galloping-around-the-fields thing. Sure, I trotted about on my pony, Misty, when I was six, but that feels like a lifetime ago. But I don’t want Savannah and Tori to question my bloodline of ranch-owning relatives, so it’s time to ramp up the courage.
We head down the dirt track road toward the house, where Popeye gives us an enthusiastic wave from the porch, and then find Sheri walking through the field with a bucket in either hand. She seems skeptical and somewhat concerned when I ask if we can ride the horses, probably because she knows I have no real idea what I’m doing, but when Savannah assures her she has riding experience and will keep an eye on me and Tori, she loosens up a bit and agrees to let us take out the most calm and obedient horses she has. She leads us down to the stables and introduces us to our mounts, then she shows us (well, me and Tori) how to saddle up along with very detailed, specific instructions on how to ride.
“Do we have to do this?” Tori whines, securing the clip of her helmet. She stares doubtfully at the aptly named Domino, who stands placidly chewing on a piece of hay.
“You don’t want to miss out on the gossip, do you?” Savannah says. She gives me a pointed look and the two of them exchange another one of those private, knowing smiles that only best friends have.
Gossip? What gossip?
“Fine,” Tori huffs. “Let’s go, cowgirls.”
We guide the horses out of the stable and into the glorious sunshine. Every morning here is a gorgeous one, unlike the smoggy dawn skies of LA. My scalp feels hot already from this ugly helmet perched on my head, and I’m still wearing flip flops. I’m not fooling anyone – I am definitely not a country girl who rides her trusty steed off into the sunset, but at least Sheri seems highly amused as she watches us from afar.
Savannah effortlessly pulls herself up onto her horse, seated confidently while Tori and I struggle. Her French braids actually look nice under a helmet, whereas I must look ridiculous with strands of hair falling into my eyes and Tori looks just as silly attempting to climb onto a horse while wearing a skirt. My horse – Fredo – is patient, and I finally swing my leg over him while Savannah fights laughter. It takes Tori longer to get herself organized and by the time we’re all ready to set off, there’s a scowl etched onto her face.
“This is not what I consider fun,” she grumbles.
We head off across the field at a slow walk, though I can’t focus on anything besides trying not to fall out of this saddle. I wobble a lot, clinging onto the worn leather reins, praying that Fredo doesn’t get spooked and gallop wildly off. Falling off a horse and ending up in the ER isn’t the type of LA-detox I was sent here for.
“Mila, we have a confession,” Savannah says after a while of peaceful strolling. For all we’re complete amateurs at this, Tori and I do a good job of keeping in line on either side of her. We bounce along, our horses in a perfect row of three. I tear my eyes from Fredo’s luxuriant mane and glance over at Savannah, who watches me with a teasing smirk on her face. “We’re here because we want to talk to you about Blake.”
Now that nearly knocks me out the saddle. His name instantly gets my back up. “Blake?” I say as nonchalantly as possible, staring straight ahead and trying not to let them see my triggered reaction at the mere sound of his name. “What about him?”
“You guys went on a date the other night,” Savannah says matter-of-factly.
“Uh-huh,” Tori says. She leans forward on her horse so she can see around Savannah, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively at me.
“What?” I splutter. How do they know about my night with Blake in Nashville? I didn’t tell anyone. “We absolutely were not on a date. Did he . . . Did Blake tell you that we were?”
“He didn’t specifically use the word, but trust me, it was a date,” Savannah says with a smug shrug of her freckled shoulders. “He took you to Honky Tonk Central! That’s literally his favorite place on planet earth, and he wouldn’t take just anyone there.”
I blink down at my horse’s ears, which twitch as if he’s listening too, seemingly barely aware that I’m weaving my fingers through his mane. Savannah somehow knows all of the details, like where and when Blake and I hung out, and if I didn’t tell her, then . . . “Blake told you about Wednesday night?”
“Well, no,” Savannah admits. “He told Myles, and Myles was kind enough to offer up the information to me.”
Wednesday night was such a disaster and I cringe even thinking about it again. Blake and I fought in public, like two dumb kids who couldn’t keep their attitudes in check, and ended up on such vile terms with one another that neither of us uttered a word the whole drive home. When we got back to the ranch, I jumped out of his truck, slammed the door shut, and never looked back.
Ugh.
And I thought about it a lot that night while trying (and failing) to fall asleep. It’s not like I’m keeping some huge secret that will blow the world apart if anyone found out. In fact, I’m not really keeping a secret at all. I’m just trying to do what my dad and Ruben need me to, and that is to keep my head firmly down, be sensible, maintain a low profile, and don’t do anything that will draw attention to myself. Because any attention drawn to me then inadvertently draws attention to Dad.
The worry isn’t someone finding out the real reason I’m here, it’s the wrong person finding out. It only takes one person with a malicious agenda or a desperation for some side cash to sell a flimsy story to the press about Everett Harding’s daughter shacking up in Fairview for the summer alone. The tabloids would spin the story however they wanted – that I ran away, that there’s a rift in the family; whatever they think will get more hits.
Which means that Blake . . . Blake is definitely someone I have to keep at arm’s length. No matter how hard he pushed, he wasn’t ever getting the truth out of me on Wednesday night.
“Sooooo,” Tori says. “Are you and Blake going to become a thing?”
I scoff, throwing my head back at how hilarious such an assumption is. Blake and me? A thing? The only thing Blake Avery is to me is a parasite that crawls under my skin.
“No way,” I say, my words firm so that there’s no chance of Savannah and Tori mistaking me for simply being coy. “He told everyone at the tailgate who my dad is when it was obvious I didn’t want anyone to know, and Wednesday night was . . . Well, it was truly bad.”
“Really? What happened?” Savannah asks, surprise evident in her voice. Perhaps “bad” wasn’t how she expected me to describe the evening, but it’s one of the more pleasant descriptions I could have used. “All he told Myles was that you guys went to Honky Tonk Central and got food, and that he had a good night.”
Now I’m the one who’s surprised. “He didn’t mention the fact that we blew up into an argument? And that we didn’t talk the entire way home? And that I may have been slightly dramatic?” In hindsight, Blake was right – I was acting up, being a bit of a brat. Panic does that.
“Um, no,” Savannah says with a stunned look. “Why were you guys arguing?”
“Ooo, angsty,” Tori comments. “I’m pretty sure it’s statistically proven that when two people keep clashing, it’s because their fate is to end up together. So, Mila, sounds to me like Blake is your future husband. Count me in on bridesmaid duty.”
Savannah ignores Tori’s injections of deranged humor – which get nothing more than an eye roll in response from me – and asks again: “Why were you guys arguing?” She stares straight at me, but I can’t hold her gaze long enough because I keep checking that Fredo isn’t about to walk me into a row of trees.
“He kept questioning me about stuff I didn’t want to talk about and being super rude,” I admit quietly, deciding to trust these two at least. I hope Savannah and Tori don’t take this as an opportunity to interrogate me too. “And I don’t know what his deal is. It’s like he gets a kick out of watching me squirm.”
“Hmm.” Savannah goes quiet for a while as we continue through the field, listening to the soft sound of hooves cutting through the grass and the occasional whinny from the horses, like they’re chatting to each other too. Eventually, when she sits up straight again, her expression seems brighter. “I could be totally wrong here, but I wonder if he’s just trying to shift the attention to someone else. It worked at the tailgate – everyone was talking about you, Mila. Don’t kids who were bullied in grade school usually turn out to be bullies in high school or whatever?” She holds up a hand to stop me from interrupting, even though I had no intention to. “And no, I’m not saying Blake is bullying you. But the psychology is kind of similar. What do you think, Tori?”
“Since when were you this clever?” Tori asks, staring at Savannah in amazement as though she’s never heard her best friend offer such a reasonable explanation. “But you could be on to something here.”
Am I missing a piece of the jigsaw here? This is the worst part about being the new face in town. You don’t understand people’s backstories and the years of social foundations being formed, re-formed and carefully balanced.
“What are you guys even talking about?”
“Well,” Tori says, taking over, “maybe you know this already . . . but Blake’s mom is the mayor. The Mayor of Nashville. Which is, like, a super big deal.”
“Oh, yeah, my grandpa told me. But that does remind me . . .” I say, narrowing my eyes at Savannah. “When were you going to mention that your aunt is the mayor?”
“I guessed Sheri might tell you.” Savannah blushes sheepishly and adds, “It’s not really something you slip into casual chat.”
“ANYWAY,” Tori continues. She moves her hands a lot as she talks, waving the reins around in the air. All of her attention is focused on me, because I’m the one who’s out of the loop. “Fairview is a small town, and everyone knows the Averys. Kind of like how everyone knows the Hardings.” She smiles. “So, Blake tends to get a lot of grief over the whole my-mom-is-the-freaking-mayor thing. Not in a mean way or anything, but his friends get on his back about it a lot. They’re always messing with him.”
“It’s nothing major,” Savannah adds. “Just remarks here and there, but I can tell it’s getting old to him. Plus, random people he doesn’t know sometimes give him a hard time over his mom’s politics and stuff.” I flinch at the memory of that anti-gun-reform guy in Nashville. “But now you’re here. And no offense to my aunt or anything, but an A-list movie star kind of blows the whole city mayor thing out of the water. Which takes the attention off Blake for once.” She taps her chin thoughtfully, gazing up at the blue summer sky. “And I wonder if he’s relieved to be the one who can give someone hassle, rather than always being on the receiving end.”
“That’s one option, Oprah,” Tori says. “The other is that he simply hates you and we’re just overthinking this.” She flashes me a grin.
I mull over Savannah’s words in my head, willing them to make sense so that I at least have some explanation as to why Blake treated me the way he did. I get it – having a parent who’s a public figure isn’t the easiest thing in the world. There’s a lot of pressure that no one else can really understand, and there’s also a lot of rules. That’s why I’m here in the first place, because living a normal teenage existence where my mistakes are simply a learning curve is not allowed in the world of keeping up appearances.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned growing up, it’s that Dad’s job affects us all. He isn’t the only one who has to stay in line – at least in the eyes of the public – his family does too. Mistakes aren’t allowed. And I bet it works the same way in Blake’s world.
I pull abruptly on Fredo’s reins and am surprised when he actually comes to a stop.
“What?” Savannah says, pulling her horse around.
“Guys. Wait. Hold up,” Tori calls over her shoulder as her horse continues to stroll peaceably off on its own. “Guys! How do I get him to stop?”
Right now, helping Tori out with her horsemanship is not the biggest priority. Savannah and I stare back at one another, our dialogue shifting to become only between us two.
“You really think that could be what this is all about?” I ask.
“I am his flesh and blood, aren’t I?” she says. “That’s why I also know he doesn’t usually take random girls out. Maybe he’s just showing his interest in the least expected ways.” She winks and then nudges her foot into her horse’s ribs, taking off at a canter that builds to full speed across the field. She hunches forward, effortlessly holding on as the horse gallops through the grass, and the last I see of her face is a dazzling grin. I think she’s been waiting for this moment all along, like a firework that has finally exploded.
“Savannah!” Tori screeches as her horse accelerates off in pursuit of Savannah’s. Uh-oh. The horse is moving fast, throwing her body around in the saddle, as she clings on with all her might.
Fredo, meanwhile, stays put. Under the hot sun, I remain calmly seated and watch my new friends in amusement. Tori is wailing so loud the birds spook up out from the trees, but she clings on as her horse finally slows down to a more reasonable pace. Savannah, though, is pounding confidently around the field’s perimeter with breezy laughter and no sign of launching a rescue mission.
I pat my horse along his graceful neck. “Fredo,” I tell him. “I sure am glad I picked you.”