Becoming Mila by Estelle Maskame
11
“So, what I really miss is the pool. Like, it’s so hot all the time but yet we don’t have a pool here? Where’s the logic? I’m dreaming of just diving in and cooling off.”
“Ranches don’t necessarily have pools,” Mom points out. “And I don’t think it’s much of a priority for Sheri and your grandfather.”
“Yeah, I guess . . . Maybe I’ll have to do like the locals and try out the lake.” I roll over in bed and prop my phone up against the lamp on my nightstand because my arm is growing tired from holding it up. I’ve been on this video call with Mom for a while now, filling her in on how life has been at the opposite end of the country. “Hey, you know what else I miss? My Twitter account. My Instagram feed. Do you think you can convince Ruben to give me back my social media accounts? Because he’s being a hard-ass and it blows.”
Mom frowns sympathetically, her face pixelated for a second. She’s sitting, talking to me via her laptop, at our dining table, the same one where she held me close and reassured me that everything was going to be just fine a week ago. Of course, she’s looking as glamorous as ever and the sight of her makes me miss the scent of her perfume. “I’m sorry, honey. You know it’s out of my hands. I’ve tried to talk Ruben into an arrangement that works for both you and your dad, but he’s getting really sick of me bringing the subject up.”
“But how can he expect me to lie to my friends and act like I’m here for a vacation that I was desperate to take, when he won’t even let me share anything about it online?” I give her a stern look, hoping for backup. “That’s weird, Mom. If this was legit, I’d be posting on Instagram about how much fun I’m having. It would make this whole charade believable. But the fact that I’ve just completely disappeared off the radar? That hardly gives the impression I’m enjoying my vacation.”
“Mila, I’m sorry,” Mom apologizes again, even though none of this is her fault. She has as much power in the PR dynamics of Dad’s career as I do, which is zilch. We are both under Ruben’s thumb. “My own schedule is pretty packed, otherwise I would have disappeared off the radar with you! We could have gone to Europe together. A mother-daughter getaway to Cannes, Nice, Monte Carlo! Oh, imagine! ”
“And miss all of Dad’s events? You know what the gossip columns would say about that.” I heave a sigh. If Mom and I ever dared to take off on our own adventures without Dad, the tabloids would have a field day.
Mom gasps, her tone mocking. “Marnie Harding . . . Sunning herself on the Cote d’Azur – without Everett . . . Is there trouble in paradise?!”
It’s always nice to have someone else who understands, even more than I do, just how difficult it is to live in Dad’s shadow. It makes me feel less alone whenever Mom reminds me of her own pressure. She has things a million times worse, and if she can manage to cling on to her sanity, then I have no excuse.
“Do you guys know yet when I’ll be able to come home?” I ask.
“The theatrical release is in three weeks,” Mom says, resting her chin against her fist and staring off at something over to the side. “And I imagine for the first two weeks of screenings, at least, that the production company won’t risk any bad press.” Mom pulls a face. She is part of the industry, but still she knows it can all be a bit extreme sometimes. For most of us, there are bigger issues in the world than a fractionally underperforming movie.
I sit up and stretch my legs over the side of my bed, playing with my fingers in my lap. I stare at the floor, noticing the patterns in the wood. “Am I really considered such bad publicity for Dad?”
“Oh, of course not! But the tabloids . . .” Mom lets out a weary sigh. “You know what they are like when they smell blood, and those headlines last week weren’t ideal, I must admit. It isn’t fair on your father, and it isn’t fair on you. But this is the life we live.” She stretches for something, disappearing out of the frame, and then returns with a glass of white wine in her hand. She takes a sip and then sets the glass down with a clink. “Trust me, I’m on my best behavior for the foreseeable future too. You know the kind of thing . . . No unflattering facial expressions in public.”
A figure drifts past her in the background, so quickly I almost miss it.
“Was that Dad?” I ask, picking my phone up from the nightstand so I can get a better look at my screen.
Apparently, it is Dad, and he must hear my question because he pops back into the frame behind Mom’s shoulder. He has a phone pressed to his ear, nodding solemnly along to whatever the caller is saying. A pair of sunglasses rests atop his head as always, like they’re permanently bolted there. I guess he’s afraid of stepping outside without them. It’s easier not to forget them if he never takes them off in the first place. He gives me a brisk wave and then disappears again.
“That’s Ruben on the line,” Mom says in a lowered voice. Her eyes drift around the room, following Dad I presume, and he must leave the kitchen because she raises her voice again. “Your dad’s stress levels are through the roof right now, and Ruben is not helping.”
“So that’s why he’s barely talking to me then?” I say flatly. “High stress levels?”
“Mila,” Mom says sternly, defending Dad against my scornful remarks. She pouts her lips, immaculately painted a bold red. “You know how things are when there’s an upcoming release. Life gets a little crazy. I’ve barely seen him lately either.”
“That doesn’t mean he can just forget about me.” I can’t help being petulant now. “Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.”
“You know that’s not true,” she says, and she’s right. I just don’t like feeling as though I’m not any kind of priority for him, even if it is only temporary. “I’ll check his schedule and specifically pencil in some time for him to call you, okay?”
So now I have to be timetabled into Dad’s life? “Okay,” I say, disgruntled but too fed up to point out how twisted this is.
“Now listen,” she says, pointing her finger into the camera at me. “If you and Sheri are going to break Ruben’s rules, please don’t let him catch you. He gives me enough headaches as it is and I can’t cope with him ranting.”
“Can you try once more to convince him?” I plead, crossing my fingers.
“Mila, if I bring this up with Ruben one more time, I think he might burst a blood vessel. You know that vein in his forehead? The one that bulges when he’s angry?” Mom can’t hide her own laughter, so she takes another sip of wine to smother it. “Well, it’s been really popping lately.”
“Can you ask Dad to talk to him?” I try again. I don’t laugh with her, because an angry Ruben is never a nice Ruben. His stress levels must be even higher than Dad’s right now.
“That’s if I can catch him in between phone calls…” Mom tuts, shaking her head in frustration. “But until then, just keep being super careful whenever you leave the ranch, okay?”
“I promise,” I sigh, holding up my pinky, Savannah-style.
Mom laughs and I see her shoulders relax. “Now then, tell me what you’re up to. Any plans?”
“Well, I’ve decided to conduct some research,” I say.
“And what exactly are you researching?”
My gaze wanders to the window where the sunset is a bold orange on the evening horizon. I smile as I tell her . . .
“A boy.”