Becoming Mila by Estelle Maskame
16
There’s a photograph inside a dusty frame on a shelf in the laundry room that catches my eye every time I’m shoveling clothes into the washing machine.
I focus on it now, absentmindedly moving a damp pile of my clothes over to the dryer, my gaze never leaving the easygoing, million-dollar smile on my dad’s young face. Only back then it was more like a two-dollar smile, because his name hadn’t yet created ripples in the movie industry.
It’s a Harding family portrait from years ago – sometime in the ’90s, by the look of those hairstyles. Dad and Sheri are just teenagers, and Popeye and my grandmother – Mamaw, which was my name for her – stand behind them, hands on their children’s shoulders, beaming proudly. They’re all suited and booted as though for church.
It’s nice to see Mamaw in the photographs all around the house, because my limited memories of her are slowly fading as I get older. At least now her warm smile and lively mane of brown hair is ingrained in my mind again.
Staring at the photograph, I’m lost in thought as my phone begins vibrating in my pocket. I slide it out, expecting the call to be from Mom, but mentally crossing my fingers that maybe it’s actually Blake calling instead. I haven’t had the chance to see him again since the scorching day by the pool last week.
When I glance down at my screen, my stomach knots.
It’s an incoming video call – from Dad.
So, Mom has found time in Everett Harding’s schedule to pencil me in for the rare privilege of talking to him. I stare at my ringing phone in my hand, contemplating rejecting the call. The only time Dad has spoken to me since I left LA was the night of the tailgate party, and that was to yell at me. If he was worried about how I’m coping exiled out here in Fairview, he would have called long before now.
I move my thumb to reject him, but then I stop. There’s something I still need to ask, and for that reason, and that reason alone, I accept the call.
Dad comes into focus on my screen. Shockingly, for the first time in forever, he isn’t wearing his signature sunglasses, so his dark brown eyes shine back at me.
“At long last she answers!” he says with a smile, resting his elbows on the desk and leaning in closer to the screen.
He’s calling from the computer in his study. On the walls behind him, there are shelves stacked with awards he has won during the past decade. Last year’s Oscar for “Best Actor” takes prime position at the forefront, sparkling beneath the glow of tiny spotlights.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, leaning back against the dryer. “I forgot you probably only have a maximum of four minutes to dedicate to me. Do I only have three left now?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dad says, exasperated now as he draws his arm over his chest. “I wanted to call and check in. How are things at the ranch?”
“Boring,” I say, sticking to my deal with Sheri. Dad isn’t to know that I’ve gone beyond the gates again since the night of the tailgate party. “Sheri won’t let me go anywhere ever since I snuck out the night I arrived,” I lie. And I know I’m my father’s daughter, because I can muster up a good performance when I need to. I sigh heavily and even kick the dryer behind me for good measure. “I’ve just been sunbathing and helping with the horses.”
“I think that’s for the best,” Dad says. “There isn’t much to see in Fairview, anyway. You aren’t missing out on anything.”
The realization that Dad is lying straight back at me and has no intention at all of admitting that he got Ruben to send Sheri orders behind my back sends a tidal wave of rage ripping through me. However, I maintain a calm coolness – thanks again to my hereditary acting ability. If only I could utilize my skills around Blake when he’s wearing nothing but wet swim trunks . . .
“The movie is out next weekend, right?” I ask politely, as though I’m not internally seething. “The eighteenth?”
Dad nods and stretches out his other arm now. “Your mom and I have the premiere next Thursday. I wish you could be there too.”
And then, before I can stop myself, I mutter, “Why? I would probably embarrassyou.”
“Mila.” Dad stops stretching and tilts his head to the side. “You don’t embarrass me.”
I stare at the wall rather than my screen, grinding my teeth together. “No, I just ruin your publicity campaigns.”
I hear a sigh from Dad’s end of the call, but it doesn’t belong to him. It’s lighter, feminine. I look back at my phone.
“Is Mom there?” I ask, glaring at Dad. “Is she supervising this? Making sure you actually talk to me?”
Mom, as suspected, is indeed in the study. She slips into the frame behind Dad and places a hand on his shoulder, leaning over him. The surprised look she rearranges her features into is so painfully fake. “Mila! I’ve just popped in to say hi, honey.”
“Dad, have you been giving Mom acting classes?” I snap.
This is – seriously – ridiculous. Not only did Mom have to specifically schedule time for Dad to talk to me, she also has to watch over him while he does. I have never felt less important than I do in this exact moment. An inconvenience – that’s what I am.
“Oh, Mila,” Mom says, frowning. “I’m sorry. I’m just here to make sure your dad doesn’t accept any phone calls right now. This is a no-work-allowed hour.”
“Your mom thinks I’m totally trapped under Ruben’s thumb,” Dad scoffs, rolling his eyes in an attempt to inject some humor into the supremely tense atmosphere that stretches all the thousands of miles from Fairview to Thousand Oaks.
“You are,” I say, unblinking. “But he’s also under yours, apparently.”
“Mila,” Mom says sharply. “Your dad wants to talk with you. Can the two of you not discuss work right now?”
“Yes, Mila – how is Popeye doing?” Dad asks, but I’m really not in the mood for strained chit-chat.
“Popeye wonders why his son doesn’t call him,” I snap as I push myself off the dryer and pace the small laundry room, suddenly nauseous from the overwhelming scent of lavender. Before I end this video call, I need to ask the question that’s been playing on my mind ever since Sheri planted the seed last week. “But you know that already.” I stop pacing and brace myself. “Do you know the Mayor of Nashville?” I fire at them, moving my phone even closer to my face to scrutinize my parents. “Her name is LeAnne Avery. Ring any bells?”
Straight away, Mom and Dad both stiffen. There is a long silence as though they are holding their breaths, and then slowly they look at one another, obviously having a silent dialogue that I can’t decipher. But what I do know is that LeAnne Avery’s name has made them both uncomfortable.
“Mila, why are you – why are you asking us that?” Mom asks faintly.
“Has Sheri been running her mouth?” Dad questions. I watch as he grabs his computer and scrapes the monitor closer to him, amplifying the discomfort in his and Mom’s eyes. “What exactly has she told you, Mila?”
“Nothing,” I say. “She wouldn’t answer my questions. She told me to ask you instead.”
“But why are you asking anyone questions about LeAnne Avery in the first place?” Mom asks. She has gone a shade paler and I notice the way she keeps nervously squeezing Dad’s shoulder. I have hit a nerve, which only makes me all the more desperate to get an answer.
“We – um – bumped into her at church,” I say, because I can’t mention that I’ve been hanging out with her son. Besides, I did meet Mayor Avery for the first time at church. “Are you going to tell me how youknow her?”
“You’ve been going to church?” Dad says, eyes widening. “You aren’t supposed to—”
“Leave the ranch?” I finish, raising a challenging eyebrow. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for ruining my summer, Dad. Now what’s the deal with the Mayor of Nashville?” I demand into my phone, riled up with frustration and determined to be heard. Right now, I don’t even care about hearing Dad stammer out apologies and excuses for his military-style orders to ensure I keep out of trouble, all I want is a straight answer. How do they know LeAnne Avery, and why is that relationship on such terrible terms?
Dad clenches his jaw and sets his dark eyes on me. The look he fixes me with makes me relieved to be two thousand miles away. Visibly rattled, he slides back in his chair, straightens up, and without another word, slams the laptop screen shut.