Becoming Mila by Estelle Maskame
3
This is stupid. So, so, so stupid.
The Bennetts’ home is the Willowbank ranch. It’s a mile along the quiet, twisty country road and is easily walkable, but Sheri insists on driving me so that (1) I don’t get lost – even though I fail to see how that’s even possible considering it’s the first ranch we come upon – and (2) so that I can’t back out of doing this. Figuratively speaking, I’m being dragged to the Willowbank ranch against my will.
I press a hand to my forehead, wiping away a glaze of sweat. Even with the AC blasting through Sheri’s van, the vehicle still feels like an oven. The leather upholstery is a heat trap, and my thighs stick to my seat. It’s been – what? – an hour since I showered? Yet already I feel gross again. Maybe this really is the seventh circle of hell – Nashville humidity, miles from civilization, and Aunt Sheri forcing me to talk to the neighbors. I’m quickly realizing that being here on a quick visit is a lot different than knowing I actually have to stay here.
We’ve passed the ranch sign and have turned down the old dirt road that snakes through the property. Unlike my family’s ranch, Willowbank isn’t kept hidden behind solid walls that are eight feet high and there’s no intimidating security gate holding us back.
We pass a tractor parked at the edge of the grass, then Sheri pulls to a stop outside the house. I’m sweating profusely now. Is it one hundred degrees outside or am I really this much of a loser? I interact with big-shot names in the film industry, from Oscar-winning actresses to studio executives, yet I can’t say hello to some kid I went to elementary school with without turning into a useless sweaty bundle of nerves? What’s wrong with me?
“Be nice and smile real big,” Sheri says, her nod genuine and encouraging. But still, I think if I were to refuse to get out of the car, she would drag me out by my flip-flopped feet. Even if I have to keep my head down, having at least one friend to hang out with over the summer is as much a benefit to her as it would be for me. I doubt she wants a sixteen-year-old stomping around the ranch every day – even though that’s exactly what Ruben has me ordered to do. “And give back the baking tray.”
“Okay.” I gulp back a breath of warm air and tuck the tray under my arm. “I’m on it.”
Relaxing my shoulders, I climb out of the car and start for the house. I’ve walked a mere ten feet when I hear the crunch of tires against the dirt, and when I spin around, my jaw drops at the sight of Sheri’s van disappearing down the road, kicking up dust. She’s leaving me here? I was hoping I could simply hand over the baking tray, mumble a quick hello, then dive back into the safety of the boiling van.
Does Aunt Sheri seriously expect me to stay here and hang out with a complete stranger? What if Savannah Bennett barely remembers me either and thinks I’m a weirdo for ambushing her after a decade? Then I’ll have to hang my head in shame and walk back home. It’s not far, but still. This is so humiliating.
Sheri is so getting an earful when I make it back to the house.
I grit my teeth and head up onto the porch. My bare leg brushes against the wooden balustrade and it’s so hot it scorches me. I flinch away, closer to the front door, and stand directly on the welcome mat.
“Grow up,” I mutter to myself under my breath.
Okay, this is the countryside. Rural Tennessee. People are friendly here. It will be fine.
Just do it, Mila.
I swallow hard, then knock.
Long, agonizing seconds pass before I sense any movement behind the door. Finally, I hear the latch unlock and the door swings open.
“Hey there!” says the short, smiling woman in front of me, her eyebrows shooting up in a questioning manner. Patsy, I’m guessing. It’s kind of strange to think that maybe I’ve met this woman before when I was six years old. Maybe my mom used to talk to her at the school gates. Who knows?
“Hi. Sorry to interrupt you, but I’m . . . I’m Sheri Harding’s niece,” I start, but my voice is wavering. It feels strange to introduce myself as Sheri Harding’s niece rather than Everett Harding’s daughter. The words don’t feel right on my lips. “She asked me to bring back your baking tray, so . . . Here.” I offer the tray with what I hope is a polite smile.
“Thank you, honey,” she says, stepping out onto the porch. She runs her eyes over me from top to bottom, and I feel like a lab rat in a cage, but I don’t think she realizes just how intensely she’s scrutinizing me. I can almost see the gears in her mind shifting as she pieces together the obvious. “Sheri’s niece,” she ponders out loud. “So, you must be—?”
“Yes,” I say a little too sharply before she can finish. Judging by her smile of recognition, she already knew the answer. It’s not hard to make the connection – Sheri’s one and only sibling is my father. “That’s me,” I add with a shy giggle so that she doesn’t think I’m surly. I’m just sick of everyone caring so much about who my father is. He’s just . . . my dad. He wears slippers with jeans to lounge round the house and sings his heart out to rock classics in the shower.
“Oh, how lovely,” Patsy says, but she doesn’t sound entirely sincere. She hugs the baking tray to her chest, leaning against the door frame. Her lips are pulled into a smile that is so clearly suppressing a frown. “Are y’all visiting? I hope the press doesn’t catch wind or else these roads will be clogged up all the way to Nashville.”
Maybe she remembers what happened when we visited for Thanksgiving all those years ago. I don’t quite understand how word gets out, but both the media and the fans always know exactly where Dad is. Celebrating his anniversary with Mom in the Bahamas? The press is already waiting at the hotel before their flight has even touched down. A Thanksgiving trip to the hometown to be with family? The Tennessee-based fans camp out around the walls of the estate, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dad, until the police ushers them away.
We barely left the house that trip, and when we did, it was to sneak off to Nashville in the early hours of the morning under the cover of dawn. Now that I think of it, I can imagine the neighbors around here didn’t appreciate the disruption of their usual peace and quiet.
“No, just me,” I reassure Patsy. In other words: don’t worry, I don’t attract a paparazzi mob or hordes of stalker fans. “I’m staying here for a little while to get a break from LA, so we’re keeping it quiet.”
“Oh.” Patsy seems relieved. “I won’t say a word.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. Once the new movie hits theaters and the hype dies down, I can go home – but not until the heat on my father is off. For now, none of us can afford to have the neighbors selling stories to the media.
I am about to say goodbye and part ways when I remember the real reason why I’m even standing on this porch. “I was wondering . . . Is Savannah around? I think we were in the same elementary class.”
Patsy’s eyes light up. “Yes, you were! Let me just grab her for you.” She turns and disappears deep into the house. “Savannah!”
Thank God for the reassurance – I was worried I was imagining this link to Savannah Bennett, and then how awkward would this have been?
I play anxiously with my hands while I wait for either Patsy or Savannah to show up in front of me. The AC from the house cools my legs and I can’t help but edge closer to the door, fanning my face. Even in the shade of the porch, the humidity is crazy. I stand there for a minute, maybe longer, listening to the faint sound of voices from somewhere inside the house. Maybe Savannah doesn’t want to meet her childhood friend who has crawled, completely unexpectedly, out of the woodwork. Maybe Patsy is having to beg her to come and say hello.
This is kind of mortifying, actually.
“Eavesdropping?” a voice says.
I spin around, heartbeat rocketing, and lay eyes on a boy. “Who are you?” I say defensively.
The boy doesn’t appear that much older than me. There’s dirt on his face and his pile of blond hair is unruly. He’s leaning against a shovel that he’s dug into the ground, his rubber boots covered in caked earth.
“Sorry,” he says. “We don’t usually get strangers wandering in here. Are you looking for something?”
“I’m waiting for Savannah,” I say, but I feel like an immense idiot. Waiting for someone, who probably doesn’t even want to say hello to me, let alone hang out with me for the entire summer. “I’m not an intruder, I swear.”
He plucks the shovel out from the dirt and tramps over to the lowest step of the porch. “Myles,” he says, stretching up the stairs to offer me his slightly grubby hand. “The smarter, more good-looking one of the Bennett offspring.”
Oh, Savannah has a brother. And her brother has hands covered in dirt. “Uhh,” I mumble, staring at his outstretched hand.
Myles smirks. “Someone’s not a ranch girl,” he remarks. I guess it really is that obvious. “Where’s that accent from, anyway? ’Cause you aren’t from around here.”
It depends how you look at it. Does being born here count as being from around here? I purse my lips and tell him, “California.”
“Nice. I really want to learn how to surf one day,” he muses. “How do you know Savannah?”
“We were in the same class back in first grade.”
It’s immediately clear that Myles thinks it’s a bit bizarre for such an old acquaintance to be showing up out of the blue after all this time. Maybe he expected me to say something normal. Something like, “Oh, we met at a party a couple months ago.” Something that would actually justify me being here.
But then I hear footsteps from inside the house and I turn my back on Myles, facing the front door to see who has turned up.
Savannah Bennett has decided, at last, to come and say hello. It’s most likely just to satisfy her curiosity, but I’ll take what I can get.
She’s smaller than her mom – like, a-tiny-smidge-over-five-feet tall – and her scrubbed face makes her appear young for our age. Strawberry blonde hair frames her round, full cheeks and her eyes are big and bright, long eyelashes defining them. She’s the only person I’ve met so far today who isn’t wearing flannel; she’s got on faded denim overall shorts with a striped tee instead. She offers me a smile that’s warm and kind, and it eases the tightness in my chest a little.
“I thought Mom was pulling my leg,” she says, stepping out onto the porch in front of me. She studies me up and down, head-to-toe, the exact same way her mother did. “But you’re really here, huh?”
I wonder if she even remembers me, or if my name simply jiggled her memory a little the same way her name did mine. We were so young when I left Fairview that for a second it crosses my mind that maybe she has no idea what actually happened to me. I’m pretty sure we left without much warning, so was there even time for explanations? I can’t remember if I gathered my friends on the playground and said goodbye. Maybe I just disappeared one day, and everyone forgot I ever existed by the following summer. Even those handful of times I’ve come back to visit over the past decade, I was too young to leave Mom and Dad’s side. No catch-ups with old friends, just the constant ushering into minivans and sneaking into buildings via back doors to hide from paparazzi.
“Yeah. Alive and in the flesh,” I joke.
“What are you doing back here? Don’t you live in LA?” Savannah questions, her accent softer than her mom and her brother’s. So, she does remember me to some degree. She catches the slight arch of my brow, then blushes. “I’ve kept tabs on you. Is that weird? It’s only every once in a while when I see something about Everett Harding on Twitter and it reminds me to check in.” Her face falls in horror, as though she can’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. “Oh, crap, I sound like a stalker now. I do, don’t I? And why did I call him Everett to you? Why didn’t I just call him your dad?”
“Savannah,” I say, and she ceases her babbling. “It’s cool.”
She covers her face with her hands, unable to look at me now. She even groans a little.
I stifle my laughter. This is kind of amusing, mostly because I’ve never personally experienced any sort of freak out like this. At Thousand Oaks High, my friends couldn’t care less who my father is. Because their mom is a model. Or their own dad is a rock star. Or their grandmother is a fashion designer. In Thousand Oaks, pretty much everyone has some sort of connection to the celebrity world, which means famous relatives is the norm. And that means no one cares.
“Ohhhhh.” Myles takes a sharp intake of breath as he connects the dots and somehow his expression is one of both fascination and horror. “The ranch down the road. That’s your folks?”
Warily, I nod. The fact that Sheri borrows baking stuff from Patsy Bennett leads me to believe that the two neighboring ranches get along just fine, but who knows? There could be some underlying resentment there. Maybe the Bennetts secretly despise us Hardings for being, you know, Hardings. It wouldn’t be the first time. Fame can certainly have a downside – resentment is pretty common; I’ve learned that firsthand.
“So that guy from the Flash Point movies . . . You’re his kid?”
I’m also Marnie Harding’s daughter, and Roxanne Cohen’s best friend, and Mr. Sabatini’s top chemistry student, but no one defines me as those. Only my father is important, like the sole reason I evenmatter in this world is because I share his DNA.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say through tight lips. I have my own name. “Mila Harding.”
Luckily, Savannah changes the subject – for her sake or mine, I’m not sure. “My mom says you’re here for a while,” she muses brightly. “That’s cool. Missed Tennessee?”
“Yeah. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here for, but I’m guessing a month or two,” I admit. I glance at Myles, his head tilted to the side as he watches me in fascination, then move my gaze back to Savannah. “I know it’s been forever, and it’s super out-of-the-blue for me to show up like this, but the truth is . . . I’d really like someone to hang out with other than my aunt and my grandpa.”
“Oh.” Savannah’s eyes narrow slightly. “So, you’re just looking for someone to use for a couple months?”
“Oh God,” I mumble, feeling my chest sink. I sure do have some nerve. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have come here.”
A singsong of laughter escapes Savannah’s lips, dancing through the humid air, as she reaches out and grasps my wrist. “I’m kidding!”
“Oh.”
Myles cracks up with his sister. I stare at the knotty wood of the porch beneath my feet. Have I always been this much of a nervous wreck? To be fair, this suddenly feels out of my comfort zone and I don’t know how to navigate it at all.
“Yep. We can be friends,” Savannah says reassuringly, her voice gentle once the laughter has died down. I look up to meet her eyes and she smiles, sweetly. “We already were once, anyway.”
“Thanks,” I say, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. Well, that’s something.
“Ohhh!” Savannah exclaims, waving a hand at Myles as though he will telepathically be able to know what she’s thinking. Maybe he can – maybe it’s a sibling thing. I wouldn’t know. “We’re heading to a tailgate party later,” she says. “Super low-key. You should come with us! You can get to know all the Fairview locals – there isn’t a lot of us.”
“A tailgate party?” I can’t help the surprise that crosses my face. “You guys really have those?”
In one of Dad’s first straight-to-TV movies, I’m pretty sure there’s a low-budget scene at a tailgate party where he finally gets the girl and kisses her in the truck bed. I cringed then and I cringe now. There’s something super gross about watching your father kissing on screen – especially when it’s not your mom he’s locking lips with.
“Just for saying that, you’re not coming,” Myles says, shaking his head at me in disappointment. Then his mouth twists into a teasing smirk, making it clear that he’s only messing with me since I’m clearly not the brightest at knowing when someone is kidding around. “You can come. I’ll give Blake a heads-up.”
“Who’s Blake?”
“Our cousin,” Savannah answers. “He’s hosting.”
Not only do I already feel sluggish from the early alarm and long flight this morning, it feels a bit risky to start breaking Ruben’s rules on day one. Maybe I should stay at home with Sheri and Popeye tonight. But a tailgate party . . .
“Sounds like fun.” I wipe my brow. “But I don’t know . . . There’ll be a lot of people there and I really shouldn’t be—”
“You’re in Fairview now, girly,” Savannah says with a grin. “I know you only just got here, but when something actually happens around here for once, you don’t even think about it. You just do it.”