Being Hartley Read Online Free Page A

Mom finally gave in and let me start ballet. Even then, I knew it wasn't my style of dance, but Mom would push it at every opportunity ("So good for the posture!" or "Such a pure form of dance!"), so I rolled with it because I liked to dance and at least that was dancing. Wherever we were in the world, Deb would arrange classes for me, at dance schools, or privately, and my tutor would take me there.
    As I got older and pushed harder, Mom let me go to a few weekend workshops and intensives in other styles, but the more I pushed to dance hip hop, the more she started to find "amazing opportunities" for me. If I mentioned there was this hip hop workshop coming up that looked good, she'd suddenly find this "amazing opportunity"—a two-week French language intensive in Paris, a Thai-fusion long weekend at a cooking school in NYC, a week's sailing on a replica eighteenth century ship, an ikebana master class for teenagers in Kyoto…
    Don't get me wrong, I know I'm super lucky to get to do this kind of stuff. But I'm also not so dumb that I don't realize why—it's much easier to keep me out of the entertainment spotlight if I go undercover doing flower arranging or something like that. "You're a fantastic dancer, Thea," Mom would always tell me. "But don't lock yourself into one thing at your age. Explore everything! Find other things you're good at!"
    Like dentistry!
    Seriously, if there'd been a "Dentists of the Future" conference, she'd have sent me to it, no matter how much it cost.
    Anyway, last year on vacation in Hawaii, I think Rory might have realized that with all my home-based SMD practice, my dancing had progressed. A lot. She spoke to my mom, and since then, Mom has been a tiny bit more okay with the odd hip hop class here and there. Still, she wouldn't let me attend the workshop in London that a few of my dancing friends are at right now. It sounds amazing, too, from the couple of texts and email messages that have started to filter through.
    And I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but I guess I'm lucky she didn't let me go. Because this—this is better. The best. On the road with SMD .
    Be careful what you wish for, Mom has said to me. Well, I don't need to wish for anything anymore, because all of my wishes have just magically come true.

- 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