Part zwei! I actually finished this in record time, because I wanted to have it posted before Spring Break. I will be gone for the whole next week, so no updates, sorry, but I promise I will have something extra juicy when I get back :) I know this story hasn't really been earning it's rating as of yet, but in later chapters that will change, I promise. So enjoy, and let me know if you have any suggestions or ideas!
Thanks,
Sarah
Disclaimer, disclaimer: I doth not dare to claim.
Oh, don't forget to review.
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Lilly Truscott.
I had actually been thinking about her yesterday, during the flight from Los Angeles. Thought about how she had made the same trip all that time ago, wondered if she felt lost, or lonely, or heartsick. I had made countless trips to New York on business, too, but had never seen her. But today, of all days, and in a city of over 8 million people who do I run into?
Lilly Truscott.
We have been avoiding each other, and have been quite successful at doing so for almost 8 years. Even at Oliver's wedding we managed to never be caught in the same room at one time (well, sans the church and the reception hall, and had stayed on opposite sides of the room at all times). It's not that there was bad blood, but, things were just, complicated. Very, very complicated.
But today I run into her at an obscure little café in Manhattan and the memory of her rushes back to me as if mere weeks had passed. I'm still struck by how beautiful she is. She's taller now, but her face still glows with the light and energy and warmth that is always, eternally, undeniably Lilly. I stare like a fool when I see her sitting in the café; watch her for a moment before she notices me. Smooth, Stewart. I must have looked like a creeper.
As much as I'm embarrassed, I want to see her. I want to see how she's doing, after all this time apart. And she looks beautiful. Absolutely and completely grown up, the way I always knew that Lilly could be. She looked so confident, sitting there, a big New York journalist. I want to tell her how proud I am of her, but she doesn't need any reassurance from me. And she's so beautiful that I almost can't believe it. But she still possesses that same quirky sense of style, the bright smile and sense of humor.
We talk. We talk together as if nothing has been dividing us for all these years, as if all the awkward moments we have shared have been pushed out of our minds. I know that isn't true, though, I can see it in her face. But she doesn't push me away, doesn't tell me to leave. She actually smiles at me, and I feel like a little part of myself has returned to me. My best friend. She's accomplished, successful, all on her own, and I couldn't be prouder, or any happier to see her once again. I kiss her cheek, soft and smooth, and she doesn't flinch.
And now I walk the streets in a haze. It's almost surreal, seeing her. Her card is safe in my pocket; Lillian Truscott, Rolling Stone, New York, New York.
I like New York. There's a certain sense of anonymity about the city that I have come to like in my visits the past few years. True, Tennessee will always be my first home, and California has become my second, but as I've traveled around the US, and even to Europe, I've found that I like more and more of the world that I see. I stand at a crosswalk and wait for the 'walk' sign along with several other people. Many have cell phones attached to their ears, engaged in deep conversation, others lost in their own worlds with Ipod earplugs stuck into their ears. Out of the corner of my eye I see a couple, obviously tourists, the oddballs in the bunch, chattering noisily.
"We're lost, Bob," the woman says in a thick Midwest accent.
The man rolls his eyes. "We are not lost, Barbara, I know exactly where we're going."
The woman waves a map in her husband's face. "Oh yeah, Mr. Smarty Pants? Then show me where we are on the map!" Then, she suddenly stops waving it, and I hear a little gasp. The woman is staring at me, and I watch calmly out of my periphery.
"Oh my good golly," the woman whispers loudly, tugging violently on Bob's jacket sleeve. "Bob, look!"
"What in the heck are you going on about?"
"It's that girl! Well, she was a girl."
Bob whispers back. "Who?"
"That music star that Will had that big crush on when he was a kid! What was her name…? Kelly California….no, Hannah Montana! Ooh, it's a celebrity, Bob! Our first celebrity sighting!"
I see Bob sneak a look. "Barbara, don't make a scene."
At this point I'm barely restraining my laughter.
"Oh, Bob, do you think she'd take a picture with me? We could send it to Will, he'd get a kick out of it! A real live celebrity!"
The signals changes, and the crowd moves forward. I walk ahead of the group. I wouldn't think that this would happen here, but it does happen less frequently as the years go by.
After I graduated from high school, Hannah still continued to perform, to record, to do TV and magazines interviews, to walk the red carpet on the arm of some eye candy pretty boy actor. After Jake Ryan I was done with actors, the self-centered attitude that came with them was too much to bear. Plus, I didn't really want to date anyone then.
But it soon grew old, the double life, the duplicity of it all. Why couldn't Miley do what Hannah did? Why did Miley have to be the awkward, feeble, shy, when Hannah was bold, commanding, self-assured? Weren't we the same person? Daddy could see it, and so could Jackson, how tired I had become. Truth to tell, I grew tired of wearing the mask. With no Lola waiting for Hannah offstage, no Lilly to share the secret with Miley, it all seemed so strange and empty.
I had my normal high school experience, free of the limelight, but high school was over. And so, a few weeks before my 19th birthday, Hannah Montana ceased to exist. I believed the magazine headlines read "The Real Hannah Montana: Meet the Girl with the Best of Both Worlds!"
I have no regrets about it; I only wish I could have seen Amber and Ashley's faces when they read the article. For months I couldn't get rid of the paparazzi, I locked myself in the house to avoid the flashes of the cameras, put on headphones to drown out the yelling and the constant questions. I thought I might never escape. Dad and Jackson did their best to protect me. And so, Hannah was gone forever. No more sold-out concerts, no more long nights on the road, no more double life. I gave it all up.
At first, I missed performing live, signing autographs for my little fans, but I began to grow to the quiet life. It was refreshing, for the first time in years, to just be Miley.
And eventually, things began to calm. Tabloid attacks eventually slowed, even the paparazzi began to turn their attention to more troubled young celebrities. And I decided to go to college. I studied through summer, fall, and spring and managed to graduate in three years with a degree in business. Then I went into business with Daddy, working for the record company that had signed Hannah all those years ago.
After a brisk walk I reach my destination and I'm glad to be out of the wind and cold. The studio is swirling with activity and energy, instruments being tuned, vocalists warming up their voices, technicians adjusting equipment. A small, bearded man emerges out of the clamor and shakes my hand warmly. It is Tony, the studio manager and a good friend of mine for a few years now.
"Miley Stewart, my favorite diva pop sensation and best producer ever! You look lovely, darling!"
I smile. "Tony, you flatterer. How are things going?"
He leads me into the recording booth, where two technicians are pushing buttons. "Sound check is almost done," Tony says, "we'll be ready to put down the first track any second now."
I sit in the chair he offers. "Very good. And how is she today?"
The artist we're recording today is Zoë Marquez, a 17 year old Brooklyn native and up-and-coming pop/hip hop artist. For years she recorded music with her friends in her basement, and it was after I stumbled upon her music on the internet that I encouraged the label executives to sign her and let me produce the album. She has such a fresh, new sound, raw and passionate, untainted by the suaveness of Hollywood. She's young and fiery, too, and I see a lot of myself as a young performer in her.
"Good," he says and points to the glass. Zoë is on the other side, waving furiously.
"Hi, Ms. Stewart! Let's do this!" She hops up and down excitedly. I smile at her energy, wave back.
"Okay then, you heard the girl," I say, putting on the soundproof headphones Tony hands to me. "Let's do this."
I sit back with my eyes closed, let the music wash over me. First, the drums, a heavy Latin and Caribbean beat. Then, a powerful rock guitar mixed with a melodic base line. Finally, Zoë's vocals, a powerful commanding voice for such a tiny girl, intense and beautiful.
As the song ends, Tony claps and cheers, beaming. "How about that?" he practically squeals. "Is this girl a winner or what?"
I laugh. "That was an excellent first take," I agree, then lean forward and press the button to the intercom.
"That was really good, Zoë," I say through the intercom. "We're going to do that one more time. And this time, really belt out the chorus, I want this track to really show off the power of your voice." The girl nods and I turn to Tony. "Let's put more emphasis on the drums as well." Tony nods, and presses the button on the intercom.
"Okay, Zoë, take a ten minute break. We're going to adjust the microphones on Zeke's drums."
The girl nods and I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out, check the caller ID.
"It's Los Angeles," I say to Tony quickly, "I'll be back in a minute."
I make my way through the clamor of the recording booths and into a quiet back hallway before I flip open my phone.
"Hi, Dad."
"Hey Miles, how's New York?" I hear my Dad's familiar drawl and it makes me smile.
"Cold. But good. We're off to a great start here, I think." I put the phone to my other ear and adjust my position
"Good. I'm meeting the sharks in an hour so I'm glad to bring 'em a positive update. Okay, I'd best get on the road. Take care in the big city, baby." All these years and he still worries. I chuckle.
"Okay, Daddy."
There is a short pause, and he speaks again. "Are you okay, Miles? You sound distracted."
Busted. "I am, a little bit. But I'll tell you about it later, okay?"
"Okay, baby girl. Be safe. Bye."
"Bye," I click my phone shut, sigh, lean against the wall. As I stand here, I am overcome with a curious sense of déjà vu.
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It's near the end of a recording day, and I have to admit that I'm exhausted. One take after another, not to mention the photo shoot that took place earlier today, and I'm hungry and practically dead on my feet. My Hannah wig is particularly hot and itchy today, so I'm continually having to resist the urge to scratch my head. I already talk like a country bumpkin, now they might think that I have lice.
"Okay, Miss Montana," I finally hear over the intercom. "That'll do it for today. We'll see you next week." I sigh. Thank God for Fridays.
Daddy greets me outside the booth with a fake moustache smile. "Way to go, kiddo." He pats my wigged head and gives me a one-armed hug.
"Thank, Dad," I say, voice thick from use and weariness.
"Got a surprise visitor for ya, Miles," Dad says as we walk away from the booths. "Lola called while you were recording so I invited her up here. Maybe you two can do something now that we're done here. She looked pretty bummed when she came in."
My ears prick up, a wave of worry washes over me. "Where is she?"
He points. "In the hallway over there, I think."
I wind through the now empty hallways of the studio past dark offices before I find her, sitting slumped against the wall across from a water cooler. "Lola?"
There Lilly sits, decked out in full Lola style with a blue wig and a black skirt. She lifts her head slowly, then gives me a half smile. "What's shakin', Hannah?"
"Are you all right, hon?" I drop to my knees in front of her. "What happened?"
She's looking at her feet again, her favorite Converse. "I broke up with Marcus today."
"I'm sorry," I say, moving to her side and wrapping an arm around her shoulders in a comforting hug. But this time, she doesn't relax into it, she tenses up, and moves slightly away. I feel surprised and a little hurt.
"Thanks," she says flatly. Now I'm worried.
"Lilly," I say seriously, breaking the secret name code, "what's going on? What's bothering you? Is it just the break-up?"
She wiggles a little bit under my touch, but eventually raises her head. "I just didn't like him, Miley. It just wasn't how it's supposed to feel. I didn't feel him inside, like I should." Her voice breaks. "Miley, I think there's something wrong with me."
I take her hand. "There's nothing wrong with you. If you didn't like him so what? Move on."
She shakes her head vigorously. "It's not like that, Miley. It's all of them. Lucas, Matt, Marcus, all of them; it was never right. And I don't think it ever will be. I think I'm a freak. Miley, I think I might be…"
I feel a panic seize me suddenly, like I'm not quite sure I want to hear what she says next. Quickly, I interrupt. "There's nothing wrong with you, Lilly. And I just know that someday you'll find someone and it will feel perfectly right." I rub her back with my free hand.
When she looks at me, I notice something. A little spark, an unspecified longing that I can't label or identify. She looks at me with such intensity that my heart begins to beat a little faster, and my hands begin to shake. What is this?
After a few agonizing moments, she breaks the gaze and stares at her feet again with an ironic laugh. "You're right, Miley. I'm sorry for freaking out on you."
For a second I am frozen, shocked and haunted by Lilly's blue eyes, the feeling of her bare skin against my fingertips. I am confused. Finally, I wake up.
"That's what friends are for," I clear my throat and chirp as happily as I can muster. I stand, and offer a hand to pull her up. "Now how about we go get a gallon of ice cream and watch a horror movie marathon to make it all better."
She smiles, but it's only a half-smile, still a hint of sadness hidden in it. "Okay, Hannah," she replies.
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At 16 years old, I hadn't considered the possibility of a sexual identity crisis, but looking back, everything was as plain as the nose on my face. Lilly had always flirted with boys, always swooned and fawned, but it had all stopped. She became withdrawn to everyone, even Oliver, and especially me. There were moments of our old greatness of course, funny moments and good adventures. We still weren't cool at school, but that bothered me less and less as time went on. It was just high school.
Little touches were what bothered me. Most of the time, we were comfortable, joking, like the old Miley and Lilly. But every once in awhile, sitting next to each other, close, watching a movie perhaps, or laying side by side in my bed, we would just touch, and I would feel different somehow. Like I was touching a whole new person, but the familiar smell and softness of her skin would tell me otherwise. Electricity in those small touches, like lightning. I was scared, confused. I shrugged it off.
I was blind then. Blind and dumb. I'm no longer blind, no longer dumb.
"Miss Stewart?" A crew member has stuck his head around the corner. "Are you ready for another take? We've adjust all the equipment. Tony wants to know."
I straighten up very quickly, slide my phone back into my pocket, and nod.
"Yes, of course. Let's get going."
I walk back down the hallway and smile to myself.
Yes, I will call her. Tomorrow.
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Bow chicka wow wow :)
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