Miles to Go (10 page)

A “Normal” Day

A
fter the tour with The Cheetah Girls, it was back home, and back to work on the set of
Hannah Montana
. That first morning home, I woke up at our house in Los Angeles to the voice of our alarm system saying, “Entry door open.” That meant someone in my family was up walking the dogs. I dragged myself out of bed, brushed my teeth, showered, then opened one of my two closets.
(You read right—two closets!!!)
Both are stuffed with more clothes than I could wear in a year. Half of the stuff is clothes I bought at Forever 21 and Walmart, and half is gifts from designers like Chanel, Gucci, and Prada that I began to get as the show took off. It’s a quick glimpse of the two sides of my life—what I pick and choose and what people want to see me wear—all smushed together and tough to sort out in those closets.

As soon as I was dressed, I wrangled one of the legal-to-drive members of the household into taking me to the
Hannah Montana
set in time for 8 a.m. rehearsal. We broke for lunch at 12:30. My costars Emily, Mitchell, and I caught up, spilling out the lowdown on our lives in record time, then got back to work.

After rehearsal, I headed to a photo shoot for a cover of
Seventeen
, then went home to work on a song that needed to be ready for the next week’s recording session. I had dinner with my family—except Dad, who was out of town, and Brandi, who was at her apartment—then went to my room to check e-mail.

I signed on to AOL and saw a candid shot of myself as the home page—not bad this time! Then I logged on to Miley World to read my fan mail.
(Yes, I too have a password to the Miley World web site.)
Then it was to bed, sleep, rinse, and get ready to repeat.

It was the second season of
Hannah Montana
. It was safe to say—my life had changed.

The Rest of Us

M
y new life didn’t affect just me. It affected my siblings, too. But they are troupers. My little brother, Braison, is two years younger than I am. He’s the sensitive one—he’s very careful with other people’s feelings. Brazz will come to me with anything, and we do our secret handshake over the most serious secrets. I’m not going to lie—I’m usually not good at keeping secrets. But when Brazz trusts me with something, nothing could make me break that trust. Someone could put a knife to me and I would not tell. Brazz and I became closer friends about a year ago. I don’t want to pin it all on fashion, but I think it was when he got a pair of Converse sneakers. I was like, okay, you’re not a wannabe preppy kid anymore.

Noah’s the baby of the family and the comedian. She’s a tough little cookie, and nothing gets past her. When Noah was four years old, a friend and I asked if we could do her makeup, and proceeded to paint her like a clown. We gave her bright pink circles on her cheeks and outlined a huge blue mouth. To this day she won’t let me forget it. If I ever ask to put makeup on her, she says, “You’re gonna make me look like a clown!” and refuses.

Noah wants her room to be like Noah’s Ark. She’s got a huge stuffed giraffe in one corner and a huge stuffed horse in another. She has fish, birds, and a dog. Noah wants as many animals around her as possible. That’s what she and I (and our mom) have most in common. Nobody loves animals as much as we do.

Last year my mom and dad and Brandi went to a concert, and I stayed home to babysit Noah. As soon as they left, Noah said, “You’re the fun one. I want to do something really fun.” Who was I to argue? So I got out a big bowl and dumped in maple syrup, Coke, ice cream, whipped cream, some waffles, and sprinkles on the top. I gave Noah a spoon and said, “Let’s see how much sugar we can get into you.” She ate until she felt like she was going to throw up.

Then, to give her digestive tract a little time to recover, I decided to indulge her senses with a gentle and soothing spa treatment. I concocted a special custom facial for her out of eggs, honey, bananas, and . . . pretty much anything else I could think of. When my parents walked in the door, my mom said, “What’s that smell?” The kitchen was a mess. There was food everywhere. And Mom was right, it didn’t smell quite right. But in the morning, the first thing Noah did was put her hands to her cheeks and say, “My pores are so clean! My skin is baby soft.” I was like, “That’s because you
are
a baby.” I am so glad I still get to experience moments like those. I would hate to miss them.

My older siblings are out of the house now, but they’re still around a lot, and when they are I drop everything (except school and work) to spend time with them. Brandi is the angel of the family. She’s the most honest and trustworthy person you’ll ever meet. I mean, she’s edgy—but she’s also a really good girl. Trace is the carefree one. He doesn’t worry what anybody thinks of him. Trace is super rock ’n’ roll—I love his band, Metro Station. If I had to categorize our family, I’d say he’s the one who’s the most like me. Or, I guess I’m most like him, since he’s the older one.

Now that I’m so busy I’m
very
aware of exactly how much time I have with my family. I want to make sure I make the most of it. It’s not like we sat down and made rules like “Everyone has to be home for Tuesday pot roast dinner” or “Nobody talks on their cell phones in the living room.”
Our house is a loud, busy place with family and friends and animals coming and going.
But, just like most people, we try to keep the stress—and definitely the work—out of the house. At home, I’m not a celebrity. Everyone still knows my name, but instead of chanting it at a show, they’re shouting up the stairs for me to get my dirty laundry. At home, I’m just someone who has a job sooner than most kids do. The nice thing about our family is that everything I’m doing now is all stuff my dad has done for so long that when I started doing it, nobody paid much attention.

Homebodies

M
y dad has to travel for work, but when it comes down to it, both my parents are homebodies. Maybe that’s why they get along so well. When my dad was touring with his mega-hit song, “Achy Breaky Heart,” my mom stayed home with the kids. Dad was gone a lot, but even when he was home for as long as six months, my parents never went out on group dinner dates or had parties; they never entertained celebrities or schmoozed. They liked to be with each other and us.

I’m pretty much the same way. I like going to small parties and over to friends’ houses, like ten people hanging out, maybe going for a swim. I’m always careful because of my heart. I guess my idea of a good party is someone getting their face smashed in a cake—not getting smashed. I don’t drink and I would
never
smoke. I always say that for me, smoking would be like smashing my guitar and expecting it to play. I’d never do that to my voice, not to mention the rest of my body. My mom wants us to be careful not just about smoking, but about second-hand smoke too. What Mom doesn’t? Both of my granddads died of lung cancer (even though Pappy’s cancer came from asbestos, not from smoking), so I get why Mom is extra worried.

Too bad we get invited to lots of cool parties, because it’s kind of wasted on us. After the Oscars last year, we were supposed to go to Elton John’s party. We were invited to Madonna’s party. There was some other dinner party that was a big deal. We had every ticket in town. It was dazzling and flattering.
But after the awards show was over, my mom and I looked at each other. I said, “I’ll go if you want to go.”
And she said to me, “I’ll go if you want to go.” There we were on Hollywood’s biggest night, all dressed up, with every hot invitation we could imagine. So what did we do?

We stopped by our favorite local diner, Mo’s, got barbecue chicken pizza, and went home to change into our pajamas. We were chowing down in the kitchen, talking about how much we like barbecue chicken pizza, when we paused for a moment and I said, “Should we have gone?” Then we shook our heads:
Nah
. When it comes down to it, we’d rather be home in our jammies.

It’s easy to be the same family we’ve always been when we’re hanging out at home. But it’s a little harder when we’re out and about. Then the fame thing gets in the way. We like to go to church on Sunday and then to lunch together afterward. People will sometimes come up to us while we’re eating. That’s when my mom will say, “It’s Sunday. We’re eating. She’s only sixteen years old, and she’s not allowed to do that right now.” I get embarrassed. Why can’t I just do one signature? It takes five seconds. It’s no big deal. But my mom says it’s family time, and signing autographs can wait. She wants to make sure there are times when I’m just Miley, hanging out with my family.

Another thing that happens is that sometimes we’ll go to Universal (the amusement park), and fans will gather, wanting to take a picture or to get an autograph. I don’t mind doing it, but my family doesn’t want to stand around for an hour waiting for me. They want to ride the rides. And suddenly I’m the sister who’s slowing us down, and they’re as annoyed as you’d be if your brother had a tantrum in the parking lot of a movie theater. Those moments, they remind me I’m still just Miley and I’d better get a move on.

Miles per Hour

W
hen
Hannah Montana
proved a hit, life sped up for me and my whole family. It used to be that if I only had an hour to shop at the mall in Nashville or wherever, I felt rushed. How could I be expected to score the perfect jeans under such strict time constraints? Now I saw how much I could accomplish in just one hour. I could give an interview. I could write a song. I could learn calligraphy. I could get to level Hard in Guitar Hero.
(I’m stuck at Hard. I’m not even that great at Hard, and I play Guitar Hero for
at least
twenty minutes everyday.)
A free hour was now a huge amount of time to myself. It was a luxury.
You start to respect time a lot more when people constantly want to take it from you and you’ve got to decide what to do with it.

On the other hand, I really hate how aware of the passage of time I am now. I try not to feel like I’m on a clock. I like taking my time. If I’m getting dressed for the day, I want to make sure I’m comfortable. And I’m striving for a pretty high level of comfort. I might have to try on several different pairs of sweats before I settle on just the right ones. My mom’s mellow too, but ever since our life became full of all these commitments, she likes to get to them on time
(go figure)
. When she starts saying, “You’re late, and you're making me late. I’m going to hit traffic,” I say, “So what? Don’t take me. We won’t go. Or I’ll just find someone else to drive me.” I don’t see any point in freaking out. I can’t go into the past, reverse time, and make us
un
late. If we’re late, we’re late. Yeah, um, my mom still doesn’t see it that way.

There are only so many hours in the day that I’m not on set taping the show. I do what I can to relax. I play Guitar Hero (which, I’ve almost convinced my parents, kinda counts as working if you’re a professional musician. That’s what I keep saying to them, anyway: “I’m a
professional
musician. I
need
this video game.”) I kick back with my castmates during lunch break. Back in Tennessee, I used to make plans with friends after school (on days when I wasn’t cheerleading). Now I do my best to keep the after-work hours free so I can go home and hang with my brother and little sister, riding bikes around the neighborhood or just being home. Things I can do without making an appointment or watching a clock.

So much of our lives is scheduled. It’s go go go go . . . no! We have to say no sometimes. That can be hard for me—to figure out what to say no to. Everything sounds important. Everything sounds fun. But my parents are both really into reminding me that I don’t have to maximize Every. Single. Opportunity that ever arises. My dad is the poetic one. He tells me to be real. To follow my destiny. And to remember that coming down the mountain is harder than climbing it. My mom is the practical one. The one who wants to make sure I have a childhood. The one who makes sure I help out around the house and save time for just hanging out with friends. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have parents who thought I should push higher and higher for money or fame or popularity. That would definitely mess up my head.

The simple truth is that being at the top—the most famous or richest or most successful—isn’t my goal.
I don’t have to be at the top. I don’t want to be in the fast lane constantly. I realize I’m blessed to have had lots of experiences very few sixteen-year-olds get to have. But I also get that if I’m not careful, I might miss out on all the experiences every normal sixteen-year-old has. And with all the craziness, normal sixteen-year-old stuff is something I crave.
(I know! Who wants normal teen angst??)

When it comes down to it, my family makes it pretty darn easy for me to stay grounded and remember where I come from and who I really am.

My mammie comes to work with me every single day. She is the most amazing woman in the world. I’ve never heard her curse. I’ve never seen her mad. She lives every day counting her blessings. If I could, I’d make Mammie a saint. She’s my second mother, and she is always there to keep my feet on the ground even when my head is in the clouds.

I know it is hard to believe, but we really are all about family and traditions. No matter how busy we are or what the day has in store, my dad loves to make me Ovaltine in the morning. He’s been doing it ever since I was little, and he’s a real perfectionist about it.

First he scoops the powder into a tall glass. Then he pours the milk. He stirs it all up, then gives it a slow, careful slurp. If it’s not the exact right proportion of powder to milk, he’ll say, “Nope, that’s not quite right.” I’m sure it tastes fine, and I try to stop him, but he says, “No, no, I want to get it right.” Then he dumps the glass of chocolate milk down the drain and starts all over again. When he’s finally got a glass that meets his strict standards of excellence (or maybe it’s just an excuse for him to keep taking tastes for himself), we sit side-by-side at the counter and he drinks his coffee and I drink my Ovaltine, same as we have since I was little. It’s still so satisfying. I look forward to it. I feel very lucky to have a dad who still thinks that chocolate milk is what I want to drink every morning. Do I actually
want
to drink chocolate milk every morning? It doesn’t matter. Dad thinks I do, and, because of that, I do.