Miles to Go (18 page)

Duckoons

A
fter the Best of Both Worlds tour, after we shot the Hannah Montana movie, after
Breakout
was released, after the worst trip ever, it was August, and I was craving a nice, long, well-deserved vacation. Preferably in the tropics. Ah, that
would
have been nice. But it was time for the third season of
Hannah Montana
to start shooting. I went straight back to work.

Over the summer when we shot the
Hannah Montana
movie, Emily and I got along fine. We were in a new place, and the work was different enough that whatever bad energy we had had seemed to be gone, or at least on hold. After the movie wrapped, we didn’t talk until we came back to work. It’s not that we weren’t talking intentionally or out of spite. We just never had had that kind of friendship. But when we came back to work for the third season, something had changed. Yes, we did have fun together when she came to my farm in Franklin. And yes, we’d had another break. But there wasn’t some big flash of lightning and suddenly things were great. It’s not like those duckoons breathed a magic friendship spell on us or anything. When we came back, we just worked. We felt close. We weren’t just getting along—we were great.

Now Emily and I love hanging out. We’ll spend four days in a row together. I can’t imagine a better Lilly. We’re
super
close. Freakishly close for how much time we spend together. It took us a while to get into a groove—we both needed to learn how to be sensitive to each other. We never had a big blow-out fight followed by an old-fashioned heart-to-heart like I’m sure so many teenage friends do. Both of our lives are so busy that cycling through that kind of dramatic conflict and resolution is a luxury we can’t afford. We work together every day. We’re professionals. We wanted to get along, and we absolutely had to behave responsibly for the good of our show and our careers. So yeah, for a while I was just doing my best to keep the peace. But you know how they say that sometimes if you act a certain way long enough— act happy even when you are sad—eventually that happiness becomes real? Well, I think somewhere in the course of trying to keep the peace and act like friends, it sort of became true. It felt natural. And once it was natural, well, things were just peaceful. Getting along with Emily was a happy surprise. Work was a better place to be—it felt much more natural now that my onscreen BF suddenly felt like a real BF. It even feels weird now to try to talk about how tense and unpleasant it was. That was us? It’s hard to believe.

Time passed, and now when I look at Emily I don’t feel insecure or competitive or annoyed at our differences. Instead I see someone who has been with me through long, grueling work days and someone I can hang out with whenever there is a free moment.

It was worth it, worth all that fighting and tolerating. I figured out that your friends don’t have to be exactly like you. In fact, the people who are different are the ones who are more likely to open the world for you. Those friendships can take the most work—I don’t think I’d ever really worked on a friendship before this.
(No, I don't think working on those sixth-grade girls would have helped in the least.)
Maybe this is a lesson that everyone learns at some point in life.
The friendships that take work can be the ones that are the most rewarding.

Now that I think about it, it’s part of growing up, I guess, and part of having a grown-up job as a child. I see the days spinning by and look for ways to make my relationships strong, productive, happy, and peaceful. I’ll always be hyper and impulsive, and I’ll always talk without thinking, but I’m more aware of how my actions affect others, and what has to be accomplished, and what my responsibilities are. No matter how tired or goofy I feel, I have a greater sense of the big picture, and what I want to give and get from life, every day. I have Emily to thank for that lesson, because I have a feeling it’s going to be something I come back to over the years.

The Bridge

R
omantic relationships also take work. That I’m sure of. And they, too, change and grow.

The last time I saw Prince Charming, we hugged. I closed my eyes for a moment. It was a strange hug, but I did not want to let go. In that moment, I just wanted to imagine that it was two years ago, and things were the way they used to be.

When I write songs, I try to tell a whole story. But sometimes the whole story isn’t ready to be told. The bridge of a song is the transitional part, the part that musically connects two parts of the song. It’s sometimes called a climb. After the bridge, a song may come back to the chorus, but it’s bigger, it’s grander, and it feels different because of what happened in the bridge. When you hear the bridge, you feel things changing, and you know that the finale is near.

That’s where I am these days. I’m in a different key. I’m still climbing, still figuring it out. I’m hurt and mad and happy and hopeful. Prince Charming was my first true love, and I’ll hold a place in my heart for him forever.

So I’m in the bridge of a song. I know what the final chorus sounds like. I know it’s coming. I expect it. I’m just not quite there yet.

Sheba

W
hen I was one or two, my mom gave my dad a dog named Sheba for Father’s Day. It was a time in my dad’s life when he was very successful—on top of the mountain—but he had the realization that he didn’t have anything. So he let go of his music career and moved with the family and Sheba to the farm in Franklin to be the very best husband and dad he could be. Sheba was part of that, part of coming back home, part of choosing family over fame and fortune. Dad loved that dog—she was the most loyal dog ever. She was with us for a long time, but unfortunately Sheba didn’t have a good end. She was bitten by a tick, got paralyzed, and then, because she couldn’t move, she got hit by a car. My dad was devastated. That was a few years ago.

It was in June a couple of years ago that my parents were walking around Pasadena when they saw a beautiful black dog who reminded them of Sheba. She was with a homeless woman wearing a shirt that said ANGEL. Mom and Dad stopped to pet the dog and started talking to the woman, who said her name was Joanne. She said, “I’m a Christian. My husband and I got divorced. I feel like I’m supposed to be here on the streets. I’m a missionary.” My dad asked what the dog’s name was. Joanne said it was Sheba.

Sheba! My parents were touched by Joanne’s story and the whole Sheba dog connection. They tried to give Joanne some money, but she wouldn’t accept it. She said she was fulfilling her calling.

Now, I haven’t talked much about religion and what God means to me and my family. I mean, you know I go to church on Sundays, but faith is more than that to me. It’s part of who I am, the way I think, and how I live my life every day. Meeting Joanne— someone so dedicated to God—was important and meaningful to my parents. God has all kinds of messengers, and I always have my eyes, ears, and heart open.

A few days later, it was the Fourth of July. We didn’t have any plans. Remember? My parents aren’t big planners or partyers. It was a hot afternoon, and we were all just walking around Pasadena. My dad mentioned Sheba and wondered if she was afraid of the fireworks the way our Sheba had been. We looked for Joanne but couldn’t find her. Then my little sister—who’d never met Joanne—said, “Oh, look at that dog.” She pointed across the street. It was Joanne and Sheba.

This time Joanne allowed my parents to give her twenty dollars. Dad wanted to take her in to the Cheesecake Factory to get something to eat. She was afraid to leave her cart, which made sense to me. It was her home, and it wasn’t under lock and key the way most of us keep our treasured possessions. We guarded her cart for her while she went in. People looked at us funny, like we didn’t belong, and I wondered if she got looks like that every day.

When Joanne reappeared, she was carrying Cokes for all of us. We talked with her for a long time that night. She said that these streets were her Africa, her Indonesia. Instead of going someplace far away, this was her mission field. Joanne was intelligent and calm. There wasn’t a shred of bitterness in her. And she knew her Scripture. At the end of that night, my parents came right out and said, “Please let us help you get off the streets. You can come to our house. Or we’ll get you a hotel and figure something out.” Joanne smiled and said, “I hope you’ll remember me, but you don’t have to visit. Don’t worry about me. I’m happy.”

And it seemed to be true. Two months later my parents were back in Pasadena, and there she was, wearing a shirt saying I LOVE JESUS, and sitting with her dog. My parents couldn’t fathom why someone would choose that life, but they had faith in her and the message she brought us. The person who we thought needed us the most didn’t want anything from us. She was full of love. She was content. She didn’t want or need anything from anyone. She lived in a park. She followed her calling. God took care of her.
(Maybe she was an angel.)
Like Mammie says, “All things work together for the good of those who love God” (Romans 8:28).

My mom grew up in a conservative church. For a long time she went to church because that’s what you were supposed to do. Our whole family did. We were always looking for a good church to visit. Then, when I was in middle school, Brandi brought us to a new church in Franklin. The People’s Church was different. It became a family for us. The members of our congregation hold each other accountable for the way we live our lives, and at the same time the church is a place where I have felt safe and unjudged, especially during those tough middle school years. For the first time, our family started making decisions based on our faith. I feel like we have more of a true relationship with God than we did when we went to church because it was a ritual. The People’s Church really opened my heart. It has made me truly thankful.

A lot of people at our church wear purity rings, which represent a commitment to remaining celibate until you’re married. When Brandi turned twenty-one, she asked my mom for a purity ring, and my mom bought one for her. Brandi has always been independent and good at knowing what she wants and believes. She’s so honest to everyone, including herself. I love her and respect her and think she’s beautiful inside and out. We always talked openly about her ring and what it meant. When Brandi’s boyfriend (whom she plans to marry) comes to visit, he’ll often stay for a week. Every night at eleven they go to their separate rooms. My parents aren’t telling Brandi to do that. She does it because she respects herself that much.

When I got old enough and there were boys in the picture, I asked if it was time for me to get my own ring. My mom gave me one that has a circle on it, to represent the circle of marriage. There’s a little diamond in the center of the circle for me, and when I get married, there will be another diamond added. But until then, it’s just me. And it feels right.

The press might make fun of some people for wearing purity rings, but I don’t pay attention to that. They can think what they want. I have my morals!

I also bring my faith to my career choices. I already told you that our family talks about being light in a dark world—when it comes to my work I try to do projects that I can be proud of. I love that
Hannah Montana
is a sweet, good quality show that brings joy to people’s lives. As I start doing more grown-up, dramatic projects, I want to stick with what I believe and what makes sense for a girl my age. I want to be a good role model. That’s why I signed on to work with the writer Nicholas Sparks. His books and movies show strong morals, and loving, hard relationships. I can do meaningful work—without compromising my values.