Room 311, Monday Afternoon
Nov. 28th, 2011 12:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
its_theclimbLilly still hadn't replied to Miley's texts from a whole day ago, and by now Miley was Really Really Worried.
Worried enough to call Lilly's mom. No answer. Then her dad. Still nothing. Even her brother Haley Joel wasn't picking up.
So, frustrated and starting to wonder if Lilly was maybe on the run from the law or something, Miley called her own father.
"Hey, bud, what's up?"
Oh, thank god.
"Daddy!" Miley blurted out in relief, pressing the phone closer to her ear as though that would get her closer to her father. "Ohmigod, I am so glad you answered."
"'Course I answered, baby girl," Robby Ray said easily. "What's going on? Is everything all right?
"I can't get in touch with Lilly," Miley complained. "Or her mom or dad or brother. I'm worried."
Miley heard the noise of a plate being put down in the background. Then her father said, "Lilly? That one of your friends from school, kiddo?"
Hold up. "What?" Miley demanded, every ounce of her bratty nature audible in that one syllable. "No. Lilly. Lillian Truscott? My best friend in the whole wide world? Used to live at 477 Dale Terrace, Malibu, California, currently residing at 42201 Pilgrim Run, Atlanta, Georgia with her mom Heather Truscott who you went out on a terrible date with one time?" It all came out in a single breath, because somehow Miley had the creeping suspicion that her father wasn't playing a game, that he seriously, seriously didn't know who Lilly was. Which was -- ridiculous. Lilly had lived with them for two months, she'd toured Europe with them, she'd been instrumental in the most important moment of Miley's life. How could her father not know who she was?
There was a long pause, and then Robby Ray's voice came back on the line. "You sure you're okay, bud?" he asked.
Miley let out a despairing whimper, the kind you got to practice when you were spoiled as all hell and more than a little bit accustomed to getting your way.
"I'm calling the president," she declared. She didn't know what good it would do, but the solution to something as frustrating as this had to be to call in higher-ups.
And her father laughed. What? Why was he laughing?
"Mile," he said, amused. "Come on now."
"What?" she snapped. "I have his number! And no one knows where Lilly is and I am freaking out, Daddy, and --"
His voice was soft, amused, humoring her. "And just where'd you get the president's number from, bud?"
Miley's heart stopped for a second. She could feel it. The whole world stopped.
"You know where," she said, very quietly, sounding more uncertain and vulnerable than she'd ever sounded in her life. "I've had his number for years. 'Cause I'm Hannah Montana."
"Who?"
It wasn't until a frantic Google search presented her with nothing that Miley dropped the phone and started to cry.
[[door and post open]]
Worried enough to call Lilly's mom. No answer. Then her dad. Still nothing. Even her brother Haley Joel wasn't picking up.
So, frustrated and starting to wonder if Lilly was maybe on the run from the law or something, Miley called her own father.
"Hey, bud, what's up?"
Oh, thank god.
"Daddy!" Miley blurted out in relief, pressing the phone closer to her ear as though that would get her closer to her father. "Ohmigod, I am so glad you answered."
"'Course I answered, baby girl," Robby Ray said easily. "What's going on? Is everything all right?
"I can't get in touch with Lilly," Miley complained. "Or her mom or dad or brother. I'm worried."
Miley heard the noise of a plate being put down in the background. Then her father said, "Lilly? That one of your friends from school, kiddo?"
Hold up. "What?" Miley demanded, every ounce of her bratty nature audible in that one syllable. "No. Lilly. Lillian Truscott? My best friend in the whole wide world? Used to live at 477 Dale Terrace, Malibu, California, currently residing at 42201 Pilgrim Run, Atlanta, Georgia with her mom Heather Truscott who you went out on a terrible date with one time?" It all came out in a single breath, because somehow Miley had the creeping suspicion that her father wasn't playing a game, that he seriously, seriously didn't know who Lilly was. Which was -- ridiculous. Lilly had lived with them for two months, she'd toured Europe with them, she'd been instrumental in the most important moment of Miley's life. How could her father not know who she was?
There was a long pause, and then Robby Ray's voice came back on the line. "You sure you're okay, bud?" he asked.
Miley let out a despairing whimper, the kind you got to practice when you were spoiled as all hell and more than a little bit accustomed to getting your way.
"I'm calling the president," she declared. She didn't know what good it would do, but the solution to something as frustrating as this had to be to call in higher-ups.
And her father laughed. What? Why was he laughing?
"Mile," he said, amused. "Come on now."
"What?" she snapped. "I have his number! And no one knows where Lilly is and I am freaking out, Daddy, and --"
His voice was soft, amused, humoring her. "And just where'd you get the president's number from, bud?"
Miley's heart stopped for a second. She could feel it. The whole world stopped.
"You know where," she said, very quietly, sounding more uncertain and vulnerable than she'd ever sounded in her life. "I've had his number for years. 'Cause I'm Hannah Montana."
"Who?"
It wasn't until a frantic Google search presented her with nothing that Miley dropped the phone and started to cry.
[[door and post open]]
