I go to school at St. Anthony’s. He’s the patron saint of lost things, which is kind of appropriate.

I have friends, even if it sounds like I’ve spent the last ten years moping in my room. I’ve known Hanna and Emily since sixth grade, and no matter who else has come and gone, we’ve always stuck together. They’re my second attempt at BFFs. My first, Bernie and Aisha, fell away from me in the aftermath of Mom’s murder.

In the middle of your grief, when it’s too raw for most people to handle, they disappear, slowly stepping back until you turn around one day and they’re gone.

Bernie lived next door to me when we were kids. Aisha lived two blocks over. But they faded away long before we outgrew each other. I have higher hopes for Emily and Hanna.

They don’t know about the show yet, and I’m not sure how they’ll react when I tell them. Hanna will probably be disappointed in me, and Emily will be jealous. But when she realizes how much she’s going to be on camera, she’ll be fine.

Hanna thinks she’ll live in Doveton forever. If you want to piss her off, ask why there’s no second h. She saves her dirtiest look for people who question her parents’ spelling.

They own the ice-cream parlor in Harmony, running it with a mixture of passion and exasperation. I love watching them work: Hanna’s dad yelling in Hungarian and her mom grumbling in Hindi.

Emily can’t wait to leave. Her mom’s a teacher’s aide who cries all the time because her husband divorced her, and Emily says it’s no fun living at home anymore. While my mom died, her dad just moved out, but the way her mom looks, you would think it was the other way around.

There are things you never say to a grieving person, like, “Keep your chin up,” or “I know how you feel.” And what you never, ever say is, “Pull yourself together.” But secretly, that’s what I want to say to Emily’s mom. Then I feel guilty because everyone has their own shit to deal with.

They are going to be my costars—my two best friends—and their parents will be extras if they want to be. I haven’t asked them yet. I haven’t asked anyone. I might be surrounded by blurry faces.

But knowing how desperate people are to be famous these days, I doubt it.

Chapter 14

“Can you explain this?” Mrs. Bradley asks, holding out a letter she’s waving too quickly for me to read.

I shrug, and she hands it to me, and I see it’s from the production company, requesting permission to film every Monday for up to three months.