The class kicks my butt; yoga for these women is apparently not about finding inner peace, but about finding inner abs. My mom’s perfect makeup-non-makeup beads up on her forehead. Since I’ve done no exercise over the last few weeks other than lifting croissants into my mouth and walking my quiet dopey laps around the house, my body burns. Still, I tell myself this isn’t so bad, even with the covert glances. Maybe my self-imposed solitary confinement is unnecessary. Next time, though, instead of sweating, I’m going to sneak out to see Cesar, and we’ll sit in that double rocking chair my parents donated to the center for my sixteenth birthday and pretend to wear our invisibility cloaks.

When we finally reach the end of class, the instructor, a bendy brunette, looks straight at my mother when she says, “Namaste.” It turns a beautiful word into a rebuke. We pretend not to notice.

“Ready?” my mom says, before we step outside to face the planted paparazzi.

“No.”

“We can do this,” my mom says, which is the first time since the scandal broke that I see echoes of the mother I recognize. Cameras have the opposite effect on her than they do on normal people—when they’re around, she turns calm and composed and charming.

We step outside into madness. I hold my mother’s hand to stay steady and reflexively look down to avoid the assault of flashes and shouted questions, the press of bodies moving in closer. My mom’s wedding ring, which Paloma insisted she wear despite the fact that her fingers swell in downward dog, digs into my hands.

My mom delivers her speech and it seems to go off without a hitch. I echo it in my head, and make a mental note not to mouth the words along with her. This is supposed to seem impromptu, and ever the actress, my mom throws in a few casual umms and thoughtful looks into the distance so as to appear she’s coming up with the words on the spot. Just as she’s about to deliver her trademark line at the end, she stops, because she notices Paloma pushing her way through the crowd and signaling to cut it short.

The reporters shout questions into the void—Will you serve time? Why did you do it? Chloe, are you mad at your mom?—as we move toward Paloma’s outstretched arms, her nails spiking at the ends. For the first time in my life I’m relieved to see her; she will use her Jedi superpowers to get us out of here.