The anchorperson, Brittany Brady, stands off to one side while a woman powders her face and a man lint-rolls down her suit. A third person tapes a mic to her lapel.

In the corner, Paloma talks with a dark-haired woman who reminds me of Hudson’s mom—same blunt bangs and grim smile. They seem deep in conversation, unaware of the commotion around them.

“She’s the producer, I think,” Isla says, gesturing over to them. “I’d bet they’re going over the terms of the interview.”

“Do you know what’s going on? What’s the point of all of this?” I ask.

“I assume damage control? So Mom can spin her story? Seems like a risky strategy to me,” Isla says.

“I spoke to my lawyer yesterday. I think I’m at least in the clear, legally speaking,” I say. “For real.”

“Thank God,” Isla says, and grabs me in a quick hug. We’ve recently become sisters who touch.

I thought I’d feel real relief from this news. Instead, the shame sits ever-present, like a gravitational force. I let my mind wander to Mrs. Oh’s definition of me being fine, a thing I do often now, the way you’d wiggle a loose tooth. I tell myself that I’ll figure out one day how to live a long and authentically good life, like she promised.

Isla and I look back out at the set, which isn’t a set but our house. The doubling of my mom’s professional life and our personal life feels weird, though not altogether unfamiliar.

“I’m nervous. I don’t think Mom realizes how much people hate her. She’s so used to being Missy, right? I don’t think she gets that this could be a really tough interview,” Isla says.

Our mother stands off to the side with my dad. They make such a striking couple, even with both of them at their most toned-down. They’re holding hands, and my mother is nodding. I bet Dad is giving her a pep talk.

“She knows,” I say. “Look, she’s nervous.”

My unflappable mother seems shaken and pale, the same way she looked when she was walking into the ER to see Hudson. Like she knew it could be the worst-case scenario.

“Maybe,” Isla says. “By the way, I haven’t told Mom and Dad yet, but I’m not going back to Wood Valley next year. I’ve registered myself for Beverly Hills High.”

“Public school,” I say, using my mother’s best scandalized voice, the one she would use on My Dad, My Pops, and Me whenever her fictional kid did something wrong. Isla laughs.

“I know, right? They’re going to freak.”