“Hey, Angelica.”

Even though he had known her for years, even acting as her bodyguard at one point, it took a few seconds to see Angelica Wyatt as a person and not a poster or distant celluloid image up on a big screen. What, Myron often thought, must that be like—to be that kind of beautiful and famous that people, maybe even those close to you, always see you through the haze of movie stardom?

The famous face leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“I hear you’re getting married,” Ema’s mom said to him.

“Yep.”

Fifteen years ago, when Angelica Wyatt had given birth to her daughter, the tabloids had been horrible, following them nonstop, snapping photos with high-powered lenses whenever they’d leave her Los Angeles home, demanding answers about the baby’s paternity. Headlines screamed stuff like ANGELICA WYATT SECRET BABY SHOCKER or WE KNOW THE DAD and then speculated on some recent costar or Arabian sultan or even, in one case, a former British prime minister.

The attention grew to be too much for the little girl. She started having nightmares. Angelica Wyatt even quit the business for two years, disappearing with the child to France, but that just led to more rumors and other issues, the most salient being that Angelica Wyatt missed making motion pictures. It was her calling.

So what to do?

Angelica Wyatt secretly moved back to the United States and found this private home in New Jersey. She enrolled her daughter in the public school under the pseudonym Emma Beaumont, though eventually the nickname Ema stuck. Ema’s grandparents took care of her when Angelica was on set.

No one knew the identity of her daughter’s father except, of course, Angelica.

Not even Ema.

“I’m really happy for you,” Angelica Wyatt said to him.

“Thanks. How are you?”

“Good. I’m off tomorrow to a shoot in Atlanta. I had hoped Ema might come with me, but, uh, she seems distracted right now.”

“You mean with Mickey?”

“I do, yes.”

“They’re good kids.”

“This is her first boyfriend,” Angelica said.

“He’ll be good to her.”

“I know, but my little girl . . . Is it too cliché to note that she’s grown up too fast?”

“Things become clichés because they are apropos.”

“Breaks my heart.” Angelica smiled through it. “They’re all in the basement. You know the way?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

Movie posters featuring Angelica Wyatt lined the stairwell down to the basement. Ema had put them up against her mother’s wishes. The basement, Ema had explained, was the one place she didn’t want to hide anything about her true self. It made sense, Myron guessed.

The three teens—Mickey, Ema, and Spoon—were sprawled out on three oversized and upscale beanbag chairs. All three were typing on laptops at a furious pace.

“Hey,” Myron said to them.

All three said “Hey” without looking up.

Ema was the first to close her laptop and rise. She wore short sleeves today, and Myron could see the extensive tattoo work. The tattoos had troubled Myron at first. As common as tattoos were nowadays, Ema was only a sophomore in high school. Mickey had explained to him that the tattoos were temporary, that a tattoo artist named Agent used her to experiment with different designs and that they all would fade away after a few weeks.