“There!” my mother said with a flourish of her hand. She smiled approvingly, then knelt beside me and turned us to face the mirror. Except for my dark curls, I was the spitting image of my mother. Plastic pink barrettes flanked the sides of my head, pink on the apples of my cheeks, frosty blue eyelids, lips a glossy tangerine. My reflection was airy and pastel as if I’d been dipped headfirst into a container of rainbow sherbet. I burst into tears.

“I hate it!” I screamed and ran out of the room.

Later that night, perched in Anna’s window, I watched my mother peel out of the garage in her little red Mercedes, flying over the speed bumps and down Malibu Colony Road.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM

EVENING

DAY 18

ET is broadcasting a feature on my life. Mica, a petite nurse-in-training with long hair and a boyish body and Amanda, her broader superior, wiggle together, backs to my door, bouncing with the excitement of kids in a toy store.

“Man, this is weird,” Mica whispers. “I never once seen a couch and shit in a hospital room—never.”

“You don’t need to whisper. She can’t hear you.”

“I know but…” Mica glances over at me.

“Trust me, girl!” Amanda, pushing forty, has short, muscular legs and spiky yellow hair, the roots of which betray her Filipino ancestry. She pulls Mica away from the door. “All the big stars get this room,” Amanda says with authority then she flops down on my couch yanking Mica with her and corkscrews her rear end into the cushion. “Governors too probably. Hey, I bet our butts are sitting right where Brett Haney’s butt’s been sitting.”

“Look!” Mica points at the mounted TV.

They are showing a clip from Circle of Life. My first acting job.

“Aww, she’s so young.” Mica rests her head on Amanda’s shoulder. “That was my Nana’s favorite soap opera.”

“That was right before she had her boobs done.”

“How do you know?” asked Mica. “They seem the same to me.”

Not quite. After Circle, I’d gone from a B (minus) cup size to a C. I thought the implants wouldn’t be that obvious but then The Enquirer ran before-and-after photos of me in a bathing suit.

Pierre comes in from the bathroom, checks my IV line, and makes a note on my chart. “You guys need to leave,” he admonishes.

“Hey, um, Pierre,” Amanda says nonchalantly. “You seen Brett Haney yet?”

“No. I heard he only comes in the morning.” Pierre steps to the door and anxiously peers out the porthole.

“Yeah, straight from the gym and all sweaty!” Amanda high-fives Mica.

“Hey, check this,” Amanda points back to ET, now playing a clip from First Degree. She looks over at me and sighs. “That was her last film.”