We rented a twenty-room Traditional in the flats of Beverly Hills while my father and Anna searched for the perfect property on which to build their “dream house.” Our new home was the opposite of the cement and steel beach house. Built in the 1930s, it still had the original maple floors and warm wood paneling in the living rooms. Plaster molding decorated the high ceilings and there was an actual, working brick fireplace in the oversized kitchen. The upstairs had dormer windows and my bedroom had a window seat, where I would curl up with headphones, blasting Blondie on my Walkman while looking out over the wood-shingled roof.

Nicole and I remained true to our vows. Every weekend she came to my house or I went to hers, and during the week, we spoke every night by phone. I had made a few friends at my new school, but with my casual approach to fashion (shorts, T-shirt, and puka shell accessories), I never felt like I fit in with the Beverly Hills girls in their cashmere cardigans and diamond tennis bracelets. I envied their identical, tiny, upturned noses.

I lived for weekends with Nicole. When she arrived, it was as if she was bringing my true self back to me. How had I taken for granted the simple luxury of walking barefoot along the shore or going body surfing with friends after school? I longed to hear the ocean’s tumble, the calm waves lulling me to sleep. In Beverly Hills, I lay awake, listening to the sound of police helicopters, and I often woke to the rumble of tour buses rolling through our neighborhood. Our house had once belonged to James Cagney and sat between Judy Garland and Clark Gable’s former homes, so we were on the “Map to the Hollywood Stars” itinerary.

When the busses went by, I’d run to the street and strike a pose or put on dark glasses and pretend to be a movie star. But I soon wearied of the tourists and their flashing cameras. After all, I was just a stand-in for a bunch of dead celebrities.

When my father worked late, and Anna didn’t have a committee meeting, she and I had dinner together in the kitchen, but our conversations felt forced, effortful.

“How was school today?”

“Fine.”

“Sidney and I found such beautiful property for the new house.” Her accent was practically non-existent when it was just me or Daddy.

“Uh-huh.”

“You want to see it tomorrow?”

“No thanks. Nicole’s coming over.”

After a few more exchanges, we’d turn on Wheel of Fortune, a show we were both good at, followed by Jeopardy, a show at which we both stank.