We stroll a bit more in near silence, with Jesse pointing and faking deep interest in the Statue of Liberty and photographers nudging to the front of the entourage to take pictures.

“So you’re doing an interview with Dial magazine tomorrow?” Jesse asks as I try to control my hair, which is now blowing wildly in the breeze. More flashbulbs go off around us. Apparently my hair blowing constitutes a potential Pulitzer Prize–winning moment for these photogs. “Your publicist’s assistant told my agent, who told my publicist, who told my mom,” he adds. I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I’m doing Dial,” I say. “No big deal.”

“No big deal?” he repeats with a bit of a smirk.

“Shut up,” I grumble. Jesse’s smart enough to stop talking. He knows just as well as Mom and Mariska do that I hate interviews. For one big reason.

When someone’s doing a feature on me, they always want to know about my dad. That’s because my father walked out on my mom and me. Reporters want me to cry and say all sorts of dramatic things, but the truth is, he left when I was three and we moved on. Mom shortened my name from Amanda Star Beckendale-Mecham to Star Beck. I got famous. End of story. What’s the big deal, right?

But really—not that I would ever tell a reporter this—it is a little bit of a big deal. To me, at least. It’s not like I can just totally forget about the father who simply disappeared one day.

The more frustrated I get with all the stupid “rules” of being famous, the more I find myself wondering what really happened to the “normal” dad I never had a chance to know.

Not that I’ll ever have a chance to find out.

“Just forget about him, Star,” Mom always snaps. I might as well.

“Ready?” Jesse asks. We’ve reached the railing between two ferry docks, where we’re to share a “spontaneous” kiss for the cameras. The Statue of Liberty is framed perfectly behind us.

I sigh. “Lay one on me, stud.” Jesse laughs and leans down to kiss me.

This is just as fake and staged as everything else in my life. Everything. I can’t think of a single thing about me that’s real anymore. It’s like I’ve been swept up in a tide of lies, and everyone is in on it but me. I’m having more and more trouble coming up for air.

But I kiss back anyhow. I don’t really have a choice, do I?

Chapter 3

You love me in my new shoes,
Love me in my new dress,
love me in my bling.
Bling (yeah!), bling (yeah!),
Baby, it’s the new thing.

—“BLING,” STAR BECK
ALBUM: POP STAR

Chapter 3