Yeah, no kidding. When I was hospitalized last summer for heatstroke after an outdoor show in ninety-five-degree heat, all the celebrity magazines said it was alcohol poisoning and that I had to have my stomach pumped. When I sprained my ankle in August and had to miss a scheduled appearance on The Tonight Show, a rumor started that I had fallen in a nightclub because I’d had too much to drink. I hadn’t even been at the nightclub, never mind the fact that I don’t drink. Are you kidding? Do you really think the mom who doesn’t let me have ranch dressing with my celery sticks is going to let me walk around chugging vodka?

“It’s a shame,” the anchor is saying on TV, shaking her head. “Star Beck seems so sweet.”

“Well, it’s the sweet ones you have to worry about,” the entertainment reporter chuckles. “Besides, if she’s not in rehab, why hasn’t her publicist had her come forward to address these allegations today?”

At least the media doesn’t realize I’ve run away. But now the whole world thinks I’m such an alcoholic that I’m doing a stint in rehab at age sixteen.

Typical.

“Good point indeed. Thanks, Adriana,” says the anchor. “We’ll be back after the break.” As they fade to commercial, they play the video for my song “Waiting.” I watch my own face on the screen until it switches to a commercial for some headache medicine. It’s only then that I start breathing again.

I look around nervously, sure that at least one of the patrons around me will be sneaking suspicious looks at me. Hey, aren’t you the alcoholic who’s supposed to be in rehab? But they’re chatting with each other, flipping through their papers, eating their meals, just like they were before the CNN report came on. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone that the pop star who’s supposed to be in rehab is actually sitting down the counter from them at a diner in Charlotte. Then again, why would it?

Just then, the waitress appears with a steaming basket filled with fries and a burger that would have looked perfect to me ten minutes earlier. But now, my stomach is so tied in knots that I can’t even handle looking at the food, which should smell delicious. Instead, it just makes my stomach turn.

“Thanks,” I say. I flash her the brightest smile I can handle. “Would you mind telling me where the bathroom is?”

I splash some cool water on my face, then lock myself in one of the stalls. I lean my head against the cool metal door, close my eyes and rack my brain.