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Chapters (28)
  1. Cover Page
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Acknowledgments
  5. Chapter 1
  6. Chapter 2
  7. Chapter 3
  8. Chapter 4
  9. Chapter 5
  10. Chapter 6
  11. Chapter 7
  12. Chapter 8
  13. Chapter 9
  14. Chapter 10
  15. Chapter 11
  16. Chapter 12
  17. Chapter 13
  18. Chapter 14
  19. Chapter 15
  20. Chapter 16
  21. Chapter 17
  22. Chapter 18
  23. Chapter 19
  24. Chapter 20
  25. Chapter 21
  26. Epilogue
  27. About the Author
  28. Copyright Page

I restart the car, wave to Maple and slowly pull out of the parking lot in my new pink Beetle, feeling freer than I’ve ever felt in my life.

Chapter 8

Home is where the heart is,
Or so they say,
But my heart’s with you,
baby (hey, hey).
I’m coming home,
I’m coming home.
But will you leave me
(oh, oh, oh),
Will you leave me the key?

—“WHERE THE HEART,” STAR BECK
ALBUM: STAR LIGHT

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Chapter 8

The drive to Florida is long and boring, and it doesn’t help that night has now fallen and I’m speeding south through the darkness, but I’m buoyed by the thoughts of freedom—and a new life.

The difficulty of driving a manual car keeps me awake. I forgot how tough it is to shift gears using the clutch. I even stall at an intersection before I get out of North Carolina. Thankfully, there’s no one behind me at the time.

With each milestone I hit—the South Carolina border, Savannah, Jacksonville—my heart pounds just a bit faster. I find an old map in the glove compartment and I take I-10 West from Jacksonville to I-75 South. This will branch into I-275 and take me into St. Petersburg, where my dad lives.

I stop for gas and a handful of road maps at five a.m. in Gainesville; then I stop at McDonald’s because I’m starving and no one can tell me I can’t. Plus, I need desperately to use the bathroom. I take a bite of my Sausage McMuffin in the parking lot, and my eyes widen. It’s so good. I’ve never had a McMuffin in my life. Sure, I know they’re probably terrible for me, that I’d probably burst right out of my stupid gold hot pants after just one, but my macrobiotic meals and small slices of fruit don’t hold a candle to the McMuff.

As I hit Wildwood, just an hour north of Tampa, I’m bouncing in my seat like the toddler I was the last time I saw my father. I start humming, because that’s what I always do when I’m nervous. It’s a musician thing, I think.

I know I’m driving south into a new beginning, a new chance, as a new person, with a father I haven’t known since I was a young kid. I know that for a little while, at least, I’ve left my pop star world behind. I know that for at least a bit, I can just be me.

But I wonder if I even know who that is anymore. Maybe I’ve been too busy being Star Beck the pop star to remember how to just be Amanda Beckendale, sixteen-year-old girl.

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