“I used to,” I finally say, looking back and forth from the girl’s excited face to the Star Beck songbook she’s clutching. On the book’s cover, there’s a photo of a prerunaway me, and I can’t take my eyes off it. My long red curls are blowing behind me in the breeze and I’m gazing off into the distance like I’m looking at something. I’m wearing a flowing white dress that’s almost see-through—just enough to be suggestive without being revealing. I look content. But I remember that day. And I wasn’t content. I had just had a fight with Mom about going out that night. Sarah Swidler, one of my costars on Secrets of My Teenage Life, was in town with her boyfriend, and she had wanted me to join them for dinner after the shoot. No, Mom said. You have to practice. You have dance lessons tonight. I got angry and insisted that I knew my routine. Can’t I take just one evening off? I pleaded. Mom shook her head and looked disappointed in me. Honestly, Star, I would think you’d want to work hard, she said critically. I remember feeling stung. How could she accuse me of not working hard? Working hard was all I did.

“I hope she’s okay,” says the pigtailed girl, breaking into my thoughts. “My mom said she’s in some alcohol program or something because she drinks too much.”

I follow her gaze back to my photo. I look back at the girl, whose eyes are wide and round and concerned.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” I say, perhaps too confidently. “And I’m sure she doesn’t drink.” The girl looks at me a bit skeptically.

“How do you know?” she asks. I shrug.

“I don’t, really,” I say. “But I bet she’s happier than she was before.”

The girl looks at me like I’m crazy.

“If she’s rich and famous, why would she need to be happier?” she asks. “Her life must be perfect.”

“You’d be surprised.” I slowly make my way out of the store, running my hand along the tops of pianos and the necks of guitars as I go, imagining that my father has touched these very instruments. I’m disappointed that he isn’t here, but I feel weirdly closer to him than I have in thirteen years.

Okay, so being in my dad’s store made me feel all sorts of things—sad, lonely, confused . . . and more than a little desperate. As I walk out to the parking lot, I know I can’t wait. I just can’t. I wanted to meet him at his store because it seemed more casual, more normal that way. But Zach said he wouldn’t be in today. I’ve waited thirteen years. Suddenly, I don’t feel like I can wait another second.