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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 realize I need a backup plan. I need to learn to be normal on my own, without my dad. Maybe he doesn’t want me after all. Somehow, since getting the letter, the thought hasn’t occurred to me. But now it feels very real. Scary real.

I realize I need to stand on my own two feet for the first time in my life. I’m just not entirely sure I know how.

Chapter 11

I don’t need no high heels;
I don’t need no
Little black dress.
I travel light on my own time;
I make no excuses
And create my own mess.

—“MY OWN MESS,” STAR BECK
ALBUM: SIMPLY STAR

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Chapter 11

The next morning, I wake up with a stomachache, but I’m not sure whether it’s from eating an entire Domino’s pizza last night or from the fact that my bed is about as comfortable as a sheet of metal. I slowly uncurl my body from the fetal position and pry the Raid canister loose from my right hand. I fell asleep last night clutching it, just in case, since I could have sworn I heard the pitter-patter of little bug feet as I lay in bed.

My feet land on the grimy carpet, and I shudder. I have to get out of this hotel room. Since my father won’t be back until tomorrow, I have a whole day to myself. What would a normal person do on a normal day? I rack my brain.

Shopping!

That’s it! I’ll go to the mall. I’ll buy a newspaper to see if there’s anything else about me and my supposed stint in rehab in there. I’ll get a cup of coffee at Starbucks. I’ll look at accessories in real-people stores and shop at Forever 21 instead of Prada. I’ll look at shoes at Macy’s instead of at Manolo Blahnik.

Sounds like the perfect day. The perfect normal day. I hum to myself as I get dressed, trying not to think about my dad and instead thinking about how very normal I can be. I take a deep breath.

“I’m ready,” I say to no one, “to start my brand-new life.”

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Except I never make it.

I get directions from the sleepy-looking front-desk guy at the motel, who tells me the closest mall is WestShore Plaza, right across the bridge in Tampa. So I start driving north on Fourth Street. I’m actually in a really good mood.

Until I start to realize that something feels funny about my car. It seems I’m feeling every bump, every crack in the pavement. I don’t remember it being this sensitive to the bumps in the road before. I tell myself it’s probably nothing and keep driving.

But I’ve gone less than a half mile more when I begin to see smoke rising from the front right side of the car.