But in this world, the world where I’m suddenly the klutzy, clueless Amanda Pepper, no one falls in love with me just because I’m standing there.

Suddenly, I’m plain. Boring. Average. And although I know it’s what I wanted, I’m not so sure I like it.

I’m back at D’Angelo’s at eleven p.m. sharp, feeling strangely more nervous than I do before I go onstage. I go in just before they lock the doors, and I wait for Nick in the entryway, not sure that I’m even allowed back in the kitchen at the moment. I imagine I must not be the most popular person in the restaurant right now, seeing as how I created a scene—as well as a mess that Lauren and Gillian had to clean up.

I admit to spending more time than I should have in front of the mirror before coming here, playing with my hair and using what little makeup I have to make myself look more presentable. Although I’m accustomed to Kim doing my makeup, I managed to do a decent job of figuring out how to partially conceal my zits with foundation and how to layer on the powder and blush appropriately. I used a bit of pale pink lipstick on my eyelids too, and I’m actually pleased with how they shimmer a bit when I blink behind my glasses. With mascara as a finishing touch—and with my messy hair combed back into a cute ponytail—I actually feel like I look decent. Not Star Beck decent, but average-person decent.

Nick comes out from the back of the restaurant. He has changed shirts and now looks even cuter in a yellow and green USF Bulls tee that has a picture of the university’s mascot.

“Is that where you go to school?” I ask, pointing at his shirt.

“Huh?” he asks, then he looks down at his chest. “Oh, yeah,” he says when he realizes what I’m pointing at. “The St. Pete campus. I’m a freshman there. Double majoring in economics and Spanish.”

“Oh,” I say, not knowing where to go from there. I don’t know anything about economics. Or Spanish. I suddenly feel really dumb. My singing career seems shallow next to what he’s doing. Not that I can tell him about it.

Nick is quiet for a minute and then rakes his hand through his black, wavy hair.

“Where do you go?” he asks. “USF too? Or are you at SPC?”

I have no idea what the letters mean, but either way the answer is no.

“Nowhere right now,” I say.

“Are you still in high school?” Nick asks.

“No,” I answer honestly, realizing that if I’m claiming to be eighteen, I can’t exactly be in the tenth grade. “I’ve graduated.” And I have. If you count my GED.