“Well, are you planning to go to college?” Nick asks, looking a bit concerned. Little does he know I already make more in a month than many people make in a lifetime. I take a deep breath and smile.

“Yes, of course,” I say sweetly. It’s not a complete lie. I would like to take some college classes someday, although I’m not sure that would be possible with my schedule and the fact that everywhere I go as Star Beck, I attract a screaming crowd, which would probably just be annoying to other people on a college campus. “I’m just taking a semester off,” I hear myself add. It sounds reasonable, even if it’s not entirely true. But I can’t have Nick thinking I’m a slacker.

“Okay, Nicky, Dad and I are going to take off,” says Bev, startling me as she emerges from the kitchen. “Make sure you lock everything up and turn off the lights before you go to bed.”

“Sure, Ma, I know,” Nick says, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek. His father, Louie, an older version of Nick, emerges from the kitchen.

“Good luck,” he says as they walk out. With one final wave, Bev locks the door behind them. We’re alone in the restaurant.

Nick turns to me, looking almost sheepish.

“Yeah, so, I admit it, I live at my parents’ restaurant,” he says, as if it’s something to be embarrassed about. “Or in the little apartment above it, anyhow. I wanted to live near campus, but we couldn’t afford it. Not with the restaurant and all. We’re barely breaking even.”

I shrug. “I live with my mom too,” I say, neglecting to mention that when we’re not on the road, she lives at my house, not the other way around. “Or I did,” I amend. “Until very recently.”

“Who do you live with now?” he asks curiously.

“By myself,” I say. Nick opens his mouth and looks like he’s about to ask more, but then he closes it again and nods.

“Right,” he says, shaking his head. “Let’s get to it, then.”

As it turns out, the ability to execute complicated choreographed moves onstage and to contort my body into all sorts of weird positions in the process doesn’t directly translate into any sort of grace or poise when carrying a tray full of drinks.

“Amanda, you have to concentrate,” Nick says patiently after I’ve dropped yet another tray.

“I’m trying,” I say, casting him an apologetic look.

And I am trying. Really. And I suspect that eventually, I won’t be so bad at this. It’s just that there’s something about Nick’s mere presence that’s making me shaky.

But I’m not about to tell him that.