So when our publicists and managers cooked up a little fake romance to help promote our most recent CDs, which launched within two weeks of each other, I went along with it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I actually do like Jesse. Aside from Ben, he’s one of my only friends. He’s one of the people who really, truly understand the weirdness of my life. But kissing him is all gnashed teeth and slobbery wetness. Holding his clammy palm always makes me squirm. And even looking into those theoretically dreamy eyes makes me want to hurl, because honestly, I’ve known him for so long that he feels as much like my brother as Ben does. And who would want to gaze into their brother’s eyes? Ick.

But when you’re the most famous teen pop star in America, it really doesn’t matter what you want. If your mom and your publicist and your manager and everyone else in your professional life agree that you’re dating Jesse Bishop, well then, you’re dating Jesse Bishop.

And when the whole world thinks you’re dating Jesse Bishop, it makes it a lot easier to escape the fact that in reality, you’re sixteen and haven’t even had a real first kiss. That in reality, for all your fame and popularity, you’re a Loser with a capital L.

That’s how my loserific self ended up in Battery Park on the southern tip of Manhattan the day after my first Madison Square Garden show. My mom, Mariska and Jesse’s publicist agreed that we’d meet there and stroll through the park so the media pool following us could get lots of great patriotic shots of us checking out the Korean War memorial with the Statue of Liberty across the water in the background. The whole story—with our wildly patriotic selves—is sure to get picked up by all the newspapers, magazines and TV shows because we hardly ever appear in public together. It will look like we’re just out doing normal, everyday stuff like normal, everyday people. Our publicists love to have us do “normal” stuff because it makes us seem more accessible to the public and easier to identify with.

Actual normal stuff—like letting the press see my mom yelling at me? Or trying to sneak out to go out with Ben and his friends (I say “trying” because I always get caught by a bodyguard)? Or arguing about what time I have to go to bed? Not allowed.