He studies my face for a moment. I will him to realize who I am. I wait for his face to light up in recognition. But it doesn’t happen.

“What do you mean?” he finally asks. He stops restringing the guitar and just stands there holding it.

“I’m here to meet you,” I say.

“Me?” he asks.

“Dad,” I say softly. “I’m your daughter. Amanda. Amanda Star Beckendale-Mecham.”

“Oh my God,” he says. Then he promptly drops the guitar, sending it clattering to the floors in a symphony of mashed strings.

“Star, honey, I thought I’d never get to see you again,” my father says, staring intently at me.

We’re in his office in the back of the store. He’s behind his desk, and I’m in an uncomfortable, hard-backed chair facing him. It feels wrong somehow, oddly formal. I want him to hug me and welcome me home. But maybe that’s crazily unrealistic. Maybe that just happens in made-for-TV movies. Instead, he’s just staring at me across a wide, cluttered desk.

“I didn’t know you were trying to get in touch with me,” I explain, hoping he can tell how much I regret not knowing. “I didn’t get any of your letters. Until last week.”

“You didn’t get them?” he asks. I shake my head as he mutters a bunch of unprintable things about my mom. “Did she say why?”

I shrug. I don’t want to get into Mom’s motives. Not now.

My father shakes his head slowly and stares at me some more.

“You don’t look like I thought you would,” he says. “I mean, you look different on TV and in all the magazines.”

“Well,” I say, “I cut and dyed my hair. And I’m wearing glasses. I didn’t want people to recognize me. I didn’t want to come here as Star Beck. I wanted to just be here as your daughter. Without the media and stuff.”

“My God,” he says again, shaking his head as he continues to stare. I think he’s taking it all in, and I feel nervous, waiting to see how he reacts. “I heard you were in rehab,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “I’ve never been in rehab,” I say.

He studies me intently. “I just can’t believe you’re here. Star Beck. Here. In my office.”

I look at him strangely. It almost sounds like he’s impressed to have a pop star in his presence, instead of impressed to have his daughter home at last.

“You used to call me Amanda,” I remind him. “When I was little. Do you remember?”

“Sure!” he says. “I used to take you to the playground. You used to love to slide down the twisty slide. Remember?”

“You were always there to catch me,” I say in a small voice.