"The Russian secret police?"

"Right." She smiled like this was a good thing, but it only made me more nervous. I couldn’t shake images of some burly guy interrogating people in dimly lit rooms.

When we pulled up, I recognized him right away. It would have been hard to miss the six-foot-three-inch guy in a gray suit who stood guarding a parking spot for us. The car stopped, and he opened the door for me. He didn’t smile, just scanned the street as I got out. Then he followed Maren and me inside, stood against one wall, and scrutinized the store.

It was a shop that Kari didn’t usually frequent, so the staff didn’t know her. As we walked toward the clothes, Maren whispered, "Stand up straight, shoulders back, and show a little superstar attitude."

Superstar attitude, I told myself. I’m not Alexia. I’m Kari Kingsley. I sparkle when I’m onstage. The salesclerk, a woman toting more jewelry on one arm than I'd ever worn on my entire body, smiled and told me what a fan she was then brought over clothes for my consideration.

I did okay being Kari. All right, I admit that I gasped the first time the salesclerk handed me a shirt and I saw the price tag dangling from the sleeve. For two hundred and fifty dollars, Tommy Hilfiger himself had better come to my house and iron it. But after that, I stopped gaping at the price tags and pretended it was normal to try on a pair of eight-hundred-dollar shoes.

I put on things that I never would have tried back home. They were too bright, too flashy, and yet when I looked in the mirror they worked. I saw Kari’s body and not my own. I stared at myself, turning side to side, while the clerks hovered by the dressing room telling me how chic and beautiful I looked. I did feel beautiful—and not the sort of beautiful your mother tells you that you are when she's cheering you up. I felt powerfully beautiful, like I could walk out the door, swish my hair around, and the world would give me whatever I wanted.

This was Kari's normal life—this attention, this pampering. And I could have had it all along if I'd grown up as Alex Kingsley's daughter.

It was a thought I hadn’t expected to have, not with such resentful force anyway, but it wouldn't leave, and seemed to get stronger every time I posed in front of the mirror.

I could have lived here in California, and no one would have ever sneered at me because I was poor. I would have grown up with Kari, had famous friends, been given all sorts of things—who knows, maybe I would have been a rock star too.

The feeling grew and swelled until I didn’t want to play this charade just to get to know Kari, meet my father, and then go back to West Virginia. I wanted to know what it would feel like to live a Beverly Hills life. Maybe it wasn’t too late to have it. Maybe this person in the mirror with a thousand-dollar outfit hugging my figure was the real me.

As soon as this idea came to me, I remembered Abuela’s instructions not to change who I was. I had said I wouldn't, but that might be impossible. I'd been changed the moment I'd left West Virginia. Now I had to figure out who exactly I was changing into.

While Maren took my clothes up to the register, a teenage girl came into the store with her friend. She watched me for a minute, then walked up. "Excuse me, you’re Kari Kingsley?”

She sounded like she didn’t believe it. Of course she didn't—I looked wrong. I walked wrong. I couldn't possibly pull this off. But the next moment she laughed nervously like she knew she'd asked a stupid question. "I loved your last album. 'Two Hearts Apart' is my favorite song.” She thrust a pen and a piece of notebook paper at me. "Can I have your autograph?”

"Sure,” I said, with more gratitude than Kari would have shown. The girl had given me a great compliment, though: I could pass for Kari Kingsley.

I signed the paper and then signed the credit card slip with a flourish. Both times my K's were perfect.

Shortly thereafter, Maren ruined my good mood. As we got into the car, she handed me the clothes bags and said, "There. These should hold you over until we can get you down to the next size.”

"What?” I asked.

Her gaze traveled over me, and she shrugged. "The camera adds ten pounds.”

"You think I'm too fat?” All right, I admit I have a weakness for Almond Joys, but I was not overweight. Any high-calorie food I ate was counteracted by the fact that I had to walk everywhere I went, including the mile to and from school.

Maren pulled out into traffic without glancing at me again. "Don't complain. It won't be hard. I’ve already hired a personal trainer for you.”

* * *

As it turns out, the sentences "It won't be hard” and "I've hired a personal trainer for you" are contradictory. There is nothing easy about a personal trainer. Right from my first session with Lars, every muscle in my body hurt. Muscles I didn’t even know I had hurt. Blinking took effort. And I was not cheered up by the grapefruit halves Maren gave me for snacks or her words of encouragement: "No pain, no gain. Get used to it.”

She also made me practice walking in front of mirrors for hours.

"Shoulders back. More confidence. Don’t walk—glide!” she’d yell at me while I attempted to duplicate Kari’s smooth strut in heels that were so high they should have been outlawed. It never looked right.

But then, I bet even Kari herself couldn't glide while every muscle in her body ached.

Maren coached me on sounding like Kari and public speaking. The most annoying part of this involved her ringing a bell every time I said the word "um.” I’m not sure whether this actually decreased the times I said "um," but it certainly increased my desire to stomp on the bell.

I had to memorize hundreds of details about Kari. She was a vegetarian, so I couldn't eat meat. She was a role model to young girls, so I couldn’t swear or drink alcohol. She and her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Michael Jung, a star on the soap Where Angels Dare, were taking a break from each other right now. So although I could flirt with guys, I couldn't overdo it.

Maren scheduled me for an hour-long dance lesson every day and then increased the time to two hours, which I resented. Really, I am a good dancer, despite what Jacqueline (pronounced Zhak-lean), my private dance instructor, says. Granted, when Maren hired her and told her she’d be teaching routines to Kari Kingsley, maybe Jacqueline expected me to have more experience, but she kept shaking her head as though horribly disappointed. "Where is jour energy? Snap zose moves! Do jou think people want to see zat on MTV?"

It was like taking dance lessons from a drill sergeant.

Basically, Maren controlled my schedule from the time I woke up in the morning at six until I went to my room at ten P.M., exhausted. I had to practically sneak my phone calls to Lori in between training sessions. I told Lori I’d come to California because I'd located my dad and sister, but didn't give her any more details. She gave me updates about everyone in school, including Trevor and Theresa. They were still dating but I'd stopped caring.

If I was on the phone for more than a few minutes, Maren would stand in front of me tapping her wristwatch until I got off. And despite what she said before about letting me finish my schoolwork online, she hardly gave me any time to do it. More than once I fell asleep facedown in my world history book.

"The key to any celebrity’s success,” Maren told me if I was less than enthusiastic about what she had planned for me, "is a firm schedule and hard work.” Then she’d add some backhanded insult like, "I’m sorry those things weren’t emphasized in your life before, but really, it's time you thought of bettering yourself.”