"We’ll help you so you'll be ready," Ms. Pomeroy added. "And you’ll get a new wardrobe, a hairstylist, a professional makeup artist, and a driver—what more could you want?"

For a moment I imagined myself on stage, the spotlight washing over me, thousands of people screaming and clapping.

But even as the applause echoed in my mind, I knew I wouldn't do it. If I didn't mess up and get caught—and that seemed like a risky if—wasn't it still wrong to get paid to trick people? I couldn’t imagine proposing the idea to Mom. I let the calculations of money drain from my mind in a drizzle of dollar signs. “I’m sorry. My mother is not going to let me do this.”

Kari stared at me as though I'd told her the world was flat after all, but Ms. Pomeroy didn't lose her smile. "Well, you’re eighteen, aren’t you? You're old enough to make your own decisions.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, because I was too polite to say "I know, and I just made my decision."

When my mother heard about this, she would gloat about the fact that I had sided with her in the end.

"What's there to think about?” Ms. Pomeroy said. "If going against your mother's wishes would create a financial hardship on you, I could add another five hundred dollars per presentation." Her smile had an edge to it now. "I don't think you'll ever find a better job than this. You’ll make more than most professionals. And you're going to have to cut the apron strings from your mother sooner or later.”

“It's not about the money,” I said.

Ms. Pomeroy arched an eyebrow, waiting to hear what it was about.

"There’s a difference between cutting apron strings and cutting ties,” I said. "I’d like to still be welcome at my house for Thanksgiving dinner.”

Ms. Pomeroy didn’t blink. "Five thousand in state. Six thousand out, and you can have Thanksgiving dinner at my house. I'll throw in Christmas too, if you want.”

She was serious. Which is why I stared at her open- mouthed.

Kari turned to Ms. Pomeroy. "Don’t force her into it. She doesn't want to ruin things with her mother. I can understand that.”

Ms. Pomeroy let out a sigh and fluttered one hand in the air as though brushing away the subject. "Fine. We came all this way, but if you’ve decided you’d rather do the events yourself, I won’t stop you.” Her voice changed just enough to alter her meaning. "After all, you’re fine out in the public eye."

Kari glared at her, then turned her attention back to me. "That’s the other reason I hoped you'd do this for me." She ran her fingers across the hem of her shirt, twisting it. “I've never really liked crowds—”

"You don’t like crowds?” I repeated. It seemed contradictory—rock stars were supposed to want crowds of people to come to their concerts.

"I love singing, performing, doing the stuff that's scripted—but crowds are a bunch of people watching you, and taking pictures of you, and just waiting for you to mess up so they can laugh at you. I’ve said a couple things that were blown way out of proportion, and everyone made fun of me and now I..." She wiped her hands against her jeans. "I freeze up when reporters point cameras at me. I don't want to be in front of people for a while. But you're so smart, you wouldn't have to worry about saying the wrong thing."

And then I felt bad because I'd made fun of her when I'd seen those clips too. Not once had I ever wondered how it had affected her or how hard it must be to mess up in front of the entire world.

I said, "Everyone says the wrong thing sometimes. It doesn't mean you're not smart.”

A knock sounded on the door. Ms. Pomeroy stood up, but Kari was closer. "There's the food." As she walked toward the door, she added, “Thank goodness they're fast.”

That had been fast. For a moment I worried that when Kari opened the door it would actually be my mother, her hands on her hips, chewing me out in Spanish, like she did whenever she was angry.

But it wasn’t. When the door swung open, Don, one of the older waiters, stood behind a dining cart. "Your Caesar salad, fettuccine Alfredo, and bacon cheeseburger, well done.”

"Thanks.” Kari pulled the cart into the room and then went to shut the door.

Don held out a clipboard and a pen to her. "If I could get you to sign this—”

Kari huffed out an exasperated sigh and put one hand on her hip. "Don’t you people know when to stop? Really, there are times to leave celebrities alone, and this is one of them.”

She shut the door with a thud.

"Kari," Ms. Pomeroy said, getting to her feet again, "he was asking you to sign for the food."

A blush spread across Kari's face. "Oh."

The knock came at the door again.

This time Ms. Pomeroy opened it. Don still stood there, clipboard held out in his hand. She took it from him and scrawled a signature on the paper while Kari took her fettuccine Alfredo off the cart. Kari cast Don another glance. "You should have told me you needed my signature for the food."

"Sorry, miss." He looked over at me while Ms. Pomeroy handed him the clipboard back. His eyebrows rose when he saw me, but he didn't say anything else.

Ms. Pomeroy shut the door and brought my plate to me. I wished I hadn't ordered anything. I didn’t want to stay here with them after I’d already told them no, and my resolve was slipping. I could see why Kari didn’t want to be in front of reporters who could broadcast every mistake she made to millions of viewers.

As Kari handed me my cheeseburger, I said, "Isn’t there some other way you could make money? You know, maybe some product endorsements?"

Ms. Pomeroy took the lid off her salad and sifted through it with her fork. "Kari actually lost a product endorsement after her MTV awards speech. What she needs is to get her next CD out, and that won't happen unless she has time to work on it.”

Kari cut into her pasta and her voice took on a bitter tone. "My father could help me, but he won't.”

Something else we had in common, apparently. That same sentence had run through my mind during my mother's talk about college expenses. "Why not?” I asked.

"We're not really on speaking terms. Mostly because he doesn’t speak, he lectures.” She shrugged as though it didn't matter, but the tenseness didn't leave her face. "He doesn’t like my spending habits, but I don’t see why he cares so much. He doesn’t need the money. He actually turns down product endorsements.”

I picked a french fry off my plate and nibbled at it. "Your father gets asked to do endorsements? Because he’s your father?”

Ms. Pomeroy leaned toward me like a teacher explaining directions on a test. "Kari’s father is Alex Kingsley.”

Even though she’d said it in a way that indicated I should know him, I didn't.

She added, "The lead singer of The Journey Men."

"Oh, The Journey Men," I said. "We have all their CDs. My mother is a big fan.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, something clicked into place in my mind. No, actually that isn’t the right word. It wasn’t a click, it was a push—the push of a row of dominoes, each falling into another, tumbling, dropping, scattering until everything was a mess.

Kari took a forkful of fettuccine, then glanced over at me and didn't eat it. "Are you all right? You’ve gone completely white.”

"I'm okay,” I lied. I could be wrong. I mean, what were the chances? I tried to picture the CD covers of The Journey Men and the posters I’d seen in my mother's closet. The lead singer—he had sandy blond hair, but what color were his eyes ... ?

"Which one is your father?" I asked, and my voice came out almost normal. "Is he the tall one with sandy blond hair and blue eyes?”