Plus One: Idol Talk

WHITE OUT? Is your television racist? Maybe. Shows like ‘Family Style’ brag about a multicultural cast, but you’ll only see non-whites in the background. And now, a new study from UCLA backs up what we already know. It claims that even though Asians make up 5% of the U.S. population, they play just 2.7% of the regular characters we see on the tube. Shape up, Hollywood!

—The New York Post Go ahead. Try to name Madison Dahl’s greatest achievement. You can guess, but I guarantee you’ll get it wrong. It’s not some external thing you can see or touch, like an Emmy or a mansion in the Hollywood Hills. It’s the creation of Madison Dahl, Superstar.

Okay. It’s not like Madison is entirely fake (even if her name totally is). But seriously, who could be as perfect as the girl she is in her interviews? Purring into a reporter’s microphone, Madison is cotton-candy sweet, a regular teen who loves her fans and dreams of doing charity work in Ghana or wherever the hell.

It’s not like none of the dumb stuff Madison’s done hasn’t gotten splattered all over the tabloids. But by some little miracle, Madison has managed to spin her screw ups into part of her charm. Everyone only liked her better after she talked to People about her “heartbreaking battle” with anorexia. And then, there was that other unfortunate incident, the one that made even me wonder if she’d gone completely off the deep end into Kanye West-Mel Gibson-Tom Cruise territory, but let’s not get into that right now.

Anyway, with a little public relations muscle and a whole lot of charisma, Madison somehow created this adorable, forgivably imperfect girl-next-door image. I mean, she didn’t know who she really was yet, but she at least had a public persona nailed down. Pretty crafty when you’re just seventeen-years-old, right?

I’ll confess: it made me a little jealous. Because around the same time Madison the Celebrity was coming into focus, I was going all blurry around the edges.

So many things in my life seemed great. I had a college hottie for a boyfriend, a kick-ass internship, and I was the best friend to one of the biggest stars on the A-list. But I was about to find out that of that really mattered.

Not.

At.

All.

***

My favorite month used to be October, and not just because my birthday is smack in the middle of it. October was (for my family at least) sort of the beginning of the holiday season. Not that we didn’t get all fired up about Thanksgiving like everybody else, but in October, we not only had Halloween (and, hello, my birthday—I can’t say that too many times), but we also usually had Chuseok. It’s the Korean harvest festival. Some people call it Korean Thanksgiving, which isn’t totally off base.

Of course, Chuseok doesn’t always fall in October. Sometimes, it’s in September because it all depends on the lunar calendar that they follow in Korea. But whenever it happened, it was always fun. Sometimes, distant cousins of ours would come down from San Francisco, or my parents would invite people over from work, and my Mom would make this humongous meal. Like, the dining room table would actually bend a little in the middle, there was so much food.

After dinner, we’d play Korean card games, and then, once the adults had drowned themselves in soju (Korean vodka) and gotten all nostalgic for the old country, my dad would pull out this cheesy karaoke machine, and we’d take a stab at these crappy pop songs, like the super cheesy stuff by Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston. I think there’s a flaw in the Park genetic make-up that has rendered every single one of us tone-deaf. I swear, one year, I heard cats screaming in the back yard while Victoria was singing “I Will Always Love You.”

Part of what made Chuseok worthwhile was that we didn’t have to celebrate the bummer part of it. Charye is the part of Chuseok that’s all about honoring your ancestors by presenting food to them at their gravesites. You get to eat it after, so it’s not a total waste. But still, picnicking at the cemetery? Ew. Fortunately, all of our dead relatives were in Korea, so there were no graves for us to visit. Now, of course, there is a grave. Just one.

Anyway, Chuseok probably sounds like a really lame holiday to you, but I always looked forward to it. My mom was guaranteed to be in a good mood, the house smelled like pine needles from steaming the song pyon (rice cakes, but nothing like those gross, cracker-like things at the grocery store), and for a few days before and after the holiday, my parents were completely laid back. No griping about my not doing my homework or nagging me to practice the cello. For me, Chuseok was pretty great all around. Emphasis on was great. Because one year, when I wasn’t even paying attention, it kind of ruined my life.

After my mom died, we stopped celebrating Chuseok for a while. We also pretty much abandoned Thanksgiving, and Christmas was so pathetic, we’d have been better off if we’d forgotten it altogether. I think the year my mom died, my dad bought Victoria and me toothbrushes for Christmas. Yeah, toothbrushes. I just smiled, said thank you, and stuck mine in a drawer. I don’t even remember what I got my dad, but it couldn’t have been much better. That was the extent of Christmas, and I didn’t even mind. It wasn’t like I wanted to celebrate, anyway.

So I didn’t even notice Chuseok slip by when I was in the thick of helping my boss with the Charity Action fundraiser. I vaguely remember my dad moping around the house one weekend and that Victoria called me up at one point to bitch. Apparently, our old man was griping about how much better life was back in Korea. I knew that was a bad sign, but I couldn’t worry about it. I was just too busy.

Ozzie, my boss at BRRB Productions, had pulled together this amazing benefit, and the fact that it had started as kind of a favor to me only made it that much more impressive. Seriously sick kids had come to the studio lot to play at this faux carnival he’d slapped up on one of the soundstages, and it had been surprisingly fun.

But, along with putting a smile on the faces of a bunch of kids who really needed it, the point of it all had been to convince Cassie, the president of Charity Action and kinda-sorta a friend of mine, to stop using the money we were raising to fund keggers at her house. Even though it had worked (which I considered sort of a miracle, knowing Cassie), it wasn’t the real big event of the evening. At least, not for me.

As the party was winding up, I’d found myself alone with Jeremy. Jeremy, the college hottie who interned at BRRB with me. Jeremy, the green-eyed monster who’d lied when he told me he couldn’t break up with his girlfriend because her dad was in the hospital. Jeremy, the heartbreaker I couldn’t, shouldn’t trust. The one guy I couldn’t resist.

Somehow, we’d ended up kissing, this incredible, soul-shaking kiss I can’t even begin to describe. Even now, just thinking about it gives me chills. When I opened my eyes at the end of it, Jeremy smiled at me and stepped back, gently taking my hand in his. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said. His voice was scratchy, as if that one kiss had knocked the air out of his lungs.

We hardly said a word to each other as we walked, hand in hand, across the lot. We didn’t need to. At my car, he kissed me on the forehead, lingering for a moment. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he whispered. “And the next day, and the day after that. Every day. Always.”

“I’m glad,” I sighed. I didn’t want to get in the car. But I only had half an hour until curfew, and I was feeling a little like Cinderella on the brink of pumpkin time.

Driving home, I couldn’t stop thinking. Not just about Jeremy, but also about Madison. She’d dumped Todd, the skater boy who’d completely rocked her world, before the Charity Action party ended (and on the phone, no less). It wasn’t a bad thing, considering that Todd had pretty much admitted the only committed relationship he could handle was with his skateboard.

But the problem was that part of the reason Madison had found the guts to toss Todd to the curb was because she didn’t want him to treat her the way Jeremy had treated me. She didn’t know that Jeremy wasn’t the lying jerk we thought he was. Honestly, that one perfect kiss I had almost erased from my memory all the lies he told me about his ex-girlfriend. Okay, not completely, but I knew Jeremy was going to work like hell to win back my trust.

Still, I knew that when I told Madison I had no intention of dumping Jeremy, it wasn’t going to be pretty. She’s either groan with disappointment and try to shake some sense into me or lecture me for hours until I promised to break up with Jeremy simply to make the nagging stop. The mere thought of that conversation made it hard for me to sleep. So, when my dad started banging on my bedroom door at 8 a.m., let’s just say I wasn’t happy about it.

“Get up!” he yelled through the door. “Now! Hurry, hurry!”

I had no idea what was going on. And if my dad hadn’t made it sound like a matter of life or death, I would have just jammed a pillow over my head and gone back to sleep. Instead, I threw on a T-shirt and shorts and stumbled into the hallway.

My dad was standing there in a suit, staring at me like I was stupid. “You dress like that for church? Go change, right now!”

What was he talking about? “I don’t get it,” I mumbled.

Victoria had just staggered into the hallway, too, wrapping a terrycloth robe around her pajamas. “Church? We haven’t been to church since I was, like, ten.”

My dad turned and stared at her. “We start today. Go, church clothes!”

I stood in front of my closet and stared. I could barely focus, much less put an appropriate church outfit together. I finally fished out a long black skirt and a plain white shirt I hadn’t worn in forever, along with some black pumps that made my feet hurt. I hoped the Monochrome Secretary from Hell look was okay with Presbyterians.

Victoria and I piled into the backseat of the Kia, still half asleep. My sister wasn’t any better dressed than I was, wearing a baggy blue and white flowered outfit that looked vaguely familiar. “Wait, is that Mom’s?” I screeched, tugging on her sleeve.

Victoria yanked her arm away from me. “Nothing else fit, okay? Jesus!”

My dad’s head spun around like an owl’s. “Do not use that language, not today!”

“What’s his problem?” Victoria muttered under her breath. I shrugged. Personally, I was thinking our dad had gone completely psycho.

When we got to Korean First Presbyterian Church, my dad seemed to know a lot of people, bowing and smiling as we wandered through the crowd gathered outside. One old lady hustled towards my dad. She looked like any of the other tiny grandma types in the room, but something about her grin seemed a little scary to me.

“Mr. Park, so glad you came!” she chirped, her creaky voice surprisingly shrill. “And these are your two girls?”

She smiled at Victoria and me, as if she was waiting for something. Just behind her shoulder, I could see my dad smiling and nodding his head at us. Oh yeah, we were supposed to bow a little to the old lady. I know, you probably shake hands with adults, but in Korea, that’s considered really bad taste. And apparently, we weren’t playing by L.A. rules anymore.

Victoria and I both nodded and mumbled hello. “Annyonghashimnikka.” I glared at my dad. It was bad enough we had to go to church. I really wasn’t in the mood for chatting up geezer grannies I wasn’t even related to.

“Your father say Chuseok this year was like lightbulb in his head,” the old lady said, tapping her skull. “Time to remember Korean ways.”

Oh, great. I looked at my dad, who beamed at the old lady. Did this mean church every Sunday? My weekends were officially ruined.

“Mrs. Chong is very helpful to your father,” Dad said through his big, forced grin. “She find an ajumma for us. From Korea. You thank Mrs. Chong now.”

I must have said ‘thank you’ to scary little Mrs. Chong, but I don’t remember it. An ajumma? That’s what you call an older lady who’s not related to you in Korean. And in this case, I knew what it really meant: a maid shipped over from the old country. An ajumma isn’t usually just someone who comes over to your house, scrubs the floor, and splits. If this ajumma was coming all the way from Korea, I bet she was going to be living with us.

After saying goodbye to Mrs. Chong, Dad led us to a pew. “Why are we getting a maid?” I whispered in his ear.

“You are too much work,” Dad whispered back. “She will help us. It is a good thing.” I knew Dad wasn’t trying to be mean, but still, that hurt. I didn’t think I was too much work. I mean, I was barely home at all. And with some weird lady living in our house, I suspected I was going to be home a lot less.

At least thinking about the ajumma gave me a distraction during the service, which was painfully long and almost entirely in Korean. I kept watching my dad, who seemed entirely absorbed in the God-a-thon. Who was this freak? My dad had never seemed to care about church before. I saw Victoria staring at him with the same confused look I must have had on my face. Whatever this was all about, I didn’t like it, and neither did she. I never thought I’d say it, but for once, I really, really wanted to talk to my sister.

Lucky for me, Victoria must have picked up my psychic e-mail. The minute we got home, she came up with some imaginary research project she had to help me with at the library and practically pushed me into my Tesla. “Hurry up and drive before he baptizes us,” she hissed as I turned the key in the ignition.

Instead of the library, we ended up at the Urth Café in West Hollywood, this really cute restaurant on Melrose where sometimes, you can spot a Beckham or Reese Witherspoon if you’re lucky. But Victoria and I weren’t looking for star sightings. We were too busy plowing through enormous pieces of blueberry pie in a misguided attempt to make ourselves feel better. “Who is that guy, and when will the aliens who stole our dad bring him back?” I moaned, dribbling crumbs all over my lap.

“This is all about that fit he had during Chuseok,” Victoria said, not even trying to cover her mouth as she spoke. “All that crap about how things were better in Korea. I didn’t even tell you what he said about us.”

“Oh my God, what?” Now I was officially freaked out.

“Oh yeah, bad stuff. How we weren’t being raised Christian and how if Mom was still alive, she’d be horrified at how we dress and behave and stuff.”

“You can’t be serious! I thought Dad was loosening up.” I’d been wearing sleeveless shirts and even leaving the house in make-up, and he’d never complained. Hell, he’d gone with us to Las Vegas, the city of sin with a capital S. He must have sensed we had gotten into at least a little trouble there, but he’d never said a peep.

Victoria waved a blueberry-stained fork at me. “You know what? I think after Chuseok, he must have started going to church. I swear I heard him humming ‘Amazing Grace’ the other day. Haven’t you noticed how happy he’s been around the house lately?”

It was true. Dad had been whistling and humming to himself like some bozo out of a Disney movie, but, like I said, I hadn’t had a lot of time to think about it. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was in denial. But now, I totally get it. He still hasn’t gotten over Mom’s death, he’s flipping out, and now, he’s found God. I totally read about a case like this in my psych class.”

“What did they do to cure that guy?” I envisioned holding my dad down and force-feeding him Prozac or lithium or something.

Victoria winced. “Well, that case didn’t go so well. The guy became delusional and started eating paint chips, so he died of lead poisoning.”

“Okay, not helpful,” I sighed. “I don’t want a Korean maid to come live with us, Victoria. I don’t care if I have to scrub the floor all weekend every weekend, no joke.”

Victoria shook her head. “It’s not about cleaning, stupid. You heard Dad. We’re too much work, not the house. He wants someone to keep an eye on us. To spy.”

I almost dropped my fork. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. And no way am I sticking around for this, either. I’m totally moving back to the dorm, even if I have to get a second job.” To help out around the house after Madison moved out, my sister had started working at the UCLA bookstore. And that only made Dad’s decision to get an ajumma weirder. She was hardly ever home, and neither was I. Who was there to spy on?

“So what am I going to do?” I whined. I couldn’t imagine living all by myself with just my dad and some weird foreign maid. I couldn’t believe I wanted Victoria to stay at home, but there you go.

Victoria stared at me for a minute. “Well, you could always run away.”

I tried to laugh, but I couldn’t quite manage it. Nothing horrible, other than a really boring sermon in Korean, had happened, but I had a funny feeling. And I had no idea exactly how unfunny my situation was about to get.

***

Victoria and I glumly trudged towards the house, only to see Madison open the front door. “Where were you guys?” she hollered, waving us in.

Crap. I’d totally forgotten about inviting Madison over for dinner. Of course, that was before the party, back when my life seemed sorta normal. I looked at Madison as I walked through the door. “What are you doing here?” I asked. I wasn’t expecting her for at least a few more hours, even if I had totally spaced on expecting her at all.

“I went with your dad to the Korean grocery store,” Madison replied, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. “Nothing was in English. It was like we’d gone on vacation overseas or something. I had no idea.”

“Maybe Madison’s our ajumma,” Victoria joked as we walked into the kitchen. At least, I think it was our kitchen. It was kind of hard to tell with all the clutter.

Every cabinet door was flung open as if wild monkeys had been in the midst of a snack attack. Jars and plastic bags and cans littered the countertop. There must have been five hundred dollars-worth of food sitting there, and I hadn’t even seen if anything was tucked away in the refrigerator.

“Your dad was talking about how much he missed all these dishes they made back in Korea,” Madison said. “And the way he described them sounded so good, we just bought a ton of stuff. Do you guys know how to make something called goop chang jingle?”

“You mean gopchang-jeongol?” I asked, trying not to giggle.

“Sure,” Madison said with a shrug. “That sounds better.”

“Not really. That’s cow guts,” Victoria spat. “Tell me you did not buy intestines at the store.”

Madison’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think so.”

My dad was sitting at the dining room table reading a Korean newspaper, so I guessed that, despite his encyclopedic knowledge of Korean food, he hadn’t actually offered to cook any of it. Of course not. That would have been something Cool Dad would have done. And he’d been replaced by Old School Dad, who wanted life to be just like it was in Korea. And in Korea, men didn’t cook or clean. “I’ll make dinner, I guess,” Victoria grumbled. “There’s gotta be something here we can eat.”

I started sorting the cans and looking for places to store them. Madison stood next to me, trying to read the labels. “You know the best part? Nobody recognized me at the market,” she gushed. “Nobody! It was so great.”

“Well, all you white girls look alike to us Asians,” Victoria snapped, totally deadpan.

Dad shook his newspaper, peering at us over the page he was reading. “Your friend, very interested in Korean culture,” he said. “Not like you two.”

I rolled my eyes and turned back to Madison. “When did you get here?”

Madison shrugged. “I don’t know. A few hours ago. I was bored.”

Suddenly, the whole shopping adventure made sense. Usually, Madison was busy texting Todd or calling Todd or talking about Todd. And now, without Todd, she had no idea what to do with herself. Except, apparently, hang out with my dad.

I gestured for Madison to start handing me cans, having carved out a little storage space in a bottom cabinet. “Well, I’m glad you had fun,” I said hesitantly. “I’m sure my dad appreciated it.”

“He had a lot of really interesting stories,” Madison said eagerly. “There is so much I don’t know about where you’re from.”

“I’m from California,” I snarled.

Madison didn’t even flinch. “You know what I mean. You’re really lucky. I mean, you have a rich cultural heritage. And I’m like Wonder Bread. Just a big, boring blank.”

Being a big, boring blank with blonde hair and blue eyes seemed to be working out pretty well for Madison, if you asked me. “Well, with my rich cultural heritage, I get the bonus of kids making fun of my ‘slanty’ eyes all through grade school. Yay, me,” I said sarcastically.

“Don’t forget that time your little school chums said we kept jars of pickled roots all over the house like witches,” Victoria chimed in. “And Madison? You wouldn’t be such a big celebrity if you were Korean-American, so don’t get jealous.”

Madison looked shocked, and I think I did, too. It was true that there weren’t many Asian faces on TV, not unless you counted Awkwafina, Randall Park, the guy on “Saturday Night Live,” and the girl in that one “Star Wars” movie. Still, I don’t think I’d ever felt that Korean-Americans couldn’t become big stars. It just hadn’t happened yet.

But Madison nodded, as if Victoria had pointed out something insanely obvious. “I guess you’re right,” she sighed. “Sorry, Victoria.”

I grabbed Madison’s arm. “Wait, both of you think that’s true? That an Asian girl will never be a major, A-list star?”

Madison’s eyes went wide with embarrassment. “I mean, sure, someday. Definitely. I don’t know.” But from the look on Madison’s face, I could tell she didn’t really mean it. She was just saying what she thought I wanted to hear so I wouldn’t bitch at her.

Victoria smirked. “Get real. We’re a minority, and everyone thinks we’re good at math. That’s about as appealing to Hollywood as an actress with cellulite.”

“I don’t believe you,” I hissed.

“We should appreciate our Korean heritage, sis,” Victoria shot back. “Because no one else is going to. At least, not at the movies.”

After that, the conversation pretty much stalled. I couldn’t stop wondering what Hollywood, this place that had seemed so welcoming, would be like for me without Madison. Maybe it was just another junior high school full of bullies calling me Twinkie (yellow on the outside, white on the inside, ha ha ha) behind my back. Maybe I’d never really belonged at all.

I was shaken out of my trance when I saw Victoria toss the pot of water she’d started boiling into the kitchen sink. “You know, Madison, I’m glad you’re all excited about Korea and everything,” she said with a smirk. “But I’m feeling Italian myself. Pizza it is!”

***

After dinner (which was a not-very-Italian pineapple and ham pizza, much to my dad’s horror), Madison flipped on the TV in the living room, channel surfing so fast, the blurring images started to hurt my eyes. “Give me that,” I yelled, grabbing the remote.

“Hey, what happened to you last night?” Madison asked, crossing her arms. “You disappeared.”

I suddenly wished I’d let Madison keep the remote. “Yeah, that. Um, I went outside and bumped into Jeremy.”

“Oh,” Madison said, raising an eyebrow.

“And we talked. A little.”

Madison rolled her eyes. “And made out. A lot.”

I felt a blush creeping across my face. “Madison, he’s not who you think he is.”

“So, he didn’t lie to you and his girlfriend? And cheat on her? With you?”

Okay, obviously, it did sound bad when she put it like that. “Everyone makes mistakes, Madison. And that’s all it was. A bad situation that’s in the past.”

Madison stared at me for a while, saying nothing. “Are you afraid to be alone, Erin? Be honest.”

Oh, please. I wasn’t the one hanging out with my dad so I didn’t have to go solo in my fabulous house in the Encino Hills. But I didn’t say that. I wanted to be civil. And honest. “I think I’m falling in love with him.”

“Seriously?” Madison looked skeptical.

“Seriously.”

Madison’s mouth settled into a perfectly straight line, and she snatched the remote out of my hand. She flipped through the stations, staring at the screen as if I wasn’t there. “What’s wrong?” I asked, dreading the answer.

Madison sighed. “I don’t know.” She suddenly turned off the TV and tossed the remote onto the floor. “Wait, I do know. I can’t understand this, Erin. Everything you’ve said about this guy screams jerk. Even Todd wasn’t this big of a jerk.”

Madison didn’t say it, but the implication was clear. In her mind, Todd wasn’t as big of a jerk as Jeremy, and yet she dumped him anyway. It was if I’d persuaded Madison to go skydiving, then chickened out when it was my turn to leap. I think Madison had been counting on me to dump Jeremy so we could be single together. That way, she’d have a convenient sidekick to drag along to events or talk to her when she was lonely (which was, seemingly, all the time). I had ruined the whole plan without even knowing it.

“I didn’t tell you to break up with Todd, you know.” The words sounded whiny, almost childish, as they come out of my mouth.

“I know,” Madison sighed. “I just expected you to make a better choice.”

I picked up the remote and turned on the TV. I didn’t appreciate Madison’s tone, but I was also hoping some mindless television might drown out the guilt I was feeling. “Don’t you have a home to go to?” I sneered.

Some doofus show on The Weather Channel was on. I couldn’t have cared less, but I kept my eyes glued to the screen as if it was the best thing ever broadcast in the history of TV. And I kept watching in rapt, stubborn silence as Madison got up and walked out of the room.

Only after I head the click of the front door shutting behind Madison did I realize what I was watching. It was a special on forest fires. For a minute, I watched trees scorch and houses collapse, then turned it off. I was starting to suspect my relationship with Jeremy might burn some innocent people. I could do without the universal hint.

Good news for the cast of ‘Family Style,’ who’ve survived not only the indignity of a leading lady in a fat suit but also an 80’s era hack for a show runner. Now we hear Sammy Massie, the canned creator of the show, is returning to the series in triumph, if desperately trying to salvage what remains of a once-hit show from the maw of cancellation counts as a triumph.

—New York Post A neatly stapled pile of paperwork fluttered onto my desk, Ozzie smiling above it. “Consider it,” he said, grinning. “I’ll write you a recommendation.”

Ozzie had come barreling into my office the second I arrived at BRRB earlier that day, hollering, “Sweetie, have I got the thing for you!” I tried to look excited, but I was bracing myself for another bad script in my inbox. I’d noticed that producers like to talk up sucky jobs so you’ll be excited to do them.

“USC’s film school is offering a boot camp for high school kids,” Ozzie explained. A rivulet of sweat dribbled down his mostly bald head and disappeared behind his ear. It wasn’t all that warm inside, but when Ozzie was excited about something, his face turned red, and he started to overheat. Almost every time I saw Ozzie, his shirts had damp circles under the armpits and his collar was soaked. He got excited about a lot of things, apparently.

“Boot camp? Like, doing push-ups and stuff?” I asked, imagining teenagers lugging camera equipment through mud trenches while people screamed at them.

Ozzie laughed. “No, no. You learn the ropes of movie making. They give you equipment and guidance, and then you’re off and running. You make something like two or three completed short films in two months, maybe more. I’m a little fuzzy on the particulars.”

“Two months?” I shook my head. “I have school.”

“I don’t think it will be a problem,” Ozzie shot back, quickly filling me in on what he could remember. Not only would I get college credit (love that!) for the boot camp, but it also wasn’t exactly full time. I’d do an intensive training session over Thanksgiving break, take home my assignments, then go back over Christmas break.

“What’s this I hear about boot camp?” Jeremy was standing in the doorway of my office, a vision out of a J. Crew catalog. I swear, he looked exactly the way I envisioned Prince Charming when I was a little kid. Flawless, fair skin. Thick, wavy hair in a deep shade of ebony. Eyes so green I sometimes wondered if they were real or colored contacts (they were real, I’d asked). All the boy needed was a sword and those silly little balloon-shaped pants over a pair of tights and he was good to go.

Ozzie turned to face Jeremy, dribbling sweat over my office floor in the process. Damn, the guy needed to carry a towel with him. “Erin’s going to go to filmmaking boot camp,” he said, handing Jeremy the application. “It’s for high school students.”

Jeremy looked at the forms, flipping through them and nodding. “Nice. Wish they had this when I was in school.” His eyes suddenly widened, and he looked at me. “Whoa, two grand?”

My heart sank. I’d gotten so caught up in Ozzie’s hard sell I hadn’t even thought to ask how much the program cost.

Ozzie saw the look on my face. “Honey, it’s not a problem if you can’t afford it.”

“What, are you paying for it?” Jeremy asked.

“Don’t have to. All Erin needs to do is fill out the application. They’ll give her a free ride.”

“Why?” I asked. My grades were okay, but thanks to that free fall I got caught in after my mom died, my average GPA still wasn’t that great.

“Dumpling, come on! You’re a woman and an Asian. All you’d need is to be in a wheelchair to hit the minority trifecta. No offense,” Ozzie said, as breezily as if he was complimenting me on my outfit.

I tried to smile, but I felt a little sick inside. I knew part of the reason Madison had been able to get me a job as an extra on “Family Style” was to fulfill some sort of minority quota. It hadn’t bothered me at the time. I mean, it was obvious to me that there weren’t enough Asian faces on TV, so if I could benefit from shifting the balance, why not?

But somehow, I’d tricked myself into believing that everyone was equal behind the scenes in Hollywood, that anyone could get ahead as long as they were smart and had good ideas. Now, I wondered if my so-called brilliant insights into the teen market weren’t the only reason Ozzie had taken such an interest in me. Was I his token minority?

After Ozzie had dribbled out of my office, Jeremy perched on the edge of my desk. “If you want me to break your legs, you might get that trifecta, you know,” he joked. I didn’t have the heart to laugh.

“I hardly ever think about being Korean until someone grinds it in my face.”

Jeremy put his hand over mine. “Any break you can get in this business, take it and don’t ask questions.”

“I guess,” I said, still feeling sulky.

Jeremy gave me a serious look. “It’s an opportunity, Erin. Don’t take it lightly. Because if you get your foot in the door, it only makes it that much easier for other people like you to follow. It’s not just about you. You can make a difference just by succeeding.”

I liked the sound of that. Maybe someday I could be like Ozzie, helping high school students catch a break. I was distracted from my imaginary power trip when Jeremy leaned over, his face almost grazing mine. “When do I get to spend time with you alone? I’ll take your mind off this, promise.”

I bet he would, too. “This weekend?”

“You can’t pencil me in any sooner?”

I sighed. I had a pile of homework to do, two tests coming up in a week, and I didn’t even want to think about the research paper I had coming up in American history. “Okay, tomorrow night. But you’ll owe me big-time.”

Jeremy grinned. “Spoken like a real future studio executive. This boot camp has your name all over it, baby girl.”

Maybe it did. Maybe someday I could make a difference in Hollywood. I just hoped my dad, or the freaky pod person who’d replaced him, would see it that way.

***

After work, I made my way over to the Dahl House. Madison hadn’t called me since our fight, but I didn’t want one stupid conversation to completely ruin our friendship. After all, Madison had a tendency to hold a grudge.

As I approached the set, I saw Clive walking out the set door. Like a happy Labrador, he came bounding over to me, pulling me into a hug. “Erin, my darling!” he yelled, planting a big, wet kiss on my forehead.

“Hi, Clive,” I said, wiping my face. “You’re in a good mood.”

“And it’s not even chemically induced,” he said. “Life is good. Sammy’s back, the show’s on track… Hey, I think I have the makings of a song, don’t you?” He began clapping his hands, crooning, “Sammy’s back/The show’s on track” a few different ways, each more ridiculous than the last.

“Glad to hear it, Clive.” And I was. Just last month the series was being run into the ground by Ren, the cheesy show runner who’d decided to stick Madison in a fat suit while his slutty mistress Nikki got a leading role. Now, thanks to a scandalous piece of video tape showing Ren and Nikki getting it on (which may or may not have been orchestrated by Madison, Clive and yours truly), the whole show had gotten a makeover sans Nikki and Ren. And, if Clive’s good mood was any indication, it was a vast improvement.

Clive shook his head. “Glad doesn’t even begin to cover it, Erin. I think the whole awful experience has transformed Sammy. He’s inviting the cast to make story suggestions, surprises us with little gifts, all sorts of stuff. But I’m sure Madison’s told you all this.”

Some of it, sure. But really, Madison had spent so much time talking about dating Todd (and then talking about dumping Todd), the show had almost seemed like an afterthought to her. “Of course,” I lied.

“I even have a new love interest coming up. Unfortunately, it’s a woman,” Clive said, making an elaborately sad face.

“Too bad,” I said. “How’s Ernesto?” Clive and Ernesto had been officially dating for a few weeks, but that didn’t mean he was out of the closet, at least not as far as the viewing public was concerned.

“He is so good, so good. Good for me, good in general.” Clive squinted, trying to remember something. “Now, where are you with Jeremy?”

“We’re on again. So that’s good, too.”

Clive grinned and took both my hands in his.

“Everything’s good! All is right with the world. All we need is peace in the Middle East and a cure for cancer, am I wrong?”

Seeing Clive’s face, I couldn’t disagree. “Not at all!” I said, grinning.

“Don’t wear the girl out, Clive.” I turned to see Madison behind me. She was smiling, so maybe Clive’s effervescent attitude was contagious.

“I was just dropping by to say hi,” I said.

“Oh, managed to tear yourself away from Jeremy?” Madison’s little joke was more biting than funny. So much for my “glee is catching” theory.

“Clive tells me the show is back on track,” I said, trying to change the subject.

“We should all celebrate,” Clive said. “Maybe we can TP Ren’s house or something.”

Madison rolled her eyes. “That’s so juvenile, Clive.”

“Since when is that a bad thing?” Clive said, looking at his watch. “Gotta go. Ernesto is probably holding our table at Bestia. Later, ladies!” I watched as Clive bounded away, taking my good mood with him.

Madison gestured for me to follow her to the Dahl House. As much as I loved the place (and its fully stocked refrigerator and huge TV), hanging out with Madison while she gave me crap about Jeremy was not appealing. Then I remembered that I had news. “I may be going to filmmaking boot camp,” I announced brightly as Madison opened the trailer door. “It starts over Thanksgiving break.”

“Oh my God, are the holidays really so close?” Madison pulled a Diet Coke out of the fridge and threw me one, too. “I have to start thinking about a movie for my hiatus.” Madison pulled out her phone, then paused. “You’ve got school over Thanksgiving?

“Well, probably not on Thanksgiving.” Not that I cared so much. The last time I had turkey on Thanksgiving I had to pick it up from Boston Market, so it wasn’t exactly something to get all sentimental about.

“I was thinking we could have Thanksgiving at my house. You know, turkey, trimmings, all that stuff. I mean, if I’m not on location.”

“Since when did you care about Thanksgiving?” I asked as I curled up on the sofa. If anything, Madison was less traditional than my family. I mean, she and her mom Sheila used to pick up Thai food and Ben & Jerry’s for their Thanksgiving dinners.

Madison shrugged. “I just thought it would be nice, that’s all.”

“If you’re not on location. Have you gotten any offers?”

Madison shook her head. “I have to bug my agent. I want to do something really different than ‘Family Style,’ you know?”

“Like what?”

Madison shrugged. “I want to work with a great director. Really show what I can do as an actress.”

“So, no horror, then?

“Uh, no, stupid,” Madison said with a grimace, scrolling through her cell’s phonebook. “You should write a killer part for me in one of your student movies. Maybe I could use it for an audition reel or something.”

I bowed slightly. “I’ll do my best.”

She plopped onto the sofa next to me. “I kind of wish you weren’t going to be in school over the holidays. I was thinking you could visit me wherever I’m filming.”

“If you get a movie,” I reminded her. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Well, if I don’t get a movie, then I’ll be really bummed you’re in school. I won’t have anyone to hang out with when I’m not working.” Madison slugged back her Diet Coke. I guess since Todd wasn’t around anymore, she was drinking all the unhealthy chemicals she wanted.

“You’ll find something to do,” I said, hoping it was true. “You can get your G.E.D.” Ever since Madison had gotten emancipated, she’d talked about finishing high school, but it hadn’t happened yet. And to tell the truth, I didn’t think it would’ve hurt the girl to crack open a book or read a newspaper once in a while. I honestly didn’t think she’d be able to pick the president out of a line-up. Maybe the president of Sony Pictures, but not the leader of the free world.

Madison laughed bitterly. “Okay, Mom. But I think I can find some way to spend my time that doesn’t involve studying.”

Knowing Madison’s track record, that was exactly what I was worried about.

***

As expected, Dad didn’t exactly jump up and down with joy when I pitched him the USC Filmmaking Boot Camp over the dinner table.

“I don’t understand this. You make movies?” he asked, scowling into his bowl of noodle soup.

Madison winced. I’d invited her over for dinner not only because I felt a little guilty about the whole Jeremy debacle, but because I thought my dad might be more permissive with company present. No such luck.

“She gets college credit, Dad. For free,” Victoria chimed in. I’d asked her for back-up before we sat down to eat. To her credit she’d done an impressive job of selling the program, even though she knew less about it than I did. I hated to admit it, but sometimes my big sister didn’t suck.

“College credit, but for what? Movie making? What kind of job is that?” Dad stared at me. “Why not be a doctor? Or lawyer? You like writing, lawyers write a lot. Very creative.”

Being a lawyer sounded about as appealing to me as pursuing a rewarding career in solid waste management, but I kept my mouth shut. “I haven’t picked a major yet,” I said. He didn’t need to know I was leaning towards English or film, two fields my dad probably regarded as less than worthless. “But this will look good on my résumé, regardless of what I end up doing.”

“It’s only two months, Dad,” Victoria said. “And isn’t it better that Erin find out she doesn’t like filmmaking now rather than after she’s spent four years at college studying it?”

For whatever crazy reason, that got through to my Dad. “True,” he said, nodding. “She get this nonsense out of her system.” He looked at me. “Okay. You can do this. But we need new rules in the house. The ajumma comes soon.”

“What’s an ajumma?” Madison whispered to me.

“I’ll tell you later,” I whispered back. I had been hoping my dad would just forget about the Korean housekeeper, but no such luck. “We can clean our rooms, Dad, and the rest of the house, too,” I said. “You really don’t need to hire someone.”

“An unnecessary expense,” Victoria chimed in. She knew the best way to sway Dad’s opinion was to tell him something was too expensive (or a bargain), but this time it didn’t even register.

“You girls run wild,” he said, his voice stern. “I need to know where you go, who you go with. Any boys you want to see meet me first. It’s time you meet nice Korean boys.” He looked at Victoria. “Especially you.”

Amazingly, my sister resisted the urge to scream bloody murder and instead smiled sweetly at my father. “Sure, Dad,” she purred through gritted teeth.

My dad slurped his last spoonful of soup and stood up from the table. “With the ajumma, we eat better,” he said, before stomping out of the dining room.

“That’s the last time I make him soup,” Victoria growled as she gathered up the empty bowls and carted them into the kitchen.

I quickly explained the whole ajumma problem to Madison. “You should move in with me,” she said quickly.

Something about the way Madison said it, sort of desperately, made her suggestion sound almost as bad as bunking with the Korean maid. “I don’t think Dad would go for it,” I said.

“Well, tell Dad he has to let you out of the house tomorrow night,” Madison said, picking up her water glass and walking towards the kitchen. “I’m having a powwow with my agent and my manager. And I want you there for support.”

“I can’t.” I hesitated, not wanting to finish the sentence. I’d made plans with Jeremy first, but I knew Madison would be ticked if I didn’t bump him to accommodate her agenda. “Dad wants me to spend evenings doing homework.”

“Oh, your dad likes me,” Madison said, changing course and heading towards my father’s office. “I’ll ask him for you.”

I thought about leaping in front of Madison, calling a time out and confessing the truth. But then it occurred to me that Dad wasn’t going to let me go out with Jeremy anyway. Let’s face it, my boyfriend was not only too old for me (in Dad’s book, not mine), he was about as much of a nice Korean boy as Ryan Reynolds. Madison’s stupid meeting would at least get me out of the house, and if she told him I was crashing at her place, I could even blow off my curfew. Maybe, just maybe, I could spend the night with Jeremy. For the first time.

I let Madison wander down the hall, never making a peep of dissent. I was already busy concocting my semi-devious plot, calculating exactly how I could make Madison’s lot of not-fun business meeting work for me.

But you know what? Sometimes, no matter how crafty your plan is, life rears up and slaps you in the face with something entirely devious.

***

“Film school?” Jenna and I were in the chem lab killing time before the Charity Action meeting. “I want to go!”

“You want to make movies?” I asked, not wanting to sound doubtful but unable to hide my disbelief. Jenna had a tendency to fall asleep during almost any feature film that wasn’t a slasher pic, so this was a surprise.

“No, couldn’t care less. But I want a reason to skip the holidays,” Jenna responded. “It’s the old shuttle between the parents' routine. The only good part about it is the competitive gift giving. If my dad is really pissed at my mom, maybe he’ll get me a new car or something.”

“Please apply,” I begged. “I won’t know anyone if you don’t.”

“Hey, sweetie!” a voice chirped behind me. Cassie threw her arms around my neck and squeezed so hard that for a minute I thought she’d crushed my windpipe.

“Wow, someone’s in a good mood,” Jenna said, though she made it sound as if that wasn’t such a good thing.

“Jenna, you are so funny!” Cassie tried to grab Jenna around the neck too, but she dodged in the nick of time. “Whoa, girl, I have spikes on,” she said, pointing to the dog collar around her neck. Lately, Jenna had been, in her words, “transitioning from goth to a more traditional 70s punk aesthetic, partly in reaction to the whole smug go-go 80s revival.” All I knew was she was wearing less black lipstick and more safety pins. She smiled at Cassie. “I don’t like to do bodily harm unless it’s self-defense.”

Cassie sat down next to us, grinning as if she’d just won the lottery or lost her mind. “I sat down and brainstormed, like, a hundred different things we can do for charity this year. Like, you’re gonna die.”

“If I die, does that mean you’re donating my body to science?” Jenna asked, pretending to tremble.

Cassie slugged her in the shoulder. “No, silly. But we’re going to an old folks' home to visit the people who are lonely and don’t have families, and we’re going to organize a camping trip for kids with AIDS, and I was thinking of volunteering all of us for one of those fundraising walks, like for some really scary disease.”

The rest of Cassie’s crew started filtering in the door, and Cassie popped out of her seat. “Oh my God, I have to start the meeting. But this is going to be really awesome, I promise!”

“Oh God,” I said, once Cassie was out of earshot. “We’ve created a monster.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Jenna sighed. “She’s a little too crazy happy, like she’s been mainlining espresso. She should be burnt out and cynical in no time.”

I tried to focus on the meeting, but it was hard. Cassie was just so excited about doing stuff that sounded like the activity equivalent of mainlining spinach (really good for you, but not exactly a taste sensation), I was kind of weirded out. I mean, it’s great that she wanted to do good things, don’t get me wrong. But swooning over a visit to a senior center? Come on.

“God, I’m glad that’s over,” Jenna said after Cassie wrapped things up an hour (!) later and we were walking to the parking lot.

“Remember the good old days when she stole money and finished the meeting in twenty minutes?” I sighed, only half joking.

Jenna grabbed my arm. “Oh, I meant to tell you. During the meeting I had an idea for that camp. Do you think they’d care if I made a smutty movie? Maybe I could slap it up on YouTube and get a movie deal.”

Picturing Jenna giggling maniacally behind the camera only made me think of one thing: her partner in crime. “I’m afraid to ask, but exactly why wasn’t Kelly in Spanish today?”

Jenna’s smile faded. “She called in sick. Again. I think her mom’s going to have to get a doctor’s note saying she has mono or bubonic plague or something to clear her for all these absences.”

“But she’s not sick?” It wasn’t a question, not really.

“Of course not. The girl is at home soaking in a vat of bad vibes and ‘General Hospital.’”

“She seemed so happy at the Charity Action party, though.” I’d sort of been hoping that meeting Oliver, the ten-year-old who’d recovered from a brain tumor, had snapped her out of her funk.

Jenna looked at me like I was a little stupid. “That was one evening, Erin. You can’t just cure someone of depression with a party.”

I blushed. Of course I had been kidding myself. “What about the meds she’s taking?”

“Not working. Or at least they’re not working well enough.” Jenna looked about as depressed as Kelly probably felt. “She’s so hard to be around, Erin.”

“I know.” Just remembering how much fun Kelly used to be made the shell of a person she had become hard to face.

Jenna shot me a look. “You don’t. You haven’t seen her on the really bad days. She won’t bathe. I drop off her homework and she’s just sitting there with greasy hair and dirty clothes like a homeless person, crying or staring into space.”

“Wow.” I was stunned. Kelly had never cared much about fashion, but this was much. “Maybe the boarding school her mom wants to send her to isn’t such a bad idea,” I admitted.

“I never thought I’d agree with you, but I think so, too,” Jenna replied, her voice sad and defeated.

“Maybe we need to spend more time with her,” I said, feeling a little desperate and a lot guilty. “Maybe there’s something we can do.”

Jenna pulled her car keys off a metal chain wrapped around her waist, jangling them in her hand like a prison guard. “Listen, Erin. I swore I would never give up on Kelly,” she said slowly. “But she gave up on herself first.”

***

I sat in the passenger seat as Madison pulled up to the valet station at The Ivy. This was where Madison’s agent and manager wanted to meet, since it’s an old restaurant where everybody who’s anybody in Hollywood goes when they want to do business. That always seemed weird to me, because the place looked like a crumbling English cottage. Not exactly the first place I’d pick for a power dinner, but whatever.

“How long is this going to take?” I asked Madison, squirming in my seat as we waited for the two cars in front of us to pull forward.

“Why? You have somewhere else to be?” Madison looked at me suspiciously, and that was all it took to make me cave.

“I promised Jeremy I’d meet him after dinner,” I confessed. We’d made plans to go back to his place and watch a movie. But I doubt we’d ever turn on the TV, if you know what I mean. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

“What?” Madison looked so mad I thought she was going to push me out of the car.

“I made plans with him before you told me about the meeting, Madison. But I wanted to be here to support you, so I told him I’d be a little late.”

“You are so full of it,” Madison fumed. “You knew your dad wouldn’t let you go out with him, so you’re using me as a cover.”

“That’s not fair,” I spat back as a red-jacketed valet opened my door.

“But it’s true,”

“I’m doing you a favor, remember?”

“If you leave before we’re done, you are so toast,” Madison hissed, even as she smiled for the paparazzi camped outside the restaurant. A sea of flashbulbs popped. If Madison said anything else, I didn’t hear it over the screams of “MADISON, OVER HERE! MADISON! MADISON!”

Inside, Caitlin and Bradley were already sitting at a table for four, and they smiled at us so brightly you’d think we were arriving bearing wads of cash. Which, I guess, Madison kind of was a wad of cash. Agents and managers earn their salaries based on a percentage of their clients’ paychecks, and I’m guessing Madison was a pretty prime cash cow for both of them.

“Darling!” Caitlin said, air kissing Madison. She reached out to take my hand. “And Erin, good to see you again.”

As we shook hands, I marveled at her perfectly squoval nails, lacquered in a dark red; the diamond earrings that matched the diamond bracelet that matched the gleam in her eye. Everything about Caitlin was always perfect. Sometimes I was tempted to check the back of her neck to make sure there wasn’t a barcode.

Bradley air kissed both Madison and me, looking tired as usual. I was just about to pick up my menu when I felt my cell phone vibrate in my hip pocket. “I’m sorry, I need to use the restroom,” I lied, trying to ignore Madison’s steely gaze.

I skittered through the restaurant, trying not to be distracted by the celebrities sitting at every table (There’s Kristen Wiig! There’s Daniel Craig! There’s Lil Nas X!). Once I was safely locked inside a stall, I pulled out my phone. Jeremy.

“Hey, good news,” Jeremy said before I’d had a chance to even say hello. “There’s a secret show at the Troubadour tonight. Spanish Love Songs. And Ozzie got us on the list.”

I would have thought nothing on earth would deter me from wanting to be curled up with Jeremy on his sofa, but I was wrong. The Troubadour probably holds about 500 people, so this was about as close as I was ever going to get to one of my favorite bands. “I just have to finish up this thing with Madison,” I said. “Can I meet you there?”

“The doors open at ten, but I just drove by and the line’s already forming. I don’t want to be the dork standing here by myself,” Jeremy said. “Tell Madison to hustle.”

“I’ll be there by ten, promise. Can’t wait to see you,” I whispered as I heard someone in the next stall flush.

“Ew, are you in the bathroom?”

“I’m not using the bathroom,” I said quickly. “Just in the bathroom. At The Ivy.”

“Fancy,” Jeremy said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Call me when you’ve drifted back to earth.”

Just as I was hanging up my phone, I heard a knock on my stall door.

I leaned over to see the shoes. Yellow Jimmy Choos. Yes, it was Madison. I opened the door to see her glaring at me, hands on hips.

“Are you going to hide in here all night?” she snapped.

“Clearly not,” I muttered, snapping my phone shut.

“Look, I need you to focus,” Madison said, waving a hand in front of my face. “Caitlin can be very persuasive, and if I’m not careful she’ll end up talking me into a role in some stupid teen movie.”

I could think of worse things, like missing Spanish Love Songs to listen to a bunch of Hollywood blowhards talk shop, but whatever. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”

After I got over my menu sticker shock ($26 for a hamburger?) and decided on the fried chicken, I listened as Madison whispered her order in the waiter’s ear. Chopped salad, no dressing, no cheese, no meat, just veggies. No calories. Not good. I hoped that Madison was putting on a starving starlet act to impress her “people.” The alternative was too awful to consider. Instead, I tried to tune into what Caitlin and Bradley were saying.

“You’re at a pivotal juncture in your career,” Bradley said earnestly, jabbing the table as he spoke. “We want to get you out of the teen market, but it’s going to require baby steps. And since you have such a short hiatus, we can only plug you into one picture in a supporting role.” Madison had about a month off, and most feature films take three months or more to shoot, so that made total sense.

Caitlin nodded. “We need to prove you’ve got some box office muscle. Getting butts in seats, that’s what counts.”

Madison kicked me under the table. “So, what are you thinking about for my hiatus? Any leads?”

Caitlin grinned, her maroon lipstick a bright slash across her face. “Warner Brothers has a teen comedy that has an adult element that could be great fun. Producers of ‘Cruella are attached. We could plug you into the best friend of the lead, offer-only.” Offer-only meant she wouldn’t need to audition; the producers would just hire her sight unseen.

“What’s it about?” Madison asked.

“It’s so cute,” Caitlin purred. “It’s about a shy high school student who’s recruited to be the world’s youngest female homicide detective.”

“You’d be her trusty sidekick,” Bradley added.

“Got anything else?” I asked. I wasn’t planning on joining into the conversation at all. I just wanted to eat my overpriced fried chicken and get the hell out of there, but I couldn’t help it. Wasn’t this just a rip-off of that ancient “Veronica Mars” series? And really, who needed more of those?

Bradley and Caitlin both turned to look at me. Even though they tried to hide it, I could tell they were both wishing they could reach across the table and club me to death.

“Of course we do,” Caitlin said smoothly. “But this is a strong script, and word is that Olivia Rodrigo is looking at the lead. Not too shabby. Right, Madison?”

“Eh,” Madison said. She was playing it cool, hoping Caitlin and Bradley would panic and throw her something interesting.

“Okay,” Caitlin said with a sigh. “This is a tiny movie, you’d barely be a blip in it, but it is Ang Lee.” I knew who that was. He was the guy who directed one of my favorite movies of all time, “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” and won an Oscar for “Brokeback Mountain.”

“That sounds good,” Madison said quickly.

“I’m not finished,” Caitlin shot back. “You’d be playing a drug addict. Not the most wholesome image. And I have some concerns about whether the producers of ‘Family Style’ would be pleased.”

“Oh,” Madison said, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Isn’t it good for her to stretch?” I asked.

Madison shook her head. “They’re right, Erin. I have an image to maintain.”

Caitlin reached out to pat Madison’s hand. “We want to think long term. Projects that will take you to the A-list.”

“Do you really think playing a teen homicide detective is a step onto the A-list?” I asked. Again with the dirty looks, but I didn’t care. Not that I was angry with Caitlin or Bradley. It was Madison who really pissed me off. She caved in less than a New York minute, and when I tried to back her up she argued with me instead of her “people.” Seriously, what was the point in my sticking around?

This time, Caitlin and Bradley completely ignored me. “Look, Madison, I’m going to send you some scripts, you read them, we’ll talk,” Caitlin said as our food arrived at the table. “How’s that sound?”

“Okay,” Madison shrugged, digging into her twenty-calorie dinner. “But I want to talk about my options in television, too.” Madison started rattling on about what other perks she could squeeze out of the studio. “I’d really like Julia’s old trailer.”

I listened in resentful silence as Caitlin and Bradley brainstormed ways to milk the studio for a personal trainer and a nutritionist for Madison, then pondered whether they could finagle an excuse to get her an all-expenses paid “promotional” trip to Barbados. It was a good thing I didn’t finish my chicken because the whole conversation made me want to throw up.

Every time I snuck a look at my watch, Madison kicked me under the table, so when my shin started to really throb I got a little more Zen about my evening. But I must have zoned out a lot more than I realized because when I took a break from watching Hugh Jackman cut his meat at the next table (I kept wanting to say, “Hey, Wolverine, use your blades!”), it was ten ‘til ten.

Forget about waiting for Madison to wrap things up and give me a lift. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go,” I sputtered, interrupting Bradley in mid-sentence.

“We still have so much to discuss,” Madison said, her voice as smooth and icy as Caitlin’s. I got up from the table fast so Madison couldn’t gouge me with her Jimmy Choos again.

I didn’t even bother with the air kiss pleasantries, waving good-bye as I barreled past Hugh Jackman and all the other celebrities crammed into the restaurant. I had ten minutes to walk up to the Troubadour. It was a little less than a mile away, and there was no place I’d rather be.

I’d made it about half a block before it occurred to me I should call Jeremy and tell him I was just around the corner. I reached into my handbag.

My hand brushed over a lipstick, a packet of gum, and a coin purse.

No phone.

The magnitude of how much this sucked hit me hard and fast. No phone meant no way to tell Jeremy to wait for me, no way to find him in line. And I knew exactly where my phone was, buried under a napkin next to Madison’s plate. God, how could I be so stupid?

I thought about going back for it, but there was no time. My skintight pencil skirt and platform wedges were slowing me down, and West Hollywood has stoplights on nearly every corner.

I had no choice, not really. I took a deep breath, hiked up my skirt, and forged ahead. I figured I could get the phone later. And nothing ever starts on time in Hollywood anyway, right?

As I got closer to the Troubadour, I saw a long line snaking down the block. Jeremy hadn’t exaggerated. But the important thing was that I’d made it, not exactly on time but only one minute late. Jeremy would spot me any second and this whole, rotten evening would finally stop sucking once and for all.

I was walking so fast it took me a second to register that the line was moving, too. The doors were open, and the crowd was slowly shuffling inside the club like shackled, hipster prisoners. I had to spot Jeremy and fast.

I walked as quickly as I could up and down the line, scanning the crowd for those unforgettable green eyes. And even though I saw a lot of guys who dressed like Jeremy, and even one guy who could have been his brother, I didn’t see him.

The line got shorter, and shorter, and then finally stopped. A bouncer at the front of the club walked out onto the sidewalk. “ALRIGHT, EVERYBODY!” he yelled to the hundreds of people, including me, who were still waiting outside. “WE’RE FULL, GO ON HOME.”

I watched as most of the unlucky Spanish Love Songs fans scattered, wandering back to their cars or down Santa Monica Boulevard to grab a beer. I hoped that maybe, somehow, I’d overlooked Jeremy. But after a few minutes, it was just me and a handful of kids who weren’t Jeremy standing around on the sidewalk, looking lost.

I walked up to the ticket window. “My boyfriend was waiting for me in line,” I said to the slack-jawed girl with blue hair staring back at me. “Is there any chance he left my name up here or anything?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“Are you sure? Would anyone else know?” I was trying to be nice to this cooler-than-thou mouth breather, but I knew I sounded shrill and desperate. Blue Hair, emanating irritation from every pore, got up from her seat and slipped behind a curtain, returning a few seconds later. “I checked with the bouncer just in case and he said no one talked to him about anything.”

I couldn’t believe it. Did Jeremy actually go into the club without me? I knew it was going to be a great show and everything, but since he knew I was going to meet him didn’t that mean he had to wait? He hadn’t exactly stood me up, but still, it seemed sort of rude.

I scanned the street, which was starting to look pretty deserted. Not only was I missing Spanish Love Songs, but I was also missing a ride home. I didn’t even have a phone to call an Uber.

I looked down at my swollen toes and kicked off my shoes. Unfortunately, this awful night wasn’t even close to over.

***

As much as I hated to do it, I stopped back at The Ivy to see if I could catch a ride home, but Madison and company had already cleared out. And no, my cell phone hadn’t been turned in. Maybe Madison had it. Not that I considered that option a good thing, since I wasn’t exactly her biggest fan right that minute.

You know how they say nobody walks in L.A.? Well, it’s sort of true, unless you’re really creepy or homeless. Or, in this particular case, me. At least that’s what it seemed like as I walked down Robertson Boulevard. As the trendy restaurants and nightclubs gave way to closed storefronts and parking lots, I noticed people sleeping under piles of blankets against closed doors, yelling at the demons in their heads outside corner gas stations. I know, you may think there are no homeless people in Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, the places where celebrities come out to play. But just because they aren’t mentioned in the tourist guides doesn’t mean it’s not true.

I sidestepped a guy wearing a tin foil hat and a greasy down parka that might have once been green as I crossed Olympic Boulevard. I kept my eyes fixed on the sidewalk, but the homeless guy couldn’t wait to chat with me. It made a sick sort of sense, considering that neither one of us was wearing shoes. Maybe he figured I was new to the crazy game and just wanted to welcome me aboard. “Hey, lady!” he screamed. “You pretty! Pretty lady!”

I walked faster, hoping he wouldn’t push his shopping cart after me. Even though I knew the guy was probably harmless, my heart was jackhammering in my chest. Cars swished by, going too fast, their headlights blinding me. More than once I heard a hoot or some garbled catcall screamed out a window. I was glad I couldn’t make out the words, because I was pretty sure I wouldn’t like any of them.

I kept looking for anyplace that might be open, or even a public phone, though I didn’t think anyplace still had those. It was no surprise that the one phone booth I saw outside a gas station only had a silver cord dangling from an empty wall.

Above my head a streetlight flickered, the block descending into sudden, awful darkness. I thought of every scary story I’d seen on the evening news; every teenage girl who’d been abducted, stabbed, riddled with bullets in a drive-by shooting. A man walking a dog approached and I held my breath, wondering if serial killers ever hunted with their pets. He walked past me without acknowledging my existence, but I still didn’t exhale until I was sure he was half a block away.

“OW!” I screamed as my left foot landed on something sharp. I stopped and quickly checked for blood, visions of tetanus shots swirling in my head. In my first lucky break of the night, the little pebble that caused so much suffering rolled off my foot without creating any major damage. But that was enough with hoofing it au natural. The wedges, painful though they were, went back on.

I don’t know how long I walked (no, hobbled) that night. It felt like hours or even days, every step sheer, unbridled agony. And then came the point where I crossed the street, turned left, and realized that my neighborhood, which I’d thought was only a few blocks away, was at least a mile off.

And, appropriately enough, that was the moment when I started crying.

I’m sure anyone driving by must have thought I was insane, some lunatic runaway shuffling along the street with tears and snot running down her face. Not that I cared. I was exhausted, my feet were bloody stumps, and I still wasn’t home yet.

If I hadn’t felt like such hell, I might have found the whole thing funny. Just a few hours earlier, I was a hotshot at the Ivy, eating overpriced fried chicken and rubbing elbows with the rich and famous, feeling totally mature and sophisticated. And now I was just some dumb kid who’d lost her phone and gotten stood up by her date, crying like a big baby. I think that might have been the worst part of the evening, realizing how quickly my grown-up attitude could dissolve. Those last blocks home, all I could think was (this is so embarrassing) that I missed my Mommy, and that I wished she were around to put Band-Aids on my boo-boos.

It seemed like forever, but I did finally make it home. Once I snuck in the door and hobbled to the bathroom, relief gave way to less pleasant feelings. As happy as I was to be home, I felt utterly humiliated. Sure, no one except some homeless people had been around to see it, but I knew that I’d completely cracked under stress, and I didn’t like it. My shirt was ruined, and the insides of my shoes were caked in blood. Clearly, a lot of damage had been done, inside and out.

Soaking in the tub, I had time to think. Yes, Madison hadn’t done me any favors by dragging out the evening, but Jeremy had ditched me. Sure, he’d ditched me to see Spanish Love Songs, and maybe he’d called my cell (not that I’d ever know), but the important part was he’d taken off not knowing how I’d get home. And that was distinctly uncool. Why was it every time I felt myself falling for him, he did something awful and stupid? How many times could I let this guy hurt me?

It was time for Jeremy to get a message. Preferably one delivered at maximum volume from me. If we were going to have any kind of future, things had to change and fast.

Gently scrubbing my feet, I rehearsed about a million different things I was going to say to him, most of which are too crass for me to repeat. But, to give you the greatest hits, I wanted to tell him he was selfish. I wanted to tell him that he didn’t deserve me, and that if I could take back that perfect kiss, I would. I wanted to tell him that, despite the fact I cried all the way home like a toddler, I was strong enough to never speak to him again, even at work, if he didn’t beg for my forgiveness.

I had a list of his crimes which I was fully prepared to present to him while punctuating each word with a good, hard kick. Because of him, I hobbled home without a ride. Because of him, I missed the show. Because of him, I’d wiped snot all over the sleeve of my silk Mint shirt. Okay, that wasn’t directly his fault, but I blamed him anyway.

When I woke up the next morning, every muscle aching and my feet still swollen, I was still crazy angry. Jeremy was going to feel the wrath of Erin Park, no kidding.

I feel bad about it now, but how was I supposed to know the whole story?

***

“That’s awful!” Jenna screeched after I’d told her and Kelly about my evening as we all walked (really, really slowly) to Spanish. “And you missed the show. Not that I dig Spanish Love Songs, but I feel your pain.”

“Thanks,” I said, wincing with each step. I cast a glance at Kelly, who’d hardly said one word all morning. I wasn’t complaining, though. At least she looked clean and her hair was combed. That meant it was a good day.

“How are you doing, Kelly?” I asked. “Any chance your evening was better than mine?”

Kelly shrugged. “Not really.” And then, nothing. Jenna and I both stared at her, not knowing whether to ask a question or wait for her to say something. For an instant, the conversation died.

“I was kidding,” Kelly said. It didn’t sound like she was, but I didn’t get the impression she wanted to hug it out, either.

Jenna turned back to me. “I’d tear Jeremy a new one, girl. Do you think Madison has your phone?”

I hadn’t had time to call Madison before school, but I’d get around to it. The phone wasn’t important. Confronting Jeremy was.

Jenna slugged me in the arm, shaking me out of my revenge fantasy. “Hey, I sent in my application for the movie thing,”

“Filmmaking boot camp,” I said, correcting her.

“What’s that?” Kelly asked, suddenly alert.

“It’s just this class at USC where you get to make movies,” Jenna said, her voice high and fast. “Erin’s taking it so she can be a producer, and I’m taking it so I can avoid my parents over the holidays.”

“Oh,” Kelly said dully. “Sounds fun.”

“It’s a lot of work, but I’m doing it for the college credit,” I muttered. I doubted Kelly had any interest in applying, but I played down the program, just in case. I felt awful thinking it, but the idea of having Kelly around in her current wet blanket state didn’t seem like fun.

“Anyway, you have to give us the full report on what you say to Jeremy tomorrow, first thing,” Jenna said, quickly changing the subject. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who didn’t want Kelly at USC.

I shot a glance at our Lady of Perpetual Depression. Despite the fact I didn’t want to spend a lot of time with Kelly, I also hated the idea of hurting her feelings. But if she was wounded by what we’d said, she didn’t show it. Her face was entirely blank and lifeless. It was the expression you sometimes see in mugshots.

As dreary as it was, it was an expression I’d remember for a long, long time.

***

Driving over to BRRB Productions, I gripped the steering wheel, muttering my lecture through clenched teeth. I would not be the crying, whiny girl of last night. I would be a lioness, a maneater, a woman who demanded respect. If I were making a movie about my new personality, I would cast Gal Gadot. Yeah, that tough.

Walking up to the front door of the office, I hesitated. I didn’t want to scream at Jeremy in front of our co-workers, but I didn’t want to blow up in the middle of the lot, either. Maybe I needed to wait until the two of us were alone.

Wait, what was I thinking? I didn’t want to be alone with Jeremy. Maybe I didn’t want to be alone with him ever again. The idea of breaking up hadn’t really occurred to me until that moment, and the thought stabbed at my heart. But then I remembered what it felt like to be alone, lost in L.A., knowing that my boyfriend hadn’t cared whether I’d even gotten home alive. Maybe it was better not to have a boyfriend, even one with gorgeous green eyes, than to ever feel that way again.

I took a deep breath. Show time.

I pushed open the door, and there he was. Smiling at me and, worst of all, wearing a Spanish Love Songs T-shirt under a blazer. The bastard!

“Hey, girl,” he said brightly. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here today.”

I stormed his desk, leaning over so his face was mere inches from mine. Why didn’t he think I’d be in? Because I’d be too tired from walking home? Because some lunatic had stuck me in the trunk of his car? “You ditched me last night,” I hissed, watching his eyes grow wide. “I walked all the way home from the Troubadour, Jeremy. In three-inch heels. I can barely limp today and it’s all your fault!”

“But Madison said she was taking you home.” Jeremy looked completely confused.

I leaned back, dumbstruck. “What?”

Jeremy nodded impatiently. “I called your cell, and Madison picked up. She said you’d gone to the bathroom, and she didn’t think you were feeling well. So, I asked her to have you call me if you wanted to meet up, but you never called. I figured you were really sick.”

Trying to absorb this drastically revised version of events made my head hurt, and it didn’t help that my feet were already throbbing. “I’ve got to sit down,” I said, shuffling towards my office.

Jeremy followed right on my heels. “Let me get this straight. You never got my message?”

“I forgot my phone at the restaurant.” Why would Madison lie? It was such a mean, petty thing to do. I fell into my office chair, my face dropping into my hands.

“You know I wouldn’t have gone in if I’d known you were coming, right?” I peeked through my fingers. Jeremy was a good liar, but I didn’t think he was lying now. “I like Spanish Love Songs fine, but I wanted to go because I knew you liked them, Erin. I wanted to spend the evening with you.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” I said. “I went with Madison to her stupid dinner, so why would she do that? She knew I was hurrying to meet you.”

“Sounds like she owes you an explanation.”

I stood up, my feet aching in protest. Every step I took towards the “Family Style” set was going to hurt like hell, but I knew what I had to do. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, tops,” I said to Jeremy, shuffling past him to the door.

“Hey,” Jeremy said, waiting for me to turn around. “Say get bent to Madison for me, will you?”

“I have a better idea,” I said. “Come with me and tell her yourself.”

Jeremy thought for a moment, then nodded. “Let me forward the phones, and I’ll be there with bells on.”

***

I banged on the door of the Dahl House. The last time Jeremy and I were here together, it was for that extremely unromantic evening when Nikki and Ren came barreling through the front door to have sex on the trailer floor. I suspected this visit wasn’t going to be any more fun than that one was, either.

The door popped open, and Madison stuck her nose out. “Oh, hi,” she said to me. Then she saw Jeremy. An expression I couldn’t quite read skittered across her face, a mixture of worry and dread and irritation all mixed together. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was stuck at the Troubadour last night without a ride, and I’m trying to figure out why,” I said, trying to keep my tone light instead of lethal.

Madison sighed and flung open the door, waving us in. “I’ve only got a minute, you guys. I need to run lines and I’m due on the set, like, soon.”

“Then I’ll be quick,” I said. “Do you have my phone?”

Madison looked around the room. “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. I was going to call you at home later.” She reached behind a pile of scripts on the kitchen counter and tossed a small silver object at me. Not to sound weird, but I instantly felt better knowing it wasn’t gone forever. But that didn’t mean I was in a good mood or anything, trust me.

“Did you talk to Jeremy last night?” I asked Madison, sitting down on the sofa. I gestured for Jeremy to sit down, but he shook his head, instead standing with his arms crossed and staring at Madison as if he was daring her to lie.

But Madison wouldn’t look at him. “I don’t remember, Erin,” she sighed, as if I was bothering her with boring kid stuff. “I had a lot going on last night.”

“Funny, I remember talking to you,” Jeremy said smoothly. “And you told me Erin was sick.”

Madison gave me a meaningful look. “You’re really going to take his word for anything? After all you’ve been through?”

I swear I saw smoke come out of Jeremy’s nostrils, he was that mad. “What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice sharp.

Madison finally looked Jeremy dead in the eye. “You know what that means,” she said.

As much fun as it might have been to watch Jeremy rip Madison’s hair out by the roots (because that looked like how the conversation was going), what I really wanted was the straight story on what happened the night before. “What are you saying, Madison? That you didn’t pick up my phone?”

“Maybe I did. I don’t know,” she said. “All I know was it kept vibrating and totally interrupted my business meeting.”

That tore it. The idea that my phone was somehow at fault for Madison having a less-than-perfect outing at the Ivy while I slogged home on bloody stumps that used to be feet made me want to start the hair pulling myself. “Gee, I’m sorry,” I said, every word dripping with sarcasm. “I hate to think you were inconvenienced in any way while I was dragging myself home down Robertson Boulevard and hobnobbing with the homeless.”

“You walked home from the Troubadour?” she asked. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought she was actually concerned. “You should have called me.”

I waved my phone at her. “How, exactly?”

“Okay, seriously, what’s the big deal?” Madison asked, falling back onto her bed as if Jeremy and I had been sticking bamboo under her fingernails for the last two hours. “Wires were crossed. You got some exercise.”

All of the venom I had been storing up for Jeremy came tumbling out, this time directed at Madison. “Because of you, I missed a club show with Spanish Love Songs. Because of you, my feet look like hamburger. Jeez, Madison, why would you lie to Jeremy? Why would you be so mean to me?”

Madison didn’t say anything for a long time. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Finally, she lifted her head and looked at me. “He lied to you. Over and over again. And he still comes first with you.” She paused. “The phone just kept vibrating and vibrating, and when I heard his voice, it only made me madder. I just said what was on the top of my head. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“Oh, no. She was trying to hurt me,” Jeremy said, efficiently completing Madison’s thought.

“Well, guess what? You got two for the price of one,” I snarled at Madison, who blinked at me like a frightened rabbit.

“Look, I’ll make it up to the both of you,” she said, sitting up. “I’ll buy you dinner. I’ll get you table 41 at The Ivy, the good one where you can see all the stars.”

“No, thanks,” Jeremy said. His expression hadn’t changed, but his voice was pure ice. He looked at me. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said quickly, standing up.

Madison looked at me, eyes wide and panic in her voice. “Can’t you stay for a minute? We need to talk.”

I shook my head. “They’re going to call you to the set any minute, Madison. Don’t you remember?”

Madison’s mouth gaped open and shut, fish-like, as I turned and followed Jeremy out the door.

***

Walking back to BRRB, Jeremy took my hand. “You okay?”

I nodded. I was, mostly. “I think I may just take some scripts home with me. I’m kind of wiped.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jeremy said. “But hey, we’ll do something fun this weekend, alright? Hell, I’ll take you to The Ivy if you want.”

“It’s not worth it, honestly,” I said. “And besides, we see celebrities every day at work. I’d rather grab a pizza or something.”

Jeremy squeezed my hand. “My wallet likes the way you think. Papa John’s, I got your number.”

Even the thought of being alone with Jeremy and junk food didn’t cheer me up, though. I was still trying to process what had happened, understand why Madison had hurt me so thoughtlessly. Did she really blame me for her break-up with Todd? Or was she just so mean-spirited and childish she lashed out at Jeremy, not even thinking about how it would affect me?

“I’m sorry about what happened with Madison,” Jeremy said, noticing my dark mood. “I know you two are close.”

I shrugged. I was so tired of thinking about Madison. I wanted my world to revolve around someone else for a while, namely Jeremy. “Let’s not think about it. Tell me what else we’re going to do this weekend.”

Jeremy put his arm around me. “Hmm, let’s see. How do you feel about Jenga? That’s hours of good, clean fun. Or there’s always badminton. Love that. Personally, I wouldn’t say no to a visit to the urgent care center in my neighborhood. Nothing beats that hospital smell.”

And, finally, I smiled, even laughed a little. I couldn’t wait for the school week to be over so my weekend could begin, an antidote for all the stress and nonsense I’d been through. I liked the image of Jeremy and me slumped on the sofa, watching reality TV and fighting over the last slice of pizza.

Then Jeremy leaned over and kissed me softly, his lips lingering over mine. “Or maybe we can come up with something else to do,” he whispered in my ear. “I mean, only if you want to.” An electric jolt traveled down my spine.

The sad thing was, so much had been going on in my life that the prospect of taking things to the next level with Jeremy had hardly entered my mind lately (okay, that sounds bad, but come on, I was really stressed!). Just a few weeks ago everything about our relationship had seemed like life or death. I’d practically ripped his clothes off in the Dahl House to prove my love to him (of course, that was before I found out he’d been lying to me, but I digress), then put him on ice until I’d decided to trust him again. It all seemed so long ago, so trivial.

I’d been thinking about my first time for as long as I could remember. What it would be like. Where it should happen. The man I’d choose. I’d spent more time imagining The Big Moment in my head than I had my 2nd grade birthday party when my mom actually broke down and rented a pony for me. And maybe that was the problem. I thought about it the way a little kid would, fantasizing about how everything would be perfect and how this life-altering event would magically—POOF!—turn me into an adult. Now that I was a little older, I was starting to realize that almost nothing ever lives up to the hype, whether it’s a movie or a man.

Maybe I just needed to live in the moment. Maybe I just needed to do what felt good.

I leaned into Jeremy, looked into those sea-colored eyes. I liked what I saw.

Maybe I didn’t want to spend the weekend watching television and eating pizza after all.

The only question was how far I was willing to go.

***

The instant I pulled into my driveway, I could tell something was different. For starters, my dad was home at four in the afternoon. Considering my dad is a certifiable workaholic, that was pretty weird. But it was more than that, something I couldn’t put my finger on.

“Dad? Victoria?” I called as I walked in the front door. Then I saw them. Suitcases, neatly stacked. And they weren’t my family’s luggage.

I walked through the house, dread seeping into my heart. In the living room, I found what I feared.

My dad was sitting in his recliner, and across from him on the sofa was a Korean woman in a plain housedress. It was hard to tell how old she was, but I knew she had to be at least forty. She wasn’t exactly fat, but she looked kind of flabby, with fleshy upper arms and a thick neck. This may be TMI, but she looked like she would really benefit from a good support bra. To top it all off, the woman had short, permed hair, which not only made her look like she was wearing an Afro wig but transformed her head into a perfect circle.

My new ajumma was the Pillsbury Doughlady.

“Song,” my dad said, using my Korean name, something he hadn’t done since I was a baby. “Say hello to Miss Do.” And if you’re wondering, you pronounce “Do” like, well, dough. I swear to you, I almost laughed in the woman’s face.

Instead, I saw the stern look on my dad’s face and decided I’d better play nice. “Annyonghashimnikka,” I said, bowing my head.

Miss Do nodded back, then said, “Nice to… meet you, Song,” in a thick Korean accent. Crap, she was probably always going to call me Song, which I hated. Clearly, her English sucked, and I wasn’t sure if this was a good or bad thing. Sure, it’s a pain in the butt having to consult an English to Korean dictionary to have a simple conversation, but maybe I could tell her off to her face someday without her even knowing it.

“Miss Do will help you work on your Korean,” my dad said. “And when I am not here, you will tell Miss Do where you are going, what you are doing, and who are you with anytime you leave the house. Understood?”

I nodded, and Miss Do nodded. I could already tell she was a real chatterbox. Unluckily, my dad was happy to do all the talking.

“You show Miss Do to her room. She has had a very long flight and needs to unpack.”

“Where’s her room?” As far as I knew, there were three bedrooms in the house and one person bunking in each of them. This was so not good.

“You and Victoria will be sharing a room,” my dad continued. “You sort out which room she sleeps in.”

Right then I was really glad I’d beaten Victoria home, because her room instantly became Miss Do’s. But still, I could imagine the hell that was going to break loose the minute my big sister came home. If she wasn’t already planning on moving back to the dorms, she’d be packing her bags in a few hours, I was sure of it.

“Right this way,” I said, gesturing for Miss Do to follow me. She smiled and nodded, and I got the impression this was exactly what most of our conversations would be like. I’d talk, and she’d smile and nod like some deaf-mute Muppet or something. So much for working on my Korean. Good times.

I opened the door to Victoria’s room, and instantly I saw Miss Do frown. She seemed to be eyeballing a framed Georgia O’Keefe poster of a big, red flower on the wall.

“You don’t like art?” I asked, completely baffled.

“Too… sexy,” Miss Do said, shaking her head.

I walked over and pulled the poster off the wall, hoping Victoria hadn’t squirreled away anything really racy, like an issue of Reader’s Digest or a Disney DVD. “Uh, the bathroom is right there,” I said, pointing down the hall as I walked out. “Nice to meet you.”

Back in my room, I quietly shut the door. A picture of a flower was too sexy for this woman? Man, having her here was going to suck and hard.

I thought about turning on my stereo but realized Miss Do probably thought anything that wasn’t classical music or church hymns was a Satan worship soundtrack. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long for a distraction. Sitting on my bed, I heard the muffled sound of the front door slamming shut. Victoria was home.

I was running out to warn her that her room was probably being sanitized and cleansed of evil spirits by our new house guest, but my reaction time was too slow. Just as I put my hand on the doorknob, I heard the familiar sounds of my dad and my sister having it out. Not something I wanted to get into the middle of.

“We don’t need a maid, Dad!” Victoria whined. “Or a babysitter! I’m an adult now!”

“You do not act like adult!” my dad barked. “Not a grown woman your mother would be proud of. You act without morals!” Then my dad started screaming in Korean. I couldn’t make it all out, but I heard one word. Maech unbu. Prostitute.

Okay, you’ve got to know my sister to know how absolutely ridiculous that is. Victoria was the good Kim sister. She did her homework, practiced her violin, helped out around the house, you name it. And of course, being a total dork, she didn’t date at all in high school. I honestly kind of suspect Michael was her first kiss, which is probably why their break-up was so devastating for her. I bet she thought that having let Michael get to first base with her, she was contractually obligated to marry him or something. I’m telling you, Victoria redefined prude for the 21st century.

“Fine! I’ll move out!” Victoria screeched. So much for the muffled voices. “I’ll pay my own way and you won’t have to worry about me ever again!”

“I do not allow it!” my dad hollered back. “You must respect your family!”

“If you respected me, you wouldn’t call me a whore!” Victoria shouted back.

I was so absorbed in listening to the fight, I didn’t even realize that I’d been opening my bedroom door wider and wider, inching a little further into the hallway every time the screaming intensified. So, I was a little startled when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

There was Miss Do, sticking her nose out of Victoria’s bedroom door, eavesdropping right along with me. Judging from the look on her face, even with her bad Berlitz grasp of English she was well aware of what my dad and sister were fighting about.

She jumped a little when she saw me staring at her, quickly scuttling back into her bedroom and shutting the door like a timid hermit crab.

I was wondering why the fighting had stopped when I heard footsteps pounding down the hallway. I shut the door fast, but I wished I had backed away because within seconds BOOM! I got smacked in the face with the doorknob. Victoria came barreling into my room, her face flushed with anger.

“Ow!” I shouted, rubbing my forehead.

“Is that woman in there?” Victoria shrieked, pointing towards the wall between our two bedrooms. “With my stuff? She’s probably touching my clothes. Some smelly Korean maid who reeks of garlic! Great!”

“She can hear you, you know,” I said. “And you don’t have to be racist. You’re Korean, too.” I never like mentioning this, but sometimes non-Koreans say really traditional Korean people smell funny because they eat so much kimchi and garlic. The funny thing is, I actually read that Asian people have fewer sweat glands than other races, so most of us don’t have body odor at all. And I’ve heard that in Korea, everyone there says Western people (like, Americans) stink. The thing is, more than race or anything else, your (ahem) aroma is a reflection of what you eat, not the color of your skin or the shape of your eyes. And I hadn’t noticed anything particularly stinky about Miss Do.

“I’m not Korean like SHE is!” Victoria spat. “She’s probably one of those subservient, cow-like women who think you’re a slut if you date white boys or speak without permission. I mean, am I wrong here?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, though I suspected my sister was on to something. When she was alive, Mom was always telling us stories about what Korea was like. Girls were modest and obedient, and women always wore skirts and not pants. She said that people were really old-fashioned compared to Americans. Sometimes she made it sound like a good thing, sometimes not. Not that Victoria and I had any experience of our own to draw on. The last time we’d been to Korea I think Victoria wasn’t even in first grade yet. So yeah, not a lot of memories there.

Victoria sighed and sat on the floor cross-legged opposite from me. “So, what’s she like, anyway?” she grumbled in a low voice.

“I think I have a nickname for her,” I whispered.

Victoria’s eyes lit up. “Do tell.”

“Two words. Pillsbury. Doughlady.”

Victoria burst into gales of laughter, falling onto her side and banging her palm against the floor. “What, is she puffy?” she howled.

“Shhhh!” But I was laughing, too. It felt good to find some humor in this rotten turn of events, even if it was at Miss Do’s expense. I really hoped Victoria didn’t move out, because no one else was going to find this nightmare as entertaining as she did.

“Tell me everything.”

Even though I tried to keep my voice down, Victoria and I kept bursting into giggles as I described Miss Do’s cheap cotton dress, her orthopedic shoes, her awful Little Orphan Annie hair. By the time I’d informed my sister that her harmless flower poster was borderline porn, we were both wheezing, tears streaming down our faces.

“She did NOT!” Victoria panted. “That is insane!”

“I swear I did not make that up. But you should know your dirty little secret has been exposed, young lady.”

Victoria wiped her eyes. “I mean, yeah, everyone always talks about what those flowers are supposed to symbolize, but it’s not like they’re graphic or anything.”

I stopped laughing, confused. “What?”

Victoria smirked. “Oh, come on. You know.” She whispered the answer in my ear, and I felt my face flush red as the flower in the poster. “Haven’t you ever taken art history?”

I’d definitely taken art history, but trust me, Mrs. Murray never covered that. “So, you’re telling me Miss Do was right all along?”

“Sure, if a banana isn’t always a banana and you go through life trying to find reasons to be offended,” Victoria said, no longer smiling. “I almost hate to move out, only because you’re going to be stuck here by yourself.”

I was actually kind of touched that Victoria said that, and was going to tell her so, when the door to my room swung open again. “Why all this laughing?” my father demanded. “Time for homework and practice.”

I peeked behind Dad and saw Miss Do standing there, her tiny mouth pressed into a thin line, her eyes dark.

“We were just talking,” Victoria huffed.

“About Miss Do?” My dad wasn’t asking. I knew we’d been a little loud, but I doubt he had heard anything all the way in the living room. Miss Do must have ratted us out.

“I don’t recall,” Victoria said coolly, but I could tell she was sending death rays of pure hate in Miss Do’s direction.

“You do not be disrespectful to our guest,” my dad continued. “Do not act like spoiled children. You are shameful to me when you do these things.”

Dad shut the door, and I listened to two sets of footsteps walk away, two voices quietly whispering in Korean. Victoria and I sat in miserable silence. I’m sure both of us were thinking about our new, restrictive lives with the Babysitter from Hell.

“Do you remember when Dad was cool?” Victoria asked.

I did. It seemed like we’d had this brief window of opportunity with my father. Growing up, he’d always been kind of distant. He worked a lot, and when he came home he was usually too tired to play with us or read us stories. Mostly, he just yelled at us if he noticed us at all. Sit up straight, don’t run in the house, that sort of thing.

I think he was secretly a little disappointed he’d had two girls and no boys. I’d even been given a boy’s name (Song means destined in Korean). My mom used to tell me this story about how she and Dad had been so sure I’d be a boy they picked the name the night she found out she was pregnant, then couldn’t bear to give it up even after they found out I was a girl. Mom said Dad was always outnumbered in the house, and I guess it was true. He was on his own team, all alone.

It only got worse after Mom died. Dad fell into this awful downward spiral, but I think we all did to some degree or another. It was only after Victoria and I had given up on the guy that he snapped out of it. The good news was that he emerged different in a good way, like he’d had a personality transplant. Hell, he went to Vegas with us and got all choked up about seeing Celine Dion. The tabloids called him Madison’s secret lover and he laughed it off. He was, just like Victoria said, cool.

And now, he so wasn’t.

“Do you think he’ll snap out of it? The whole dictator-dad routine?” I asked.

Victoria shook her head. “I want to think so. But I don’t know, Erin. I really don’t.”

I wanted to suggest we go drown our troubles in double cheeseburgers, but then I remembered that Miss Do was watching our every move. Junk food was probably another sign we were wanton Westerners who’d forgotten our Korean heritage.

I heard a loud gurgling noise, which I guessed was Victoria’s stomach. She clutched her stomach and smiled at me. “All I can say is, if she’s going to ruin our lives, at least I hope she can cook.”

***

At school the next day, I turned off my phone after first period. Madison, apparently forgetting that most teachers frown on students taking calls or text messaging in the middle of class, wouldn’t stop pestering me. The funny thing was, I could almost (almost, mind you) sympathize with what she had said about my cell phone driving her crazy. Even on vibrate, it still made a buzzing noise at the bottom of my purse, which no one else may have heard but sure as hell distracted me from any kind of learning. It didn’t help that I was woefully un-caffeinated. When I got up that morning, Miss Do had informed me that I was too young to drink coffee because it would stunt my growth. To which I wanted to say, that’s what high heels are for, but didn’t.

Anyway, Madison could’ve kept calling me every ten minutes for the rest of the day for all I cared. I was still ticked at her, and the non-stop phone assault wasn’t doing much for my mood or my java jones. And truth told, neither was Jenna. Damn, that girl could be loud.

“Erin!” she squealed from across the parking lot when I pulled in. “Did you tell him off? Talk, talk, talk!”

“Any interest in skipping class and getting a latte?” I groaned, only half-joking.

“Spill and I’ll consider it.”

“Okay, fine, fine,” I griped. My head was pounding like a Foo Fighters drum solo, so I gave Jenna the greatest hits. I quickly explained how Madison, not Jeremy, had been the real evildoer in last night’s debacle.

“That’s so messed up,” Jenna said. “When exactly did Madison become a giant bitch? Oh wait, yeah, like two years ago. Seriously, I know she’s your best friend but maybe it’s time to cut the cord.”

“Like you have with Kelly?” As the words came out of my mouth, I knew instantly that they sounded harsh. “I didn’t mean that.”

Jenna shook her head briskly, as if trying to shoo away a fly or a bad thought. “We’re not talking about Kelly; we’re talking about Madison. And Madison, God. I know you love her, and I love her, too. But she puts the B in bitch.” She paused, chewing her black-lipsticked lip. “You know what it is? She doesn’t have empathy.”

“Your mom still has you in therapy, doesn’t she?”

“Of course. But you see what I’m saying, right? Everything’s about her, and now that she’s a big star, no one’s telling her any different. Not even us.”

“You’re making her sound like she eats souls for breakfast, Jenna. She’s still basically a good person. You know she is.” Don’t ask me why I was coming to Madison’s defense considering I still wanted to pop her one. Blame the coffee deprivation. “Forget Madison for a second. If you want evil, I’ve got a new wicked stepmother.”

I described the Pillsbury Doughlady to Jenna and how Victoria and I were currently living under virtual house arrest.

Jenna whistled low under her breath. “Could your life suck more? Wait, maybe we need to check the news to see if a tornado’s touching down on your house.”

“It gets worse. I was supposed to hang out with Jeremy this weekend.”

“Which isn’t happening now.”

“Unless I convince my dad I’m studying for a big test at your house.” I shot Jenna a meaningful look.

“No sweat. I’ll tell my mom we’re out shopping together or something,” Jenna shrugged.

Suddenly, my future wasn’t looking like twenty years of hard time. “If I didn’t feel like my brain might explode every time I move my head, I’d totally hug you right now.”

“You know, I’d think about having that checked out,” Jenna said, giving me a serious look. “With your luck, it’s a brain tumor.”

***

All I could imagine was that there had been an accident, because traffic was beyond insane after school. I found myself inching along Sunset Boulevard, wall-to-wall cars in every direction. And once I had exhausted all of my playlists, skipped through some podcasts, practiced deep breathing exercises, and made a mental list of all of my homework assignments, I was officially teetering on the brink of crazy. Not because I was frustrated, but because I was sorta scared.

If there was a wreck, I didn’t want to see it. To some people, car accidents are inconvenient. To me, they’re a whole lot worse. The sight of a crunched-up car gives me nightmares for weeks. And in my dreams, my mom is the one they’re taking away in an ambulance.

After half an hour, during which I think I’d gone less than a mile, I turned on my phone. It probably wasn’t safe to read the pile of text messages, even in turtle traffic, but listening to Madison’s whiny messages seemed like a safe distraction.

“You have twenty-two messages,” the pre-recorded voice mail lady said pleasantly.

Message number one: “Erin, please call me back. I’m feeling kind of bad about things. It’s Madison. Okay, bye.”

Message number two: “I’ve got some down time before they call me to the set, and I thought we could talk. Oh, wait, maybe you’re in class already. Anyway, just call me. It’s Madison.”

Message number five: “Don’t you ever check your messages? Seriously, Erin, you’re weirding me out here. Just call me back. Don’t take this so seriously, okay? I’m sorry about your feet and stuff. Okay. Fine. Just, like, call me back.”

Message number twelve: “Erin, I get that you’re mad. I guess I’d be mad, too. But I made a mistake. I’ll admit it, I was pissed off that Jeremy kept calling and I was pissed you left to be with him, and… I didn’t think it through, okay? My bad. I’m sorry. Okay, call me back.”

Message number eighteen: “Why aren’t you calling me? Erin, I’m really, really sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I swear. I was an asshole; I totally get that. I’m bad, and selfish, and spoiled, and I’m not even a good friend, and I was jealous you still had a boyfriend, and I didn’t. But now I don’t even know if I still have a best friend. I’m, like, totally alone in the world right now, Erin. I don’t have anybody. And I… I miss Todd. I shouldn’t, but I do. Maybe we shouldn’t have broken up. Oh, God. Please, Er…” A long beep cut her off.

I hung up before I heard messages nineteen and twenty. I could hear Madison crying in message eighteen, and I could imagine the rest.

For years, people have been asking me why I put up with Madison. It’s a question that’s posed in hushed tones with a knowing look, one that tells me they secretly think Madison is a diva or a brat in need of a spanking. Sometimes, when they’ve told me their Madison horror stories, I can’t blame them for loathing her. They look at me and can’t figure out why, now that I don’t need her to open doors in Hollywood anymore, I bother with her at all. What could possibly be the point?

I can’t explain it to them, not in a way they can understand. When they look at Madison, they don’t see what I see. To them, she’s the poor little rich girl who doesn’t appreciate all she has. They didn’t know Madison when she was a buck-toothed kid in a cartoon duck sweater, when her heart had been broken by the one co-star she couldn’t get, when she’d had no choice but to cut off her money-grubbing mom. They don’t know what she’d been through. Not that that’s an excuse for anything, but still.

But what ties Madison and I together isn’t history, though we have a lot of that. It’s that, despite her selfishness, despite the mean little things she’s done, I know at heart she’s a good person. And even though she doesn’t always like to admit it, she knows when she’s screwed up. Hey, maybe I’ve bought into the Madison Dahl, Superstar persona, too. But whenever she falls from grace, I’m always rooting for her to pick herself up. I know that shy kid in the headgear is still in there, somewhere, no matter how deep she’s buried.

I called Madison back.

The phone picked up almost before it had had a chance to ring. “Hello?” Madison said, her voice shaky and nervous.

“It’s me,” I said. I didn’t speak, waiting for my apology.

“Oh my God, I’ve been trying to call you all day! Where have you been? Did you get my messages?”

“Yeah, Madison, look—”

“So, do you want to go?”

“What?” Maybe I should have listened to the last two messages after all.

“So you got them, but you didn’t listen to them.”

“My voice mail cut off after the first fifteen,” I lied. “Did I miss something?”

“One of the producers of ‘Family Style’ has a musical going up on Broadway, and it opens next weekend,” Madison explained. “And he said he’d fly me and Clive and a bunch of the rest of the cast up to see it. I mean, what he really wants us to do is walk the red carpet so the media will come out, but so what? And he said I could bring a friend.”

I stared at the sea of red taillights snaking in front of me, warning me to stop. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go to a Broadway show, especially since I’d never been to New York. But free tickets and a voice mail sobfest weren’t my idea of begging for forgiveness, and I needed a little of that. “Madison, that’s great, but we have to talk.”

“The show sounds really cool,” Madison said in a small voice.

“I’m sure it is,” I said, trying to be patient but feeling like I was talking to a six-year-old who couldn’t stop repeating the same mistake. “But you can’t screw me over or scream at me or whatever and then say, hey, I bet a car or a cell phone or a trip to New York will make everything better.”

“Oh.” She only said one word, but somehow I could tell Madison was bracing herself for bad news.

“I don’t want gifts, Madison. I want you to treat me with respect. And if you can’t do that, we might as well not hang out with one another anymore.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “You don’t want to be friends?” I could hear the catch in Madison’s voice.

“I’m not saying that. But I am getting tired of repeating myself over and over again. And one day, you’re going to push me, and I just won’t be able to forgive you. I mean, aren’t you tired of this routine, too?”

“Okay,” Madison said meekly. “I get it. I’m really sorry, Erin.”

“Good.” I sighed, arching my back against the driver’s seat and stretching my arms towards the windshield. My butt was going numb from sitting so long. But up ahead, I could see cars picking up speed. Maybe the mysterious traffic snarl had been untangled.

“Does that mean you don’t want to go to New York?” Madison asked.

Traffic was moving, and I put both hands on the wheel. “Depends,” I said.

“On what?”

I could mention how I was under house arrest, but I didn’t. Instead, I asked the obvious. “What’s the show about?”