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  “They’re playing Michael Jackson because he’s one of Ethan’s biggest influences,” the girl next to me tells her friend.

  “I know. So are The Beatles.”

  “I heard he got signed for his next album, but not with Red Bedroom.”

  “It’s with some really big label.”

  “Do you know which one?”

  “No one’s posted anything about it.”

  “Maybe it was just announced.”

  They frantically check their devices.

  “Sterling!” Marisa lunges up to me, pushing her way through the girls behind us. I can feel the stink eye burning into the back of my head. “Can you believe how crowded it is?”

  Marisa and I still hang out sometimes. We’re just not as close as we used to be. I’m not really sure why we grew apart. We kind of branched off into our own separate worlds after tenth grade. But we’ll always be friends.

  “I know!” I yell back. “This is awesome!”

  Marisa and Georgia say hey. Then Marisa takes out her professional Nikon camera. Her photography skills are ridiculous. I’m so happy she’s documenting Ethan’s show. His fans are going to love these photos.

  “Have you been backstage?” Marisa asks.

  “Yeah. But we can go again after if you want.”

  “Of course I want. When else am I going to have backstage access?”

  “Maybe you’ll become a concert photographer.”

  “Only if you’ll publish a book of my photos.”

  “Done.”

  When the lights go down and the crowd screams and Ethan comes onstage, I scream louder than anyone. I want to make sure he can hear me.

  14

  [3,255,270 FOLLOWERS]

  Everyone in Far Hills leaves their doors unlocked. But now that Ethan’s getting famous, Mrs. Cross insists on locking the doors. Mr. Cross is still in denial that anyone knows who Ethan is.

  I ring Ethan’s bell. No one’s home. I try the door even though I know it’s locked. Then I sit on the front porch steps to wait for him.

  Sitting still is not my thing. Yoga isn’t helping me to be more present quickly enough. But I keep trying to focus within the confines of my own mat, as my yoga instructor says. I take out the book I’m reading. I’ve already marked two typos. I’ll email the author to let her know about them and any others I find when I finish the book. Letting authors know about typos in their books is something I started doing a few months ago. I was really surprised to hear that no one else told them about the errors. Don’t editors read the finished copies of the books they edit? Don’t authors read their own books?

  I try to focus on my book. But my mind keeps wanting to drift away from the story. I’m wondering where Ethan is. He wasn’t at school again today and he said he’d be home by now when we made plans last night. He had a lunch meeting with the big producer guy. Maybe it ran late.

  Eleven pages later, Ethan comes up the driveway bouncing a basketball. He looks so cute in his gray hoodie and basketball shorts. He smiles when he sees me.

  “Hey, beautiful.” He bends down to kiss me. “Sorry I’m late. Miles roped me into a pickup game.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “How was your day?”

  “Gross. I miss you when you’re not at school.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  I hold my arms out to him.

  “I’m all sweaty,” he says.

  “Do I look like I care?”

  He sits on the step next to me. “Better?”

  “Much.”

  “How about . . . when I do this?” Ethan wiggles his fingers near my armpit.

  “No!” I shriek. “No tickling!”

  “You sure about that? Because I heard there would be tickling.”

  I scrunch myself into a protective ball. “You heard wrong.”

  “Maybe I heard it from Steve,” Ethan says, throwing down one of our favorite Flight of the Conchords references. Jemaine and Bret diss Steve in their “Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros” video.

  “Did Steve tell you that, perchance?”

  “Steve.” Ethan gets up and bounces his basketball. “So did I miss another fascinating day of information we’ll never use again or what?”

  “Well, I don’t know about fascinating, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “It’s school.”

  “Which you used to hate.”

  “Which I don’t anymore. Now that I know what I want to do with my life.” I used to be like Ethan. Hating school. Having no interest in my grades. Doing the minimum to scrape by so I could focus on the things I loved outside of school. Then I decided I wanted to be a publisher. I realized how many doors could open for me if I started taking school seriously. I don’t want Ethan to wreck his future the way I almost wrecked mine.

  “My future is already decided.” Ethan bounces the ball in front of me. “My mom’s wearing my dad down on the whole private tutoring thing. He won’t have much of an argument when I’m on tour.”

  Ethan’s new record producer struck a deal with Red Bedroom. The new label is putting together a huge tour. In exchange, Red Bedroom agreed that Ethan and his new label will be earning a higher cut of the profits. The producer’s argument was that his label had the budget to do a major tour, which will result in way more album sales. Red Bedroom could hardly afford to cover Ethan’s travel expenses. Plus Red Bedroom’s cut of the tour revenue will be significantly higher with a larger tour. So Ethan’s first tour is going to be monumental.

  “Couldn’t you stay in school until you go on tour?”

  “What for?”

  “We’d have more time together, for one.”

  “I’m seeing you as much as I can. Things won’t be this crazy forever.”

  “You’d get an education, for another.”

  “This is . . .” Ethan gives the ball a few hard bounces. “Everything I’ve been dreaming about since I was six is finally coming true. You know how hard I’ve worked for this. I expected you to understand.”

  “I do understand. I just don’t want you to sacrifice your education.”

  “It’s not like I won’t be getting a good education. Private tutors are excellent.”

  That’s a tight argument. Maybe wanting Ethan to stay in school is selfish. But our senior year was supposed to be epic. Senior prom. The last high school parties we’ll ever go to. Graduation. Now I don’t even know if Ethan will be here for any of those things.

  We must look like typical teens to anyone watching us. Girlfriend sitting on the porch. Boyfriend bouncing a basketball. The sun dipping behind the trees, throwing orange streaks of light across them. Just your average American high school sweethearts on a fall afternoon.

  It’s amazing how what we assume about other people can be so different from the truth.

  15

  [3,617,484 FOLLOWERS]

  Ethan did two more TV appearances this week. One was for Good Morning America, which has about five million viewers a day. The other was for an afternoon talk show with about six million viewers. So now eleven million people have seen Ethan. More than eleven million, counting his fans.

  That might be why a photographer is snapping pictures of us from across the street.

  A stranger danger red flag went up when I first noticed this guy lurking. I saw him when Ethan and I came out of my place. He had been leaning against the fence of the house across from my building. When he saw us leaving, he whipped out his camera. His camera has a superlong lens. Good thing the living room blinds were closed.

  We walk to Ethan’s car. The photographer follows us, wildly snapping pictures. He even scoots in front of me on the sidewalk when we get to Ethan’s car.

  “Hey, buddy,” Ethan says in a friendly way. “Can I open the door for my girlfriend here?”

  “Sure thing, Ethan,” the guy says. He’s still snapping pictures.

  We get in the car. Ethan pulls away from the curb. I watch the guy run to his car across the s
treet.

  “You think he’s going to follow us?” Ethan says.

  The guy’s car zooms up right in back of Ethan’s. I’m surprised he didn’t hit us.

  “Hmmm,” I say. “It’s hard to tell.”

  We get to the Notch and park in the lot. As soon as we get out, the camera’s up on us again. Ethan holds my hand as we walk to the entrance. We’re both smiling. Ethan’s smiling because he’s a rock star. I’m smiling because I’m starting to really like being a rock star’s girlfriend.

  Not that it’s always good times. When Mom and I were grocery shopping last weekend, she noticed this lady following us around.

  “Isn’t that the same woman who was trying those crostini samples with us?” she whispered to me. Stalker Lady was pushing her cart a few steps behind us.

  I turned halfway around, pretending to examine the canned soups.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Why?”

  “She’s been following us for three aisles.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Mom turned to face Stalker Lady. “May we help you?”

  Stalker Lady was startled. She had no idea she’d been made.

  “I’m so sorry,” she stuttered. “I was . . . I saw Sterling when you came in. My daughter is a big fan of Ethan’s.” She looked at me. “Would you—I’m sorry to bother you like this, but I promised my daughter I’d ask for an autograph if I saw you.”

  “Oh. Um . . .” I wasn’t sure if she wanted my autograph or for me to get one from Ethan.

  “This is highly inappropriate,” Mom interjected. “Please don’t approach my daughter again.” She whisked us over to the next aisle, gripping our cart hard. Mom was clearly rattled. Obsessive behavior is one reason she’s not into pop culture. She just doesn’t understand how someone could whip themselves into such a frenzy that things like common sense and courtesy go out the window.

  The kind of attention I get in other stores and restaurants is more fun. A barista at the coffeehouse gives me free pumpkin muffins. And my mom and I always get window tables when we go out to eat. Perks like those are pretty sweet.

  “Ethan!” someone yells by the Notch entrance. “Over here!”

  A small group of paparazzi are gathered to the left of the front doors. They’re snapping pictures of us.

  “What do we do?” I ask Ethan when we get close to them.

  “We keep doing our thing. They’re not allowed to follow us in.”

  Here’s one thing I quickly realized: we don’t know where these paparazzi are from. These pictures could show up anywhere. If they take one bad picture and post it, it could haunt us forever.

  “Want to stand here for a minute so they can get some good shots?” Ethan asks.

  “Okay.”

  “Looking good, Sterling!” one of the paps yells.

  Holy crap.

  They know my name.

  They know who I am.

  This fame thing isn’t just about Ethan anymore. When I’m out with him, I’m representing him in a way no one else can. Before I was fighting change. I was sad about not seeing Ethan at school. Worried about what leaving school would do to his future. Upset that I didn’t get to see him as much as I used to. But instead of fighting change, I need to embrace change. That’s what I’ve been learning in yoga. Change is a natural part of life. It’s the only way we can grow and evolve and become stronger. Change is how we create the life we want to be living. My yoga instructor has a favorite quote about how the stiff will be broken but the flexible will prevail. I want to be a supple willow in the breeze. Not a sharp branch that snaps at the first sign of trouble.

  I stand up straighter. I remember to engage my core like we do in yoga. My face hurts from smiling.

  The paparazzi stay outside the Notch when we go in. A bunch of people who were watching them take pictures come in with us. You can tell they know who Ethan is. They’re staring at us as we head to Shake Shack. It’s weird how we can feel their cloud of nervous excitement pressing into us, but we kind of have to pretend we don’t notice them.

  Ethan is stoked by the attention. He’s doing his best not to show it, though. He doesn’t want to come off as obnoxious.

  We go into Shake Shack. A few people who were following behind us almost trip over one another. Almost everyone in Shake Shack looks up. There’s that electric vibe again. The one that sparks whenever Ethan walks into a room.

  This is only the beginning. Ethan is just starting to break out. If things are this crazy now, what will it be like when he’s insanely famous?

  16

  [4,155,903 FOLLOWERS]

  A nurse stayed with Gram for a week after she came back from the hospital. Gram wasn’t doing too well at first. But she’s feeling way better now. She’s into her usual activities of bingo, baking, and cards with her girls. She even went back to her aqua aerobics class last week. Gram’s doctor says she’s kicking some serious angioplasty butt.

  I go around to the back of Gram’s house. She’s probably in the kitchen baking cookies from Betty Crocker’s Cookie Book. She knows I love the Ultimate Spritz cookies.

  Gram sees me through her kitchen window above the sink. She waves me in.

  “Ya-hum!” I kiss her hello on the cheek. “It smells so good in here!”

  “There’s nothing like the smell of fresh-baked cookies,” Gram agrees.

  “Unless it’s fresh-baked brownies.”

  “Oooh, I just found a new recipe for triple chocolate peanut butter brownies with fudge frosting. I’ll have to try those next.”

  “Or I could just move in and you could bake them for me every day.”

  “I think you do a pretty good job of that yourself.”

  “The baking master taught me everything I know.”

  “Well. I don’t know about that.”

  “Have you seen these cookies? They look even better than the photo.” The art of the spritz cookie is a delicate dance. You have to know your way around a cookie press. You have to be precise when shaping the cookies. When you decorate spritz cookies after they bake, you have to use a drop of corn syrup to attach the sprinkles. If you’re not precise, the cookies could easily be ruined. It’s an extensive process that requires hours of dedication.

  Gram adds more sprinkles to her star-shaped cookies.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “Like a new woman. Being back in the swing of things is invigorating. I even won at bingo!”

  “Yay! How much?”

  “Thirty-nine dollars. Not a bad haul.”

  “Not bad at all.”

  I watch Gram putting the final decorations on the cookies. I take deep breaths, inhaling the warm sugary scent of my childhood. We spent so many afternoons together like this when I came over after school. Mom didn’t want me home alone before I was in high school. I would get off the bus and come over to Gram’s. She always had a special snack waiting for me, usually something baked fresh. Gram always wanted to know what was going on with me. She wasn’t asking in that typical polite way. She really wanted us to share our lives. This kitchen tells our history. So many memories I cherish the most were made between these walls.

  After the cookies are decorated, Gram gets a magazine from the breakfast table. “Look what I found.” The magazine she’s holding up isn’t just any magazine. It’s a major celeb gossip magazine. With a picture of me and Ethan from the paparazzi swarm last week.

  “How did you know about this?” I ask.

  “I told you, I’m back in the swing of things, my dear. I know everything.”

  Gram heard about the paparazzi along with everyone else in town. But I didn’t tell her which magazine the picture showed up in. Of course I was stoked when I saw it. I just don’t like the way I look. A few other pictures showed up online from the same day. What I’m wearing is cute, but it lacks that cool/comfortable/collected ensemble look every other girl on the couples pages is rocking. They seem to pull off that look effortlessly. As if everything in their closet
perfectly fits together. Meanwhile, I tried on fifteen different outfits before Ethan’s last show and still ended up hating what I was wearing. Those other girls in the magazine are all celebs. They can afford the most expensive clothes and accessories. I’ll have to find my own way to step it up.

  Gram flips the magazine open to where it’s marked with a Post-it. “Nice picture of you and Ethan.” She traces her finger over the picture.

  “I don’t really like it. That’s why I didn’t show it to you.”

  “Why don’t you like it? You two look adorable!”

  I look at the pages for the millionth time. It’s not like me to obsess over styles or hair or whatever. But those other girls are so beautiful. They’re so glamorous while I’m . . . sticking out like I don’t belong.

  “The other girls are so much prettier than me,” I say.

  “You hush with that nonsense. No one is prettier than you.”

  “Are we looking at the same pictures?”

  “You are a beautiful, intelligent, radiant girl. That’s who I’m looking at.”

  Part of me desperately wants to tell Gram about my other insecurities. About the fear of losing Ethan when he achieves insane fame. It came crashing in after those paparazzi followed us to the Notch and has been growing ever since. But I don’t want to worry Gram with the anxiety part of being Ethan’s girlfriend. She loves that he’s becoming more successful every day. She loves that I’m part of all the excitement.

  I’m beyond happy for Ethan. I should focus on the amazing parts of this ride instead of worrying about what I can’t control. Because when else will something this spectacular happen?

  17

  [4,925,770 FOLLOWERS]

  Today is one of those rare days when Ethan is actually at school. I never realized how much I used to take the simple things for granted. Like Ethan driving me to school or sitting with me at lunch or kissing me in the hall. Having Ethan next to me here at our lunch table, his arm around me while he laughs at a story Miles is telling, I can’t imagine ever taking those things for granted again.