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flirting with other guys. “Come on, Emma. Get out. Let’s talk,” he said, finally in a calmer tone. But he’d held my arms so tightly before we left the studio, I could already see bruises forming. So I was scared to unlock the door.
    That’s when he tried to put his fist through my window.
    There was blood all over the broken glass, but I backed up and sped off again, too shocked and horrified to consider how badly he’d hurt himself. And I haven’t seen him since.
    I sometimes wonder if he’s more freaked out about what he did than I am.
    I realize I should’ve filed a restraining order, but I still can’t get past what feels like the
equal
threat of the media. Even now, tabloids would slap together whatever pieces of the puzzle they could find, filling in the missing details with pure, tantalizing fiction. They would dig up photos of me looking weepy, terrified, orboth—
poor, poor Emma
. And they would splash my face across every cover for weeks, alongside photos of Troy looking cruel and menacing. But they would likely have to pull those from acting clips, since Troy so rarely shows that side of himself in public.
    He’s always the charmer. Always the guy every girl wants.
    Exactly the type of guy I’m fooled by.
    â€œEmma,” Mom says from the doorway, making me jolt and scramble to my feet. She eyes me suspiciously. “The studio just called. Brett Crawford has a conflict with his appointment with the costume department next Monday, so he’ll be there during
your
time tomorrow morning. I just thought I should warn you.”
    What?
No way.
    â€œLet’s reschedule,” I reply. “I think I’m getting sick, and I’ll probably be worse in the morning. My hands are shaking. See?”
    They really are.
    â€œWe’ve been through this Brett thing—you’re over him, remember?” she says. “And you’ll have to meet him in a few days anyway. It might as well be tomorrow.”
    Why? So she can be there to stop me from swooning?
    I fall back onto my bed like dead weight. “It isn’t Brett,” I reply, because it isn’t, not really. I shouldn’t have read that article, a stabbing reminder that being in the “public eye” gives tabloids the legal right to share my every mistake, mishap, and humiliation with the world, for the sake of
entertainment
. “I just suddenly feel like crap.”
    â€œIll, Emma. You feel ill.”
    â€œNo, I feel
crappy
.” This is only a fitting. Costumes can work me in another time, right? “Why don’t I just swap times with Brett and go Monday when he was supposed to?”
    Mom comes over to check my forehead, like all good mommiesshould do. “You
are
a bit clammy.” Her dark brows pinch together. “But calling back after I’ve already said you’d be fine with sharing your time might make you seem high maintenance—and no one likes a diva. So I surely hope you’re not faking this.”
    I wish I was. I would rather be known as a diva than
poor, poor, Emma Taylor
, the girl whose dating life is perfect fodder for the tabloids.
    Rachel returns right then and immediately notices what my mother hadn’t. “Oh my gosh!” she says, rushing for the cover of
Celebrity Seeker
and stuffing it back into a box. “I didn’t realize
this
story was in the stack of tabloids I brought to your house. I’m so sorry!”
    I shrug and shake my head, like it doesn’t matter, and glance at my mom. I expect her to say something along the lines of “Heartbreak is
not
a legitimate reason to cancel an appointment.” But she just walks over to my box of photos, finishes unwrapping the frames while Rachel sits on the bed and tries to cheer me up, then leaves the room with a big box of toxic waste in her arms.
    â€œThanks, Mom,” I say as she shuts the door. And I mean it.
    About thirty minutes later,