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breakfast, before Tom arrived at our house. “I’m not sure Tom is getting the right impression of us as a family.”
    I was pretty sure Tom was getting
exactly
the right impression: our family was one big photo op. Once upon a time, families lived off the crops they grew on their land. Later, people began to live off what they could produce with their hands and minds. Our family seemed to live off having our pictures taken. It was as if we were some strange species from another world that would die if people didn’t see our images on TV or in the newspaper. Every time our names were read or our pictures were seen, our lives would be prolonged until the next crisis of “lack of exposure” threatened us.
    Whatever impression Tom had been getting of us, I was ecstatic that Greta was planning on inviting him to come to Washington—which made what happened next all the more enjoyable to witness.
    Guava didn’t have to be at the studio until later in the day and was seated at the round “egalitarian” table opposite me, eating a wheat-free waffle topped with strawberries and a tablespoon of whipped cream.
    “I want more whipped cream. Send it back,” Guava said imperiously.
    “Honey, we’re not at a restaurant,” Greta said. “You know we don’t want you to look pudgy on your show.” I didn’t think that Greta was being mean; she was simply talking to Guava as one actress to another. Even I knew the camera added ten pounds.
    “I’m not pudgy,” Guava protested. “Fine, then I won’t eat anything,” she snapped, pushing her plate away.
    Robert walked into the room, dressed for tennis. He played doubles on our private court with a few of his actor friends three days a week.
    “What’s going on?” Robert asked.
    “Oh, she just wants more whipped cream on her waffle,” Greta said.
    “After you wrap the show, we’ll let you have your normal ration of sweets,” Robert said firmly.
    “I’m quitting the show!” Guava screamed. “I hate you!”
    Normally at this point, I would have excused myself from the room, but since Tom and I had started writing the book, I had been trying to observe my adoptive family more objectively, and this was definitely worth observing.
    “You want more whipped cream,” Robert said sternly. “Okay. Octavia, could you bring us some more whipped cream for Guava’s waffle?”
    “Robert, what are you doing?” a worried Greta asked.
    “I’m going to give her what she wants,” Robert said, not taking his eyes off Guava, who had her arms crossed over her chest and whose mouth was in the tightest pout I’d ever seen.
    Octavia walked in with the can of whipped cream. Robert took it from her. “Thank you, Octavia.” He then walked over and stood above Guava, who reached for the whipped cream. Robert pulled it away.
    “Allow me,” he said, in a sweet but menacing tone. It was a line from one of Robert’s early movies, in which he played a psychotic serial killer. You knew that whoever he said “Allow me” to would be his next victim.
    “Robert, don’t do this,” Greta protested.
    Robert ignored Greta’s warning and added an additional dollop of whipped cream to the tiny amount already on the waffle.
    “More?”
    At once suspicious and impatient, Guava said, “Yes. Give it to me.”
    Robert jerked his hand away. He added another dollop.
    “How’s that?”
    “Give it to me. I’ll do it myself!” Guava shrieked.
    “Perhaps we’ll allow you a little more. Just this once,” Robert said. He was smiling, but I knew from experience that he was about to teach one of his children a lesson.
    Robert once again held the can of whipped cream over the waffle and pressed the nozzle, only this time he did not stop at a dollop, a tablespoon, or even a cup of whipped cream; he kept going until the entire contents of the can had been emptied onto Guava’s waffle. The huge mountain of whipped cream caused the strawberries and waffle to vanish.
    “Is that enough for you? I can