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was too surreal to absorb.
    My dad is a movie star. My dad is a movie star.
    Molly had repeated this to herself five hundred times since she’d found out, and it still hadn’t sunk in yet. Maybe number
     five hundred one would be the charm.
    My dad is a movie star.
    Nope.
    Shaking her head, Molly hopped up and hauled her dilapidated avocado green suitcase onto the bed. If she didn’t hurry up and
     throw some stuff into it, she’d be boarding the plane to L.A. without any luggage and probably ring some kind of alarm with
     the feds. A long-lost daughter on the No-Fly List sounded like a twist worthy of one of Brick’s movies.
    She began rooting through her dresser for things to pack that wouldn’t get her crucified in Los Angeles. Compared with all
     the über-trendy people she’d seen on
90210
episodes, who looked ripped out of the pages of
Lucky
, all Molly’s favorite stuff suddenly seemed tatty and plain.
    “I have no idea how to do this,” Molly said, blowing out her cheeks. “Are running shoes even legal in Los Angeles?”
    “They must be. I just read in
Hey!
that Jennifer Lopez is starting a sneaker line called Flan, where they’re all named after different desserts,” Charmaine
     said.
    “Well,
Hey!
wouldn’t lie to you.” Molly grinned at her friend. “You’re its best customer.”
    “Isn’t Fancy-Pants Private School going to make you wear a uniform, anyway? Like on
Gossip Girl
?”
    “Oh, God, I have no idea.” Molly chewed on her bottom lip. “Should I bother bringing a coat, do you think? Does L.A. even
have
seasons?”
    “Maybe Brick will buy you a whole new wardrobe,” Charmaine said, a faraway expression on her face. “That’s what he’d do in
     the movies. You’d get there and you’d have an entire closet full of Prada that fit you perfectly.”
    “Too bad this is real life.”
    Except it didn’t feel real. Seven months ago, Molly had been the daughter of a long-dead army captain she’d never known and
     a very much alive seamstress, and the only time she ever paid any attention to the celebrity rags was when Charmaine thrust
     one at her, usually accompanied by a frenzied query about whether or not Brody Jenner seemed like he would make a good starter
     husband. Now her mother was gone, and her father turned out to be a living, breathing tabloid regular with his own cologne
     at Walmart. It felt like having ten minutes to digest a ten-course meal: queasy-making and strange. (That could also describe
     Trick by Brick, which she’d snuck to the store and smelled.) Life-changing deathbed confessions happened on soap operas,not to a regular girl from West Cairo, Indiana, who ran a six-minute mile and didn’t care about her split ends.
    And change generally wasn’t Molly’s thing. She’d dated the same guy since they were old enough to panic about whether kissing
     would make their braces lock together, she’d slept in the cozy bedroom tucked under the eaves of her grandparents’ house since
     her mother brought her home from the hospital as a newborn, and she’d eaten a peanut-butter sandwich for lunch almost every
     day since she was twelve. Even her old gold shoelaces never changed, a good-luck charm she’d gotten in eighth grade and threaded
     superstitiously through every new pair of sneakers she bought. Given all that, Molly couldn’t quite believe what she was about
     to do. In fact, secretly, she felt a little impressed with herself for deciding to go live with the dude who’d just killed
     Bruce Willis in the summer’s biggest blockbuster—even if this move had been basically her mother’s dying wish. Because as
     weird as it felt to be leaving the only home she’d ever known, Molly was excited. A fresh start after months of misery sounded
     like exactly the right choice. Possibly the only choice.
    “Los Angeles is going to be so cool.” Charmaine sighed. “I wish I could jet off and live in a mansion. I’d make the
best
rich person. I’d have an