The Fame Game. Lauren Conrad

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      “That Madison Parker seems like a real Welcome Wagon type,” Natalie scoffed. “Bet she’ll greet you with a plate of brownies or maybe a Jell-O mold.” Then her tone changed to curiosity. “Do you think you guys will end up being friends?”

      “Weren’t you going to make me some more coffee?” Kate asked, nudging her roommate with her foot. She didn’t want to answer any more questions.

      The truth of the matter was, the person she really wanted to talk to was Ethan. Even though they’d broken up over a year ago, they still kept in touch. Unlike Kate, who considered her Samsung to be an extension of her body (after all, practically everyone she knew and loved was thousands of miles away), Ethan wasn’t really a phone person. But he was good with email. He liked to forward her really bad YouTube videos, like the one of the eight-year-old boy trying to channel Barry White, or the one with the high school girls absolutely murdering a Kings of Leon cover. “See?” he’d write after hearing about her latest episode of stage fright. “At least you’re not like these idiots.”

      Days ago, she’d sent him a note about Dana approaching her, but strangely, she hadn’t heard from him. She told herself that he was probably taking extra shifts at the hardware store before the school year started. She glanced over at her phone and thought about calling him. It was three hours later in Ohio—almost dinnertime. She wondered if she could catch him on the way to his favorite diner, the greasy spoon across the street from the OSU campus. Kate jumped as the phone began to buzz and vibrate on her nightstand.

      Speak of the devil: It was Ethan Connor himself. Maybe this, too, was a sign, she thought. A good one.

      “Hey, you,” she said, suddenly feeling better. “What’s up?”

      “Not much, Little Miss Hollywood,” Ethan said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

      “Oh, please,” Kate said, flushing.

      “Seriously—what’s this thing you might do? A reality TV show? That’s crazy, Kate!”

      “Not might do,” she corrected. “Am doing. It’s called The Fame Game.”

      “Weeeellll, holy shit, child,” he said, faking a Midwestern country drawl. “Little Kate Hayes done growed up to be a big television star.”

      She laughed. “Maybe. I mean, who knows if it’ll work out. I haven’t filmed anything yet. Maybe they’ll decide I’m too boring and they’ll fire me and hire some other singer.”

      “Hey, don’t start putting yourself down,” Ethan said. “Remember? Confidence is the name of the game.”

      Kate laughed again. Between Ethan and her sister, the sports metaphors just kept on coming. She tucked the phone against her shoulder as she gazed out her window, which overlooked the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour Walgreens. (At least she wouldn’t miss the view from here.) She gave Ethan the lowdown on the show, everything from her costars to her own hopes to record an album on PopTV’s dime. Then she sighed. “I mean, it’s so great. But it’s all pretty overwhelming, you know? One second you’re grinding coffee beans, and next you’re signing a contract to be on national television.”

      “Oh, you’re going to be fine,” Ethan assured her. “You’re just going to have to work to stand out.”

      “What do you mean?” Kate asked, watching a homeless guy trying to steal a shopping cart from the parking lot.

      “Well, your costars sound like pretty glitzy ladies,” Ethan said. “They’re used to the spotlight. They’re not going to want to share it.”

      “Well, I’m sure—”

      “Maybe you should start playing up your rock ’n’ roll side,” Ethan went on. “Get some tattoos. Consider a facial piercing or two. Maybe you could dye your hair black, with, like, a pink stripe or something.”

      Kate rubbed her temples. “Um—I think they sort of liked—”

      “And be prepared to wear super-tight pants. And slutty shoes—”

      “Ethan!” Kate exclaimed. “You’re kind of freaking me out.”

      Then came Ethan’s deep, familiar laugh. It reminded her of high school: of football games and study hall and cafeteria food and everything else, good and bad, she’d left behind.

      “Oh, Kat,” he said, using his old pet name for her. “I’m just trying to help. I mean, out of all the singer-songwriters in Los Angeles, they picked you. You don’t want to disappoint them.”

      “Uh, no, no, you’re right,” she stammered, tamping down the familiar feeling that Ethan’s help sometimes seemed like an insult. “Of course.”

      Natalie tapped her on the shoulder and held out a mug of steaming coffee. She took it gratefully. “Well, I should go. I have to finish packing.”

      “Don’t forget about me when you’re super-rich and famous,” Ethan joked.

      “I won’t,” she assured him.

      And she wouldn’t. But as she hung up the phone, she couldn’t help but admit that talking to Ethan had not been the reassuring experience she’d hoped it would be. In fact, it had been the opposite.

      “Everything okay?” Natalie asked. “Did I put enough milk in it?”

      Kate smiled at her soon-to-be-former roommate. “It’s perfect,” she said, taking a grateful sip. “Maybe you should take over my old job at Coffee Bean.”

      “Oh, I’m way too surly for customer service,” Natalie said, flopping back down on the bed. “I only wait on people I like.” She stuck her bare feet up on the yellow wall. “What’s your new life going to be like? I wonder,” she said thoughtfully. “Will I be able to tell by watching you on TV? Or is that going to be just some trick—some PopTV version of reality?”

      Kate shrugged. “I honestly have no idea,” she said. “All I know is that I’m due at Park Towers in two hours and I am totally screwed. Look at this mess.”

      Natalie popped up, and her eyes took in the piles of clothes and bedding still scattered around the room. “I’ll help,” she said. “For real this time.”

      “Thanks,” Kate said, wishing she had more of Natalie’s practicality and levelheadedness, not to mention her uncanny ability to fit fifty songbooks into a box that looked as if it should hold about five.

      Fueled by caffeine and Natalie’s assistance, Kate finished packing without having a nervous breakdown. With half an hour to spare, she loaded Lucinda, her guitar (named after one of her idols, Lucinda Williams), into the back of her trusty Saab and slammed the door. She gave one last glance at the yellowing stucco walls of her apartment building and one last wave to Natalie, who was leaning out the window blowing kisses. And then she got into the car and slowly drove away, watching the Selva Vista Apartments, which she’d called home for a year, fade in her rearview mirror.

      

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