"You said friends, not guys." My father's eyes twinkle as he pretends to scold me. It's weird. Why isn't he on the verge of going ballistic?

"It was Triple Cross. The band. Their a.s.sistant called and invited me out to dinner, so I went with Marissa and Brandy and I was talking to Zach Wechsler in his room when I fell asleep."

"That sounds like a wild night," says Jen. She doesn't look all that angry either. The two of them smile at me as if this is all some kind of joke.

That is messed up.

"How am I not grounded right now?" I say.

"You didn't lie to us," says my father. "If we wanted to know every single last person you were out with, we should have asked. You let us know your phone might die. If we'd wanted you home right at midnight, we knew we could have called Marissa or Brandy."

"I still did something dumb."

"Mistakes happen," says Jen. "And that's a pretty funny one, if you think about it."

"Why do you guys believe me?"

"Because you tell us the truth these days." Jen puts her empty coffee mug down and shrugs. "It's not like we were lying when we said that if you only would tell us the truth, we'd cut you more slack."

"And you're eighteen," my father says. "So legally, you can be out as late as you want."

This is totally and completely bizarre. I am not the kind of person adults trust, especially not my own parents. I've done so many stupid things that it's a wonder they haven't locked me in a tower somewhere.

"Kyra," says Jen, "are you actually mad at us for not reaming you out?" She starts to laugh.

"It's weird," I insist.

"It's the new normal, sweetie," says my father. He spreads some jam on his toast, gives me a peck on the forehead, hugs Jen, and then heads for the back door.

And just like that, my face-off with them is over. n.o.body screamed. n.o.body cried. It's just weird.

LATER THAT afternoon, after a long morning nap, my phone rings with a number I don't recognize. "h.e.l.lo?" I answer it. I hold it to my ear with one hand and clutch the handle of the refrigerator door with the other. I'm starving, as I didn't eat breakfast or lunch.

"Hey." It's a male voice.

"Um... hi?"

"How're you?"

"Sorry, but who is this?"

"It's Ben."

"Yeah, what do you want?" I jibe. Because this is totally how I talk to rocker s.e.x G.o.ds. Apparently.

"h.e.l.lo to you too."

"Thanks for walking me to my car last night."

"You're welcome. And now you have my number. If you ever need it."

"Right," I say. Surely this is a joke.

"Later."

"Later." I hang up. I really need more caffeine. I have no idea what just happened there.

However...something occured to me. I dive for the caller ID box next to our landline. My call from late last night is logged-with Zach's phone number.

The etiquette in this situation is to delete the call record and leave it at that, but instead I copy the number into my phone under the name "Brad Sego," my lab partner in ninth grade chemistry. I suggested doing this for Jason, but he always shot me down, no matter how amusing the names were I came up with. He still doesn't trust me because he has a memory, unlike my parents.

I delete the number from the caller ID and slip my phone into my pocket. I know better than to use it. Really, I do.

I should not be taking my phone back out of my pocket and bringing up Zach's number, and I should definitely not open up a text message to him. This is not allowed. I'm breaking the cardinal rules of celebrity. Try to be "friends" with a famous person and you will get kicked to the curb. They'll block your phone and you'll never get invited to do anything with them ever again. I'm an acquaintance, nothing more. Maybe that's what I want, though. It'd prevent another night like last night.

"It was nice to meet you," I type.

I hit send.

THREE HOURS later, my phone pings.

Brad Sego: It was nice to meet you too. Hope you got home all right?

A reply? I take a deep breath. He's just being friendly, which is torture.

The right thing to do is to say yes and not text again. Drop it. Let it be over.

Kyra: Yes. I'm really sorry I fell asleep on your bed.

Because I am an idiot and am having word vomit issues-even through a text interface.

I don't get a response.

Until five minutes later.

Brad Sego: I bet you were tired.

Blood rushes in my ears as I read the words Zach Wechsler typed himself just moments ago. That text is the end of a conversation. He didn't ask any questions, so that means our little back and forth is over. Those are the rules.

But...I wonder if his mother never taught him the rules. Maybe he doesn't know that girls aren't supposed to be making chitchat with him via his phone?

Why do I care, though? The whole point is to not prolong this whole "friendly" exchange. I put my phone down on my nightstand and flop back on my bed. Leave it, I think. It's over.

It feels like my phone has eyes, though, and it's staring at me. "Don't ignore me," it says. "What if he's waiting for a reply?"

He isn't, I think as I roll over and grab my phone. I'm being an idiot.

Kyra: I was, but it was rude of me to just conk out, so I'm sorry about that.

I hit send and say goodbye to any chance I ever had of really getting to know Zach Wechsler.

An hour later, there's no reply.

Two hours later, I know the conversation is over.

When I go to bed that night, it's hard to sleep. What if I hadn't sent that text?

The next morning, my phone chimes and I see another message from Zach. My heart pounds hard enough to crack my ribs as I grab my phone and turn on the screen.

Brad Sego: It was rude of me to be on the phone for two hours. I was talking to a friend of mine who's an actress about changing managers. I shouldn't be so worried about it all, but I am.

Actress means a beautiful female, and I go at once into compet.i.tive mode.

Kyra: No, I understand, really. Changing managers is like changing a tire at 70 mph. My uncle went through three when he was eighteen and his mother stopped managing him.

I type every word out except for "mph." No text speak. I hit send.

I pad into my bathroom and brush my teeth. My heart leaps as my phone chimes again.

Brad Sego: Oh yeah? How did he find the right one?

Score. He took the bait. That's what he gets for letting me know he'd talk for two hours to someone about a topic.

I rinse my mouth, wipe my face on a towel, and wonder, Should I wait before I reply? Would immediate replies look desperate? Would waiting a long time look like a game? And what exactly am I doing? I force myself to take a reality check. He's being friendly, nothing more. Employing some of my old tricks isn't going to convert him into the kind of guy who'll call me for a hookup.

I go out into the kitchen, where Jen is in her bathrobe, nursing her half cup of coffee. At the sight of me, she raises her eyebrows. "You all right?"

"I'm texting with Zach Wechsler."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Do your lecture thing with Jason and Chloe." I wish Chloe still lived with us, but her house is finished and she's moved.

"What lecture thing?"

"Where you explain that famous people don't just fall for random non-famous people. Remind me that I'm no Chloe."

Jen gives me a quizzical look as she takes another sip of coffee.

"Come on," I urge her. "Tell me that Zach Wechsler isn't just going to meet me once and fall madly in love and-"

"Did you ever listen to that lecture at all?" Jen's smile looks an awful lot like a smirk.

"Yes. I'm-"

"Not just anyone. My point is, you are a Chloe. You're not just some random individual. You know a lot of people in common with celebrities. The point of my lecture was you need to be ready should there ever come a day when you date someone famous."

"No," I argue.

"Yes," she shoots back. "I dated Julian Michaels for a summer, sweetie, and I got asked out by Brad Dempsey."

"I can't date Zach Wechsler. He could have anyone."

She relents. "You probably won't, sure."

"Augh..."

"Coffee?"

"He is so hot..."

"So I hear."

"You are not too old to see it."

"Well"-she smirks again-"thanks for that. But I'm not even sure which one he is."

"The hottest one," I say.

"Oh, right. Forgive me. That one." She sets her coffee cup aside. "So what happened?"

"I totally should not have texted him, but I did, and he keeps texting back-"

Jen winces and grasps her pregnant belly.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah, they're just a little rambunctious today, and I swear, humans are not made to get this big." She pushes off the counter and waddles towards the back hall.

I watch her go and then stare at my phone for a few minutes. Zach asked how Jason found the right manager. I can't think of a good reply that leaves any kind of question open. I'm too rattled. I type, "He just tried a few until he found one," and send it. That is likely going to be the last communication I ever have with Zach Wechsler.

Half an hour later, after I've switched the name in my phone to just his first name, comes another text.

Zach: He ever have any bad ones?

My traitorous heart pounds with excitement.

Kyra: I don't know. But he and his mom talk about it sometimes, how that's one of the reasons why a lot of child stars can't transition to a full-time career as an adult. It's hard to survive the staffing change.

After I hit send, I realize I just insinuated to Zach that his career might be on the decline. Smooth, Kyra. Real smooth.

Another text shows up on my phone while I'm out for a jog, not that I've gotten all neurotic about my appearance or anything.

Zach: Yep, I think about that a lot. I wish I still spoke to my mom.

I didn't really get up early enough for a jog, though. Albuquerque is a desert and running around when the sun's overhead is a good way to get dehydrated.

When I get home, while I'm still sweaty and disgusting, I type, "It would be hard not to have anyone to talk to." Lame, is the first thought that hits me when I send it. I was clearly fishing for more attention there. I bet that ends things.