Page 5 of She's the Star

I wish my parents were still here. They stayed with me for just over five months after Maddy was born. My mother gave me as much guidance as she could, but neither she nor my father want to spend the rest of their lives surrounded by my fame, let alone join me on tour. I thanked them profusely for their help and convinced them I had everything under control so they could escape the fishbowl that is my life. Thankfully, they can’t see me now.

Since crooning isn’t making a difference, I switch to a lullaby while crouching down to dig through my bag again. It’s useless, but I’m not sure what else to do.

Unsurprisingly, I still don’t find my keys.

When I realize I haven’t seen my phone, either, I rock back on my heels. I’m not even sure I brought it. I can’t seem to function without my assistant.

How pitiful.

I stand up, kick my bag, and then giggle, almost hysterically, as I imagine what would happen if the paparazzi caught photos of me now. They probably won’t. Swim class is still in session, so there’s no one around, and the only way to get to the pool is through the guarded gate at the bottom of the hill. We’re on the property of an elite school, and the head of security assured my manager that they take privacy very seriously.

The prospect of being spotted and filmed should be enough to get me to pull myself together, but it isn’t. I kick my bag again and let out an even louder bark of laughter.

Maddy pauses mid-scream, her eyebrows bunching together. I kiss her forehead and she lets out another wail.

I repeat the overly loud laugh and she halts for a second before resuming her crying.

Yep, she definitely wants me to keep going. We can compete—whoever’s the loudest wins.

How fun.

When swim class gets out, I’ll beg one of the other parents to help me. It’ll be horrifically embarrassing, but it’s a very expensive and exclusive class, so I can trust them.

Probably. Maybe.

I drop back into a squat and shift Maddy’s weight onto my thigh.

She gets a chunk of my blonde hair caught in her tiny little fist and yanks so hard that my head snaps forward. I try to pry her fingers open, but her grip is tighter than the lid on a jar of pasta sauce, and my hair is basically stuck like glue to her sweaty hands.

Just when I think things can’t get worse, a masculine voice says, “Is everything okay?”

I dip my head, letting my hair fall forward so it mostly covers my face, and turn to spot a pair of expensive-looking leather loafers a few feet away.

Great. Just great. Not only am I in the middle of a crisis, but now I’ve got a witness.

I mumble, “Everything’s fine.”

It’s probably too much to hope that he’ll believe me. Especially when evidence suggests otherwise.

“What was that?” he says, loud enough that I can hear him over Maddy’s screaming.

I drop my head even lower, desperate to avoid giving him a clear view of my face. If he recognizes me, there is absolutely nothing stopping him from taking a picture and selling it to the highest bidder.

My security team could stop him, but they aren’t here.

Because I’m an idiot.

“I can’t find my keys,” I practically shout.

“I could help you look. Or I could hold the baby while you look.”

Should I thrust my six-month-old into the arms of a stranger? Probably not.

Does that stop me? Not at all.

I rise and shove Maddy into his chest, careful to keep my hair over my face. He grunts a little as he takes her, and then, in a smooth move, shifts her so she’s facing him.

I drop back to my knees and frantically search through my bag—even though I know my keys aren’t there. Why did I bring such an enormous bag to swim lessons? And why do I keep looking inside it?

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