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been used and a long, white leather couch on the other side with a shiny metal table. To top it all off, the floor and ceiling are covered with tiny disco lights. I bet those lights change colors. I saw that once in a limousine when my aunt got married. Violet would know.
    â€œHey, Violet?” I call ahead.
    â€œBecca, are you mad at me or something?” Violet asks. “You haven’t called me by my whole name since the beginning of your first tour.”
    Forget the blinky lights—not important. Be cool, Malone!
    â€œWhat? Oh, no! Sorry, um, Vi. I think I just need some food.” I figure that’s a harmless enough excuse for acting like a nut job. Everyone gets a little crazy when they’re starving. And I am ravenous.
    â€œOh, you’re hilarious this morning,” Vi laughs. “You never eat breakfast! But if you’re hungry, I guess there’s time to grab a quick bite.” She stops and looks at me square in the eye, and I have to resist the urge to look away. “You sure you didn’t hit your head on the nightstand when you rolled out of bed?” she asks. I nod. She stares at me for another second before stepping aside and pressing her clipboard to her chest to let me off the bus. She leads me under a tent and into the biggest breakfast bonanza of my life.
    Here’s another thing about me: I live for breakfast. I could eat it for every single meal of every day. In fact, I probably average about nineteen breakfasts a week. And this place has about thirty times more food than any breakfast buffet I’ve ever seen. I think I am in heaven.
    I pick up a plate and start piling it with bacon. Then I notice the sausage. Are you kidding me? Sausage and bacon on the same day? That doesn’t happen in real life. I move on to the pastries—sticky buns (my favorite!), chocolate croissants, jelly doughnuts. And eggs—leaky ones, with the yellow ooze coming out on the sides—just the way I like them. When I get to the pancakes, there is no more space on my plate. How sad is that? I carefully lay a short stack across my meat and pour syrup over the whole mess. I firmly believe that just about anything tastes better with syrup on it. If you haven’t tried it on pork chops, you’re missing out.
    â€œO-kay, Bec,” Vi says, raising an eyebrow. “Going for the lumberjack breakfast today, are we?”
    I just shrug.
    Vi pulls a walkie-talkie from her hip. “Louisa?” she calls into it. “Becca is walking in five.”
    As in minutes? I look at my heaping plate that I can’t possibly consume in that amount of time. I do the best I can to prioritize, stuffing in a couple good mouthfuls of the most fantastic, buttery pancakes I’ve ever tasted. I grab a bite of sausage and cram it in there too, even though I haven’t swallowed the pancakes yet.
    â€œAll right then, let’s go,” Vi prods, snatching up my plate and handing it off to a guy in a white chef’s hat. Torture! The best breakfast I never got to eat.
    We walk to the far end of the tent where it’s attached to a building. Violet flashes her badge, and a security guard pushes open a giant set of double doors. We wind our way down a crazy-long hallway filled with doors, then another, and then one more. Vi stops in front of a door that looks just like all the rest and swings it open.
    I think I might faint.
    Becca’s entire band—including the kid who does flips across the stage at every concert and her three backup dancers who are also on that TV show Dance Rock USA , plus the drummer chick who has her own clothing line—are sitting around two long tables. They all look up. I smile and hold up my hand in a frozen wave like I’m pledging something really important.
    â€œHey Bec,” says this whole room full of famous people. To me. I cannot make a sound. The last time I was totally speechless was when Ricky Garfinkle’s shorts fell