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houses.
    “And she absolutely loved Molly,” she says. “Of course what’s not to love? Did you see that video?”
    I glance at Molly snoring on the pull-out couch.
    “Can you believe it? Molly. Our Molly.”
    “How’d she find us?” I ask.
    “A private investigator. He asked around on the promenade, and one of the managers at one of the restaurants remembered you and pulled out your application. Simple as that.”
    Simple as that. My skin prickles, and my stomach knots—millions of strangers watching Molly, private investigators asking around about us, famous talent agents showing up uninvited on our doorstep—it feels like a punch to the solar plexus, a strange mixture of exhilaration and horror, a sickly stew of pride and violation.
    “So all you need to do is call her tomorrow to set up an appointment.”
    My head shakes, causing my mom to squint and say in a much slower voice, “What do you mean, no?”
    “Molly’s not…We’re not…I’m…We’re just normal people. We’re not…” I gesture to the frozen image of Molly on the screen. “That.”
    My mom’s face literally changes color, transforming from pale peach to so crimson I feel the heat radiating from her skin. Then she blows, “Jesus criminy Christ, Faye. Bad enough you haven’t an ounce of gumption to go out and do something with your life, but now this amazing opportunity literally lands in your lap, and you’re just going to let it slip right through your fingers. You’re just like your father. A pot of gold could have dropped from the sky with his name on it, and he’d have walked around it, complaining it was raining gold when what we really needed was a bit of rain.”

8
    I assumed the whole Monique Braxton incident was over.
    I was wrong.
    “Your appointment is at ten,” my mom says, as if our conversation two nights ago didn’t happen, and as if I’m still fourteen and she’s reminding me about an orthodontist appointment. “The card is on the table. Molly needs to go with you. I’ve made arrangements for Mrs. Owen to watch Tom while you’re gone.” Without waiting for my response, she walks out the door.
    I storm toward the table, determined to rip Monique Braxton’s card into a million little pieces and sprinkle them on my mom’s bed.
    “How do I wlook?” Molly says before I get there. She stands in the bathroom door, fully dressed, her hair pulled into two sloppy pigtails. “Gwrandma says it’s bettewr if I weawr my haiwr up so I wlook pwrofessionawl.”
    I suppress a snicker. “You look very professional.”
    Sitting at one of the kitchen chairs, I pat my lap for her to climb aboard.
    Heavy and solid, like a sack of potatoes she molds against me. I kiss her temple and breathe her in. The slightest trace of baby remains—pink flesh and Johnson’s baby shampoo. I hope she never stops using that shampoo, though I know she will. Already Tom and Emily have switched to using my Suave, still sweet but not as soft.
    “Love Bug, you want to do this? Act in a commercial?”
    She tilts her head. “Ms. Bwraxton says she wants me to dance.”
    “Oh, she did, did she? What else did Ms. Braxton say?”
    “She asked if I wlike dancing, and when I towld hewr I did, she asked if I wanted to get paid to dance, and that’s when I wreawlly said yes.”
    I smile because I know Molly is thinking about chocolate ice cream.
    “Well, then,” I say, lifting her off my lap and standing, “I guess we’d better go see Ms. Braxton about getting you a job.”
    *  *  *
    The offices of Braxton Talent Agency are sprawled across the top floor of a modern glass and steel building on the corner of Wilshire and Western. Before we left the condo, I Googled Monique Braxton and was duly impressed. She’s exactly as my mom said, a mega-mogul showbiz giant who represents hundreds of famous child stars.
    Molly and I wait in the lobby for the elevator. Standing beside us is a beefy man with no hair on his head and lots of hair everywhere