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clapped. “We can look in my closet for something. I have a case of good whiskey that I smuggled over. I’ll give you a bottle.”
    I opened the glass door and set my plant on the ground. Moonlight gleamed on the petals. A chilly breeze wisped by, but the flower seemed fine. Cars passed below and even a few people traveled the sidewalks.
    “What else did he want?”
    “A date at eight tomorrow.” I closed the window.
    “I’m dressing you.”
    “Is that a question or a statement?” I shook my head.
    “Statement. I can’t trust you to dress yourself. Besides, I know what men like to see.”
    I’d met Zo at sixteen years old while sitting in the green room of the Good Morning America show. A trash can had sat in front of me. I’d vomited in it twice. The whole time, Zo sat across from me, holding a napkin to his nose and widening his eyes in fear. By the time I threw up for the last time, he’d given up and asked me what the hell my problem was.
    I’d confessed that I was nervous. He looked me up and down and admitted that I should be worried to go out in front of cameras in that outfit I’d chosen. To say my anxiety left after his announcement was a huge lie. However, he rescued me—rushing off to the show’s dressing rooms, convincing some stylist to loan him some pieces, and dressing me in time to make my first national interview ever.
    Of course, I was there to promote my book and knew they all would want to know about my dad. Zo had been there to do a segment on affordable fashions for spring.
    We both did a good job. I’d stayed after my questions to see how he did and thank him. That night we had dinner. The next day, he took me shopping, transforming my teenage closet into a fashionista’s wet dream. Though most of our communication was via emails and Facebook, he’d been my closest friend ever since and the one person to hang around when the media’s love of my book—and me—shifted to disgust and blame. When I hit eighteen, our friendship had grown even more, even though he traveled a lot. He stayed in contact when he could, and we talked through emails all the time. When he returned to New York, I was no longer a virgin or that nervous little girl. That was when the three weeks of dating from hell began and then soon ended.
    Nevertheless, after the dating fiasco, he remained a loyal friend. Even when everyone turned on me. The New York Times got harder to open in the morning, for fear of seeing more evil headlines:
    Enraged daughter slanders her father in a book
    What’s the case? Bad judge and father or the consequences of bringing up a money-grubbing brat?
    All of my high school friends had supported me when the book landed on The New York Times best-sellers list. Years later, when the bad press came out, all of those smiling girls and guys left me alone. People stopped answering my phone calls. Suddenly, everyone had something to do, and no time to be around me.
    Not Zo. He flew back to New York immediately. Trashed the newspapers that I’d been crying about and staring at for days.
    He even got a few articles and formed them into a makeshift toilet paper roll.
    “When you’re out of tissue, use this stuff to wipe your behind. It’s the first step in the Fuck Media cleansing process.”
    “You’re disgusting,” I told him.
    “Hey, this is what happens when you’re out there in the public eye. They love you one day, and then hate you the next. It’s how people sell the news. Sometimes tearing a person apart is far more entertaining than lifting them up.”
    I remember grabbing his makeshift roll and stomping into the bathroom. “Well, then let the cleansing process begin.”
    What would I ever do without Zo? I’d thought.
    “Nyomi, I know what you need to wear so don’t fight me on this.” Zo’s words brought me back to reality and his small apartment.
    “What?”
    “I’m dressing you.”
    “Okay. I’m not disagreeing. I’m just saying. I’ve been doing well since your