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worried about me.
    Ever since I’d gone up the beanstalk, Amy had been suspicious of EAS. Mom would’ve been too, but Gretel had enchanted her to think that I had taken a five-day-long field trip to Raleigh. Unfortunately, Amy had noticed I didn’t remember taking any of the pictures saved in my camera.
    Amy knew something about EAS didn’t add up, which made my life slightly more difficult. When Mom had first realized that she would be stuck promoting one of her films during my spring break, she’d given me a choice—visit Lena or visit my dad. It was an easy decision—spend a week hanging out with my friends, or spend a week trailing after my famous director father, stuck in boring meetings. I’d picked Lena. But Amy had spent the rest of the day asking, “Are you sure?” She’d obviously hoped I would change my mind, which—considering that she wasn’t my dad’s biggest fan—was really saying something.
    â€œNo, they didn’t throw it at me.” It took all my willpower not to wince when Mom tilted my chin and examined my eye. “Some eighth graders were playing catch, and I walked right into the baseball.” This lie came compliments of Lena. I held my breath to see if it would take.
    With a sigh, Mom steered me into the kitchen. “You are so accident-prone, Rory.”
    Lena’s lie had worked. I hid a smile as Mom guided me through the swinging door and straight to the kitchen table.
    Amy scurried around unpacked boxes to grab ice out of the freezer. “I have a dream, kid. Of picking you up in your cleats andyour shin guards and you telling me all about soccer practice, free of black eyes and other mysterious bruises.”
    â€œThey had tryouts two weeks before I got here. It wouldn’t be fair if I walked on,” I reminded her. Our crazy moving schedule gave me a lot of excuses. I pulled out my homework, hoping that would end all discussion about injuries.
    Amy passed me ice wrapped in a kitchen towel. “You have three different options, but I’m afraid I couldn’t find any stylists you’ve seen before. Do you want to try someone new, or do you want me to keep calling around?”
    At first I thought she meant a stylist for me. I didn’t need a haircut, except possibly long bangs to cover my black eye.
    Mom sighed. “Let’s keep looking. I would normally be okay with someone new, but I have too many interviews. . . .”
    Oh. They had completely changed the subject. I was never this lucky. Usually, I had to spend half an hour reassuring Mom I was fine.
    â€œWait. What happened?” I asked. Mom’s hair looked completely normal to me—short, blond, and full of weird tufts.
    â€œMaggie’s on-set stylist found some gray hair this morning.” From the look on Mom’s face you would have guessed that Amy had said that my mother had a poison-ivy rash in underwear territory or something equally embarrassing. Amy didn’t notice.
    My mom was an actress, kind of a big-deal one. She was only in her mid-thirties, but if she looked too old, it limited the kinds of roles she could get. I’d overheard her and Amy discussing it the week before.
    Mom changed the subject. “Have you packed yet?”
    â€œUm, kind of,” I said. “I just need to put everything in a suitcase.”
    â€œGood. That means you still have room for these.” Amy patteda shoe box I hadn’t noticed. The designer’s name seemed vaguely familiar.
    Mom scooted the box toward me with a too-bright smile. “I got you something for your trip.”
    Not sure what to expect, I lifted the lid. Inside lay . . . shoes. They were very pretty, made with poppy-colored silk, stitched all over with golden beads. Each shoe probably cost over a hundred dollars. Any of the girls at school would have killed for them. Maybe have killed me for them.
    â€œThanks.” I wondered if