lifted his wineglass. “A toast to my amazing wife and daughter. May they remain forever beautiful and never grow tired of me.”
Carmen giggled—it was the same thing he said every Friday night. She raised her glass of Perrier. “And to Philip Alan Curtis, beloved husband and father. May he one day manage to come up with a new toast.”
As they ate, they bantered lightly about music (what exactly was the difference between speed metal and grindcore?) and sports (were the Lakers going to take the championship this year?). But Carmen, uncharacteristically, said little. She was waiting for the right moment to talk to her dad again about The Fame Game. The last time she’d brought it up, the conversation hadn’t gone well, and back then it was only a possibility. Now it was a done deal. Her mother had made her promise to tell him at dinner.
What her dad didn’t seem to fully comprehend for some reason was that Carmen’s life had always been in the spotlight. Heck, she’d been on the cover of Us Weekly when she was in utero (Crooner Cassandra’s Baby Bump!), and her toddler outfits had been the subject of gallons of tabloid ink (Baby CC: The World’s Littlest Fashionista?). The way Carmen saw it, the PopTV show was an opportunity to step into the limelight on her own terms. The cameras would film her because she wanted them to, not because they were manned by guys from TMZ who were itching to catch her stumbling drunkenly out of a nightclub or flashing her thong, or lack thereof, as she exited a car. Her entire life had been narrated by the media and she had had so little say. This was a chance for her to show people who she really was.
Trevor Lord’s reality series would prove to the world that Carmen wasn’t just another celebuspawn. She was a real person with real feelings, and she was an actress—and she’d have been an actress no matter who her parents were.
Carmen cleared her throat. It probably wasn’t the right moment, but maybe there was no such thing as a right moment for a conversation like this. She took a careful sip of her water. “So, remember that thing I told you about, Daddy?” she asked. “The opportunity my agent got approached with?”
Drew stifled a laugh, and Carmen kicked him under the table. Drew thought that Carmen was “above” reality TV and that “opportunity” was a euphemism for “bad idea.” She’d never been able to get him to watch L.A. Candy, so maybe it was understandable that he didn’t see the appeal of The Fame Game. Still, he’d come around to the idea eventually, though he knew her dad wouldn’t be on board.
“Tell me it wasn’t another Playboy request,” Philip half hollered. “I’ll kill Hef with my bare hands if they ask you to be naked in that magazine one more time.”
Carmen flushed. “Ick!” she said. “No, the offer from PopTV.”
“You mean PopTV Films,” Philip said.
Carmen’s stomach fluttered. Had he really forgotten the conversation they had had about it just last week? Or was he trying to pretend that it hadn’t happened? “No, Daddy,” she said. “PopTV. You know, Trevor Lord’s new show?”
Philip’s brows furrowed gently. “Trevor Lord? Why does that name sound familiar?” he asked.
“He produced L.A. Candy,” Carmen told him. (For the second time.)
“The reality show?” He said “reality show” as if they were dirty words. Kind of like Drew had when she’d first told him.
Carmen glanced through the spray of lilies at Drew. His green eyes were full of sympathy already. He just wanted what was best for her. (And sometimes Carmen couldn’t help but wonder if he simply wanted her. There had been a few moments in the last month or so—some extra-long hugs, a bit of hand holding, and one awkward, sweet kiss . . . But now wasn’t the time to think about that.) She smiled at Drew and looked back at her father.
Before Carm could respond to him, though, Philip’s cell phone buzzed and he slipped it from his pocket. He glanced at the screen and looked apologetically at Cassandra. “I have to take this.”
“The music business is twenty-four/seven.” Cassandra rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and smiled.
“Well,” Carmen said when her dad had left the room, “so far so good.”
“You think?” her mother replied.
“I was being sarcastic.”
“Give him a chance,” Cassandra said gently. “Believe it or not, he does trust you.”
Drew reached out and moved the flowers to the antique credenza behind him. “There,” he said, “now I can see the future star of The Fame Game.”
“Seriously, you guys,” Carmen said. “You have to help me out on this one. Be, like, supportive.” Help me show the world I’m not Little CC anymore, she thought but didn’t say.
In a moment, Philip returned to the table. As he tucked his phone back into his pocket, Cassandra shot him a pointed look.
Philip smiled at his only daughter. “Carm? You were saying something about PopTV?”
Carmen took a deep breath and began. Again. “Trevor Lord is doing a show about people trying to make it in Hollywood. He said he needed a talented actress, and that I was his first and only choice. He said the network probably wouldn’t even pick up the show unless I agreed to do it.” She’d felt a rush of pride when her new manager (her dad made her get a manager after she got cast in The Long and Winding Road) told her that part. She knew it probably wasn’t true; she’d seen her father stretch the truth before, hadn’t she? That’s just how it went in Hollywood. You told people what they needed to hear so they’d do what you wanted them to do. “Daddy, I said I’d take the part and I really want you to be happy for me.”
“But why on earth do you want to do a reality show?” Philip looked genuinely perplexed. He exchanged another unreadable glance with Cassandra. “Those girls have no values. No talent! You’re not like them. You’re an actress.”
“I told you,” she said, feeling herself getting upset, “it’s not like that.” She hated when her father used his I’m disappointed in you tone. “It’s about people trying to become successful doing what they love. It’s a good opportunity.” Carmen twisted her watch around her wrist.
“For what? To go to clubs and get in fistfights?”
“That’s Jersey Shore,” Drew clarified helpfully. “This will be more like catfights—open-handed combat, drinks thrown. . . . It’s completely different.”
Carmen kicked him again. “Not helping!” She turned to her dad. “There aren’t going to be any fistfights or catfights. It’s going to be about the business and how hard it is to make it—in my case, even when your parents are, y’know, you guys.”
“Famous,” Drew added, as if that were necessary. Carmen contemplated kicking him again but decided against it. It didn’t seem to make a difference.
“Are ‘us guys’ going to have to be on this show?” her dad asked. “A Very Special Meet the Curtises episode?” He was joking, but Carmen could tell he wasn’t into the idea at all.
“If they need that, they can just splice in scenes from the brilliant, amazing Cassandra’s Back documentary,” her mom offered teasingly. (Every time she mentioned the title, she shrugged and turned her head over one shoulder, mimicking what she had decided was the hilarious
