“DON’T BE MAD,” FRIDA SAID.

 

I was sitting in the makeup chair at the Stark Sound Studios. Hopefully, this dress rehearsal would go a little better than last night’s fitting and run-through.

 

Of course, dragging my little sister along with me hadn’t exactly been part of the plan.

 

“I’m just so worried about you,” she said.

 

The makeup artist was attaching the last of a set of individual faux fur eyelashes over mine. I was trying not to move for fear of being stabbed in the eye with a pair of tweezers.

 

“I didn’t know who that guy was,” Frida was saying, referring to Steven. “I thought he might have been kidnapping you or something.”

 

“This really,” I said, “isn’t a good time to talk about it.”

 

“But when can we talk about it?” Frida asked. “You wouldn’t talk about it in the cab back to Manhattan. Why can’t we talk about it here?”

 

Because, I wanted to tell her, this is Stark Central. And while the room wasn’t bugged (I’d checked), everyone—meaning Jerri—was listening.

 

Just like the cabdriver on the way back into Manhattan had been listening.

 

Besides, the less Frida knew, the safer she’d be. Of course, she didn’t know this. And if she had, she wouldn’t have agreed.

 

She was slumped on the chair behind mine, clutching the D&G backpack I’d snagged for her at the runway show I’d done for them. She looked totally miserable. She’d been looking like that all afternoon. Although I didn’t know what she had to be so bummed about. She’d got to miss out on a day of school—even better, a day of finals.

 

And then, while I’d been yelling at her about that down in Felix’s basement, Nikki’s cell phone had gone off. It had been Rebecca, telling me I was late for rehearsal—again.

 

My choice had been either to leave Frida stranded in Brooklyn (she had no money left after paying the cab to follow us out to Felix’s house) or bring her along with me. I’d tried to drop her off back at school, but she wouldn’t get out of the cab. No, Frida was sticking to me like glue.

 

Only, glue would be more pleasant.

 

“Of course I grabbed a taxi and told the driver to follow yours after you just stormed out of school like that,” she was prattling on. “He thought I was kidding. But I told him it was a matter of life or death. If that lady who was making the brownies hadn’t kept me in the kitchen talking my ear off about the fact that Nikki Howard was downstairs in her basement visiting her kid, I would have been down there a lot sooner to rescue you.”

 

“Frida,” I said with a nervous glance at Jerri, the makeup artist. “I wasn’t—”

 

“Well,” she said sullenly. “It’s not my fault you didn’t need rescuing. Or so you say.”

 

“You skipped,” I said to her reflection in the wide makeup mirror in front of me, hoping to change the subject. “Your finals.”

 

“What about you?” Frida demanded. “You skipped, too. You ran off to Brooklyn with a total stranger. I’ll admit he was cute, but—”

 

“He’s not a total stranger,” I said. “He’s Nikki’s—I mean, my brother.”

 

Frida stared at me with her mouth hanging open for a full minute before she burst out, “Your brother? But what were you doing in a Brooklyn basement with Christopher, Lulu Collins, and Nikki Howard’s brother?” She said all this just as Gabriel Luna came strolling into the dressing room.

 

Perfect timing. Of course.

 

“Sorry?” he said. “Am I interrupting anything?”

 

“Oh, hi, Gabriel,” Jerri said, the smile on her face huge. You could tell she was enjoying every moment of this, even though she had no idea what was going on, or who Frida was to Nikki Howard. She was just enjoying the fight. “Are you here for a touch-up? Have a seat.”

 

“No, thanks,” Gabriel said, looking with loathing at all her brushes and powder puffs. “It’s only a dress rehearsal.”

 

“Gabriel Luna,” Frida breathed. Her cheeks immediately burst into flame. “Um, hi!”

 

Gabriel studied her. It was obvious he recognized her. They’d met at the institute, back when he’d visited me—or, rather, Nikki—after the accident. Just who he thought she was in relation to me—we’d never exactly discussed it—remained sketchy.

 

“How are you doing?” Frida asked Gabriel, before he could say hi back. Her sisterly concern for my well-being was momentarily lost as she greeted her crush. Her room back home was papered in Gabriel Luna posters the way Felix’s basement was with Al Pacino. She Google-stalked him relentlessly on her Mac back home. “It’s been ages.”

 

“I’m fine,” Gabriel said. He turned his attention on me, in my makeup chair. “Brooklyn? Really?”

 

“It’s a long story,” I said, shooting Frida a look. She didn’t notice, however, having eyes only for Gabriel Luna, and the fact that he was standing in the same room and breathing the same oxygen as she was.

 

Not that I blamed her. It probably was kind of hard for her to concentrate on anything else, given the fact that Gabriel had on the performance clothes Stark had ordered him to wear, a pair of pretty tight tuxedo suit pants, the vest that matched the tuxedo suit, and a white button-down shirt open to midway down his chest, with the sleeves rolled up. This could be a very distracting look…

 

But only on someone as attractive as Gabriel, as was proved a second later when Robert Stark strolled into the dressing room wearing a very similar getup. Maybe that was because Robert Stark’s shirt was buttoned up to his throat, and his bow tie was actually tied. Or possibly because he was followed by his son, also wearing a tux…but at the same time, a look of extreme agitation, as if the dressing room before the Stark Angel fashion show dress rehearsal with his father was the last place in the world Brandon Stark really wanted to be.

 

Especially when he saw me. We hadn’t communicated with each other since that awkward plane ride home the morning after that kiss we’d shared at the hotel in St. John.

 

When Brandon noticed me there in the dressing room, his scowl grew even more menacing.

 

Nice to know I have that effect on boys. I mean, Christopher doesn’t even know I exist, and Brandon Stark practically throws up when he sees me. Having my brain transplanted into a supermodel’s body was doing wonders for my love life, all right.

 

In any case, no one seemed to be sighing over Robert Stark’s or his son’s good looks the way Frida had over Gabriel’s, seconds before, even though both of them were wearing tuxedos, too.

 

“Nikki!” Robert Stark cried. He threw out his arms wide to greet me. I was so startled I didn’t know what to do. It was the first time Robert Stark had ever openly acknowledged me. I mean, since the last time we met, at a Vanity Fair photo shoot. “So good to see you! Don’t you look beautiful?”

 

It took me a second, but I soon saw why he was being so effusive. A string of photographers were following the two Stark men. Flashes went off as the CEO of Stark embraced the Face of Stark. Our photos would appear in countless newspapers tomorrow morning.

 

“Uh,” I said. “Thanks.”

 

“And Gabriel Luna.” After letting go of me, Robert Stark turned and held out his hand to Gabriel, who shook it. The photographers got this shot, too. Robert made sure to turn to the cameras, smiling toothily. “So glad to have you on board here at the Stark label. Hope you play well tonight. Just a rehearsal, I know, I know, but we’ve got the Stark stock investors in the audience for your run-through before their big holiday dinner tonight. They couldn’t be more excited to see it.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Gabriel said. He looked completely baffled by the whole thing. The head of the corporation that owned his label, greeting him personally? This had obviously never happened before in the entirety of his career. “I hope they enjoy it.”

 

“Just wanted to personally extend my thanks,” Robert Stark was saying. “I wanted my two biggest stars to know how important they are to me. And make sure you got these.”

 

He snapped his fingers, and Brandon, standing behind him with his scowl deepening again, went, “What?” in an annoyed voice.

 

“The bag, Bran,” Robert Stark said, his smile never wavering. “The bag.”

 

Brandon rolled his eyes, then held up a large red velvet bag he’d apparently been lugging around…and none too happily, either. Robert Stark reached inside the bag and withdrew a foot-long box containing a Stark Quark—color: red—which he handed to Gabriel.

 

“Happy holidays,” Robert said. “First one off the boat. I hope you enjoy it.”

 

Gabriel looked down at the computer. His face was impassive. “Thank you, sir,” he said again. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. But Why the hell is this guy giving me this? would have been high on my list of guesses.

 

“And here’s one for you,” Robert Stark said, reaching down into the bag and fishing out a pink Quark for me. Because, you know, pink = girls.

 

“Oh, gosh,” I said, gazing down at the computer I’d pretended to be so fond of in the Stark Quark ad (only that one had just been an empty shell, not the real thing, since they hadn’t actually come up with anything but the prototype at that time). My MacBook Air was a thousand times more user-friendly and in the long run less likely to break down.

 

But it also cost five times more, retail. And didn’t come with Realms, the new Journeyquest game, on it.

 

“I always wanted one of these,” I lied. “How did you know?”

 

Behind his father, Brandon kept his gaze averted from mine. I couldn’t tell if he knew I was lying or not.

 

“Santa knows all,” Brandon’s dad said with a chuckle, and some of the reporters laughed.

 

Brandon muttered something about handing out free laptops to celebrities as opposed to the poor. I raised my eyebrows just as his father asked, in the same hearty voice, “What was that, Bran?”

 

“Nothing, sir,” Brandon mumbled. I caught his eye, and for a moment, as our gazes met, something seemed to pass between us. I don’t know what, exactly. I was so surprised at what Brandon had said, I hardly knew what to think, to be honest.

 

And then it was gone, and Brandon was glaring stonily ahead again.

 

“And who’s this?” Robert Stark asked, when he finally noticed Frida.

 

“Oh,” Frida said, looking mortified. “I’m no one. Just a friend of…Nikki’s.”

 

An F.O.N.! Frida had just called herself an F.O.N.!

 

“Well, tonight, young lady,” Robert Stark said, reaching down into the red velvet bag, “any friend of Nikki Howard’s is a friend of mine.” And he pulled out a bright orange Quark and handed it to her.

 

Even though a moment before, Frida had been acting as if she were suicidal, and she’d never in her life expressed the least interest in owning a Quark, she let out an excited scream and began jumping up and down.

 

“Oh, these are the ones that aren’t on sale until Christmas! Thank you, thank you, sir!” she yelled, throwing the arm that wasn’t wrapped around her gift around his neck, and planting a kiss on his cheek. “Oh, thank you!”

 

The reporters got lots of photos of this. Excited young teenage girl embracing one of the richest men in the world? It would be all over Fox Business News in about five minutes.

 

And not just because it was a cute shot, either. It was sickening, really, watching the way Stark operated…giving away something for free, something that the individual didn’t even know she wanted, and thus incorporating in her a feeling of goodwill toward both him and the company…and ensuring that Frida would go fully Quark from now on, with products she’d be able to buy only at a Stark Megastore.

 

That’s why the man was a genius. And a billionaire.

 

“Well,” Brandon’s dad said. “Happy holidays to you all. Have a great performance. I have to be off. Can’t keep the investors waiting.”

 

He gave a big wave and turned to leave, Brandon following tight-facedly behind him with the bag.

 

I wondered what would happen if I cleared my throat and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Stark? What about the Stark Institute for Neurology and Neurosurgery, and what you people do there? I mean, the whole-body transplant thing. Do you have any comment on that?”

 

The truth was, probably nothing would happen. Robert Stark would just blink at me with those blank eyes of his and say he didn’t know what I was talking about. And later, I’d get sent back to the institute and get another lecture by Dr. Higgins. Or maybe they’d send Dr. Holcombe this time, or, if they really wanted to scare me, some of Stark’s lawyers to threaten my family.

 

I wasn’t supposed to talk about what had happened to me, of course.

 

But no one had ever said I couldn’t talk about…

 

“Excuse me,” I said. “Mr. Stark?”

 

Robert Stark turned in the doorway and looked back, still smiling pleasantly from his interlude with my sister.

 

“Yes, Nikki?” he asked.

 

“I was just wondering,” I said. My heart was in my throat, but I didn’t care. I knew I had to keep going. I couldn’t stop thinking about Steven’s face down in that basement, and knew I had to do something.

 

And this was my opportunity. Maybe my only opportunity.

 

“Do you know where my mother is?”

 

There were a few seconds of silence after I asked this, as my words sank in. Then everyone began buzzing among themselves. Her mother? Did she just say her mother?

 

“Pardon me?” Robert Stark said, his dark eyebrows raised.

 

“My mother,” I said. I was aware that the reporters were scribbling my words down frantically, some of them holding minirecorders in my direction. I tried to enunciate more clearly. “She’s missing. I was wondering if you might have any idea where she was?”

 

“How would I know where your mother is, sweetheart?” Robert Stark was grinning as if I’d said something hilarious.

 

“Well,” I said, “because she disappeared right after my accident.” I put special stress on the word accident. A stress only he and I—and Frida, of course, who was staring at me in astonishment—would understand. “And no one has seen or heard from her ever since. I was hoping maybe you might be able to shed some light on where she could have gone.”

 

“No,” Robert Stark said, shaking his head. His smile had disappeared. “Sorry, kid. I can’t help you there. Can’t help you there at all.”

 

He couldn’t seem to get out of there fast enough after that. Brandon followed him, looking back at me curiously.

 

After Robert Stark was gone, the level of tension in the room went down a millionfold. At least to me. Which was weird because the reporters, instead of following him, stuck around. They shoved microphones and cameras in my face and asked, “Nikki Howard, is it true your mother is missing? Would you care to elaborate?”

 

It was weird but…it turned out I did care to elaborate…at least as much as I could without giving away the whole-body transplant angle of the story, which really didn’t have anything to do with Nikki’s mother—at least so far as I could prove. Soon I had the reporters’ names and affiliate stations and had given them exclusive interviews (Gabriel had handed me his tuxedo jacket to wear over my bra before doing so, which I considered decent of him), and had promised to have Steven e-mail a photo of his mom for the reporters to air on their shows.

 

It turned out, Nikki Howard having a missing mom was big news.

 

Really big news.

 

This was something I should have thought of before. I mean, being a supermodel wasn’t all just strutting around in ten-million-dollar bras. People were interested in you. And if your mom went missing—especially around the holidays—that was front-page stuff.

 

Or at least it could be, if I worked it right. I was thinking this was something I needed to get my publicist on…

 

“Why didn’t you tell me about your missing mom, Nikki?” Frida asked in a tight little voice, after the last of the reporters had left the dressing room with her big scoop. “I thought we were close enough that you could tell me anything.”

 

What was she even talking about? Of course I couldn’t tell Frida anything. She was too young. And it was too dangerous.

 

The truth was, I’d forgotten Frida was even there. Which was probably why she was glaring at me now, her eyes filled with tears.

 

“Don’t feel bad,” Gabriel said lightly to Frida. “I had dinner with her last night, and she didn’t say a word to me about it, either.”

 

“Last night?” Frida gasped. “You guys had dinner together last night?” She couldn’t have sounded more wounded if one of her Google searches had turned up images of Gabriel and me actually making out.

 

Great. Just great.

 

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “We had dinner. Because we’re in this show together, and we grabbed something after rehearsal. As friends.”

 

It was too late, though. There were even more hot tears in her eyes. “I saw the photos of you two by the town car on TMZ,” she said. Oh, no. “But I didn’t think…I mean, you like him?” she demanded. “He’s your boyfriend now? What about Christopher?”

 

“Of course he’s not my boyfriend,” I said. How could this be happening? “Frida, stop—”

 

“What’s going on?” Gabriel asked, looking bewildered. “Who’s Christopher?”

 

“No one,” I said. “Gabriel, would you mind leaving us alone for a moment?”

 

“Of course,” Gabriel said, backing from the room, a wary eye on Frida, who looked like she might go supernova any minute. “I’ll just see you onstage, all right, Nikki?”

 

“That’d be good,” I said to him. As soon as he was gone, I whirled toward Frida, who was glaring at me like I’d just written “You Suck” on her wall on Facebook, and said, “Frida, get over it. He’s way too old for you. And there’s nothing going on between us, anyway. We just work together.”

 

The truth was, I was kind of glad she was distracted from asking me what I’d been doing in Brooklyn. Better that she be mad at me for going out with Gabriel Luna—however innocently—than be demanding to know more about what I’d been doing all morning with Christopher.

 

Except that it turns out that wasn’t why she was mad. Or not entirely.

 

“Who are you?” she demanded.

 

I blinked down at her. “What do you mean, who am I? You know who I am.”

 

“No, I don’t,” Frida shot back. “You’re doing all this stuff to find someone else’s mom, and meanwhile, you don’t even care about your real family anymore.”

 

“Frida,” I said in a tight voice. “You know that isn’t true.”

 

“Yes, it is,” Frida said. “We changed all our plans for you. I’m not going to cheerleading camp because of you. And you don’t even care. You’re spending all your time worrying about Nikki’s family. Because you’re turning into Nikki!”

 

I felt something inside of me go cold. “You know that isn’t true,” I said through lips as numb as if they had been smeared with plumper.

 

“You’re the worst sister,” Frida snapped. “You don’t even care about me anymore! Just your new family!”

 

I had to admit, that hurt. Everything I’d done, I’d done to protect her. Well, okay, maybe not the part where I’d accidentally made out with Gabriel Luna. I’d only done that because I’d been so hurt and lonely about Christopher.

 

But the fact that I had gone through with this whole model thing so Mom and Dad wouldn’t be in violation of the contracts they’d signed? I’d done that for Frida. How would she enjoy living in bankruptcy, with no Wi-Fi or Juicy Couture?

 

And she had the nerve to say I was a bad sister?

 

“Go get my bag,” I said in a cold voice. “Take money out of it, get a cab, and go home.”

 

“Gladly,” Frida said, just as coldly. “I can’t believe we decided to stay here for Christmas for you. I wish we were going to Florida after all!”

 

And with that, she took her new computer and a wad of cash from my wallet, and left the Stark Sound Studios.

 

She was crying as she did it, but I didn’t care.

 

Or I told myself I didn’t. She was just a kid, anyway. A jealous kid. What did she know about anything? She was just mad about the Gabriel thing, and the fact that I wouldn’t let her come to Lulu’s party. She’d get over it. She’d have to. We were sisters. We fought all the time. We always got over it.

 

I wasn’t turning into Nikki Howard. Sure, on the outside I looked like her. But on the inside, I was still me.

 

Wasn’t I? I couldn’t wait to get home and tear into my new Stark Quark so I could play Realms. Right?

 

Except…

 

Except it wasn’t going to be that much fun without Christopher to play against.

 

Frida left just as one of the costume assistants came in with my wings, fastened them on, and escorted me down the long corridors to the backstage area. The rest of the girls were there, milling around. Kelley waved when she saw me and hurried over.

 

“Oh, my God,” she said. Even though she was shouting, it was kind of hard to hear her with all the buzzing from the Stark investors. “Can you believe this? They get their own private performance? Just because they’ve got stock in the company or something? This is ridiculous. Someone should complain.”

 

“Seriously,” I said. Except that I didn’t mean it. The truth was, there was no instrument known to man small enough to measure how little I cared.

 

Maybe Frida was right. Maybe I was turning into Nikki. Maybe this was what happened to stunningly beautiful women. They just got to a point where they were so jaded about everything, nothing mattered anymore. Their hearts turned hard as stone. Mine certainly felt like it. Or as heavy as stone, anyway.

 

Up until Alessandro hissed, “Ladies! We’re on!” and we were lining up to begin, the techno music thumping so hard it seemed to have reached inside my heart and seized it and taken hold—bump-bump-bump—and Veronica turned around suddenly and pinched me. Hard.

 

“Ow!” I shrieked, rubbing my arm. Sorry, but no one whose heart was made of stone could be as sensitive to pain as I was. “What did you do that for?”

 

“You know.” Her gaze blazed like twin lightning bolts. “Why won’t you quit e-mailing Justin? He doesn’t like you like that anymore. He’s mine.”

 

“E-mail him?” I glared back at her. I had to shout to make sure she could hear me over the music. “I didn’t e-mail anyone!”

 

“You’re a liar.” Veronica shook her head, her silky blond hair shimmering in the stage lights. “He showed me the things you wrote. You’re pathetic. You miss him? He’s mine now.”

 

“I swear,” I said. “I am not e-mailing your boyfriend. It’s someone else—”

 

“How can you stand there, lying to my face?” Veronica wanted to know. “Justin told me he broke it off and has been trying to ditch you, but you won’t let it go.”

 

I glared at her angrily. “I told you. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been e-mailing Justin. It’s some other girl using my name. Which isn’t my problem. Now, you better pay attention to what you’re doing or you’re going to be late onstage. And don’t pull that feather thing again or this time I’ll speak to Mr. Stark about it, and he’ll boot you out of here. That I’ll guarantee.”

 

Something very much like fear flickered across Veronica’s face, and I realized I’d finally gotten the upper hand in our relationship. It was sad that I’d had to invoke the name of Brandon’s dad to do it, but what choice did I have, really? The girl was trying to kill me, and for something I didn’t even do. Some wacko was trying to steal her boyfriend, and was using my name to do it. How was that my fault?

 

Looking scared—until her stage face fell into place like a mask—Veronica sailed out onto the runway. I stood there for a few seconds, waiting for my cue—the “Nikki” song—and wondering how everything had gotten so complicated. My life before the accident hadn’t been so great, it was true…I’d been in love with a guy who hadn’t known I was alive. Now that guy had finally realized he loved me back. The only problem was, he thought I was dead, but I couldn’t tell him I wasn’t. And he wouldn’t like the me I was now, anyway, because I represented pretty much everything he hated.

 

Meanwhile, so did a bunch of other people. Hate me, I mean.

 

It was hard being a teenage supermodel in the twenty-first century.

 

Then I heard it.

 

“The thing of it is, girl…in spite of it all…I really do think…I love you.”

 

Except, of course, once again, it was the wrong guy saying it.

 

And as I moved out onto the stage, carefully putting one six-inch heel in front of the other and giving my all to my sassy catwalk strut, a knowing, catlike smile plastered across my face as the Stark investors cheered—I knew my heart hadn’t actually been turned to stone.

 

Because it hurt.

 

It hurt a lot.