The sky is still bright with evening sunlight when we head next door to the Gray's camp. Sunset would already be well underway at eight o'clock back home in L.A., but it must stay light for longer up here in the summer. Even so, Mom brings a flashlight with us for the trek home later, since streetlights don't exist on the lake road.

The scent of burning wood carries on the air as we make our way down a packed-dirt driveway. Wisps of smoke are visible behind the camp, which, from its log-paneled exterior, more closely resembles what I envisioned a house on a lake would be than where I'm living for the summer. I notice the front side is mostly windows as we continue past it, toward the lake.

A few people are already seated on folding lawn chairs near the fire pit, chatting with each other and laughing. I recognize Hunter's sister from this morning, but I don't see Hunter. His sister sits beside another girl with pastel-blue hair who appears to be her age, and neither of them notices Mom or me as we approach. The adults spot us, though, and one man waves at us.

"Howdy!" the man calls out. He has the same eyes and smile as Hunter, so I assume it's his dad or maybe one of his relatives. "You must be here for the bonfire."

"Hunter invited us over," Mom confirms. "I'm Lia, and this is my daughter, Deni. We're staying next door."

"Ah, yes. The Wilson's camp, right?" Mom nods. The man stands up and walks over to us. "I'm Rob, Hunter's dad." He extends his hand to Mom.

"It's nice to meet you." Mom shakes his hand. "Thank you for having us and for sharing that amazing blueberry pie."

"I can't take credit for the pie—that's all my wife's doing." He motions to a woman who is sitting with a few others at the fire pit. "Mel, come meet our neighbors."

An athletic-looking, auburn-haired woman in a hoodie and jeans gets up from a chair and joins us. She introduces herself as Melanie and quickly strikes up a conversation with Mom, who gives her and Rob a bottle of wine she must have picked up at the store this morning while I was at the hotel.

I tune out of the conversation and take a peek at my surroundings. Hunter's sister and the girl beside her are huddled together and whispering about something I can't make out, while the adults sitting by the fire are engaged in a loud conversation about a referee's call during a hockey game. I don't watch hockey that much, but thanks to having a hometown NHL team, I'm aware the Stanley Cup finals recently wrapped up.

Alfie tugs at his leash, probably bored with having to stay in one place for so long when he's outside and there are things to explore. I let him lead me toward the lake, away from Mom, Melanie, and Rob. The water's surface is calm, and a loon's tremolo calls in the distance. I spot a dock made of wooden planks at the edge of the beach and decide to walk over to it with Alfie.

"Are you always this antisocial?" I startle at the sound of Hunter's voice, then hear him laugh. "Scared you, didn't I?"

"I didn't hear you coming," I admit. I turn around to face him. Like me, he's also exchanged this morning's shorts and T-shirt for a hoodie and jeans, and he's added a baseball cap. It was warm outside earlier, but the evening air is quickly cooling off.

"Don't you want to be up by the fire to roast marshmallows and hot dogs, or are you plotting your escape back to civilization?" He squints his eyes and appears deep in thought, as if trying to assess what I have planned.

"Do I look like I want to escape?" I ask. "Because I don't at all. I'd actually love to go set some marshmallows on fire."

"Ah. You're one of those people who char marshmallows." He crinkles his nose, feigning a look of disgust.

"Let me guess—you're one of those people who will sit there for half an hour to evenly brown all sides of a single marshmallow to what you consider perfection?" I purse my lips with equal faux-disgust.

"Correct. I do it the way nature intended." He smirks at me, then begins to walk in the direction of the bonfire.

I follow behind him with Alfie in tow. "I don't know that nature actually intended for there to be marshmallows, but okay."

"Tell that to the marshmallow plant and the ancient Egyptians," he calls over his shoulder. "If there's a plant with the sap for it, nature intended it."

"How do you even know that?"

"Ancient civilizations history. Don't they teach you the important things in California?" He stops in front of the now-vacated chairs his sister and her friend were previously sitting in and gestures at one. "Have a seat and prepare to be schooled in the dignified way to toast a marshmallow."

"I prefer well-done. Pass me one of those roasting sticks, would you?"

Hunter obliges, handing me both a long-handled skewer and a bag of jumbo marshmallows. I take a marshmallow and return the bag to him, then get to work finding a flame that will set the marshmallow on fire.

"Sad." Hunter clucks his tongue. "No marshmallow deserves that." I'm about to respond when someone else cuts in.

"Hey nerd, we were sitting there." I glance up and see Hunter's sister standing next to his chair. The girl she was whispering to earlier is with her.

"Hey geek, have some manners," Hunter replies. "We have guests, and guests get chairs."

"She's fine, but you're not a guest. Give me my chair, or at least give it to Brooke since she's a guest."

Hunter makes no move to get up. "You remember my sister from when she was yelling at me this morning, right?" he asks me. "As you can see, she's always a joy."

"I am always a joy," Hunter's sister interjects. She turns to me. "He's just too much of a pest to see it. I'm Paisley, by the way, and this is Brooke."

"Deni," I say.

"Cool name," Paisley remarks. "Is it short for anything?"

It's an odd question, and not one I plan to answer with the truth. "Denise," I tell her. "Why do you ask?"

She exchanges a glance with Brooke before she replies. "I thought maybe it was short for Cayden. Isn't that what Cayden Indigo's friends call her?"

I don't have a good response, so I pretend Paisley asked something rhetorical and say nothing. I told her my name is actually Denise out of an abundance of caution, but I didn't know until right now that the name I go by with family and friends is public knowledge. I never tell anyone in the press or at my record label to call me that.

Hunter comes to my rescue, even though he doesn't know it. "I'm sure Deni has no clue what Cayden Indigo's friends call her. This may come as a shock to you, but not everyone is a Cayden Indigo superfan."

A superfan. Uh oh.

It's then I notice Paisley's sweatshirt. While the front is mostly plain, featuring only a small, rhinestone-studded heart, I know without her turning around that there are dozens of cities and dates printed across the back, amid a background of printed hearts and swirls. Her sweatshirt was sold at my merch table and on my website during my last tour.

Paisley makes a face at her brother. "Just because you don't care about music or pop culture doesn't mean other people don't. Right, Deni?"

"Sure," I say, although I've lost track of what I'm agreeing to. Finding out she's a fan has me preoccupied.

"Be careful about encouraging her," Hunter warns me. "When she starts talking about celebrities, she doesn't stop."

"It's better than obsessing about hockey or football," she retorts, then addresses me again. "Do you go to Superior, too?"

"Superior?" I repeat.

"She isn't from here, Pais." Hunter looks at me. "It's my high school."

"Our high school," she corrects him.

"It's not your high school until September. You haven't started there yet."

"I just finished grade eight, so it's my school, too," she argues. "And Mom says you're driving me every day."

"Not a chance," Hunter says. "Freshmen take the bus."

Paisley looks skyward. "Listen to you, big-shot senior. If you don't drive me, you don't get the car."

"I'll ride with Adam, then, and you can take the bus."

I settle back in my chair and watch the two of them spar. Most of my friends with siblings do the same thing. It reminds me of the fun and relentless teasing that happens with my band after weeks on the road.

Brooke shakes her head at them before claiming an open chair that was just vacated by one of the adults. She pulls it across the sand and places it next to me.

"Are they always like this?" I inquire.

"Always," Brooke answers. She sits down. "Their mom usually gets tired of listening to it by now, but she probably can't hear them." She leans over to scratch Alfie's head. "I heard Hunter say you aren't from here. Where are you from?"

She caught that. I consider telling her I live in the Bay Area, or even Fresno, but I don't know what the Wilsons have told Melanie and Rob about where we live in California, or what Mom has said since I left the three of them in conversation. It's better not to risk being caught in a lie about this.

"Los Angeles," I say.

"You're from L.A.?" Paisley asks. I guess she and Hunter are finished bickering for now.

"Here we go," Hunter groans. "You just said the magic words that guarantee my sister won't stop talking."

Paisley ignores him and finds an empty chair to bring closer to me. "You're so lucky. I want to go to L.A. so badly."

"She just wants to see a celebrity," Hunter informs me. "She thinks she'll run into Cayden Indigo and that Bowie whatever-his-face and a bunch of movie stars the second she steps off the plane. I swear she's going to grow up to be a grade-A stalker."

"Bowie Nelson," Paisley huffs. "I apologize on behalf of my brother, Deni. He's clueless about everything."

I manage to paste a smile on my face, even though my chest constricts at the mention of Bowie's name. Don't react, I think.

"I apologize on behalf of my sister, who spends way too much time reading gossip about famous people she doesn't know and will never meet," Hunter fires back.

"I'd meet them if I lived in L.A. instead of boring Thunder Bay." Paisley shoots a glance at me, as if for confirmation. "You probably run into famous people all the time, right?"

She isn't wrong, but this is mostly because of my music career. It's also weird to think of people as celebrities when they're your friends.

"Sometimes, I guess." I try to sound noncommittal. "They're just people, though."

"Ha, see?" Hunter is triumphant. "I knew I liked you, Cali. I can't stand celebrities and the fixation people have with them."

"You can't stand celebrities?" Now he has my attention.

"Don't listen to him," Paisley advises. "He idolizes sports celebrities."

"They're called athletes," Hunter says. "And I absolutely do. Athletes are all about ability and I respect that. They aren't fake and manufactured by some movie studio or record label."

"Do you think celebrities are fake?" Paisley asks me. "You live in L.A., so you probably know more than we do."

"I don't really know." I attempt to keep a blank expression. "It's a big city and most people who live there aren't famous."

It's the best answer I can give her since I'm still stuck on Hunter's words. His opinion of celebrities being fake and manufactured stings a little, even if it shouldn't. How would he know he's sitting next to one? While my stage personality and appearance are more over-the-top than I am behind the scenes, my voice and ability to sing and write songs are real. I work hard on my music and want to come to the defense of my fellow entertainers, but I don't want to say something that flags for Paisley.

"You have to know something," Brooke insists. "Everyone I know online who lives in L.A. knows someone famous, or knows someone who knows someone famous, or knows someone who's related to someone who's dating someone famous."

It's hard to keep up with that. I also wonder who all these people are that Brooke claims to know, since I suspect she's the same age as Paisley and just finished the eighth grade.

"Can you imagine dating someone famous?" Paisley giggles. "That would be the ultimate, getting invited to the best parties and hanging out at the best clubs. I can't believe you live there and aren't all over this."

"You're dreaming," Hunter scoffs. "Dating a celebrity would be such a pain, can you imagine? All those dumb award shows and red carpets all the time, and having to always look perfect just to be someone's arm candy? Not to mention being followed by photographers. It sounds lame."

It's a struggle to keep a straight face while listening to Hunter describe what sounds like his personal nightmare.

"It does sound lame," I agree, and then I seize the opportunity to change the topic. "The only thing more lame is that undercooked marshmallow you forgot you were toasting."

Hunter takes the bait. "What are you even talking about? This marshmallow is perfection. Yours doesn't even seem edible."

"Oh no?" I challenge him. "I'm about to enjoy every last morsel of it." I pop the blackened marshmallow into my mouth while Hunter looks aghast.

"You two are weird," Paisley announces. "Everyone knows the only way to eat toasted marshmallows is in s'mores."

She spears a marshmallow with her skewer and goes on the hunt for the perfect ember to toast it over. I hold in a sigh of relief now that the conversation about L.A. and famous people has been abandoned.

At least I've learned Hunter's opinion of celebrities, and now I'm glad I'm keeping that part of my life under wraps while I'm here. As far as Paisley goes, I can only send wishes up to the universe and all the powers that be that the topics of celebrities, Cayden, and Bowie don't come up again.