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about everyone—his record label, his dad, the concert promoter, sponsors—worried that the tour wouldn’t sell out. On top of the usual concerns over whether parents would foot the bill for their kids to get tickets, an article in Billboard had just posed the question with an ominous headline: “Will Digital Downloads Mark the End of the Live Music Era?” Well, the answer, for now at least, was no: from St. Petersburg to Seattle, Peter had sold out each and every show.
    That June night in Bakersfield marked the halfway point, his twentieth stop on a tour that wouldn’t end until late August. By all the usual industry indicators—ticket sales, corporate sponsors, merchandise revenue, downloads, radio spins—the tour had been a complete financial success. Peter Inc. was raking in nearly a half-million bucks every show. Peter’s dad kept reminding Peter, “Assuming everything runs smoothly, you’ll be set for life. But you can never assume. To do that is to make an ass out of you and me .”
    From the outside, it appeared that even though he wouldn’t even turn seventeen for another four months, Peter was already living his dream:
    â€¢Five of the top ten most downloaded songs in the last year
    â€¢ Star of a hit cable TV show loosely based on his life and career
    â€¢ Two Grammys (Best New Artist and Song of the Year)
    â€¢ A house on the sand in L.A.’s posh Manhattan Beach
    â€¢ A Porsche convertible for his sixteenth birthday
    On top of all this, hundreds of girls (most of them super-cute) had been hanging outside his hotel every night, at every stop, hoping to get a picture or get video with their idol that they could post on Facebook and be the envy of all their friends. This is all to say that Peter Maxx was living the teenage dream. Or so it appeared.
    The day before his Bakersfield show, Peter woke up and began another hamster-wheel day:
    6:00 A.M. Wake-up call at downtown L.A.’s Marriott hotel
    6:15 A.M. Breakfast delivery: grande iced mocha latte and a fruit plate and shot of wheatgrass
    6:30–8:00 A.M. Phone calls with radio stations. Stations will dial in and time for fan connection
    8:00–11:00 A.M. Private home-school tutor session
    11:00 A.M. –12:00 P.M. Workout in the hotel gym/meditate
    12:00–1:00 P.M. Vocal exercises
    1:00–2:00 P.M. Lunch, band/crew meeting
    2:00–3:00 P.M. Media interviews, promotional appearance for charity at L.A. Live
    3:00–5:00 P.M. Rest/meditate at hotel
    5:00 P.M. Limo departs hotel to Staples Center
    5:30–6:45 P.M. Makeup, wardrobe, vocal exercises
    6:45–7:00 P.M. Soundcheck
    7:00–7:15 P.M. Meet-and-greet with fans
    8:00–10:00 P.M. Concert
    12:00 A.M. Veg out watching late-night TV, surf Web, Facebook, etc.
    A towel around his neck soaking up sweat, Peter and his bodyguard, Big Jim, hopped into the limo at the Staples Center underground loading dock after the show. As his black SUV rolled slowly up the ramp to the downtown L.A. street, where hundreds of fans had gathered, they began screaming. SCREAMING!
    Through the tinted glass, the “rabids” (as Big Jim called them) couldn’t see Peter, but he could see them. He saw adorable eight-year-old girls in concert tees that draped down to their knees; teen superfans in barely-there dresses, short-shorts, and push-up bras; overly excited moms wearing way too much makeup (and occasionally too much Botox); dads cutely holding hands of their wide-eyed little daughters. Some lined the sidewalk holding signs— I ’ M MAXX ’ D OUT ! . . . MARRY ME, PETER ? . . . WE ’ VE WAITED A LIFETIME.
    Peter’s cheeks began to curve upward with a smile. Then, suddenly his face froze.
    He spotted a woman who had to be in her forties waving a cardboard sign on which she had scrawled, PETER, CAN I BE YOUR MOM ?Tears glistened in his eyes as he craned his neck while the SUV drove by the lady, but Peter