I continue my wandering stroll through Beverly Hills, guided by the ominous moonlight, past the familiar buildings to a part of town I've never seen before. This may sound funny but I've barely ever traveled out of Beverly Hills. One might say I'm an introvert.

I click on my phone to display the time. It's almost 8:30. Had I really been walking for one whole hour? My legs are getting sore and I haven't eaten yet. I shuffle my hands around in my pockets and find the twenty dollar bill I had grabbed.

I glance around for some kind of restaurant, and my eyes land on a sparkly pink sign labeled The Pancake Parlor. To my surprise, a shining neon sign that reads OPEN hangs in the window, and the lights are still on. I shrug, then continue toward it. Pancakes for dinner. Yum.

As I swing open the door, I breathe in the sweet fumes of flapjacks wafting from the kitchen. A fully dolled-up teenager is leaning against the cash register, reapplying her pink nail polish. I walk slowly over to the counter, clearing my throat to get the girl's attention.

She immediately glances up, then, noticing me, resumes her manicuring.

"What do you want?" she grumbles, obviously agreeing with the absurdness of having a pancake shop open at eight-o'clock at night.

I don't answer at first, staring up at the menu. There are rows and rows of holiday specials and end-of-the-school-year surprises and shit like that. I decide to settle for the classic buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup. Call me a purist.

The clerk asks for ten dollars, so I hand over the crumpled bill. She opens the cash register with a satisfying ding, then hands me ten dollars back. It's all in ones. Shoving the door of the cash register closed, she levels a glare at me. "Your order will be ready soon."

Stuffing the money back into my pocket, I meander over to an empty booth in the corner near the bathroom, sitting my self down. I twiddle my fingers until the chef calls my name. Collecting my pancakes, I turn to head back to the booth, but then I notice a group of young women beckoning me over. I stand awkwardly in the center of the parlor, considering it.

Sure, I think to myself. I reroute to head over to the table at which they are seated, carrying my steaming pancakes with me.

As soon as I sit down, a pretty redhead asks me what my name is.

"Micah," I reply, feeling a little uneasy with their invitation. In my neighborhood, people are always to huddled up in their own fame that they don't give a damn about anyone else, let alone a self-conscious teenager such as myself.

"That's a lovely name," the girl says, smiling kindly. "I'm Lizzie. And these are my roommates Alta, Stella and Eden." She gestures to three women seated around the table, one a brunette and the other two blondes, though one doesn't look very authentic. All three wave and giggle.

"How old are you, Micah?" one of the blondes asks. I think she's Stella.

"Fifteen," I reply.

Lizzie giggles. "We're all sophomores at UCLA. And aspiring thespians."

"I'm a sophomore at Beverly Hills High school," I say, feeling as though it is appropriate. "Lauren Tanner is my mom." I wait for the 'oh my god can I have her autograph' or the 'so that's why you looked familiar' or the slightly less common 'the Lauren Tanner?', but it never comes.

"Truly? You don't look at all alike," Alta, the brunette says. The look on her face is not amazement or shock, it's just a normal face someone has when they meet a new person.

That shocks me. I'm a bit hesitant to tell people who I am because they always act differently and treat me in ways that make me uncomfortable. I'm also surprised that I haven't had an anxiety attack yet. I usually despise talking to people in general, especially once they fare aware of who I am. For some reason, it's incredibly easy and comfortable for me to talk to these ladies.

"Thanks, I guess," I say, deciding to show my appreciation. "I always hate it when people treat me like I'm special just because my mother is supposedly the next Audrey Hepburn or Elizabeth Taylor."

"I completely understand," Lizzie says, placing her hand on my shoulder in a reassuring way. "Eden and you should trade stories." Then she yells for some more pancakes.

Eden chuckles. "I case you're wondering why Lizzie wants us to trade stories, it's because I have a pretty similar one," she says, grinning. Her bleached hair is pulled up into a French braid that cascades down her back. Her hair must be considerably long when it's down, considering how far it reaches now. "I was adopted, but my dad married a famous Broadway actress when I was 7. After that, everyone treated me like I was her. We had nothing in common except that she was my stepmom. It bugged me. I was still just an ordinary person who got a lot of free tickets and backstage passes to Broadway shows. In high school, I met Lizzie. She was the first person to treat me the way I wanted to be treated." She gives me a reassuring smile.

"Thanks," I say, nodding my head. It's good to know someone else understands.

Suddenly, I hear a call notification from my phone. I look down at the screen. It's my mom. Shit.

I stand up, excusing myself, then wander over to an empty corner. I accept the call, then hold it up to my ear. "Hey, mom."

"Micah Elizabeth Tanner!" my mother shouts through the phone. She only uses my middle name when she is angry or worried or both, but since it is kind of muffled, it doesn't have the same effect.

"Yes, this is me," I reply. I'm too tired to come up with some retort or yell back. It's almost nine. Which you wouldn't think of as too late but considering I wake up at 5 am every morning, it is for me.

"Where are you?" she demands. "I want you to come home RIGHT NOW!" She nearly screams the last bit. Temper, temper.

I, wisely, decide not to answer. Hitting the 'end call' button, I return to the table. They are all staring at me. My mother does have the power to shout through phones in a way that everyone else in a ten-foot radius around you can hear.

"Who was that?" Lizzie asks, emphasizing the last word, her eyebrows twined together in concern and confusion.

"My mom," I reply quickly, sighing as I tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. "She wants me to come home."

"Oh," Lizzie says. She slouches back into her chair.

Stella leans forward inquisitively. "So, are you going to go?" she asks in a way that doesn't tell me if she wants me to or not.

Eden smiles at me, then raises up a full platter of fresh pancakes. They are doused in hot maple syrup and steaming so much my mouth has begun to water. "Maybe these will help you decide."

I grin, then sit myself down on the bench, accepting the offer. My fork digs into the hot pancake and I bring it up to my mouth, sighing as I inhale the wonderful fumes. There's nothing like having pancakes for dinner in a strange part of town, surrounded by a surprisingly kind group of college girls.

"So," I say. "Have you guys been in any movies yet?" I remember Lizzie mentioning that they were aspiring thespians in her introduction.

Lizzie shakes her head, answering for the whole group. "Just a few musicals for our school."

"I got to play Ophelia once," Alta says, leaning forward, her eyes bright.

I laugh.

"My high school did Macbeth once," Stella offers. "I think I played a servant or something like that."

I let loose another chuckle. These girls certainly have nothing on my mother, who starred in Broadway at middle school age, but they're doing much better than me. My mom has always wished that I would take an acting route, instead of just regular academics. She once tried to enroll me a drama school, but I threw up in class the first day and she quickly removed me as not to dampen her reputation.

However, there have been a few times when I caught her reading through lists of acting colleges. She claims that she is just wondering what colleges she herself could have enrolled at, but I have suspicions.

After a few more minutes of eating and joking around with the girls, I check my phone. It is almost 9:30. Biting my lip, I stand up, scooting my chair back. It makes an uncomfortably loud screech, and the girls all look at me.

"Do you have to leave?" Eden asks, almost whining.

I bite back a smile, nodding. "My mom's going to maul me as it is."

"Fine," Lizzie says. "But you'd better come back. Next Friday night. 8:00."

I nod at her. "It's a date." I make a mental note to remember, even though it probably won't do much. Maybe I'll write it on my hand.

Waving slightly, I turn around, walking towards the door. I hear the girls say 'goodbye' as I push it open, greeting the chill night air, and I smile to myself.

"Bye, Micah!" comes Lizzie's distinctively high voice. "We'll miss you!"

"Bye, girls," I reply.

The bell above the door jingles as I exit the parlor. I note the address before continuing back up the road towards home.