We keep driving around looking for a cheap parking lot. Apparently, there is no such thing in Los Angeles. The tour bus is idling and ready to go by the time we board. There aren’t many people seated. Just us, a pale family from Germany, and a man wearing an orange jumpsuit.

I take a window seat and Hollywood slides in next to me. “The bus is practically empty,” I point out. “There’s enough room for each of us to have our own row.” When he doesn’t respond, I shout, “Move!”

Hollywood relocates to the seat behind me. Ted’s up front near the driver, peppering him with questions.

“Do the movie stars ever come out and wave at the bus?”

“How do we really know Teri Lesesne really lives there?”

“How much do you get paid for doing this?”

“What if you have to go to the bathroom?”

“What if I have to go to the bathroom?”

You’d think the bus driver would smack him, but instead he cheerfully answers all of Ted’s questions and even offers him a stick of gum.

As the bus rolls though the hills, Hollywood’s busy filming everything, so I just stare out the window and admire the tops of the mansions. They all have walls all around them. I wonder what life is like on the other side. Chessy would love this. One time one of her husbands took us to Miami and we drove around the really rich people’s neighborhoods.

“Some day,” Chessy pledged as we passed a giant pink mansion with a security guard posted in front of it, “we’re going to live in a house like that.”

After the tour, the bus driver drops us off on Hollywood Boulevard. It’s not what I expected. It’s a tourist trap. However, if Hollywood is disappointed he hides it well.

At Grauman’s Chinese Theater, there are an alarming number of adults dressed like Star Wars characters. Three Chewbaccas are taking pictures of each other. While Hollywood talks to a middle-aged version of Liesl and Friedrich from The Sound of Music, I think about my father. I wonder if he’s ever been here. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he were here now?

Ted whispers, “Welcome home.”

It takes me a moment to get what he means. Then it hits me. Even with my pink hair, white make-up, and black kohl-rimmed eyes, no one is looking at me. In Florida people would stare all the time. Once, when I was at Rite Aid buying a magazine, an old man with an American flag pin in his lapel spit on me. When I complained to the manager, he looked me up and down, and then said, “Well, you probably deserved it.”

I turn around and spot a girl with bright orange hair. When she notices me, she winks and sticks her tongue out. It’s pierced. I clamp my mouth shut.

Ted calls me over and we do the obligatory-putting-our-hands-in-the-cement- handprints-of-the-movie-stars, something Chessy has always wanted to do.

“If you’re so into movie stars, why don’t you just go to Hollywood?” I once asked.

“The train takes forever, you know that,” she replied, still keeping her eyes on her celebrity tell-all magazine.

“You could fly.”

“Maybelline, you know that the only way I would ever fly is first-class, and that’s just way too expensive.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Right. Well, you could take a bus or a train, or drive—”

Chessy’s silence told me to shut up. We both knew that the real reason was that her fear of leaving Florida was second only to her fear of cellulite.

My hands are the same size as Judy Garland’s. I spy Marilyn Monroe’s footprints. Their photos are both on Chessy’s Wall of Beauty.

“Okay! I’m officially bored now,” Ted bellows. Instantly, all the tourists standing near him move away. Hollywood and I spot each other from across the courtyard and laugh.

At Ted’s insistence, Hollywood bids Grauman’s farewell and we venture on to the mall next door. There are no malls like this in Kissimmee. This one houses the fanciest bowling alley I have ever seen. A place like this wouldn’t even let Jake through the door. If my biological father bowled, this is where he’d be. I check out every middle-aged man in the bowling alley. When one winks at me, I grab Ted and Hollywood and head out.

There are nice stores and a huge movie theater. The restaurants look expensive. We stop in front of the Kodak Theater. “This is where the Academy Awards take place,” Hollywood whispers reverently.

Ted yawns.

We walk up and down Vine Street, taking turns reading the names of the stars on the Walk of Fame. Hollywood feels the need to lecture us about each one in excruciating detail. We would move faster, but Ted seems interested in what Hollywood has to say. He keeps asking him dumb questions, like “Who pays for these?” and “Who do I need to sleep with to get my own star?”

We pass Mickey Rooney’s star when suddenly Hollywood comes to a dead stop. Ted and I crash into him.

“1719 Vine Street,” Hollywood’s voice trembles. He takes extra care cleaning the lens before turning on his camera. We all stare at James Dean’s star. The silence is broken when Ted spits on it.

“What are you doing?” Hollywood screams, pushing Ted to the ground.

Ted is rubbing his leg. “I was going to spit-polish it,” he yells back. “It looked like it needed some cleaning. I was going to do it for you.”

Hollywood extends his hand. “Sorry, Ted.”

Ted takes his hand. He has to lean on Hollywood as he hobbles to the curb to sit down. I can tell he’s faking. Ted will do anything for attention.

Hollywood takes off his t-shirt, polishes the star and then puts his shirt back on. It’s filthy, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Hollywood is so hyped over the star it takes us four blocks to calm him down. In four blocks the street has changed. There are wig stores, and dollar stores, and lots of liquor stores. The people look grungy. I wonder if they think I do too. This is not the kind of place I would expect to find my father.

We eat dinner at a hot wings joint. Ted takes out his wallet. “Where does the money all go?” he asks.

A jolt of panic strikes me. I’m running out of cash and was counting on borrowing money from Ted. What’ll we do when our money runs out?

It costs twelve dollars to get The Green Hornet out of the lot. The car’s not even worth twelve dollars. It’s dark by the time we get back to the dorms. At the front desk an Indian guy listens to classical music as he plays along on his invisible violin. He nods to us as we go upstairs. I want to take a shower, but we don’t have any towels or even soap.

Hollywood lies down. There are no sheets or pillows on the bed. That stuff is in the trunk of his car, but Hollywood says, “I’m too tired to go and get it.”

Neither Ted nor I volunteer. We’re both bushed, but Ted has enough energy left to rush to the other bed before I can get there.

“Fine!” I say. “See if I care.”

I use my purse as a pillow. It’s lumpy. Before long the guys are snoring. I lay awake and stare at the ceiling.

Okay, so I’m in Los Angeles. Now what?

Excerpted from ABSOLUTELY MAYBE © Copyright 2011 by Lisa Yee. Reprinted with permission by Scholastic Paperbacks, an imprint of Scholastic. All rights reserved.