February 3, 1968

It’s my twenty-first birthday. I’m standing at the front window of my house a block below the Hollywood sign, wearing a dress made especially for me by a woman who designs clothes for famous people. I’m staring out the window, biting my nails, and I’m trying not to cry.

In the kitchen, the phone is ringing. It’s been ringing all day long, with calls from movie stars, TV actors, and pop singers who want me to know they’re thinking of me today. A few minutes ago, a gal whose new song was climbing the pop charts last week phoned from New York to sing me “Happy Birthday.” The prettiest man on television sent two dozen roses. My mailbox at my Tiger Beat office was stuffed with greetings from a galaxy of pop stars. Most of these cards, I knew, had been signed by secretaries.

Any other girl in the world would be thrilled with this kind of attention. Any other girl would be thrilled to be me—I know, because every day I get letters from girls all over the country, writing to tell me how much they want to be me. My life is so glamorous, they tell me, because I get to do what they only dream of: hanging out all day with Davy-Bobby-Peter-Dino-Mark-Micky. I’m so lucky, they need me to know, so pretty, so everything-I-want-to-be. I have it all, according to my friends, because all those yummy, smooth-faced young men every girl in America is lusting after are my friends, at least according to the two million readers of Tiger Beat, where I’ve worked since I was barely out of high school.

Oh, yeah? Today, minutes before the big birthday bash my parents are throwing so my friends can meet my rock-star boyfriend, I’ve never been more unhappy in my life. My heart is broken, thanks to this man who will eventually sell more than 200 million records and be lauded for changing the face of popular music. For now, he’s just a handsome singer in a popular rock band, admired by his peers and filling the daydreams of a million other girls—thanks in part to the stories I’ve written and published about him and his equally pretty brothers. Stories all about how gorgeous his eyes are, how much he adores cuddly kittens and perfect sunny days, and how deeply he loves all his fans—especially you!

Especially me! Or so I thought. He swore he loved me, even after he told me—on the night before my birthday!—that he’s married and can’t see me again.

So much for sunshine and kittens.

I feel the tears coming on again, just as his limousine pulls up. And then I can’t help myself: Instead of crying, I laugh. The image of a block-long black Cadillac stopping in front of my humble little house in the Hollywood hills suddenly strikes me as hilarious. And while I watch my rock star ex-boyfriend—just last night, the love of my life!—trudge up my front walkway, I’m thinking to myself, “Good lord, Annie. How in the world did you ever wind up here?”