I sighed dramatically and picked up a spare measuring tape from the table. I’d once heard Touchstone say that sometimes all it took for him to unlock a character was the right piece of clothing—a heavy watch, or stiff shoes, or a flashy hat—and so I draped the measuring tape around my neck the way I’d seen people in the costume shop do, and I swore I felt myself stand up straighter. I was no longer Celia Gilbert, Deranged Superfan; I was Celia Gilbert, Extremely Competent Costume Apprentice.

“Wait,” he said. “You’re going to measure me?”

“Is there a problem,” I said—just like that, a statement, not a question.

“I mean, I prefer not to be touched by people who were last seen spying on me from inside a tree.”

“I wasn’t spying.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” he said, and there it was: his trademark Power Jam arrogance. I was beginning to find him annoying, which, honestly, set me off. It was one thing for him to think I was nuts, but I really didn’t want him to ruin the show for me. Blade Mendoza needed to remain sacred.

“Look,” I said. “I was looking for cell service, just like you. Believe it or not, we—what did you call us? Fools?—also have lives in this—what was it? Godforsaken hellhole?—and as such, occasionally we have to make phone calls during the day.”

Oliver looked shocked. I was kind of shocked myself. Where had this assertiveness been my whole life? I needed to start wearing a measuring tape everywhere.

“You’re right,” Oliver said finally. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

He stepped onto the pedestal. Unfortunately, I hadn’t fully prepared myself for the effect of Oliver standing in front of a triptych mirror. It’s not like he was wearing anything remarkable—worn black jeans and a gray T-shirt, a few bracelets on his wrist, like an upscale version of what Ros and I used to make at summer camp. But thanks to the mirror, His Beauty was multiplied by three, and there was a whole new series of angles from which to behold him, and all of them seemed just right. The sharpness of his nose was more visible in profile; he was leaner and shorter than he appeared on camera, exactly my height. I suppose the roller skates added a couple inches.

I measured him quickly, in silence, making notes on the sheet that Phoebe had left behind. I tried to stay professional, but I confess, at one moment I broke out in a cold sweat while measuring him. One can stay only so calm when looping a measuring tape around the hips of your celebrity crush.

“All done,” I said after a few minutes of quick work. “Thanks for coming by.”

I waited for him to leave, but he lingered.

“I’m really sorry for what I said that day,” he said.

“It’s fine,” I said stiffly.