“Nick totally asked me to the dance at lunch today,” Jennifer said.

“Oh.” Lani did an exaggerated “sad” face.

“What, Chloe? I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Lani said. “I just…well, I was kind of hoping that Nick would ask—”

“God, she’s doing it again!” Jennifer interrupted.

“Cut,” the exasperated director yelled. I could feel the collective groan ripple through the crew. “Doing what, love?” he asked.

“She’s going off script.”

“I am doing no such thing!” Lani protested, throwing her shoulders back.

“Are too. The line is, ‘I wondered if Nick was going to ask me.’ Not, ‘I was hoping Nick would ask me.’”

The director closed his eyes, and I could imagine him mentally chanting whatever mantra his therapist had given him that week. “Jennifer. Honey. Darling. It doesn’t matter. It’s close enough. Let’s just finish the scene so we can all go home, okay?”

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” Jennifer yelled. “I memorize my lines, but Lani can get away with messing hers up?”

“It’s called ad-libbing, Jenny,” Lani protested. “If you’d ever taken an acting class in your charmed little life, you’d know that.”

“Snob!” Jennifer stuck her tongue out at Lani.

“Twit!” Lani gave Jennifer the finger.

“Enough!” The director put both hands out in a stop sign motion. “Look, let’s just…just call it a day,” he said with a resigned sigh. “We’ll work this out tomorrow, okay?”

“Fine,” Jennifer said.

“And, Lani,” the director added. “Could you please go over your script again tonight?”

Jennifer sent Lani a smirk. The brunette narrowed her eyes, mumbling something about a donkey and Jennifer’s mother under her breath as she stalked off set.

“Are all teenage girls this catty?” Cal whispered to me.

I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’m pretty sure I was never a teenager. There!” I pointed as Jennifer walked off the set. “I’m going in.”

“Good luck,” Cal mumbled to my back.

Jennifer stepped outside, immediately going to one of the white trailers and shutting the door behind her. I did a quick glance over my shoulder, then followed, knocking on the metal door.

“What?” I heard from inside.

Gingerly, I turned the knob and pushed my way inside. “Hello? Jennifer? It’s me, Samantha.”

The interior of the trailer was, like Pippi’s bedroom, done in all pink—pink walls, pink carpeting on the floor, pink velvet sofa. It was like a cotton candy machine threw up. To the right sat a small table and chairs, pink vinyl on shiny chrome. On the side table a film script sat open-faced, as if abandoned mid-read.

The queen of all things pink herself sat on the sofa, her legs curled up under her, eyeing me over an iced latte. (I had to find out where she was getting those!) “You’re who?” she asked, clearly not recognizing me.