Cement warehouse buildings squatted down one side of the studio, housing the soundstages of hit TV shows, while the other half of the lot was filled with building facades for movie locations. A New York street, complete with brownstones and subway stairs that led to nowhere. A dusty main street in the Old West, complete with hitching posts. A quaint, tree-lined suburban street where you expected the Beaver to pop his freckled little face out of a tree house at any second. And through it all a tram full of tourists being given the Sunset Studios tour snapped pictures of every lamppost, mailbox, and production assistant on a coffee run.

Beyond the side gate was a small parking lot where Cal and I traded our gas guzzler for a small white golf cart—the studio’s main mode of transportation. Cal took the wheel and quickly navigated our way through the soundstages until we found one with a huge pink “Pippi Mississippi” sign tacked to the front. Cal parked behind a wardrobe trailer and led the way inside.

The interior of the warehouse was dark, and I took a moment to let my eyes adjust to the change. The place was a maze of ropes, cables, and electronic equipment, all leading to a series of strategically placed sets that looked like oversized dioramas. I spotted the hallway of Pippi’s junior high, her prissy pink bedroom, and the video arcade where she and her girlfriend hung out after school, the latter a buzz of activity as grips positioned lights, sound guys adjusted mics, someone lifted a camera onto a moving track, and no less than three women in overalls fluffed, primped, and powdered the blonde in the center—Jennifer Wood.

Beside her stood her two co-stars: a redhead whose name I couldn’t remember, and a brunette I recognized as being in the backseat of Jennifer’s limo with her when the infamous boob shot had been taken. Lani Cline, reportedly Jennifer’s best friend.

“That her?” Cal asked, stabbing a finger toward Jennifer.

I nodded.

“We need her alone. Got any ideas?”

I shrugged. “Give me a minute.”

“Back to one, everyone,” shouted the director, an overweight guy with glasses and a nose that could rival Pinocchio’s. The crew scurried off the stage like cats being doused with a hose. Jennifer walked to a spot on the floor marked with an “X” in blue electrical tape, her co-stars a step behind her.

“Speed.”

A guy with a black clapboard stood in front of the camera, then dropped the little arm, marking the tape.

“And…rolling!” the director shouted.

A bell went off somewhere, and silence hit the set, all eyes on Jennifer.

“Chloe, I can’t believe you told Ryan about my diary,” she said to the brunette.

“I’m so sorry, Pippi! But I didn’t know he’d read it to the whole school.”