I nod. I'm more concerned with finding my Sidekick, which has everything I need: my overbooked calendar, friends' digits, and e-mail to help me stay in touch even when I'm on location in remote Kauai. I scan the top of my cluttered dresser, then drop down on the cherry-wood floor and look under my custom-designed canopy bed. "Gee, you're in a great mood!" I yell. "Any chance it has something to do with my mom?" I spot my green bejeweled Sidekick peeking out from under my Dodgers cap and grab it. I pull myself out and stand up to face Nadine. Her pale white face turns as red as her pixie-length hair at the mention of Mom's name. She folds her lanky arms across her chest, which bears the words WILL WORK FOR FOOD across her army green Urban Outfitters t-shirt. "Forget I brought it up," I say quickly.

Last night Mom claimed she had a fever and bailed the FA set at seven, leaving Nadine to play chaperone. (Since I'm only sixteen, I need a guardian on set with me at all times. Not that I ever really think of Nadine as a guardian. She's only 23 herself.) I have a sneaking suspicion that Mom slipped out so she could go to that John Travolta dinner at the Beverly Hills Hilton, but if I tell Nadine that, she'll blow her top. She already thinks my mom is "vicariously living through her daughter's good fortune." She tells me this whenever we catch Mom flirting with my male costars in one of her PB&J Couture suits.

"Why are you up so early anyway? I thought Mom was taking me today," I ask as I race into my bathroom to brush my teeth with my Han Solo toothbrush.

"Your mom forgot about her tennis lesson," Nadine says wearily. "Rodney picked me up on the way. Thankfully I printed out your itinerary when I got home last night."

I spit out the toothpaste and dash over to my walk-in closet to find something to wear. I'm totally a jeans-and-t-shirt kind of girl when I'm not working, but since today is a business thing, I settle on my vintage tweed blazer and green suede size 9 Pumas. I think they make my feet look smaller. Which is a good thing since my younger brother Matt calls me "Bigfoot."

As I tie my shoes, I watch Nadine whip today's itinerary out of her brown leather binder. Nadine calls it her "bible." She keeps a list of my bra size, favorite designers, food likes (pork fried rice and veggie dumplings from Chow Mein's in Santa Monica) and dislikes (the smell of tuna makes me gag) and DVD must-haves for downtime on the set (Star Wars box set? Check. Legally Blonde? Check), plus a phone list of casting agents, talk show producers, and studio heads that I might need to call at any given moment. Basically Nadine likes any excuse to use a spreadsheet.