Once logo guy cleared me, Randy explained that I’d be going to the greenroom and Mom would be headed to the parents’ lounge where she could watch the filming on a live feed.

“What’s the greenroom?” I asked, trying to keep up with Randy as she speed-walked down another long hallway.

“Where you’ll be before the segments. It’s like a hangout room.”

When we got to the door of the parents’ lounge, Mom took my chin in her hand and looked right into my eyes. “You got this. You’re going to be great.” There was something about the way she said it that made me feel like she was trying to cast a spell, like by saying it she could make it come true.

“See you after,” I said, and hurried to catch up with Randy who was already on the move.

• • •

“And this is you…” Randy opened a heavy metal door marked GREENROOM. “Everyone, meet Tris.”

Everyone, three girls and two boys, looked up from different spots in the room.

“We still have a while before we go to set. So just relax. Have something to eat.” She waved her clipboard in the direction of a table piled high with food. “I’ll see you in a bit.” Then she sped off.

For a second, I just stood there, trying to figure out where to park myself. Maybe behind one of the many potted trees scattered around the room. I was under orders from Jeanine not to talk to the competition any more than necessary.

I wasn’t there to make friends. I was there to win. No chatting with the enemy. Jeanine had given strict instructions. I was supposed to tune everyone out.

I hate the competition. I love to compete…

A girl on one of the couches raised a plastic knife covered with cream cheese and pointed it at me. “Hey, I remember you. Doughnuts, right?”

The trash-talker. Of course she’d made it. “Uh, yeah.”

She whistled. “Those must have been some doughnuts.”

They were. Even if Chef JJ never bothered to find out.

“You got on with doughnuts?” said a boy circling the food table. He looked about my age and was all in black, right down to his skinny jeans. He forced a laugh. “Let me guess, you called them beignets.”

“What are beignets?” a boy sprawled across one of the armchairs asked.

“Beignet is just fancy for doughnut,” Trash-talker said.

“It’s actually French for doughnut,” Skinny Jeans said.

“Who cares what you call them? I love doughnuts,” the boy on the armchair said before biting into a muffin. He was definitely younger than me. He reminded me of Riley’s new puppy, same gold-red hair, same hands and feet (or in Fozzie’s case, paws) that were way too big for their bodies.

Without thinking, I headed for the food table. At least eating was something to do besides letting people psych me out.

“Are we supposed to know that?” A small girl popped out from behind the table. She looked like a living, breathing Disney character, with huge brown eyes, pink-pink cheeks, and sleek black pigtails.