“Careful with that,” Phoebe said, pointing to the phone. “I’ve seen the monkey crack three so far. Phoebe. We spoke at the conference this morning.”

“Right. Hi. Dana. I wondered if that was you. I’ve been staring at your dress all night.”

“Oh, ha, thanks. Yours is really pretty, too.” It was pretty, a green-and-gold print wrap dress Phoebe would have worn if she could fill it out as well as Dana could, but there was no mistaking that they’d dressed for completely different evenings. Dana’s look was day-to-night; she’d probably worn the dress to work and would keep it on while she loaded the dishwasher when she got home.

“Who is it?” Dana asked, and it took Phoebe a minute to realize she was asking about the designer.

“Oh, well, me. I designed it, and a woman named Soo-Yun Park made it.”

“It got me thinking about the costume design in your film. Is it anything like this?”

Was this happening? Was someone actually asking Phoebe a question about filmmaking?

“Actually—” she began, but before she could get into the color themes she’d explored, the research she’d done on the Joseon dynasty, the tiny weights the OAC kids had sewn into the hem of Serena’s wonsam to get it to lie right when she rode on horseback, someone’s hand was on Phoebe’s back and that someone had his other hand around Dana’s waist and he was saying, “Ladies, ladies, ladies. It’s a party! I forbid you to look this serious.”

“Hey, Scott,” Dana droned, clearly used to his interruptions. She was Black and he was white, and Phoebe didn’t need to be told that he took these liberties with Dana’s time and attention and person whenever he felt the need.

“I’m Scott,” he said. “And you are?”

“Phoebe Lee. How do you guys know each other?”

“Scott’s my boss. Scott, we were just talking about the film Phoebe directed.”

“Warrior Bride. It’s a martial arts-fantasy-thriller hybrid,” she said in the least salesy way she could muster while still getting in her elevator pitch, guessing she wouldn’t get far with Mulan. “Sort of Enter the Dragon meets Game of Thrones.”

“Oh, awesome. So, are you guys gonna ride the Pump Car Express? What do you say, Dana? Me and Phoebe against you.”

Phoebe and I, she thought, the English teacher in her rising up against this grammatical insult. This morning at the conference, the imperative had been to be a young renegade, but Scott, who looked about ten years younger than Dana, which made him probably twenty years younger than Phoebe, needed to slow down and take a breath. He needed to give Phoebe a serious hearing. The Revolution laid down the beat for “Baby, I’m a Star” and Phoebe tapped her fingers against her leg.