“Not in the summer, dork,” I say, hitting him playfully on the arm and trying to distract him from his crankiness. “And it’s not that hot out. Come on, this is going to be fun. Me, you, having an adventure . . . I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.” I link my arm through his and give him my most winning smile.

“Ally, you couldn’t be here with anyone else.” Grant says, and disentangles his arm from mine.

“That’s not completely true,” I tell him. “I could have come with Alicia Billings.” This year In the House is doing a special season, called In the House: Freshman Year. They’re filming the show at Syracuse College, so in order to even try out for the show, you have to be a member of their incoming freshman class. Rumor has it that the only reason SC allowed In the House to be filmed on its campus was because when MTV’s College Life took place at The University of Wisconsin, their applications and donations, like, tripled.

Anyway, Grant, Alicia Billings, and I are the only three people from our graduating class who are headed to Syracuse in the fall, and seeing as how I’ve never said a word to Alicia Billings and Grant and I are very good friends, it made more sense to come with him. Not to mention the fact that I don’t think Alicia Billings has a car and we live in Rochester, which is about an hour and a half away from where the audition’s taking place, at this bar in Syracuse called Dougie’s.

Grant rolls his eyes and swats at a bee that’s swarming around his head. “Fucking bees are here too?”

“Ohmigod, Grant, that guy behind us is totally checking you out,” I say, grabbing his arm and tilting my head toward the blond cutie waiting in line behind us.

“Really?” he says, showing interest for the first time since we’ve been here.

“Totally,” I lie for the second time in as many minutes. Grant is gay, and obsessed with any guy who shows the slightest interest in him. Actually, if you ask Grant, he’ll tell you he’s bi, but I’ve never seen him even look at a girl.

The line starts shuffling forward at a little after nine o’clock. Grant and I are in the second round of kids, and at about nine thirty, we’re led into the bar where we’re seated at tables of four. A casting assistant with pink hair places a box of pencils and four pieces of white paper down on our table.

“Fill these out,” she instructs shortly, turns on her heel, and is gone.

“She was pleasant,” Grant says, rolling his eyes again and grabbing a pencil.