“So lame,” I say, rolling my eyes. I reach for another handful of chocolate chips. “What if some disgusting fat guy wanted to buy you a free meal? You’re only going because he’s hot.”

“And because you like him,” Simone adds helpfully.

“Anyway,” Jasmine says, changing the subject. “Are you going to tell James that you made these for him? Or are you going to act like you have no idea they’re his favorites?” She slides two of the cookie sheets into the oven, the back of her shirt sliding up under her apron to reveal a strip of tan skin under her mike pack.

“I don’t know,” Simone says, biting her lip. “I hadn’t thought about it.” She looks fearfully at the cookies as if they’re snakes.

“Sweetie, you need to loosen up a little bit,” I tell her. “Calm down a little.” I pop some more chocolate chips into my mouth. I offer her one, but she shakes her head.

“You can’t tell him you knew,” I say, jumping off my stool and heading to the refrigerator for a glass of milk. “It will make it seem more like you’re the one for him if you just happened to make his favorite cookies. I mean, what are the chances? It’s like destiny.”

“Yeah, but if she tells him she made them since she knew they were his favorite, she seems thoughtful and sweet. And it gives him the idea that she might be interested in more than a friendship,” Jasmine says.

“How did you know they were his favorites?” I ask Simone. I sit back down at the counter and take a sip of my milk. “Did he tell you? Or did you overhear it?”

“Neither,” Simone says, looking like this whole debate is too much for her to take. She pulls out her hair tie and shakes her long red hair so that it cascades over her shoulders. “I read it on his casting application.”

“How’d you get to see his casting application?” I ask.

“It’s online.”

“It is? Are all our casting applications online?” I furiously rack my brain trying to remember if I wrote anything completely ridiculous on mine. I feel somewhat relieved when I remember my phone sex story and the fact that I offered to sleep with a director were confined to verbal exchanges.

“Sure,” Jasmine says, pulling off her apron and tossing it on the counter. “Along with our pictures, bios, message boards, fan sites—you name it.”

“Message boards?”

“Yeah.”

“What are they saying about me?” I ask, suddenly curious. I can’t believe that the thought of people talking about me online hasn’t crossed my mind. It’s probably because we’re not allowed to use instant messenger while we’re here, since production doesn’t want any secret IM convos covering up something that may be interesting to the viewers and make for good ratings. With no instant messenger access, I haven’t really had too much interest in the computer.