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It’s good.”
    Satisfaction and eagerness fought my tiredness. With a script, I could really contribute to the process. “Thanks.”
    “Sure. We’ve got a few weeks to get those forms signed anyway.”
    That gave me several weeks to find out what Max wanted.
    Justin pointed to the break room. “There’s donuts in the back.”
    “Thanks.” I went over and grabbed a glazed one, hoping the sugar rush would last through my Scoop Out shift.
     
    ***
     
    All the contestants worked quietly at their stations. Will was always quiet, and the rest of them were exhausted after last night. Marissa scooped pineapple into small wedges and dusted each one with cinnamon. “So you like him?”
    “Max?”
    “No. The other hot movie star you’re hanging out with.” Marissa rolled her green eyes. “Yes. Max. What’s he like?”
    “Silent.”
    “Silent as in no thoughts? Or silent as in deep?” She held up a pineapple like a crystal ball. “Mulling all the wrongs of the world and counting all the ways he admires you?” The fruit rolled off her fingers and hit the cookie sheet, cracking. Marissa cursed and tossed it into the discard plate.
    I snatched the piece up. The cinnamon made it yum. I chewed and considered her question. “Silent like he’s thinking of a strategy for destroying the Art Department. I guess he’s given them some suggestions for a script and they can’t execute them.” I reached for another pineapple and held it up for an extra sprinkle of cinnamon. Marissa complied. I envisioned Max taking out Archie and Justin with Kung Foo moves. “Let’s face it. Max against the Art Department. It wouldn’t exactly be a fair fight.”
    “I don’t know. I’ve met some pretty dark artists.”
    “Archie and Justin don’t qualify as dark. Or deep.” I wiped my hands and checked the clock. The minute hand hadn’t moved since the last time I’d checked. “I’m so tired.”
    “Go sleep in the break room. I’ll cover for you.”
    “Thanks.” I went to the break room and slumped in one of the chairs. The back was hard and the table was cold. None of it was conducive to napping. I reached for my bag and took out the Dragon Night script. Justin had pinned copies of the Art Department’s crude sketches inside. They were too naked, and they lacked magic. I hadn’t read a word of the script, and I knew that much.
    I used a pencil and adjusted the hero’s costume. I added a shirt, a cape, and mystical elements everywhere. Not bad. I yawned and my eyelids threatened to close. I blinked them open and put my head down on the cold surface. Tomorrow’s my first rehearsal.  I should call and see if there’s anything I needed to do to prepare. Too tired…
     
    ***
     
    According to my call sheet, today was my first rehearsal on Time Kick. I hovered between nervous and excited. I’d helped out enough on Mom’s show to know how often scenes got cut, even whole parts. My unlikely role would likely be cut in one editing pass, so I needed to calm down. This was just a first meet anyway.
    A production assistant pointed to the Makeup and Wardrobe area. “Cutter’s ready for you.”
    “Thanks.” Costumes. That thought brought up some unfortunate memories. When I was five, Mom decided that dressing us up in nostalgic 50s dresses would make a great cover for her newest cookbook. She hadn’t given a thought to how I’d feel thirteen years later in my fifth reprint. Over one million sold. A million households in America had a picture of me on their kitchen shelf. Me chowing down on a big spoon wearing a poufy dress and a dopy, sugared-up expression. A look that said , oh the heights of feminine power I could achieve if only I learned to bake a soufflé like Mom .
    That was the last time I’d let anyone pick out my clothes. Until today.
    “Hannah,” Cutter yelled. “Get over here—that sequined cat suit isn’t going to wear itself.”
    Cat suit? No. I trudged over.
    Cutter poked my waist. “You are a size two,