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be.”
    “I have you, Davin, my agent, and that guy who plays my dad when I’m on Gossip Girl ,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers one by one. “I think that fills my individual mandated quota for gay friends. Besides, Davin’s gay and even he hates West Hollywood.”
    This is a sore point between them, and I lob it at my brother like a shot over the bow. West wants Wib (as he and everyone else in their crew call Davin, besides me; I hate the nicknames as much as the slang) to move into his apartment, but he can’t pry him out of his closet-sized place in Marina Del Rey where he has easy-access to his boat and all the best surfing spots.
    Works like a charm. West is sullen and silent the rest of the way. We pass one strip mall after another until we get to a gated entry. He turns in and comes to a stop. I hand West my ID to pass to the guard, leaning across him at the same time so the guard can see my face. “Claire Beau,” I say. “ Vampire Diaries .”
    He pushes a button and the gate lifts. “Sound stage five-oh-six, door A-three.”
    West drives as close to the sound stage as he can get, which in my case is the “non-stars” lot about three hundred miles away, and stops. “You think it’ll be more than an hour?” he says.
    I snort. “It’s going to take me an hour just to walk there from here.”
    “More than an hour to shoot ?”
    “Not a chance,” I say, gathering my stuff and opening the door. “I’m playing a sixteen-year-old girl from a flashback. I don’t even have any lines, I just have to walk across the set”–I look down at the sheet of paper in my hands–“‘with a look of deep confusion, as if in a trance or awakening from a dream.’”
    I’m still studying the paper when West starts laughing. I look up. “What?” And then I get it. “Oh, very funny, West.” I slam the car door and stomp away.
    “Just think about all the time you’ll save on rehearsing!” he yells after me, still howling with laughter.
    I’m in a foul mood as the heavy metal sound stage door shuts behind me. I stand there for a second, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Studio sound stages are like huge airplane hangars, but dark as a cave. The only place that’s lit is the actual spot where they’re filming or taping, and there’s no worker’s comp for background actors–extras–stupid enough to trip over cables or run into walls, and definitely no other jobs coming your way if you knock over million dollar equipment.
    I edge my way to the beige plastic bleachers, joining the group of extras bunched together at the end, their bodies turned towards the set. None of them even look my way as I gingerly step over the rows of seats and make my way to the top. Once I have a bird’s-eye view of the set, I see why my appearance failed to elicit even one ‘hello.’
    Two actors–“the talent,” or actors with speaking parts–writhe on the shag carpet of a shabby-looking apartment, the one ripping at the clothes of the other. I look away, not because I’m a prude, but because there’s no way these two will get naked. Nudie scenes are always done with a small crew, and out of the sight of lowly background actors. Watching the beginning of unbridled passion without getting to see the end–especially if they do more than a few takes–is like fast forwarding through all the sex scenes in a porno so you can watch the boring acting.
    I pull out a biography of Queen Victoria–I’m really on a kick with this lately–and start reading. I only get a few pages in before a woman calls my name.
    “Claire Bee-you? Bowie?”
    There was a time when I would have corrected someone who mispronounced my name on a job. It doesn’t take you long to realize that they don’t care. You’re lucky they’re calling you by a name and not a number. So I just stand up. “Right here.”
    “Great. Go to wardrobe, they’ll give you the nightgown to wear.” She examines my face. “And thank you for not wearing