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pass/fail.”
    “Show up, you pass. Don’t, you fail.”
    “I want a grade,” the old man said.
    The professor sighed and shook his ponytail. “Then don’t win this competition.”
    The lady opened her mouth as if to ask a question. The professor shook his head, leaned forward, and said, “Go.”
    I went after the task like it was Friday night at the Fry Hut and the football team was due in any second for their game day discount. My full focus landed on the vegetables. The knife slid through the middle of the potato. I shoved the halves aside with my free hand and grabbed the celery. Thin matchstick-sized pieces formed under my blade. Lastly, I cubed the radish. The second the final square formed, I threw my hands into the air.
    The thin dark-haired woman beside me had her long arm in the air too. My heart sank. The burly man on the front row lifted his knife high, coming in a close third.
    “Knives down. You three, bring your trays to me for inspection.”
    I lifted mine in a tight grip and walked past the other tables. My dark-haired neighbor and the burly guy beat me to the professor’s desk as if that had been part of the race. I should have walked faster.
    The professor hmm’d over our three trays and explained our cuts to the class.
    “Oh,” the old man said and threw his spud at the wall. Small diced pieces rained down. “I thought we had to do each cut on each vegetable. The instructions weren’t really clear.”
    The professor rolled his eyes and turned back to us. He focused on my tray. My hands curled in a protective gesture.
    He tugged on the front, pulling hard to get me to release it. He chuckled, and his light brown eyes narrowed. “Your name?”
    I unclenched my fists. “Marissa Steele.”
    “Best precision cut, Ms. Steele.”
    “Thank you.”
    The dark-haired woman’s tray held larger pieces than mine, and some had jagged ends. Irina would never have let me serve such shoddy cuttings at the Fry Hut. Not because she cared about quality for the customers, but because she liked to make the staff re-do their work. It was one of her power plays.
    The professor picked up a piece of paper and looked at me. “Take this form to Studio Three and report as kitchen-hand.”
    My knees weakened. I stared at the paper in disbelief and took it from him.
    “She was slower than me,” the dark-haired woman protested.
    “Her work is better.” His words were firm.
    The paper crumpled under my grip and I forced my fingers to loosen, as if tearing it would kill my victory. Wow. I loved LA. “Thank you.”
    The other students clapped anemically from their posts. I circled back to get my bag while the dark-haired woman continued her complaints.
    I’d won. I was going to get to meet my idol. My gaze searched for the professor’s again and he nodded at me. “Good luck, Ms. Steele.”
    “Thank you so much,” I said and headed to the door.
    Behind me, the professor told the lady to sit down and gave instructions to the students, something about a pot roast. The door shut on the word carrot. I retraced my steps back outside into the LA sunshine and checked the form. The paper gave me directions to find Studio Three.
    I took the winding sidewalk. More office buildings, small white trailers, and warehouses lay in the back. While I couldn’t see inside, I knew what was going on behind their doors: movie deals, star preparations, and filming.
    Being close to it all was thrilling. Now, I’d actually get to go inside a set and pass a college class doing it. I paused in the shade to get a hold of myself and shot Ashley a text. After I typed out the crazy news, I asked her to please thank her dad for finding the class.
    Her response, OMG.
    I’d expected cheers or some other British term. But I guess the UK hadn’t fully captured my BFF. I typed, I know , clicked off, and scurried to find the Scoop Out studio.
    On the way, I passed a person in a bear costume, lots of people wearing black, and two tourist trams.