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When I got to Studio Three, I opened the door with a weak grip and gave the security guard the form, hardly daring to breathe. He gave it back and said, “Down the hall to the left. Scoop Out .” A Hispanic accent touched his words. He shook his head and his tight dark curls jiggled. “Good luck.”
    His well wishes sounded oddly like a warning. Hmm. As I got further down the hallway, my hands shook and a fine film of sweat broke out over my entire body. Chill, Marissa. Don’t cry. Don’t faint. Don’t quote Ms. Sims’ lines back at her. Spots appeared before my eyes and the only words I could think of were the ones Ms. Sims usually used to kick contestants off the show. “Here’s your doggy bag. Enjoy it at home.” To add to the humiliation, remaining contestants would bark at the cook leaving. Yips and howls filled my mind. Oh no, I was going to meet her and start barking. I swallowed the sound burbling up in my throat and searched for a delay.
    A door on my right had the cutout silhouette of a woman on it. I darted into the restroom and went to the sink. Leaning against the water-splotched counter, I reached for the faucet. Cool water ran over my wrists and I came to myself. Get a grip. I’d flown 1500 miles by myself. I’d met a movie star. Two, counting Garrett, and Caz. Caz, Ashley’s boyfriend, was a huge movie star. He’d come to our winter dance. We’d all hung out. I could handle this.
    A few minutes later, I’d convinced myself enough to touch up my appearance. I glossed my lips with peach gloss, brushed my hair, and straightened my clothes. Nothing could be done for my choices: jeans and a plain green T-shirt, but as kitchen-hand, my outfit wouldn’t matter. They’d throw an apron over me and put me to work. I might not even see Sara Sims today. They might put me in a back room with a knife and a tub of carrots. I may never see her. Composure found, I went back to the hallway.
    Fake it. You’re in Hollywood, that’s what they do here. Fake it. I pasted on a grin, threw back my shoulders, and headed to the door marked Scoop Out. I had my greeting ready. I am so excited to be here Ms. Sims. To be chosen for this opportunity means the world. Please let me know how I can help your show. May help. Please let me know how I may help your show. Your production. Please let me know how I may assist your production.
    The knob turned under my too-tight grip and opened into another shorter corridor. A thin lady dressed in black headed down the hall. Her long blonde ponytail bobbed in front of me. Her thick hair was the same pale color as Ms. Sims, but longer, and her stride held more purpose. Ms. Sims always walked with languid sophistication, knowing the world would wait for her.
    “Hello?”
    The lady turned around. She held a computer tablet and a stack of folders. Her smooth face and bright blue eyes marked her as my age. What I’d thought was a headband was a microphone headpiece, like the one worn by the cashier at the Fry Hut, but sleeker. She lowered the microphone and kept her hand over the end. “Yes?”
    “Uh.”
    My ringtone belted out Garrett’s epic line, “We will live on, for an eternity.” A picture of Garrett popped up, and a callout text bubble appeared over his toga. What’s for dinner?
    I closed my eyes a second. Annoyance and embarrassment killed my fear. I typed, Something amazing , and looked back at the lady. “Sorry. Marissa Steele reporting as kitchen-hand to Ms. Sims.”
    The lady nodded, laid her hand over her heart, then held it out to me. “Great. I’m Hannah.”
    I shook it and apologized again. “Sorry about that.”
    Hannah smiled. “No problem. I love Road to Rome too.” She gestured toward the end of the hall and started walking again. “There are only two rules to remember: Don’t talk to Ms. Sims unless spoken to. And don’t play favorites with the contestants.” She blew out a breath. “You can imagine how they are when that happens. Remember those