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two things and you’ll be here next week.”
    The Fry Hut had a whole handbook on employee expectations, key segments of which they’d laminated and posted on the wall in the employee break room. There were at least five rules around washing your hands alone. “That sounds simple enough.”
    “Tell that to the last guy. We fired him this morning.”
    “Fired?” I froze in my steps. Passing this class meant three credit hours. Three hours I didn’t have to pay for. Every penny I’d saved toward tuition had to count. I needed to be here beyond next week. I needed all seven episodes to get a passing grade.
    Hannah stopped too and her pale blue eyes pleaded with me. “It’s two things. You’ll be fine.”
    The expression in them made me think of my younger brothers when they wanted me to cook for them. The faint freckles on Hannah’s nose added to the resemblance. I had them on my shoulders, especially in the summer when tank tops ruled Texas, but none on my face. I faked it. “Absolutely. No problem.”
    I wanted to think I reassured Hannah because I was confident I could follow the rules without getting fired or to help her because she reminded me of home, but in reality, I wanted this chance, I wanted to see the set of Scoop Out , and I wanted to meet Ms. Sims.
    “Oh, and try and stay away from that side of the building.” Hannah motioned with both her hands. “They shoot Tween In , the entertainment news show, over there and the stars who come for interviews don’t like to be bothered.”
    The stars. Heaven. I’m in heaven. We reached the end of the hall. A piece of paper covered the glass rectangle inset in the door. It shouted, Quiet, We’re Shooting .
    Hannah ignored the sign, crossed her fingers, and reached for the lever.
    Inside was as busy as the outside was quiet. I caught it all in a blur of images. This was the real show. Scoop Out . Three cook-top tables held two contestants apiece—three men and three women. Cameras were stationed around the room, all pointed at the contestants. One camera rested atop a wheeled tripod, manned by a guy in a backwards Dodgers’ ball cap.
    Behind him, a woman with her hands on her hips frowned and raised her arm to point at a lady in the middle row. “Get a shot of the sweat beading up on Weeping Wilma’s forehead.”
    I assumed she was the director. The rest of the room held backdrop stuff: food supply shelves, framed photos of chefs, and hooks for the iconic Scoop Out aprons. Everything was familiar. I saw it each week on TV. Ms. Sims wasn’t here though, and I noted her absence with disappointment and relief.
    “Closer,” the director said.
    The contestant with Wilma embroidered on the front of her apron wiped a hand over her brow. A tear balanced on the end of her eyelashes and her lips quivered. The camera guy stepped up and got in her face.
    Wilma said, “I have a family. You don’t understand the pressure being here causes me. My husband needs me home.”
    The door opened, distracting me from my rush of sympathy. Sara Sims walked in! She was so much smaller and thinner in person. I stared at her while the show went on around me.
    The director moved into my path, blocking my view of Sara. She looked at me from head to toe and then pointed at a sideboard. “Cube those turnips. We’re running late.” She glanced at her watch. “Your predecessor quit.” She said the words sharply with accusing hazel eyes as if it were somehow my fault. When I didn’t take the bait, she said to Hannah, “It’s your job to ensure everyone gets here on time.”
    “I’ll give Marissa the schedule,” Hannah said.
    The director swiveled back to me. “Can we count on better professionalism from you?”
    I nodded.
    “Good.” The director sighed and handed Hannah a stack of papers. “Get these forms signed from—” she glanced at my outfit, “Messy Marissa and let’s get this episode going.”
    I swallowed the desire to protest the nickname. Logically I knew it