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“clearance” to visitors, which consisted only of photocopying their IDs and giving them a visitor’s badge. “I have a mound of work to do at the office. Maybe we can grab something quick at the deli on the corner.”
    “Oh, we’re not eating today,” Emmie said, grabbing my arm and yanking me inside. The stage door shut behind us, rather ominously, I thought.
    “We’re not?” I asked suspiciously. Emmie was in full makeup for the show, as she often was when I visited her, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was being led down the hallway by an overly enthusiastic clown with a face full of matte pancake makeup and bright red lips. The only thing missing was a big red nose.
    “No,” she said cheerfully.
    “Then why am I here?” I looked at her blankly. “I thought you invited me to lunch.”
    “No time for small talk. We have to get right to work,” Emmie said mysteriously, ignoring my question. “Follow me.”
    Checking my watch and trying to shush my grumpily grumbling stomach, I followed her down the darkened hallways. Still holding my hand, as if she were afraid I would dart away if she let go (well, maybe I would have), she click-clacked in her high heels past doors decorated with actors’ names inside stars, then on past Sound Stage 1, currently set up to look like a hospital room.
    “One of the characters is in a coma,” Emmie explained hurriedly as we passed by. Of course. One of the characters was
always
in a coma. Except during the times when one was
awakening
from a lengthy coma or returning from the dead or some such thing.
    For two years now, Emmie had played the assistant to the devilishly handsome Dr. Dirk Doubleday on the soap, and she was convinced it was the first step toward her big break, the role that would lead to her being noticed and cast as a lead on a prime-time drama series, which would, of course, lead to her being cast as the lead in next summer’s box-office-breakout romantic comedy. She already had her sights set on the mansion next to Tom Cruise’s. Seriously. She had a photo of it pinned to the mirror in her dressing room.
    Emmie turned down the hall leading to the makeup room with me following two paces behind, wondering where she was taking us. My nose told me we were leaving the general vicinity of the tempting buffet table.
    “Wait here for a moment,” she said, pulling to a halt before we reached the dressing room she shared with several other minor characters on the show. Of course, I would never refer to them as minor characters.
Supporting actors,
Emmie called them.
    “What are you doing?” I asked as she opened a door off the hallway.
    “Shhhh! ” she hissed at me. “I’m just making sure the coast is clear.” She looked from side to side suspiciously, her blonde ringlets bobbing around her face, and slipped inside the room beside her dressing room.
    I sighed and leaned back against the wall of the hallway, crossing my arms. I was hungry, and it had been a long morning. I didn’t have time for Emmie’s dramatics today. She was always making a bigger deal out of things than she needed to. I mean, I guess that was her job. But I’m the complete opposite: practical and sparse in my antics.
    In a moment, an elated Emmie reemerged from the room, grabbed my arm, and pulled me inside.
    “It’s safe. C’mon,” she said. She flipped on the light, revealing a massive closet lined with racks and racks of clothes, shoes, wigs, and accessories. “Welcome to the Wardrobe Closet,” she said with dramatic flourish, gesturing around us grandly. I blinked and stared. It was what I’d always imagined Heaven would look like.
    The room seemed to go on forever. The walls were lined with shelves six feet high, filled with every color, shape, and size of shoe I could imagine. Clear cabinets were filled with a sea of denim in every shade, and endless racks were lined with hangers full of shirts, pants, dresses, skirts, and jackets in every color, shape, and size