“PA.” The pointy-faced AD waved another stack of papers at her, ignoring the line of people in front of him.

“Yes?”

“I need a cup of coffee.”

“How do you take it?”

“Black. Cart’s over there.” He pointed.

An eager voice jumped in. “I’ll get your coffee.”

Ashley stiffened. She recognized that barky voice. She examined the newcomer warily, but the barker hurried forward and didn’t bother to look in her direction.

The AD said, “You are…?” He scanned his list of names. Some of the people in line looked annoyed at the interruption; others chatted away, more self-involved.

“Olive Oma, PA, proud to be of service.” The barker held up her security badge in two hands and inclined her head. The glint in her hazel eyes was eager when she looked at the AD. When she swung toward Ashley, her expression was competitive.

Ash, average height, stood at about the same height as the AD, but Olive’s brunette head only came to the top of the tablet in his hands. Petite with a pixie cut, Olive wore a muted-green jumpsuit with a brown leather tool belt strapped around her waist.

The AD said, “I already gave this job to her.” He pointed his chin toward Ashley and eyed Olive’s tool belt. “They’re having some trouble with stage B’s mobile toilet. Go give ’em a hand.”

“Absolutely,” Olive said. “I wanted to help with the set.” Olive glared at Ashley as she stomped off, swinging one hand to propel her small body faster. Her other hand squeezed the handle of a wrench locked into her tool belt.

***

Ashley took a seat on the temporary bleachers. In the short time since her arrival, the space had filled like a movie theater on Friday night. Her soon-to-be co-workers spoke loudly, and several people hugged as if seeing old friends. Most dressed casually like Ashley: jeans, T-shirts, and tennis shoes. A few dressed well, and they stood out as actors or people in charge.

The AD moved toward a tall, broad-shouldered man. The man’s feet were braced apart, his arms crossed over his chest, his chin raised. With that commanding air, he had to be the director or an executive. The AD imitated his stance, and the two men assessed the crowd. Ashley checked her watch. They still had about ten minutes before the scheduled start time.

A broad-shouldered guy with a buzz cut climbed up the steps, and she shoved down the bench so he could get past. Ashley wished she had a friend with her. Her summer job would be much more fun if she worked with a friend. Marissa, her best friend back home, thought Ashley’s LA summers were glamorous and exotic. LA teens were the same as the teens back home, with just a few more extremists; there must be some kind of drama gene bred into the community.

Before leaving Houston, she’d called Rachel, an LA friend from summers past, but Rachel was vacationing in Europe. Which was probably just as well because most of Ashley’s days would be sucked up by work. She’d just need to make a friend with one of the other crew members.

An East Coast voice interrupted her thoughts. “You’re in my seat,” Petra said. She wore overlarge sunglasses and red lip stain. Her tone discouraged argument. Her spicy perfume discouraged breathing.

Ashley froze, recognizing the voice of the lead actress, the pregnancy plotter. She kept her eyes on the floor and slid down the cold, metal bleacher, hoping Petra hadn’t seen her back at the trailer. The first girl she’d seen who was her age, and Ashley already knew they wouldn’t be friends.

“You see, this row of seats is for the cast.” Petra continued hammering in her point, as if Ashley hadn’t already scooted down. “I’m a member of the cast. I’m a lead, actually, so don’t be surprised if they call me up front. People need to see me, so I’ll sit here. Otherwise, they would all try to look and see where I am.” Petra twisted her glossy dark hair and snapped a stray piece into an amber-jeweled clip.

Ashley nodded, and climbed up one level on the bleachers. The steps creaked with the motion. That was a movie studio for you. Everything was constructed out of lightweight, cheap material.

Wearing jeans and a gray pullover, Caz stepped into Petra’s aisle.

Oh cool. She already knew someone, a hot someone. Ashley waved. Caz showed no reaction and Ashley felt her face flush at his failure to notice her. His eyes were on the lead actress.

“Petra,” Caz said and joined her. Together, they looked like the front page of a fashion magazine. One that didn’t require airbrushing.

Petra said, “I got here early to hold a seat for you. I’ve been waiting ages. You’re going to owe me. I’d have thought they’d put cushions out. On my last set, we had cushioned seats. These are cold. Sometimes my costumes are thin; I can’t sit on seats like this for too long.”

Caz listened until a large guy wearing a kilt strolled into the building and headed their way. Even with his attention focused on the newcomer, Petra kept talking. “Cushioned seats are the only way to go. My costumes crushed less. In fact, maybe we could arrange to have them delivered. I’ll let them know you and I both want cushions so the purchase shouldn’t be a problem. What color do you want?”

Caz scooted down a bit, away from Petra. Before he could state his color choice, Petra said, “I’m a winter, so I look best in cool tones, so I’m thinking we should get burgundy ones or maybe cerulean.”

Kilt guy’s long strides carried him easily across the floor, and he and Caz greeted each other with a manly shoulder slap. They spoke for a moment then were interrupted by Petra clearing her throat.

“You know Garrett, right?” Caz asked.

“I love garnets,” Petra said. “Just kidding, I like all stones, not only the red ones. When I wear—”

“Garret, not garnet,” the guy corrected in a heavy Scottish accent. The Scot swiveled his gaze around the crowd and said, “Oh, there’s a cute one, then.” He walked along the front until he reached the empty aisle seat beside a tall blonde lady with rock star style.

Olive trotted up next and stood in front of Petra and Caz. “Coffee for Ms. Pelinski and Mr. Thaymore.” She barked the word coffeethen drew out the esound when she said the word Pelinski.

Caz took the cup with a “thanks” and set it by his feet.

Petra took a sip of hers. “Is this mocha frap with soy?”

Olive nodded in a knowing fashion. “I read soy’s your favorite.”

“Well, soy was.” Petra waved a hand, making her silver bracelet slide high on her slim arm. She paused to admire the gleam in the overhead lights then said, “But soy’s so last year. You know what I mean. All those third world countries are running out of soy so everyone’s banning soy, and I have to stay current. This year I drink orange latte with one swirl of peppermint.”

“I’ll get that right away for you.” Olive dashed toward the coffee cart, swinging her arms, knocking into the early morning desperados, weakened by their need for caffeine, who surrounded the cart. Olive used their vulnerability and her diminutive frame to advantage and popped to the front of the group. “I’m getting coffee for Petra, so, me first.”

Ashley sent a quick text to her best friend back home. “It’s like the 1950s. PAs fetch coffee.”

Marissa replied, “Made new mustard-mayo sauce for fries.”

Ashley texted back. “Outcome?”

“Customer feedback rated recipe a seven.”

“That’s high.”

“Not good enough.”

“I want to try them.”

“I’ll have the dish perfected when you get home. Irina came out of the office when I was putting away the free sample tray.”

Ouch. Irina, the Fry Hut’s part-time manager, was also seventeen, but she relished the power that came with her title with a fervor that boded well for a career as a future army colonel or third world dictator.

“Irina made me wear the fry costume and greet customers in the parking lot.”