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  “Have you ever done any modeling?” he asked.

  Now it was Raina’s turn to laugh.

  “Yeah, man. Didn’t you see me in Teen Vogue last week? I was wearing Gucci slippers.”

  She was still giggling when her mom came out of the theater and took a protective step in front of her daughter. She put a hand inside her purse where Raina knew she kept her enormous canister of pepper spray.

  “What’s going on here? Who are you?”

  The man put his hands up in the air as if he were being mugged. Then, slowly, he reached into the front pocket of his very expensive Oxford shirt and produced a business card.

  “Paul Houston,” he said. “I’m a casting director. And I’d like to introduce your daughter to a director.”

  He waited patiently for Raina and her mom to Google his agency on their phones, find a matching picture, and see his client list. It was an impressive list.

  “How long are you in town?” he asked as they finished their detective work.

  “Two more days,” said Trinity, softened a little by what she’d found.

  “Any chance you can extend that?” he asked. “At my expense, of course.”

  Trinity looked at Raina. Raina looked back at her mother.

  A week later, she had an agent, and she was preparing to audition for a teen blockbuster about a nerdy girl who has to save the world from a time-traveling evil cat. She beat out every young actress you’ve ever heard of for the role.

  How did she do it?

  By thinking that it was never going to happen. Instead of preparing, she just went in and played herself. She ad-libbed a few bad jokes. She asked a few questions about her character. Then she realistically mimed hanging from a cliff while trying to keep a rescued, magical kitten in the pocket of a sweatshirt.

  A year after that, she was famous.

  For a while we stayed in touch. I still had her phone number, which became a well-kept secret, and I knew which social media accounts were the real ones. She lived in California now, and when we spoke, she’d mostly ask me about details from home. The polenta fries at Muddy Waters. The art installations on the ice at Lake Harriet. What play they were doing at the Community Playhouse. She seemed genuinely interested. Like maybe she really missed being a regular person in Minnesota with a cheap haircut and a gym locker. Though I couldn’t imagine why that would be true.

  I tried not to ask about her new celebrity status too much, but it was hard to resist. I’d never met anyone famous before, unless you counted the washed-up celebrities who turned up at the mall once in a while to launch their shoe lines.

  I’d write:

  When you go on a talk show, do they really have baskets of free stuff back there? Can you take anything you want? Is it considered unprofessional to eat the whole muffin basket, or to take it home like a doggie bag?

  I’d get a reply a few days later.

  Swag Bags are real! I don’t care if it’s unprofessional. When a muffin is free, I eat the muffin. Are you still working at the Green Street?

  Every once in a while, we’d talk on the phone, but hearing her voice was a little too much for me. In the end, I was stuck in the position of being genuinely happy for her, while simultaneously mourning the loss of my only real friend. You can see why I could fake it better in texts. On the phone, it was hard to keep my voice from quavering. And I was always on the verge of saying “Come home. Come home. Come home.”

  Then my dad died.

  And she didn’t come home.

  In her defense, it would have been nearly impossible. She was shooting in Greenland. But she could have come later. It still would have helped. She didn’t do that, either. She never came back to see me. In fact, she didn’t even contact me. The worst thing imaginable had happened, and my best friend wasn’t there for me. It was beyond my understanding.

  After that, I stopped texting. And I tried to move on. A year passed. Then another. I was put in charge of the Green Street. And, aside from the occasional Google alert, I tried not to think about her. In fact, I had almost successfully transformed her from best friend/unrequited love to pop-culture trivia when my mom told me she was back in town and that I should reach out because she was in trouble.

  But who wasn’t in trouble? That’s what I wanted to know.

  Life, it seemed to me, was mostly trouble. Sacred movie theaters got eviction notices from guys with tight shirts. Friendships ended as quickly as they began. People died when you didn’t want them to die. It was, so often, a lowdown, disappointing business as far as I could tell. Which is why I spent most of my time watching movies.

  A text came through on my phone now. It was from a number I didn’t recognize. But I hadn’t made any new friends lately, so there was really only one person it could be.

  Ethan, it read. Are you there?

  8

  There was only one thing to do:

  I walked into the rat closet and sat on an industrial-size box of Sour Patch Kids. This was my thinking spot. I chose the Sour Patch Kids because they were an odd phenomenon to me. Not too many people ate them outside of the movies. And, yet, they weren’t really a classic theater candy like Junior Mints or Dots. They sold just enough to justify their presence in the case, but no more. They were the modest survivors of the theater candy world.

  They were also the only candy the rats wanted nothing to do with.

  I opened the big box and took out a package. I ripped it open.

  “Why don’t you want these?” I asked any giant rats who might be lurking.

  I dumped a few of the crusted gummies in my mouth. And as my whole tongue lit up with a thousand flames of sour-sweetness, I understood why they might go neglected.

  “Fine,” I said. “More for me.”

  I tossed another handful in my mouth and pressed call back on my phone.

  The ringing seemed to last forever. One long tone after the other, vibrating for years in my ear. I didn’t hang up, though. And just when I was sure I would be listening to that sound forever, I heard her voice.

  “You have the same number,” she said.

  I was still chewing candy globs, and it took me a minute to speak.

  “It’s true,” I said eventually. “Everything about me is the same. My number. My blood type. My inability to ignore a message from you.”

  I barely knew what I was saying. The last time I had heard her voice was in a movie. Now when she spoke, it sounded like it could be in the room with me.

  “My mom was happy to see your mom yesterday.”

  She was silent for a few seconds. I looked around the darkened storage closet.

  “She said your mom was looking good. Like she was a whole new person or something.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “She’s living her best life, in quotation marks. I guess it’s good. She smiles more.”

  “And what about you?” she asked. “Are you living your best life in quotation marks?”

  I could hear a sly smile in her voice.

  “I think I am living my best life in finger quotes,” I said.

  There was another silence then, and I heard Lucas and Griffin arguing about something at the concession stand. Lucas kept saying, “That being said!” I assumed it was movie-related. The world could be ending and the two of them would still be arguing about which Coen Brothers film was the most underrated (Miller’s Crossing).

  “You’re not going to ask why I’m home?” she said.

  I was quiet.

  “I went AWOL,” she blurted.

  It took me a second to catch up.

  “What do you mean? You ran away from home?”

  “No,” she said. “Worse. I ran away from set.”

  I adjusted myself on my giant box of candy. She spoke again.

  “I was supposed to be filming in like fifteen minutes. They h
ad this huge scene set up, and I just sort of walked away from my trailer and didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Where did you go?”

  She sighed.

  “What?” I asked. “How embarrassing could it be?”

  “I went to Dairy Queen.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.

  “I guess that’s a pretty good choice,” I said. “Was it a Brazier?”

  No response for a few seconds. Then:

  “What’s a Brazier?”

  “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been away from the Midwest too long.”

  “Probably,” she said. “What’s a Brazier?”

  “A Brazier is a Dairy Queen with a grill where you can get burgers and stuff. It’s way better than a regular Dairy Queen because, you know: burgers.”

  “You mean a Grill and Chill?” she said.

  “A what?” I said.

  She sighed.

  “It wasn’t a Brazier.”

  “Bummer.”

  She was silent on the line.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Continue with your story.”

  “There isn’t really a story.”

  “So, you just went to Dairy Queen and came back? That’s not going AWOL. That’s going to Dairy Queen.”

  “I went to Dairy Queen for ten hours.”

  “Oh.”

  “My mom reported me missing. And they found me at the Culver City Mall. I was crying I guess.”

  “For ten hours?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember if you were crying for ten hours?”

  “I don’t remember any of it. They told me about it later.”

  “I see.”

  “So, I’m home now. Resting, in quotation marks. It isn’t very restful, actually.”

  “What about your movie?”

  I heard a muffled voice in the background, and the rustle of what must have been Raina’s hair against the phone.

  “Sorry, I have to go now, Ethan. But you should come over some time. I’d like to see you.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Our old house. Mom never sold it.”

  Long uncomfortable pause.

  “Good-bye, Ethan.”

  I tried to say good-bye, but what came out was:

  “Why?”

  At first I wasn’t sure if she’d hung up. But then she spoke:

  “Why what?”

  I steeled myself with a breath.

  “Why do you want to see me?”

  She didn’t say anything, so I spoke again:

  “We haven’t really been talking.”

  “Maybe that’s why I want to see you. Part of it anyway.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I have to go,” she said. “Come by if you want. Or, you know . . .”

  “Don’t?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  Then she hung up the phone. I looked around the room. My eyes had adjusted more to the light, and now that I could see the walls, I felt a sense of claustrophobia. Then I heard a scratching sound coming from the box next to me. I yanked it off the rickety metal shelf and saw a flash of tail before it was gone.

  The door swung open. And I heard a shrill scream.

  “Ah. Christ, Wendy. You scared the hell out of me!”

  Lucas shielded himself from me then reached in and grabbed a single box of Milk Duds. He inspected it for rat damage, his dark brown eyes roving over the cardboard. He was about to go back to whatever he was doing when I spoke up.

  “What do you think about all this?” I said.

  “About you hiding in the storage closet? I’m a little worried.”

  “The eviction,” I said.

  He looked away. The bangs of his asymmetrical black hair dipped over his left eye. Then he smiled and looked back at me.

  “I think we need to make a stand, Die Hard style. You, me, and Anjo barefoot in the ducts, picking off the real estate office guys, one by one!”

  He did his best Hans Gruber: “Now I haff a machine gun. Ho. Ho. Ho.”

  “No Griffin?”

  “Griffin couldn’t find his way out of a tube sock. Plus, he’d sell us out for a burrito in two minutes. I imagine Anjo would be lethal though. Like La Femme Nikita. You know?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I watched him as he continued to daydream, running a hand through his hair.

  “You realize it’s really going to happen, though. Right?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, this is not actually a movie. We’re not going to kill the bad guys. They’re just going to come and take this place away from us because we don’t have one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. And nobody wants us here anymore.”

  “The regulars do.”

  “They’re not enough. Everybody else wants condos. And a noodle bar. Advancement of the species.”

  He nodded.

  “And then, when it happens, we won’t be here anymore getting paid to have these conversations.”

  His eyes avoided mine. He rattled the box of Milk Duds in his hand.

  “Then you better do something,” he said.

  I stood up from my box.

  “Why me?” I asked. “Why can’t you figure it out? Or . . . I don’t know, everyone else?”

  Lucas looked at me incredulously, like he couldn’t believe that I’d ask such an obvious question.

  “Because you’re the manager, Wendy,” he said. “Now manage!”

  I watched him carefully to see if he was messing with me. He didn’t seem to be. But I couldn’t think of anything to say so the moment faded.

  “Hey,” he said. “I forgot to tell you. This film blog I read said Raina Allen from the Time Zap movies was at Muddy Waters yesterday. Didn’t you used to know that girl?”

  I waited an uncomfortable length of time before answering.

  “I did,” I said finally.

  He waited a moment to see if I had anything more to add. I did not.

  “Okay,” he said. “Good talk, boss.”

  He took the Milk Duds with him and gently closed the closet door, leaving me, as usual, in the dark.

  ETHAN’S GLOSSARY OF FILM TERMS

  ENTRY #79

  MISE-EN-SCÈNE

  A French term meaning “pretentious.”

  Just kidding. It means “placing on the stage.”

  It comes originally from the theater and refers to the complete visual effect of everything we see in the frame.

  Costumes. Props. Backdrops. Bodies. All the visual components.

  I don’t use this one too often. It’s hard to get away with casual French in daily conversation, at least around Griffin and Lucas. But I think about it sometimes. Mostly when I’m places I’m not supposed to be.

  Like: everything was perfect in the Mise-en-scène until Ethan showed up.

  9

  The Community Playhouse smelled like mothballs. At least, that’s how I remember it. Probably, it still does, but I’ve barely set foot in the building since Raina left, so I don’t know for sure. The smell was from all the boxes of old costumes. Musty leather jackets from Grease. Wigs from The Crucible. Codpieces from The Tempest (okay, I made that one up). I sat on the floor in a black box theater on that first Saturday after Raina’s invitation while all the theater kids made inside jokes and sang songs from musicals with the lyrics changed.

  “Ikea, I just met a girl at Ikea!”

  “Oh my God, shut up, Claire! People are going to think you’re so high.”

  These were not my people. Movies and theater were two different medi
ums with two different brands of nerd. Film nerds were introverts, observers mostly, who sat at the back of theaters and stayed through the credits. Theater nerds sang in the shower and started backrub trains after putting on their stage makeup. Neither of us really had any social skills to speak of, but there was so much extroverted energy in the room that Saturday, it felt like the walls were closing in on me.

  Then Raina showed up.

  She walked calmly across the theater and sat down beside me on the dusty floor. Her dirty blond hair was tucked into a messy ponytail.

  “Hey, Ethan,” she said.

  Then she turned toward the teacher.

  “Oh, hey,” I said, real nonchalant.

  And that was enough to sustain me over the next hour. An hour in which I participated in all manner of energetic “warm-ups.” I pretended to be a tiny seed growing into a towering willow tree. I played improv freeze tag and could never think of a line. And I finished with a yoga exercise where I was asked to paint the ceiling with my mind. It was kind of like a series of personal nightmares, only I was awake and my parents were paying for them.

  Our teacher, Mrs. Salazar, had been a stage actress in New York for a few years when she was young before returning to Minnesota to raise a family and teach these classes, I guess. She liked to drop names that no one had ever heard of. She had frizzy dark hair, and a hint of a mustache. But when something made her laugh, she threw her head back and brayed. I liked her passion. Then at the end of the first class, she handed out scripts.

  “We’re going to be doing scenes from Oliver this fall,” she said. “Auditions are next week. Prepare a song!”

  My heart shriveled in my chest. I held the photocopied script in my hand, but I couldn’t really see it through blurred vision. Outside, I followed Raina to the parking lot and tapped her on the shoulder.

  “So, um. I’m quitting this,” I said. “Thanks for inviting me, though.”