Chapter 5

WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE THANKSGIVING TREAT? Madison Dahl: I love all of it. Turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce. It’s the one meal of the year when it’s totally worth it to blow your carb allowance!

—People “A spy movie? That’s so much cooler than my idea,” Jenna pouted as we drove to the lot on Saturday. Jenna was going to work as my production assistant for the day, then I was going to help her with her movie on Sunday (after church, of course). “My movie is about this depressed girl who hates her mom.”

“What happens?” I asked, wondering if Jenna was borrowing a slice of true life from our pal Kelly. We hadn’t seen much of her in school lately, and I got the impression she and Jenna weren’t talking much these days. Not that they’d had a falling out or anything. Kelly just wasn’t talking much to anyone.

“Nothing. It’s kind of a character piece.” Jenna sighed. “Who am I kidding? It sucks.”

“No, it doesn’t!” I lied, hoping I sounded convincing. But honestly, it sounded kind of awful to me.

Jenna shrugged. “Who cares? My turkey day is Mom-free. It’s not like I want to make movies when I grow up anyway.”

“What do you want to do these days?” Jenna was always bounding into class with another new career aspiration. Zoologist. Architect. Events coordinator. Professional skydiver, that sort of thing.

“I have a good one this week,” she said brightly. “Tattoo artist.”

“Are you serious?” Jenna looked punk rock with her eyebrow piercings and artfully ripped-up clothing, but on more than one occasion the girl had told me she would never get a tattoo because it would hurt too much.

“I finally figured it out,” Jenna explained. “I’m going to be the first tattoo artist who doesn’t have tattoos. It’ll be my mark of distinction. Like, I’ll tell people I’m so good I can’t bear the idea of having someone else tattoo me. How’s that?”

“Brilliant,” I laughed. “Are you sure you don’t want to be a comedy writer?”

Jenna tilted her head, mulling it over. “Maybe next week.”

***

Madison had insisted that we meet her at Soundstage 15, which I’d never been to before. When we got there, we walked through the open door onto a set you’d have to see to believe. But maybe you already have seen it—at the movies.

“They’re shooting pick-up scenes for the next Bond movie,” Madison’s voice echoed across the vast set, bouncing off the gritty-looking street scene made up of fake storefronts and parked cars. If you couldn’t look up into the exposed beams of the ceiling, you’d never guess you weren’t on a city street in Berlin or Budapest.

“I thought they shot all those movies in Europe,” Jenna said, tilting her head to read a street sign. I looked, too. The name of the street was written in a foreign language that was kind of light on the vowels, and I didn’t even bother to sound it out.

“Usually, but there was a travel warning or a coup or something and they had to shoot pick-ups here,” Madison explained.

“Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?” I had a nightmare vision of the studio’s rent-a-cops swarming the soundstage, arresting Jenna and me, then banning us from the studio lot forever. Madison and Clive, of course, wouldn’t even get a lecture. One time, Clive nearly ran over one of the guards with a golf cart and the guy just dusted himself off and asked for his autograph.

“Yes, Mom, we have permission,” Madison smirked. “I just happened to get my flirt on with this cute older guy who was smoking outside our soundstage, and it turned out he was the D.P. for this movie.” Madison tilted her head. “Actually, this may not be a Bond movie. Maybe he said it was a Scorcese flick. Whatever. It’s still cool.”

“And are we here because you wanted to show us how cool it is, or are you suggesting we shoot here?” I asked, not quite getting it. There was certainly nothing like this street scene in my script.

Madison gave me a big grin, the kind she used on guys before she asked them to lend her money for the valet. “Now, I know your story takes place entirely in a house but isn’t this better?” she asked brightly. I noticed she was wearing a sleek black catsuit, even though I’d told her to wear a non-trendy T-shirt and jeans. I had cast her as a cop who goes undercover as a housewife, but apparently the director had been overruled.

“This is a big change, Madison. I have to rewrite the whole thing,” I whined.

“I know, but it’s, like, five pages. We can do that faster than you can turn on the camera,” Madison said, not even skipping a beat. “And don’t you love these boots? Hello, Alexander McQueen!” Madison flexed a high-heeled patent leather number at me. “I feel like Margot Robbie in these, I swear!”

“So, I guess you aren’t a housewife anymore?” I asked, feeling my brain empty of ideas like a leaky bathtub. I’d been too nervous to sleep the night before, so I wasn’t exactly feeling razor sharp.

Clive walked through the door, staring at the small, shiny camcorder in his hands. “Who’s a housewife?” he shouted. “Please tell me I’m doing a scene with Felicity Huffman. Love her.”

“We’re changing the script,” Madison announced. “Any ideas? I was a spy undercover as a housewife.”

Clive grimaced, thinking hard. “Maybe you’re a housewife undercover as a spy.”

“Funny!” Madison said, pointing at him. “Erin, are you taking notes?”

Suddenly I was no longer the director at all, but a glorified secretary. “This isn’t a comedy!” I yelled.

Madison stared at me, planting a manicured hand on her satin-swathed hip. “We’re trying to help you, Erin. Don’t be a diva.”

I looked at Jenna for support, but she just shrugged. “Isn’t this what it’s usually like in Hollywood? Last minute rewrites?”

So Clive, Jenna, Madison, and I sat down and ripped up the script, scribbling all over it in pen and pencil until the thing looked more like a five-page doodle than something anyone could read.

“Okay, so our idea is that Madison is a spy who sees this guy on the street and falls instantly in love,” I said, attempting to decipher our chicken scratch.

“That would be me, regular guy,” Clive said, taking a small bow.

“And even though she doesn’t want him to know she’s a spy, she wants to find out more about him,” I continued. “So, she follows this guy…”

“Regular guy,” Clive said.

“Okay, regular guy through the streets, and when he gets home, she pretends to bump into him…”

“Dressed as a normal person without fabulous boots,” Jenna pointed out.

“And boom, they fall in love,” Madison summed up, beaming with pride. “Erin, this is going to be a great movie!”

And, as hard as it had been to nail down the script, I didn’t disagree with her. I still liked my tortured housewife story, but the one we’d cobbled together in less than an hour was pretty good, too.

In my original version, Madison (the housewife/spy) and Clive (her clueless husband) were going to sit at a kitchen table pretending to eat dinner, and the housewife would silently struggle with how to tell her husband the horrible truth about her secret life. Lots of meaningful looks and heavy dialogue, like one of the Eugene O’Neil plays that the drama club put on at my school the year before. And then, to appease Madison, she’d have to kill a spy sneaking around their house at the end.

This new version would be less talk, more action. Maybe it was a little less thoughtful, like a summertime popcorn movie. But those are the movies that make money in the real world. And how better to use our access to a set that probably cost millions of dollars? At the very least, Madison would be happier wearing her thousand-dollar boots, and I certainly knew from experience that a happy Madison was the one I wanted to work with.

I handed the revised (read: scribbled-up) script to Madison, who quickly handed it back to me. “Can’t read the dialogue. At all.”

Clive looked over my shoulder. “There’s dialogue on there?”

I looked down at the script, and they were right. We’d crossed off so many things and written in so many others, there was no way of telling what our intention really was.

“I say we improvise,” Clive suggested. “We know the story, basically, so just tell us what’s happening in the scene as we’re shooting it.”

I had written a few zippy one-liners I was sad to give up, but we’d chopped so much chatter out of the script it didn’t seem like a big deal to hack out a little more. “Sure,” I shrugged, reaching for Clive’s camera.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, grabbing it away from me. “You don’t pick it up by the eye cup, Erin. Have you ever used one of these before?”

“Of course I have,” I said, although I’d never used one as expensive as Clive’s. My dad had bought his video camera on sale at Target, a discontinued model from a brand I’d never heard of. We only ever used it on family vacations, and my dad hardly ever let me or Victoria touch it.

Clive patiently explained to me all of the different features on the camera, talking about weird stuff like white balance (you have to aim a camera at a piece of white paper so that the camera “understands” what white is or something like that), manual zoom, and iris control.

By the time Clive started talking about video noise, I seriously thought I was going to pass out. Clive saw the glazed expression on my face and turned to Jenna. “Do you think you can be the cinematographer?”

“Piece of cake,” Jenna shot back. She grabbed the camera and started punching buttons like an old pro.

“Okay, we’ve got two actors, a cinematographer, and some film,” I said. “Are we good?”

“Wait, where’s my gun?” Madison asked, looking around frantically. After a few panicked moments, she plucked a convincing-looking handgun from behind a fake mailbox. She aimed it at Clive, narrowing her eyes. “Okay, we’re good.”

“Maybe the nice housewife idea was better,” Clive joked, pretending to tremble in terror.

“Okay, Madison? Let’s shoot your scenes first,” I shouted in my most commanding voice. Even if I had no clue what I was doing, I could still sound like a director. Then I felt the tap on my shoulder.

“Uh, we’re supposed to edit in camera,” Jenna whispered in my ear. “You kind of have to start at the beginning.”

“What?” I guess I hadn’t read the paperwork the program had sent me very carefully. Editing in camera really meant no editing at all. What I shot was my movie, period. So that meant no shooting scenes out of sequence, no cutting and pasting together the best part of one take with another, no cool effects added in on my computer. What it meant, basically, was no screw-ups and a lot more pressure.

“So, let’s start at the beginning,” I sighed, feeling my directorial authority fade away.

“Great. I’ll start climbing this fire escape ladder, and Clive? Stand a little to my left,” Madison barked. “Let’s shoot the rehearsal, Jenna.”

I watched as Madison and Clive took their places, improvised their dialogue, and acted out the scene. I didn’t even call cut. Jenna did that. She grinned apologetically as she handed me the camera. “I figured I should do it, since you can’t see through the lens,” she shrugged.

I rewound the footage and watched it on the tiny camcorder screen. Whatever reservations I had about letting Madison and Clive call the shots went away in a hurry. From working together so long, they moved like a well-oiled machine, as if they could predict one another’s every move. Jenna held the camera perfectly steady, and even added a cool zoom right in the middle of the action. Sure, it didn’t look like an $80 million action movie or anything, but it was pretty damn slick for a student movie.

“This is perfect,” I gushed, gesturing for my crew to keep going. I was pleased everything was running so smoothly, and I was grateful to my friends for going so far above and beyond for me. I knew my movie was going to kick ass in class.

I just wish I could have felt proud of the damn thing.

***

Even though it was just a five-minute movie, it took us the rest of the day to slog through the filming. Madison’s feet got sore from running around in her high heel boots, and we had to reshoot a bunch of scenes once we realized that Clive had taken off his sweatshirt during the lunch break and completely ruined the continuity of the movie.

I wish I could say I became a more competent director as the day wore on, but that would be a lie. If anything, Madison and Clive got even more excited about having a chance to call their own shots, and pretty soon, Madison’s character wasn’t just a spy but also a bilingual former member of the Israeli army trained in Krav Maga. Clive’s character wasn’t just a guy, but a record executive who just happened to be gay. I don’t even want to try to explain to you how all of that worked into my little movie, because I’m not sure it really did. But Madison and Clive sure had fun.

“That was the best shoot I’ve ever been on,” Clive gushed as Jenna (not me) called it a wrap. “I would totally do this again.”

“Me, too!” Madison said as she unzipped her boots. “You’re a really good director, Erin.”

I looked over at Jenna, who was watching the movie from the beginning on the tiny camera screen. “All the kids in class are going to hate your guts,” she muttered. “Hell, I’m your friend and I’m a little jealous.”

“Well, at least it’s done,” I said, turning off the camera. I was bone tired but wired on adrenaline at the same time. That night, I slept so deeply Victoria had to practically drag me out of bed in time for church. I would have slept through that, too, except the dueling dirty looks from Dad and Miss Do kept jarring me awake.

It was funny seeing Miss Do at church. You know how little kids get really psyched when they see a playground? It was like that, but without the screaming. Miss Do’s eyes lit up the minute we pulled into the parking lot, and she practically leapt out of the car before my dad came to a complete stop.

Victoria and I dragged our feet walking towards the church, but it didn’t matter. Dad and Miss Do were so eager to chat with their Korean-speaking friends they didn’t even notice we weren’t keeping up with them. “Why does he even bother forcing us to come here?” Victoria grumbled.

“I think he just can’t understand why we aren’t having as much fun as he is.” Dad and Miss Do were nodding vigorously at an old couple who looked so wizened and brittle I thought they might spontaneously collapse into dust.

I felt my cell phone buzz against my leg. Jenna’s number flashed on the display. “What’s up?” I whispered, using my hand to cover the phone.

“You’re off the hook, hotshot,” Jenna said. “I won’t need your help on my movie after all.”

“Why not?” I tried not to sound defensive, but all I could think was that after yesterday’s shoot, Jenna had decided I was completely useless to her.

“It’s not you,” Jenna replied quickly. “It’s Kelly.

Jenna had decided the best person to play her depressed main character was, of course, her depressed best friend. And Kelly would only work on a closed set. Thus, Jenna was on her own.

“Are you okay with that?” I don’t know why the idea of Kelly demanding that she be alone with Jenna made me feel uneasy. It wasn’t like Kelly was dangerous or anything. But Jenna and I had been going out of our way not to be alone with her for ages. She was just so depressing to be around, you kind of felt like she might suck you so far into her big, black hole you’d never find your way out.

“I’m suffering for my art,” Jenna joked, but neither of us laughed. I don’t think either of us liked the idea that hanging out with one of our best friends was so hellish. But it was, joke or no joke.

My other line beeped. “Call if you need to be rescued,” I said quickly. “Gotta run.”

I clicked over without looking. “So, when do I get to see the greatest cinematic epic of all time?” Jeremy growled, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

“After church?” Since I’d already begged Dad to let me help Jenna with her movie, I was cleared for flight.

“Only if you promise to wear your church dress. That sounds weirdly hot.”

“You’re weirdly hot,” I whispered, making sure my dad was out of earshot. I couldn’t wait to show Jeremy my movie. He’d already taken some film production classes at UCLA, so I knew I could trust his opinion.

But seriously, I pretty much knew he would be impressed. Gorgeous sets, professional actors, stunts, props—I mean, student filmmaking had never looked so good!

Besides, he was my boyfriend. He had to like it, right?

***

Watching my movie on Jeremy’s television, I couldn’t wait for it to end. Then the lavishing of praise could begin.

But when I turned to look at my boyfriend, he wasn’t exactly glowing with adoration. Actually, he kind of looked like he’d slugged down a glass of sour milk. Yeah, that expression.

When Jeremy realized I was staring at him, though, he turned on a plastic grin. “Wow, some sets!” he chirped. “Did you shoot on Soundstage 15?”

“Yeah,” I said, slowly grasping that he was struggling to find something nice to say. I mean, I did shoot on those amazing sets, but that’s not usually the first thing you mention admiring about a movie. Unless there’s nothing else to compliment.

“And you’ll be the only kid in your class to have Madison and Clive in your movie,” Jeremy said, searching for the remote in the sofa cushions. I don’t think he wanted to watch TV as much as he wanted to avoid eye contact.

“You hated it.”

Jeremy froze and finally looked me in the eye. “I didn’t hate it,” he said. “I just didn’t love it.”

“Why?” My palms were starting to sweat, and I wiped them on my jeans. This was so not the reaction I was expecting.

“It’s not very… you,” Jeremy said gingerly, as if he was trying to pick and choose his words with a pair of tweezers.

“Gee, that’s specific,” I snarled. God, I was so bummed. Jeremy was supposed to cheer me on, wasn’t he? And what was he expecting, anyway? I didn’t see how the movie could be better on my piddly little shoestring budget, anyway.

“Look, I’m not trying to discourage you. I was just hoping you’d do something a little more personal. I mean, I can’t even drag you to action movies on the rare occasions I want to go.”

That was true, but that wasn’t the point. “The assignment wasn’t about making a movie I would watch,” I snapped. “It was to make a good five-minute movie. Period.”

I thought of all the art films Jeremy kept blabbering about, how he tossed around words like “vision” and “auteur.” He always talked about producing indie films, which to me is code for boring movies that cost four bucks to make, get seen by twenty pretentious art school students, then die a slow death on the Sundance Channel. I looked at him. “You’re just mad because I made a commercial movie.”

Jeremy shook his head. “This has nothing to do with my personal preference, Erin.”

“All you’ll say is the movie isn’t ‘me,’” I said, trying not to yell. I was getting so crazy mad, and I wasn’t even sure why. I mean, I barely even made this stupid movie, yet I was willing to go to the mat to defend it. “What is ‘me’ anyway, Jeremy?”

Jeremy shrugged, looking tired. “You have so many interesting stories to tell. Like getting that babysitter. Maybe something about her.”

The ajumma? Was he serious? Even though I didn’t hate Miss Do as much as I did when she first arrived, that didn’t mean I wanted to advertise her existence. The woman was a train wreck with a bad perm. Honestly, she made me feel embarrassed to be Korean.

“Is that all you see when you look at me? A Korean girl?” I thought of Jasper’s fascination with Miss Do in New York, as if she was an exotic and ugly doll. Was that how people saw me, too?

Except for a couple holidays and some non-Anglo food, I didn’t feel any different from my white friends, and most of my friends were white. I never felt like a minority until someone ground it in my face, like Ozzie or Miss Do. Or Jeremy.

“No, I don’t,” he said quickly, putting his arm around me. “I see a beautiful girl who worked very hard on making a movie. And I see a guy who’s a judgmental dork. And Miss Do was just the first thing that popped into my head, I swear. I was thinking more about the concept of you having a babysitter at your advanced age than about either one of you being Korean. I mean, come on. That’s kind of funny, isn’t it? Having a babysitter?”

I nodded. “I’m sorry for blowing up,” I said. “Making movies is really stressful.”

Jeremy stroked my hair. “I know.”

I still wanted to find out exactly what he didn’t like about my short, but it felt so nice to be snuggled up next to him on the sofa I loathed the thought of spoiling it. A cuddle wasn’t exactly the rave review I was hoping for, but it was still pretty good.

Besides, I needed to stock up some warm fuzzies. I mean, I couldn’t expect to get them from my classmates. Even if Jeremy was a snob about my fancy sets and A-list cast, they were definitely going to drop dead of jealousy.

***

It was Wednesday, officially the first day of Thanksgiving break. And officially the first day of USC Filmmaking Boot Camp.

Jenna and I walked across the almost empty campus, hoping we looked like college students. Not that it mattered, since the only people around to judge us looked like janitorial staff.

“I love the brick buildings,” Jenna said as we walked past an old auditorium that almost looked like something out of a Harvard brochure. “That’s it. I’m definitely going to college.”

“You weren’t before?” For all her rebel attitude, Jenna actually got good grades, plus her parents were loaded. Why wouldn’t she go?

“I was thinking that if I didn’t go, my parents would finally give up on me and I’d get a break. But it’s a Catch-22. No college, no money. So yeah, now I’m thinking definitely college.”

We walked in circles for a while before we found the SCA building, which looked more like a McMansion than a school building. As I walked in, I saw a bunch of other kids wandering around, staring in awe at the size of the space. I guess I would have been impressed, too, if I didn’t actually work at a movie studio.

“I don’t understand why we had to make movies before we got here,” Jenna muttered as we settled into the back row of folding chairs that had been lined up for class. “It’s like, hey, make a movie, then we’ll tell you how to do it right?”

“I guess they just want to see how much we suck,” I replied. While the other students were checking out the lobby, I was observing them. Fewer girls than guys, and not a lot of people of color. One guy who looked Latino, two African-American guys, and only one other Asian, also a guy. I guess Ozzie was right. By my being a girl and Korean, I’d hit the minority mother lode.

A classroom door opened, and we all slowly entered to see a thin man with a grey beard and glasses at the front of the room. His presence was like a universal “class is starting” signal, and the rest of the students stopped bumbling around and started taking their seats.

“My name is Larry Montrose, and I’m going to be teaching this seminar. And yes, you can call me Larry,” the man said. He spoke so softly I had to lean forward in my chair to hear him. Not that I was overly worried about it. After all, Madison had said I was going to own this class, so how much would Larry really be able to teach me?

“Today we’re going to ease into the schedule, since Thanksgiving is tomorrow and most of you are probably already thinking about turkey. I want each one of you to stand up, tell the class a little bit about yourself, then give us the name of your favorite film. After that, we’ll cover some filmmaking basics, break for lunch, then start reviewing some of these student films. Okay?”

There was a general murmuring of agreement, and Larry pointed to a chubby kid sitting at the front of the room. “You start, and we’ll go down the line from there.”

The chubby kid stood up and looked around the room, his tiny eyes almost entirely obscured by baby fat. “Okay, my name is Harold Massie, and I’ve wanted to be a director since I was five years old. I’ve made educational documentaries for the Bakersfield Chamber of Commerce, shot commercials for several local businesses, and have a YouTube channel about the art of filmmaking. And my favorite film is actually three films by Krzysztof Kieslowski; ‘Red,’ ‘White’ and ‘Blue.’”

Great. I had been debating between “Black Window” and that old Winona Ryder movie “Heathers,” and Dork Boy has to go and raise the bar. I could see some other kids squirm in their seats, and I bet I wasn’t the only student scrambling to come up with a more impressive “favorite.”

“Excellent choice, Harold,” Larry said, nodding his approval. “Three great films.”

The next student, a thin girl with freckles and red hair, stood up. “My name is Helen Pythias, I’ve been writing screenplays for a few years, and I’ve actually won awards for my student plays. My favorite film is ‘Dr. Strangelove.’” I noticed everyone said film instead of movie, as if movie was some kind of dirty word.

This time a lot of my classmates nodded in recognition or murmured their approval. And as we kept going around the room, it started to feel like a contest to prove who watched the weirdest late-night programming on Netflix. “Klute.” “The Red and the White.” “The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.” “The Return of the Secaucus Seven.” What was wrong with these people?

“Jesus, could this room be any nerdier?” Jenna whispered in my ear. “I’ve never even heard of these movies.”

“This is what happens when you have no friends and multiple streaming services,” I whispered back.

“Please, no talking back there,” Larry said, giving Jenna and me an irritated look.

As my turn to speak got closer and closer, I started getting nervous. All the people in the first three rows of seats had already taken their turns, and I still had no idea what to say. Even if I wanted to lie, I couldn’t think of a single art movie I’d really liked. They always seemed so boring and serious, and I couldn’t stand the foreign ones. I’d gotten enough subtitles from when my mom watched Korean soap operas when I was a kid.

Once the skinny girl named Monique explained why she loved “Sunset Boulevard,” it was my turn. As I stood up, my knees felt wobbly and my mouth dry. You’d think I was making a presentation to the United Nations instead of to a bunch of dorky kids I didn’t even know.

“My name’s Erin, and I have an internship at a production company. I want to produce—”

“Which production company?” Larry asked quickly.

“Big Red Rubber Ball Productions,” I said.

“Interesting,” Larry said, rubbing his goatee. “Go on.”

I looked around the room. Even if I really was surrounded by geeks, did I really want to admit to them that the intern for BRRB, the production company behind three of the top ten shows on television, loved a musty old teen comedy?

“And,” I continued. “My favorite movie, I mean film, is ‘Midnight Cowboy.’” I felt my face turn completely red as I lied. Not only was it not my favorite movie, but I’d also never even watched it all the way through. Even after Jeremy forced me to watch it with him, I fell asleep twenty minutes in.

“The great Waldo Salt,” Larry said, nodding at me as if I had some clue what that meant.

Next Jenna stood up and introduced herself. “And I’m here because I didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with my Mom and grandparents in Long Island,” she continued. “And my favorite movie is ‘Ghost World.’” I was instantly jealous. Not only had Jenna picked a cool old movie, but it was also one I knew she really loved.

Larry nodded again. “Good choice,” he said.

I didn’t notice the boy sitting on the other side of Jenna until it was his turn to speak. He was the Asian guy I’d seen earlier. He seemed nice enough, but I hoped he hadn’t sat next to me because he thought the Asians needed to stick together or something.

“My name is Mike Ohara, and I’ve never made a movie before in my life,” he said. “My parents actually want me to become a concert pianist, but I thought this would be a fun class to take. And my favorite movie is the ‘Star Wars (A New Hope).’”

It was as if Mike had pulled down his pants or strangled a baby kitten in front of the class. Everyone just stared at him with this mixture of horror and awe. No one said anything, though. We were all waiting for Larry to deliver his verdict, or just kick Mike out of boot camp altogether.

“Good for you for being honest,” Larry said to my complete surprise. “We tend to dismiss mainstream film because we assume it’s not as challenging, but Lucas made great use of Joseph’s Campbell’s theory of the monomyth in creating those characters. It’s important work. And you may have noticed whose name is on the building we’re in. Lucas is not only a smart filmmaker but also—he’s a smart businessman.”

If you think I was shocked, you should have seen the faces of the other kids in class. I know what we were all thinking. We were wishing we’d told the truth.

After a short kid sitting next to Mike admitted he had a thing for the ‘Harry Potter’ movies (yeah, Mike pretty much cleared the way for guilty pleasures and kiddie flicks), it was time for lunch.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jenna said as she motored for the exit. “I saw a McDonald’s, and I’m starved.”

The idea of eating junk food without Miss Do glaring at me disapprovingly sounded divine. I looked around at our classmates, who were all kind of stumbling towards the door, awkwardly striking up conversations with one another. “We don’t have to invite anyone else, do we?”

“Are you crazy?” Jenna hissed. “Who do you think we’re going to talk about over lunch?”

***

As Jenna and I dug into our food (a Quarter Pounder for me, a Filet-o-Fish for my pescatarian-this-week pal, piles of fries for both of us), we tried to imagine what everyone else’s short “films” would be like. “That Harold kid, he’s going to shoot his entirely in some foreign language,” Jenna snickered. “And use subtitles.”

“Oh, and that kid who said he loved ‘The Wild Bunch’? He’s got a slasher film, I know it,” I shot back.

“Hey, speaking of pretentious,” Jenna said, waggling a limp French fry in my direction. “When did you start loving ‘Midnight Cowboy’?”

“When I realized ‘Heathers’ would go over like a lead balloon,” I admitted.

Jenna rolled her eyes. “You actually work in the film industry. What do you have to prove to all these geeks?”

I shrugged. I didn’t want to admit it, but when Madison had said I would own the boot camp, I’d kind of liked the idea. I couldn’t remember a time when either Madison or Victoria or some random classmate hadn’t outshone me, whether it was with better grades or a prettier face or a bigger talent. Just once I had a chance at being the best. So what if I had to bend the truth a little? Like no one else in Hollywood lied, come on. “Nothing. I just didn’t want to stand out as the class punching bag on the first day.”

“Like me, you mean?” Mike was standing next to us, a tray in his hand. “Mind if I join you?”

Actually, I kind of did. Don’t get me wrong. Mike was a sweet enough guy, and he wasn’t hard on the eyes. He had perfect teeth and thick black hair cut into a messy flat top. He was also pretty tall for an Asian guy. I’m not saying that to be mean, but my dad is, like, five foot seven, and Mike was probably six feet.

But cute or not, I was kind of wanting to just eat my burger and dish with Jenna without having to be on my best behavior with some stranger.

Unfortunately, Jenna couldn’t read my mind, and she just grinned at Mike and pointed to the seat next to me. “Sit down, punching bag,” she said happily.

“Thanks,” he replied, setting down his tray. “So, what’s the verdict? Thumbs up or thumbs down on boot camp?”

“Thumbs sideways right now,” I said. “Larry seems okay, but I’m not sure about everyone else.”

“Did you see everyone’s faces when you said, ‘Star Wars’?” Jenna squealed. “I literally thought that one guy who gave us the mini-lecture on Kurosawa was going to crap himself.”

Mike sighed. “Hey, I like what I like. And I’m sorry, but I haven’t been walking around with a camcorder since I was five.”

“Join the club,” I said. “My dad won’t even let me touch ours.”

“I know this is life or death for some of these kids, but I just can’t take this class so seriously,” Mike sighed. “I’m only here to give my fingers a break from the piano.”

“Are you really going to become a concert pianist?” I asked, thinking of all the cello lessons I’d skipped since Mom died.

Mike shrugged. “It’s that or law school. Or med school. You know how it is.” He gave me a look, as if we shared an inside joke. As if we were both walking, talking Asian stereotypes.

I knew he didn’t mean anything by it, but somehow that little joke pushed my buttons. “Just because I’m Asian, you think we have the same experience?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mike’s eyes widened, as if I’d slapped him. “I’m sorry, I just assumed…” he muttered.

I couldn’t keep up my bitch act. “I’m just yanking your chain,” I said with a grin, nudging him. “I mean, yeah, my mom tried to surgically attach a cello to my side.”

We both laughed, and Mike heaved a sigh of relief. “Jeez, you totally had me there!”

“But I don’t like math, so you can’t say I’m a total cliché, buddy,” I said, waggling a finger in his face.

We ended up talking about our parents for while (Jenna had some crazy stories about her psycho mom), and before we knew it, it was time to head back to class.

Mike was making a last-minute bathroom pit stop when Jenna grabbed my arm. “Hey, he’s cute.”

“You’re single,” I said. “Go for it.”

“I was thinking for you,” Jenna said. “He’s too clean cut for me. And isn’t this a guy you can take home to dear old Dad?”

“Why?”

“One, he’s in high school. And two, he’s Asian.”

Now it was my turn to look at Jenna like she was stupid. “His last name’s Ohara. Japanese, not Korean.”

“So? Last time I checked a map, Japan was right next to Korea, I think. Close enough.”

I was about to explain to Jenna why Asian people aren’t as interchangeable as Lego blocks and Japan and Korea have a long history of hating each other that included the Japanese annexation of Korea about 100 years ago, but I saw Mike emerge from the bathroom. “I’ll explain it to you sometime,” I hissed.

Jenna just grinned. “Besides, I figured with his piano and your cello, you two could make beautiful classical music together! Whaa, whaa!”

***

We got back to class just as Larry was starting his lecture. “Okay, you’re probably wondering why we asked you to come to class with a finished film,” Larry said as Jenna elbowed me in the ribs and rolled her eyes. “You’re going to be getting a lot of information in this class. We want you to see a lot of movies, read a lot of books, really immerse yourself in filmmaking. But we don’t want you to lose sight of your original vision, of what makes you unique. So, I look forward to peering into these five-minute windows that will, hopefully, show me what each one of you is about.”

First up was Mark, a spindly kid with bad skin. As he stood nervously near the white screen at the front of the room, Larry lowered the lights and stuck the DVD into a laptop connected to a projector. And thus began what had to be the longest five minutes of my life.

Apparently what Mark was all about was garbage at his local park. For five minutes, I watched shots of trash bags, crumbled Coke cans, empty swing sets, and broken-down cars. Nothing happened, unless you consider a strong breeze a plot point.

As Larry turned the lights on, I looked at Jenna. She was stifling a yawn. I couldn’t imagine what Larry was going to say about this piece of crap.

Harold raised his hand first. “It’s a scathing commentary on the desolation of suburban America,” he sputtered.

Mike raised his hand, too. “I don’t get it, honestly. Nothing happens,” he said with a shrug. I saw some kids roll their eyes.

Larry nodded, rubbing his little goatee. “Okay, Mike, point taken. I think it’s more about how the movie makes you feel. And I think the feeling we’re getting at is sadness, which is interesting. There’s sort of an ‘American Beauty’ element here, Mark, which may be a little familiar to people. But otherwise, very evocative. Did you use a filter on the lens?”

Jenna and I stared at each other, slack jawed, as Larry analyzed what was, literally, a movie about trash.

“Do you think I’ll get an A if I film the contents of my refrigerator?” Jenna whispered to me. “There’s a lot of desolation in the vegetable crisper.”

After Mark returned to his seat, Helen had her turn. And I know this sounds like I’m making it up, but the girl broke out her Bratz dolls and used them as the stars of her movie. And she provided the voices. So yeah, picture any five-year-old playing alone in their room, slap it on video, and that was Helen’s “film.” But everyone seemed to love it. Monique even called it “heartbreaking.”

But Mark raised his hand again. “Some of it was out of focus,” he pointed out. I totally agreed with him, but not way was I raising my hand.

“It was supposed to be,” Helen snapped.

“Okay, a difference of opinion,” Larry said, diffusing the tension in the room. “Helen, was this an homage to Todd Haynes?” Larry added. “If so, very clever.” Helen nodded, but I don’t think she knew what he was talking about.

There were other movies that day, but I won’t bore you with too many of the gory details. There was the movie of people’s feet that Larry proclaimed “audacious,” the short film about one girl’s cat that Larry described as “intensely personal,” and the paste-up of screen grabs of late-night infomercials that Larry declared “an insightful pop culture critique.”

We only got through half of the assignments before it was time to wrap things up. “I’m very pleased with the level of work I’m seeing,” Larry said, smiling and massaging his chin. It was amazing any hair grew on it at all considering how much he handled the thing. “Have a great Thanksgiving, and if you can, watch some movies!”

Jenna leaned towards me as we made a desperate run for the door. “God, I may have to rent ‘Dumb and Dumber’ just to clear all the artsy-fartsy pretense out of my head,” she moaned. “And what was up with Larry? I swear, I’m just going to film my shoe collection and bring it in on Friday, just to see what he says.”

“I think he has to be nice,” I suggested. “People are paying a lot of money to come here, and it is our first film and everything.”

“It does take the pressure off, that’s true,” Jenna admitted. “Of course, you’ll screw up everything for the rest of us, what with having Madison and Clive and a real set. Talk about ‘Star Wars.’”

“Oh, don’t be so sure,” I said, even though I secretly agreed with Jenna. Just like Madison had said, I was going to kick some boot camp ass.

***

“There’s nothing here!” Madison screeched, banging her head against the plastic handle of our shopping cart.

It was 10 p.m., Thanksgiving was only hours away, and Madison was just now doing her shopping for the big day. Somehow she’d convinced me to help her with the preparations, never mentioning that the commitment included a frantic food run to Ralph’s. After sitting in class all day, I was beyond wiped.

“I thought you’d just order everything,” I groaned, scouring the shelves for even one box of stuffing. “I think Gelson’s and a bunch of other grocery stores do that. You just pick it up and heat it.”

“That’s not Thanksgiving,” Madison snapped. “That’s catering. I wanted to make everything from scratch.”

I scanned the shopping list Madison had made. It looked like what you’d expect from a doctor writing prescriptions with one hand tied behind his back. While drunk. “Gurgle beans?” I read.

“Green beans, Erin. If you’re not going to help, go sit in the car.” Madison grabbed a box of pudding and threw it in the cart. It wasn’t on the list, but the store was so picked over I think we both wanted to grab anything we could get our hands on, crossing our fingers that we could use it later.

As if we weren’t tense enough, Miss Do trailed behind us, silently observing Madison’s meltdown.

“I still don’t understand why Grandma Munster had to come,” Madison grumbled under her breath.

“You know why,” I shot back. “And don’t be rude.” I wasn’t thrilled to have her around either, but that didn’t give Madison license to call her names. Not that Miss Do seemed to mind. She had probably never seen old repeats of ‘The Munsters’ on television.

We slowly wheeled our cart through all the different sections of the store, moaning over the sad parade of empty shelf space and dented cans.

When we reached the produce section, I heard a gentle cough from behind us. Miss Do.

“You buy kimchi, Song?” she asked.

Madison shook her head. “This is Thanksgiving dinner,” she grumbled. “The pilgrims weren’t eating pickled cabbage with the Indians. Green beans.”

Miss Do pointed towards the area where offbeat stuff like cherimoyas and tomatillos got dumped. There was a bin full of Chinese long beans, curly and shiny and green. It was a big contrast to the bin that was supposed to hold regular green beans, which only contained a few gruesome things that could only be described as bean raisins.

“What do long beans taste like?” Madison asked me.

“I’ve only ever had them at Chinese restaurants,” I said. “They taste like green beans, more or less.”

Madison stared at the long beans for what seemed like forever. Then she took the cart, shoved it towards a nearly empty display for fresh cranberries, and sat down in the middle of the floor. Above her head, the salad misting machines started spurting. “Great,” she said, eyeballing the light mist falling down. “No food tomorrow and I’ll have frizzy hair.”

“Don’t do this, Madison,” I hissed. I could see that Miss Do was staring at Madison with thinly veiled disgust. The old woman already thought she was a horrible brat, and her decision to throw an actual tantrum in the middle of a grocery store wasn’t helping.

Plus, I could imagine the tabloid headlines screaming about Madison Dahl’s Thanksgiving meltdown. I quickly scanned the store for snitches. Luckily, there were only a few senior citizens doddering down the aisles. Though they gave Madison dirty looks, they didn’t seem to recognize her. “We’ll figure something out,” I said, tugging on her shirt.

“Yeah. Like pizza from Domino’s. Maybe they have turkey sausage topping,” she said, her lower lip trembling.

I was trying to stay positive, but I didn’t like the idea of a turkey-free dinner, either. Madison hadn’t just invited me to dinner, after all. My dad was coming, as was Victoria and the ever-present Miss Do. Clive and Ernesto were making an appearance, and Madison had even invited Benny, her trainer. Jenna said she’d try to drop by, too. All those disappointed faces picking over pizza seemed like a whole heaping serving of not fun. And honestly, I didn’t think any pizza place was going to be open anyway.

It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I felt I had no other choice. I turned to my babysitter, swallowed my pride, and spoke. “Miss Do, we need some help.”

Miss Do looked at me placidly, like a sleepy turtle, and nodded slightly. “Okay, Song,” she said.

“What are you doing?” Madison said, eyes bulging. “We’re not eating raw eggs and tofu!”

“I’d be surprised if they had either of them left in this stupid store,” I snapped. “At least if we all join forces, we have a shot at making a decent meal. And Miss Do is a good cook.” I had to admit, we’d definitely been eating a lot better since the old bag had arrived. Not that this development was entirely a good thing. Some of my jeans were getting so tight I was developing a muffin top problem.

“Fine,” Madison said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Tofu surprise it is.”

I explained to Miss Do that Thanksgiving was kind of like Chuseok, and that was all I needed to say. Miss Do began storming through the store, and Madison and I had to scramble to our feet to catch up with her. It’s probably a good thing she was moving so fast, because if she had slowed down I might have hugged her. Finally, someone who knew what they were doing!

“What here?” she asked, thrusting a can of beets at me.

“Beets,” I said. When Miss Do just blinked uncomprehendingly at me, I realized exactly how foreign some of our food was to her. Of course she didn’t know what beets were. Why would she? Just like a typical American wouldn’t know what the heck a jar of gochujang was for, there was no reason for Miss Do to understand the purpose of beets. It wasn’t a language barrier. It was a cuisine barrier.

Of course, it’s not like Korea doesn’t have American food. They’ve gotten hooked on all the bad stuff we eat, like hamburgers and donuts and pizza. But even that stuff isn’t quite American, not really. Like, at Pizza Hut they put bulgogi on their pizzas instead of pepperoni, you know?

Holding that can of beets was when it hit me that, as much as I needed the babysitter’s help, she needed mine. I’d noticed that since Miss Do arrived at our house, everything in our kitchen came from the Korean grocery store. And in all my grumbling about how we never had any normal snacks around anymore, it had never occurred to me that part of the reason may have been that Miss Do was intimidated by the American grocery stores. Here, even if she could read the label, it still didn’t make sense.

I shook my head. “No beets.” I wasn’t quite sure how to describe canned beets, since they basically taste like, well, beets. “Red. Mushy,” I said. Miss Do nodded and grabbed another can.

After I described corned beef hash (yuck), baked beans in maple syrup (sweet) and lima beans (another yuck), Madison pinched my arm. Hard.

“Ow!” I squealed.

“What is this, Korean language ‘Sesame Street’?” she hissed. “Teach Grandma English later. We need dinner.”

“How do you think she’s going to help us make dinner if she doesn’t know what anything is?” I responded.

“This is going to be the worst Thanksgiving ever!” Madison moaned.

Growing increasingly annoyed with the two-year-old trapped in a teenaged celebrity’s body that was standing next to me, I grabbed the cart away from Madison and started pushing it towards the Asian products section. Miss Do’s face lit up when she saw the paltry selection of rice noodles, heat-and-serve pad thai, and soy sauces. It wasn’t much, and almost none of it was Korean, but I got the impression it was close enough for her to work with.

She didn’t bother asking any more questions, instead filling up our cart with all sorts of stuff that didn’t seem very Thanksgiving-ish but looked promising to me, like cans of water chestnuts and coconut milk. We rolled up and down a few more aisles, and finally, Miss Do turned around to face me. “We have feast,” she said with a small, satisfied smile. “We go.”

Madison peered into the cart, poking a finger into the plastic cartons of extra firm tofu. “I don’t see turkey,” she pouted.

I pushed the cart back towards the meat section, hoping a turkey might have spontaneously presented itself. “No turkey,” I sighed.

Miss Do kept scanning the meat section, her brow wrinkled in thought. “Chicken like turkey?” she asked.

“They’re not the same,” Madison moaned. Miss Do glared at Madison. If she could have, I think she would have bent the girl over her knee and spanked her. Not that I would have stopped her.

“Hold on,” I said, noticing that the rest of the poultry section was fully stocked. No, turkey wasn’t quite the same as chicken, but could we really afford to be picky at this point? I glanced at the individually wrapped Cornish game hens. The biggest one couldn’t have been more than a pound or two. “How about if everyone got their very own turkey?”

Madison picked up a hen and examined it. “They’re kind of cute,” she admitted. “And everyone would get a drumstick. Two, actually.”

“And we could stuff them,” I pointed out.

Even Miss Do looked at the hens and nodded. “Little turkey chicken,” she said.

Madison paid for our purchases, and we drove back toward her house, grimly determined to do the best with what we had. It might not be Thanksgiving, but no one would go hungry, that was for certain. I was starting to doze off in the front passenger seat when Madison abruptly slammed on the brakes.

“What the hell?” I shrieked, and I heard a muffled scream from Miss Do from the backseat, too. But Madison wasn’t paying any attention to either of us.

“If they have just one box of Stove-Top, it will be worth it,” she swore, pulling the Tesla to a crooked halt in front of a seedy looking mini-mart.

She and I tore into the shop, and by God, Madison’s stuffing-sniffing instincts were dead on. There were three boxes of Stove-Top sitting right out front, along with two cans of generic cranberry sauce.

Madison plucked all of it off the shelf and clutched the boxes and cans to her chest like they were a litter of newborn kittens. “Oh my God, Thanksgiving is saved!” she sighed.

“What about all the other food we bought?” I asked.

Madison didn’t hesitate. “We’ll make it all. Korean, American, whatever. Everyone will have leftovers for days. It’ll be a real Thanksgiving feast!”

***

And, amazingly enough, it was.

Thanksgiving morning Miss Do, Victoria, Dad and I drove over to Madison’s house. We had to bring a ton of stuff from home, like pots and pans and even plates, because Madison had never bought that stuff for her kitchen. “I didn’t think about it,” she shrugged as she unpacked a bag of silverware. Miss Do and Victoria were already at work on the opposite end of Madison’s enormous kitchen, so all that was left for Madison and me was the bird prep.

“You didn’t think about much, Madison,” I said. Honestly, I was more than a little ticked at the girl. I had gotten used to her childish tantrums and bad moods over the years but having Miss Do around to witness them was just embarrassing. I knew that on some level Miss Do wondered why I put up with Madison’s bad behavior, and when the girl was pouting on the floor of a supermarket, my usual rationalizations looked pretty flimsy to me.

“I was busy,” Madison said, reading the box of Stove-Top stuffing. “We bought butter, right?”

I reached into the Sub-Zero and pulled out the box. “Yes, we did. But that’s no excuse, Madison. You need to at least try to be responsible and you’ve got to stop acting like such a brat. Do it at work. Not with your friends.”

Madison looked at me like I’d told her she needed to go back to her home planet or something. “I’m not a brat!”

“Yes, you are,” I said firmly.

Victoria craned her neck around Miss Do to look in our direction. “Yes, you totally are, Madison,” she chirped. “Big time.”

Madison looked back and forth between the two of us. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Miss Do stared at all of us. “What brat?”

“A little child,” Victoria said. “Like this.” Victoria then proceeded to do the best imitation I’d ever seen of a little kid pitching a fit. “Whaaaaaaa!” she shrieked, stomping her feet up and down. “And that is Madison,” she said when she was finished.

We all laughed, even Miss Do. “Yes. True,” Miss Do said once she’s composed herself. “Madison brat.”

Madison’s face was beet red, but she was laughing, too. “Okay, fine. I’m a brat,” she admitted. “I just wanted Thanksgiving to be really great.”

“And it will be,” I said. “But acting like a baby doesn’t help. It just stresses out everyone else.”

“I know.” Madison fell quiet as she reached for a knife to cut the celery. “I’ve just never had a real Thanksgiving before. It was always just me and Sheila and a bunch of Thai food. I always wanted to have turkey with all the trimmings. And family around. Friends.”

No one said anything for a while. I thought of all the years I’d known Madison, and how I’d never invited her and Sheila over for the holidays. Not that I’d had much say in the matter. When my mom was alive, of course, she’d hated Madison’s mom with a passion. And after she died, well, we didn’t really celebrate much of anything. Still, I’d never realized exactly how much Madison cared about the holidays.

I put a hand on Madison’s shoulder. “You’ve got family now. And trimmings. And little turkey chickens.”

Madison smiled, and her eyes welled up with tears. Blinking fast, she looked at the clock above the stove. “Crap, we’ve got birds to cook!” she yelled. “Let’s get moving!”

***

Soon the doorbell was ringing and from the kitchen I could hear the house fill with the sounds of people talking and laughing. Madison, Victoria and I took turns passing around these schizophrenic plates of hors d’oeuvres in the living room. One had gimbap (it’s sort of like Korean sushi) next to some mini ham and cheese quiches we’d found in the frozen food section. Another had mandu (dumplings) paired with pizza rolls (Madison insisted on those; don’t ask me why).

“I love this,” Ernesto gushed as he bit into a dumpling. “You’ve really put your own mark on Thanksgiving. That’s so clever. And this is much better than a pig in a blanket.”

“Thanks,” I said, fighting the urge to tell him the whole Korean angle was an act of desperation, not creativity.

When I walked back into the kitchen, Miss Do had arranged all of her food on the serving platters so beautifully it looked like something out of a Korean restaurant brochure. “This looks really good, Miss Do,” I said. “Thank you so much for doing this.”

She smiled at me proudly. “You welcome, Song.”

Of course, it was way too much food, but we pulled the coffee table in from the living room and piled some of the spill over on there. Then it was time to present the Cornish game hens. I crossed my fingers. Everyone looked so eager to see the piece de resistance, I hated to disappoint.

Leave it to Madison to turn a mistake into a great idea. “And now, I’d like to present to you a little dish that our own Miss Do has very kindly named for us,” Madison said, disappearing into the kitchen.

She emerged with a roasting pan piled with hens. “I bring you… little turkey chickens!”

Everyone laughed, and Clive started applauding. “This may be the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever been to!” he said. Madison plopped down the pan and ran over to him, pulling him into a hug. Clive had given Madison the ultimate compliment.

After a moment, she sat down, and everyone began piling up their plates. Everyone, that is, except my dad and Miss Do. “We say thanks to God, yes?” Dad asked.

We all put down the serving plates and waited for Dad to speak. “Lord Almighty,” he said. “We thank you for this food. We have much and do not always show our thanks. We give thanks today.” I’d tell you the rest of it, but it got awfully long and boring. Stuff about sin and singing God’s praises and church. I saw Jenna squirming at the far end of the table. Considering she’d rotated through Buddhism, Hinduism, agnosticism, Kabbalah and Wicca in the time I’d known her, all Dad’s Protestant rambling wasn’t exactly rocking her world.

Finally it ended, but Dad’s longwinded sermon wasn’t the last speech we had in store. “Since we’re giving thanks and everything, I had a little announcement,” Madison said coyly, tracing a finger around the rim of her water glass. “I’ve been offered the female lead in Vito Harin’s new action movie. I’ll play an assassin who falls in love with Blake Lee. He’s a cop.”

“Sounds like someone’s going to be busy over winter hiatus,” Clive said. “Good going!”

I rolled my eyes. I knew exactly why Madison hadn’t told me her big news. Just that brief description of the movie sounded awful. An assassin falls in love with a cop? Please. Of course, it wasn’t all that different from the movie I had made for boot camp, but hey, that’s a student film.

Once everyone (except me) had congratulated Madison, we dove into our meal. Even though the cranberry sauce was clearly the canned stuff, and we had white rice instead of mashed potatoes, overall everything was pretty great. The little turkey chickens were a big hit. “You really outdid yourself, babe,” Benny said, leaning over to give Madison a kiss. On the lips.

What? When did this happen? I shot Madison a look, but she just gave me a goofy, lovesick grin and kept lapping up her hobak juk. I doubt she even knew she was eating pumpkin. Of course, that wasn’t as big of a secret as her actually hooking up with Benny, but whatever.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Dad and Miss Do staring at Madison with their mouths open. I knew exactly what the problem was. It wasn’t that Madison had started eating before a prayer had been said, or that she was eating a tiny drumstick with her fingers. She’d kissed a black man in public, and I knew when we got home I’d never hear the end of it.

The doorbell rang, and Madison ran to get it. “That’s probably Jasper,” she said to the room. “He said he might drop by.”

Oh, great. Jasper. I hadn’t called him about auditioning, and I still had mixed feelings about it. God knows I had no interest in acting, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about becoming the poster girl for Korean-American assimilation. I was still mulling that over when I heard Madison yelling at the top of her lungs. “WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

Victoria, Jenna and I pushed our chairs back from the table and ran to the door, my dad hot on our heels. But when we saw who the visitor was, we all stopped dead.

It was Sheila.