“So…what would you do instead?”

She shrugs. “I try not to think about it.”

“You draw, right? And make your own clothes?”

She glances down at her skirt, which is seven different colors sewn together in vertical panels with tulle underneath. It reminds me of those Japanese fashion magazines she reads, as if she jumped out of the pages. “You can tell?”

“Not in a bad way!” I amend quickly. “You just always look so cool.”

She snorts. I try again. “Do you want to be a fashion designer?”

She eats another spoonful of ice cream and hums. “I want to marry this ice cream is what I want. We’ll abscond to Tahiti.”

For a split second, I think about asking her to explain the sewing video, but before I can even articulate the thought, a voice interrupts me.

“Oh look, it’s our gross sister in her natural habitat.”

Chloe and Cal are sneering into the order window. In the three weeks I’ve worked at the Pumpkin, the twins had yet to find me. Of course that had to end today. Naturally, they’re flanked by the whole Country Club Crew: their mutual best friend Erin, her boyfriend, and a few guys from the football team whose parents own yachts down at the harbor. And, standing a little farther behind, James. Great.

Sage sets down her cup of ice cream and stands. “Can we help you?” she asks, spoon tucked into the corner of her mouth.

Chloe ignores her. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a loose ponytail; she’s wearing short pink shorts and a College of Charleston T-shirt—the college she wants to go to next year. Beside her, a tall and broad guy—linebacker on the football team, buzz cut, stinks like his father’s got money—nods at Sage. “You the only one working with her?”

Sage leans against the counter toward them. “What’s it to you?”

“Might want to be careful around her. She’s crazy,” he says, turning his gaze to me. At the back of the crowd, James shrugs and looks away. The tips of my ears burn with embarrassment.

Sage either ignores them or doesn’t hear. “We have pumpkin fritters, tofu pumpkin spread sandwiches, pumpkin tacos, and pumpkin fries,” she intones dryly. “We’re all out of chimichangas. Although I’m sure we could make an exception if you’d like to be on the menu too.”

The linebacker really looks at Sage this time, from her green hair down to the ring in her lip. “Hey, you’re the chick in my homeroom, yeah?”

“And you are holding up the line,” she replies.

He looks behind him. “There’s no one here.”

She smiles a tight-lipped smile. “Which means you’re scaring the customers away. Now run along. Go chase tail somewhere else.”

Chloe squints at her. “Excuse you, who do you think you are?”

My coworker feigns shock. “I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself, did I?” Then she pauses for a long, long moment as they wait for her to introduce herself. Finally, Sage goes, “Oh, I’m not going to.”

Behind Chloe, Cal chews on her bottom lip, trying to hide a smile.

“Freak,” Chloe sneers, grabs James by the arm, who is also kind of smiling because no one makes Chloe look like an idiot the way Sage just did, and drags him away. The rest of the posse follows like a herd of cattle. Cal lingers for a moment, her gaze fixated on Sage as if she’s trying to puzzle out what she’s made of, until her sister calls her name and she hurries away too.

Sage rolls her eyes and turns to me. “Your sisters are the bane of all existence. Bet you can’t wait to graduate.”

“I guess,” I reply, but the words put a sour taste in my mouth because I don’t know what’ll happen after senior year. No—I do know. I’m going to win this contest and fly out of here, straight to L.A. And never come back.

She picks up her ice cream again and turns to me. “Anyway. What were you saying?”

“Oh…nothing.”

I can’t bring myself to ask her about the sewing video. I know Sage isn’t like the others—I just saw as much—but she’ll want to know why I’m asking and there’s no way someone like Sage is going to care about Starfield. If I’m going to fail, I don’t want to drag someone as cool as Sage down with me.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Besides, I can do it myself. I’ve always done everything myself.

I SQUINT IN THE DRESSING ROOM mirror, messing with the golden starwings on my lapel.

“Gail, this costume’s all wrong.”

Gail is sitting in a hard red chair, scrolling through emails and itineraries and fan mail—everything that I don’t want to do—while chewing on the string of her IGNITE THE STARS hoodie. She looks about as tired as I feel.

The film’s shooting in a studio lot outside of Atlanta, Georgia, under the codename Kingship. It’ll be my home for the next twenty-three days of principal photography. The director insists on using practical effects whenever we can, which means shooting on an actual bridge made in a sound studio and doing actual stunts and…and kissing Jessica Stone on said bridge in that soundstage while doing my own stunts.

I’m most nervous about that. The kissing, not the stunts. Well, okay, maybe the stunts too.

“Huh?” Gail looks up from her smartphone and squints at my Federation Prince uniform. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s the wrong color. The blue’s not—it’s not blue enough.”

“It’s the same color it was when wardrobe fitted you.”

“No, it’s bluer, Gee. It’s definitely bluer.”

“It is not.” She sends off an email and sets down her phone, finally turning her full attention to me. “It’s just the lighting in here. Trust me.”

“But you lied about Lonny. He’s great company, by the way. Loquacious even.”

The tips of her ears go red and she squirms in her chair. “Mark gave me strict instructions to keep him a…surprise.”

“Because I’d say no.”

“Surprise?” she offers weakly. I give her a knowing look and she quickly averts her gaze to her phone. “Let’s argue about it later, okay? You’ve got makeup in ten minutes. Do you need anything? Water? Or we could go over today’s script while we wait, help calm your nerves—”

The dressing room door flies open.

Sunlight streaks in, making me wince. At first I think it’s Donna, the makeup artist, come to yell at me for being late. But last time I checked, Donna the Makeup Artist doesn’t have long dark hair braided into a perfect royal Anorian braid. Or legs that go on for days. Or a female Federation uniform.

Gail jumps to her feet, looking flustered as ever. “Oh! Oh hello!”

“Mind if I hide in here for a while?” The amazingly beautiful girl plops down in Gail’s empty seat and pulls one golden leg over the other. Me, I’m trying not to stare. Because holy even tan lines, Batman.

“It’s troll o’clock and the paparazzi are out in droves,” she continues, leaning toward the mirror to fix her lipstick. “I’m already up to here with all the heckling. I had to get away. You don’t mind?”

Gail looks at me hesitantly. “Well, actually we were—”

“No,” I croak, giving Gail a meaningful look. Doesn’t she even know who this girl is?

Jessica Stone. The Jessica Stone. My costar. As in, indie film poster child, beloved by the internet for being sexy and cute and funny, sure to snag an Oscar one day Jessica Stone. I think I saw her last movie in theaters fifteen times, and not just because it was based on a graphic novel.

Don’t fanboy, I order myself. Don’t fanboy.

Gail looks at me, surprised. “But Dare, we were—”

I cough. Twice. Gail looks between Jessica Stone and me, widens her eyes, and finally gets it. Her ears go even redder.

“Oh. Oh.” She grabs her backpack and makes a hasty retreat. “I…um. I’ll be around if you need me, Dare.”

After the door closes, Jessica Stone turns her eyes—which are super, freakishly, ice-water blue—to me. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

My tongue ties into ten hundred knots. She can intrude as much as she wants. I mean, not intrude—like, let me politely be in her presence for the rest of my life—but intruding works too. Into my life. As much as she wants.

Is that weird? It’s probably weird. But it’s Jessica Stone.

Damn it, man, don’t fanboy.

“I have a bad habit of doing that,” she goes on. “Just barging in places. My therapist says I have no sense of personal space. Really, you can tell me to leave if you want. I’m Jess, by the way.”

“N-n-n—” I stammer, then bite the inside of my cheek. Stay. Cool. I try again, channeling Sebastian, my character on Seaside Cove. “No, Gail really was just legging—leaving.”

Her eyes widen, and for a moment I worry she’s about to take one of her heels and shove it through my eye socket like she did in Huntress Rising, but then she throws her head back and laughs. It’s a no-holds-barred laugh, the kind where if I get her laughing too much I guarantee she’ll snort. The edges of her eyes crinkle when she smiles. She’s beautiful in all the traditional ways—obviously the legs—but her personality helps, and her acting chops. She could quote Shakespeare in circles around me and I’d be none the wiser. It’s a respect thing, I decide, not a fanboy thing.