That she could be a princess in this kingdom built on top of my city.
I’ve gotten so lost in my reverie, I’ve actually come to a stop on the fake cobblestones and am gazing off into the distance, my eyes zeroing in on that fake subway station. I shake it off, reminding myself of my mission, and glance down at the crumpled map in my hand.
I was supposed to go . . .
I frown, turning the map over, and look up at the numbers on the soundstages. Then back at the map. Only now the map appears to be upside down . . . or is it? Sweat beads my brow as I turn it over and over, unable to make sense of it. I’m looking for Soundstage Nine, but I can’t tell if it’s to my left or up ahead or if I’ve already passed it. This janky-ass map seems to indicate that it could literally be in all three of these places.
I swallow hard, my brow furrowing. I’m lost. And I don’t think I can just GPS my way to Soundstage Nine or ask the guy in the lobster suit . . .
“Hey, Rika? Sweet Rika?”
My head snaps up to see a familiar figure bustling toward me, swoopy ponytail twitching behind her—Joanna Raine. The writer from the Asian Hollywood meetup. The one who told me I thought I didn’t deserve a happy ending.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly feeling shy for some reason.
“Hey,” she says, giving me an exuberant head bob. “What a nice surprise. The show based on my books is set to shoot a few soundstages over.” She jerks her thumb in the direction of the fake subway. “What are you doing here?”
I belatedly remember that I’m not actually supposed to be on the lot at all. “I’m, uh . . . I just . . . I’m here.”
“Oooh, wait, did you convince Baby Hank to go to his audition?” Joanna bounces on her toes. “That makes me so happy! I was worried he was going to, you know”—she gestures vaguely—“get in his own way.”
“We’re both pretty good at that, actually,” I say, smiling at her. “Um, maybe you can help me with something, though.” I brandish the map. “I’m trying to find Soundstage Nine. And I can’t seem to figure out where I am or where it is or . . .” I trail off and gesture at the big row of soundstages, which are more and more indistinguishable from each other every time I look at them.
“Nine is this way—come on, I’ll show you!” Joanna says, pointing to a path that splits off to the right.
I follow her down yet another fake cobblestone path, marveling at her seemingly boundless energy.
“So what are you doing at Nine?” Joanna asks. “Is Henry’s audition over that way?”
“Um, no,” I say. “I’m, uh . . .”
Dammit. Henry’s right. We’re both terrible liars.
“I’m . . . looking for someone,” I say.
“Oh, wait—you guys said the other night that you were looking for Grace Kimura, right?” Joanna snaps her fingers and beams at me. “Is Nine where they’re shooting We Belong?”
“Yes!” I say, relieved that I can at least sort of tell the truth. “I, uh . . . I need to meet her. For reasons.”
I expect Joanna to push me on that, but she gives me another sunny smile and we keep walking, our shoes clicking steadily along the fake cobblestones.
“Here we are,” Joanna says after we’ve walked for a bit, sweeping an arm toward one of those giant beige boxes. This one has a big “9” emblazoned on it, and I breathe a sigh of relief. If Joanna hadn’t happened upon me, I’d probably still be wandering around the lot, running into who knows how many people dressed as giant sea creatures. The soundstage appears to be all closed up, but there’s a cluster of trailers set up near the entrance. My heart starts to beat a little faster again—that’s what Henry said to find. The trailers.
“Uh-oh,” Joanna says, her brow crinkling. “It looks like no one’s here—or at least they’re not currently shooting. I guess Clara Mae was wrong about those rumors.”
“That’s okay,” I say hastily. “I don’t need to watch them shoot anything. Henry suggested I try to find Grace’s trailer, maybe?”
Joanna tilts her head, studying me. She doesn’t look suspicious, exactly. It’s more like she’s trying to take all this in, to figure out what I’m thinking. I shift uncomfortably, wondering if I’ve managed to totally bungle this situation already.
But then her gaze shifts back to the row of trailers.
“Okay,” she murmurs, lowering her voice. “We’ll have to be extra stealthy because even if no one’s on the stage right now, there could still be security folks lurking around. Come on.”
She beckons me forward, and we slip between two rows of trailers, practically plastering ourselves up against them in an effort to stay hidden. My heart is beating like mad now, and I should feel ridiculous—the way we’re creeping around, eyes darting to the side, probably makes us look like a pair of extremely cartoony cat burglars. But my adrenaline is amped up way too high for me to think about anything except the possibility of reuniting with my mother. After these past few days, all our near misses, me feeling so close yet so far, me wanting it yet desperately wishing I didn’t want it . . . is this really about to happen?
“Check the doors—we’re looking for Suzanne, right? That’s who she’s playing?” Joanna hisses at me, tapping on one of the trailers. I see that each one seems to have a piece of masking tape affixed to the door with a character’s name scrawled on it. This, much like the studio map, seems way jankier than what I would imagine for a fancy Holly-wood production—when Henry said the doors would be marked with character names, I imagined some
