The night of the screening is finally here.

I head through the courtyard to the guest-list table. Past the mountains of chocolate éclairs and pastry puffs. Past the table of baked Brie and crudités. Past the over-worn red carpet to Eduardo.

“Doors open in five minutes. I think it’s going to be a madhouse.” He points to the line already forming by the gate.

“Do you see Saba Greer anywhere?” I say.

“Oh, Lordy no!” Eduardo says. “Don’t be crude! She’s a whiskey. They don’t wait in line.”

“Whiskey?” I say.

“Yeah. They get whisked in,” Eduardo says.

It must be an expression that he’s made up and is hoping will catch on. I don’t think it’s going to work.

My mom is not a whiskey. She is standing in the line talking casually while signing an autograph for some stranger who has recognized her. She notices me at the desk and waves with her clutch purse. I look down at the guest list, pretending to be checking something important. I’m embarrassed for her. Maybe I should have whisked her in so she wouldn’t be so obviously uncool in front of Lark Austin.

The security guard’s walkie-talkie jumps to life with noise, and he gives Eduardo and me the okay to start letting people in. The people give us their names and we check them off the list and then they head straight toward the free booze and food.

When the line dwindles down to nothing, Eduardo dismisses me.

“Go,” he says, waving me away with the back of his hand. “Go find your movie star or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

I wander into the courtyard full of people in black. All the ladies have blond streaks in their hair. They all wear glitter in their base to make them look sun-kissed. Their faces are frozen into one youthful expression from Botox injections. They look like they are so afraid to be themselves.

Then again, I guess if they were themselves they might be as lonely as I am. Maybe if I ever grow my hair out I’ll run off and get blond highlights. That worries me.

I notice Saba Greer. She is being cornered by a group of Eggophiles from the Terminal Earth message board. They all said they were going to meet her. They are all wearing those stupid white flowers.

I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to meet those girls. I am so happy that I came here as myself. Not Egg. Just Victoria.

I notice that Saba Greer is not so much smiling while shaking their hands and signing autographs. She looks like she’s cringing.

I see my mom and head over to her. I’m tired of standing alone. She is talking to a woman in a suit. The woman looks familiar. My mom stretches her arm out and waves her newly manicured nails and bangly bracelets at me. She hired a stylist for this evening.

She puts her arm around my shoulder.

“Lark Austin, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Victoria.”

“Hi, Victoria, nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too,” I mumble looking at my feet.

“Victoria is a big fan of your movies,” Mom says for me.

I nod. “Yeah. You’re great. My favorite is They Scream in the Night.”

“Thanks,” Lark says. “I’m a big fan of your mom’s. I’m excited that she’s going to play Hera for me.”

“Isn’t that exciting? It’s all settled! I wanted to tell you today but you were gone by the time I got back from signing the contracts,” Mom says. She’s drinking a glass of wine. Her glass has a large creamy-pink lipstick mark on it. I want her to notice it and wash it off. Everything about my mom is embarrassing me right now.

“I’ll be right back; I’ve got to use the loo,” Mom says. When in the Hollywood bubble land, she’s always pretending to be British.

“Okay,” I say.

“God, those girls with the white flowers in their hair are fucking pathetic.”

I look up at the woman who is speaking. I can’t take my eyes off of her. Flame-red hair flowing down her back. Face dotted with freckles. It’s Saba Greer. It’s Egg herself. I didn’t have to go find her. She came and found me. It’s perfect.

“I know, honey,” Lark Austin says, slipping her arm around Saba Greer’s waist. “But they’re your bread and butter. They buy your action figure and keep you nice and pampered and pretty.”

It’s suddenly clear to me that they are a couple.

“But they’re freaks,” Saba Greer says. “I mean, they worship Egg. Those girls need to get a fucking life. Lonely. Pathetic. Pasty teenage girls.”

She is talking about me. I try not to look as though I am lonely and pathetic and pasty. I try not to let on that I am one of those girls.

My heart sinks as I realize that Saba Greer is a bitch. I listen to her mouth off about her fan base for a while longer, and then I just stop listening to her altogether. She’s an awful person. She’s no hero.

“Who are you?” Saba Greer says, eyeing me suspiciously. “You’re not an Egg freak, too, are you?”

“No, this is Ursula Denton’s daughter, Victoria — right?” Lark says.

“Yes. Victoria,” I say.

Saba Greer sticks her hand out to shake mine. I take her hand. Her grip is weak. Her hand is freezing cold and her skin is clammy. She is everything that Egg is not. I guess that’s why they call it “acting.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she says. But she’s not pleased at all. She’s already looking behind me to see who else is here.

Wanda comes over to join us.

“Lark, Saba Greer. I see you’ve met our best intern and your biggest fan, Victoria.”

Saba Greer and Lark shake their heads yes, that they have met me and I imagine probably immediately forgotten me.

“Well, we’re going to start in about five minutes, so we should probably head inside,” Wanda says.

“I’ll help Eduardo break down,” I say. They leave me standing there in the open air with my heart breaking. I look over at my mom’s full glass of wine and down the whole thing in one gulp.

Then I notice a tray of full wineglasses that has been left on a table. I go over and take two glasses and down those as well. Then I take two more and wander off to behind a palm tree to drink in peace.