AS SOON AS Justine put out as many of Merry’s fires that she could, we were up at six again, filming short commercials and being prepped to photograph for ads—sandwich companies, shoe advertisements, Cherry Cola, cinnamon gum.

For Cherry Cola, Merry was given the opening line of the commercial and Yumi was given the final. Merry rolled her eyes but had accepted that her breasts were always going to be a topic of conversation and left to get fitted in a pair of white shorts speckled with tiny cherries.

Yumi, however, blanched at the direction to “sip from the can through the straw, turn to the camera, and say ‘Yummy’ seductively. End with a wink.” I felt so bad for Yumi, who didn’t deserve this treatment at all.

Yumi turned to our manager. “Peter, can I talk to you for a second?”

Peter, already bored with the shoot, didn’t even glance up from his PalmPilot. “What’s up, Yumi?”

“I don’t want to do this.”

Peter smiled indulgently as he turned his attention toward her. “Look. I know it’s a little embarrassing, but if Merry can do her part, you can too.”

“This is humiliating!” Yumi looked as though she would cry.

Rose interjected, “You’re turning their stupid nickname for you into gold.”

“Instead of people forgetting about it, this will just make them remember it even more!”

Rose pointed a finger at the bustling set: the operators testing lights, assistants scurrying with coffee, the director chatting with cameramen. “One, everyone is waiting on us to go out and deliver this commercial. Two, we’re getting paid buckets of money to say this. Three, being remembered isn’t a bad thing.”

Peter added, “Rose was smart enough to get this campaign on my radar, and it’s going to be huge. It’ll make the Gloss name recognition skyrocket! It’ll be good for your pocketbook, in the end.” He shooed Yumi away. “Several hours of work for an easy contract! Go!”

Yumi stomped back to the set and bore through the commercial shoot like a professional, but she refused to sit next to Rose on the ride home and sulked in our shared bedroom. I popped open a tab of complimentary Diet Cherry Cola, but before I could take a sip, Rose stole it from my hand for a taste. “Blegh,” she said, her breath tinged with cherry scent. It smelled like cough syrup. She offered the can back to me, but I tipped the remains down the sink. Rose said airily, “Believe me, she’ll thank me one day.”

In addition to pallets of soda, gifted stacks of shoeboxes and cases of cherry-red lipstick were strewn about our shared apartment. I arranged my portion to be sent to Houston, but there were still three other girls’ deliveries to maneuver around. We pushed pathways between boxes and the living room was generally clear, but quickly the rest of the place looked like a hoarder’s lair.

“Damn it!” Rose shouted from her room, and through the wall we could hear cardboard tumbling. She emerged in our bedroom doorway, glaring at Yumi and me as we packed toiletries for the trip to New York and the impending Music Video Awards. “We need to move out of here, I swear. I just knocked over like fifty shoeboxes! We. Don’t. Have. Storage!”

Yumi still refused to talk to Rose, so I picked up the conversation. “Where would you move?”

“Somewhere in the Hills or something. We are making fat checks now. Why’re we still living like we’re poor?”

“It’s not like we haven’t been spending some of the money,” I said. “Didn’t you just buy a BMW?”

“I’m just saying,” Rose went on, “that when we get back from this trip I’m going house-hunting. Where is Merry, anyway? We leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Over at Grant’s. But she’s already packed and brought her stuff with her. She’ll meet us at the airport.”

“Grant lives over in Malibu, doesn’t he?” Rose mused aloud. “I’ll have to ask him about real estate when I get a chance. It’s ridiculous that Marisa let him keep his own place. No wonder he’s fooling around while she’s filming in Europe.”

The doorbell rang. Rose immediately had her guard up. “Are you expecting anyone?”

Yumi and I both shook our heads.

Rose rustled out of the room and to the front door. She greeted the guest perfunctorily in a low voice, then shouted over her shoulder, “Sassy! It’s Alex.”

Alex stood in the living room, smiling, holding a pizza box with both hands. He’d never seen where we’d lived before and a shot of self-consciousness struck me unexpectedly. He picked his way to the kitchen and set the pizza down as Rose disappeared again. “Alex! What’re you doing here?”

“If Mohammed can’t come to the mountain . . .”

I realized with a pang that I hadn’t kept up with my supposed boyfriend for the past few weeks we’d been home. “God, Alex, I’m so sorry I haven’t called. It’s been chaos!” I gestured to the clutter. “All of this happened in the last week.”

He peeled the top of the box away, revealing a large combo pizza with extra olives, my old favorite. Meaty steam and the smell of sausage permeated the air, and I felt almost stuffy with the heavy scent of grease and cheese.

“The first few weeks of classes have been busy too,” he said, coming toward me for a kiss. “I finally have a minute to get away from my roommate, who, by the way, is an actual fan—”

“That’s so sweet of you, Alex,” I said, then swallowed. I hadn’t been in such close proximity to pizza in what felt like years. I was both hungry and repulsed. It reminded me of our high school cafeteria, its scent of bleach and fried oil; of old friendly hangouts with Joanna and Edie, half a lifetime ago. I felt a pull to take a bite, feel the hot cheese burn the roof of my mouth. Then I thought of the consequences, the uncomfortable bloated feeling I’d have in my stomach later, the pounds I’d worked so hard to lose. Every bite counted.

“The others are welcome to share,” he said, taking a seat and pulling out a slice.

Rose, who was apparently within hearing distance, called, “I don’t need any new cellulite, thanks!”

“How did you know where we lived?” I asked, busying myself by getting him a plate.

Knowing that it would be an even bigger deal if I didn’t eat, I found a sliver thinner than most and dabbed it with a paper towel to soak up the grease, taking a bite when the cheese took on a matte appearance. After months of sauceless chicken and lightly dressed salads, the pungent flavor of olives and spiced sausage was a revelation. I chewed slowly to make the most of it.

“I asked Ian where to find you. He’s a pretty great guy, but a bit lax with your security.”

“I think he knows you’re not a stalker,” I said wryly, picking at an olive.

Alex’s smile disappeared and he put down his slice. “Listen,” he said, his words coming out slowly, “I’m sorry I can’t go with you to New York for this thing.”

“Oh! It’s okay . . . I didn’t expect . . .” I hadn’t put Alex down as my date, or even let anyone know that he might be coming along. The hired stylist who whipped up outfits tailored to each of our individual personalities didn’t have a special outfit waiting for him. Meanwhile, I was just excited about mine because it had a corset and reminded me of Drew Barrymore’s Cinderella gown in Ever After. Guilt suddenly washed over me for not even considering Alex.