All the screaming gave Connor a headache. Preteen girl squeeing, the kind that made his eyeballs vibrate and nestled in his ear-drums. He had stayed behind on the set, theoretically to read lines, but really to avoid the shrieking fans. He liked the set like this, after the fact: quiet, dark, the gaffers and grips moving busily in the shadows like industrious animals, stripping tape marks, winding up electric cords.

He sat in a school desk, one of the props, just like a real desk, with gum stuck underneath and graffiti carved into the top. Connor loves Joanne. This with a big, angry X through it.

He couldn’t even remember high school, just this set, years and years of it, his character staying the same age while he got older. This year, when he turned eighteen, he had joked that it was time for a spin off, so he could go to college. They had given him an indulgent smile and pretended to take notes, just like they did when he requested vitamin water or a bigger dressing room. They took him seriously, took this whole fake world seriously, but it was all a joke, a big, big joke… on him.

When he first got this gig at fourteen, it had seemed like he had walked into his own fantasy life. Overnight, he was a star. His voice, his striking eyes, the promise of his emerging physique, had made him a hit with the girls.

And of course his story got them every time. Never mind that he was raised in the burbs by a teacher mother and an accountant father, that he had new shoes three times a year, went to private school, and never went hungry (unless you counted eating his way down to the bottom of a box of Twinkies and still wanting more). His agent had played the race card and cooked up a spin that made it sound like Connor was one of those black boys on welfare that had clawed his way out of the Compton ghetto to get into the limelight. They never outright lied, they just implied a lot, and Connor was coached in interviews to say, “I can’t really talk about it.”

His parents were horrified, but being the sort of people they were, they had just gone along with it.

The grips were done with the set, it was struck clean and ready for tomorrow’s shoot. One of them propped himself on the top of the desk and lit a cigarette. “We’re done for the night Con, but if you wanna stay, just lock up behind you.”

Connor folded up his script, stood, and stuck it in his back pocket. He could memorize these lines in his sleep. “Will do, thanks. I’ll be out of here soon myself.”

“Man, you act like you wanna live here, like you’re afraid of the world out there.”

Connor shrugged. “It’s just the girls I’m afraid of,” he said.

“You and me both, man, you and me both.” The grip dropped his cigarette on the floor. “See ya.”

Connor padded through the darkened hallways, back to his dressing room. He locked the door behind him out of habit, and stripped off his shirt to admire his hard-won six pack, the way the shadows of his brown skin accentuated the muscles. He was turning around to study his tight- million-dollar ass when the girl in the corner stood up, making him shriek like, well, like a thirteen-year-old girl.

“Joanne!”

“Hey, Con.” She strolled over to him, tracing her fingers down the line of his stomach muscles, making him shiver. “The limelight looks good on you. I remember the first day on the set. Your eyes were all big and you couldn’t even look me in the face. Now you’re not just famous, you’re a phenomenon.”

“Yeah, factory-made.”

“That factory did both of us a lot of good.”

“I’ve had all the good I can take. And lucky you, you’ve moved onto bigger and better things.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” she looked up at him in that way she had, the way she looked up at cameras and people who could do something for her.

Everything she did worked on him, she was his Achilles heel.

He leaned down and kissed her, the pouty softness of marshmallow lips thick with candy flavored gloss. Even her damn shampoo smelled better than anyone else’s. “The only thing good that I got out of this deal was you.”

She pushed him backward with small hands. “You didn’t like it enough to keep me.”

“Maybe I made a mistake.”

“Maybe you did.”

He knew he had. About her, about everything. He would never admit it to anyone but he would trade all of this just to be useful at something. Petty when you thought about it, most people would trade their left anything to be where he was. But they didn’t know what it was like, how your life wasn’t your own, your face wasn’t even your own.

Joanne curled up in front of the mirror talking to her own eyes. “You want out of it?’

“What?”

“Your ‘mistake.’ I know how you can get out of your contract, now.”

“Sure you do.”

Her eyes flicked to his. “Angine,” she said.

“Uh, the Senator?”

“Mhm. He owns the studio now. You’re not supposed to know that. Nobody is really. He owns most of the studios in town now.”

Connor swiped a bottle of mineral water and slugged the whole thing down. “And how do you know this?”

“He came to me, asked me if I wanted out of my contract in exchange for a few favors.”

“I bet he did.”

She threw a hairbrush at him; it hit his belly with a satisfying smack. “Political favors, you idiot.”

“Political favors? And what in the hell does that mean?”

“You’d have to ask him yourself. I can’t tell you anything. I’m just the messenger.”

“He sent you here? Why would he even care about me? What could I do?”

“Maybe he thinks we’d make a good team.” Her eyes hung on his, liquid amber, sunset at the end of a hot day. “I think we would. I always thought we were good together.”

“You must want something.”

“Sure I do.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and left the rest unsaid.

Knowing he was going to regret it, Connor said, “Arrange something and let me know.”

“It’s all arranged. The car is waiting downstairs.”

“You knew I’d say yes.” This made him feel a little sick somehow, weaker than ever.

Joanne came and stood up against him, the glossy brown of the top of her head just below his chin. “I knew you would run out of nos for me,” she said and tilted her face up to his to be kissed again.