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in her chair, she looked at Steven as if just noticing his existence for the first time. “Um, I don’t mean to be rude, but who exactly are you?”
    “I’m Steven Blecher, the sound guy.”
    She gave him a blank look.
    “You paid me twenty bucks freshman year to dissect your fetal pig for you in biology, remember?”
    “Vaguely.” She turned to Ari. “And you are?”
    “Ari Tenser, the lighting guy,” he mumbled. “We were in home ec together sophomore year. You paid me fifteen dollars to make your Irish soda bread for you for the final.”
    “Huh. Are there more of you guys?” she asked.
    “More of us what?” I replied.
    “Geeks.”
    I wondered if she really was that rude, or if she had some sort of medical condition where the filter between her brain and her mouth had been broken since birth. “Actually, we’re film geeks,” I replied. “There’s a big difference between us and the regular geeks.”
    “How so?” asked Hannah as she daintily ate some raisins.
    “Well, film geeks are just . . . cooler. More creative,” I replied. “Less pocket protector and more visionary.”
    “But you’re still a geek,” Dylan said.
    “Technically, yes,” I agreed, “but ever since Quentin came on the scene, film geek doesn’t have the same negative connotation.”
    “Who’s Quentin?” she said. “Does he go to our school, too?”
    Did this girl know anything that didn’t have to do with shopping and makeup? “Quentin Tarantino?” I replied. “Director of Pulp Fiction ? Kill Bill: Volume 1 ? Kill Bill: Volume 2 ?”
    “Look, I’m going to tell you right now,” she huffed, “unless it’s a romantic comedy, I’ve probably never seen it, okay? But whatever—the fact remains you’re still a geek.” She smoothed her hair. “Now back to the movie—if I’m able to see the scar when I watch it, then you’ll have to cut it out,” she warned.
    I closed my eyes and, taking Mom up on her suggestion to creatively visualize whenever I got anxious, envisioned myself giving the valedictorian speech at USC while Steven Spielberg sat next to me. “Listen, I promise that all of your demands will be met,” I said as I looked at my watch. Lunch was nearly half over. “We should get started.”
    “But what about lunch?” Steven asked.
    I gave him a look.
    “What? You know I don’t work well when I’m hungry.”
    “It seems to me you’ll be okay if you miss a meal or two,” said Lola, who still hadn’t made a dent in her salad.
    He patted his stomach, making it sound like a tin drum. “More of me to love, ladies. More of me to love.”
    The girls looked like they were about to throw up. This was officially off to a bad start.
    Dylan took out her lip gloss and shrugged. “Okay, but I sure hope you took the time to look over the memo I sent you this weekend. Because I’d hate for you to spend a month shooting this and then find out you can’t use it because you didn’t meet my terms.”
    I sighed. This was going to be the longest five weeks of my life.
     
    “Okay, so, there’s three levels of popularity . . . ” Lola was in the middle of explaining as a group of kids stood behind me while I aimed the camera at her and Hannah.
    “There’s low-level popularity,” Hannah said, pointing to a table at the end of The Ramp. “Like Ashley and Britney Turner and those girls.” I turned and zoomed in to get a shot. It was like Attack of the Killer Clones . All the girls were wearing jeans and the exact same style long-sleeved T-shirt, just in different colors.
    “Wow. From this angle they look like a roll of Life Savers,” I said from behind the camera.
    Lola and Hannah laughed. “Score one for the geek,” I announced. “I can’t believe I made you guys laugh.” Which made them laugh again. There was something about being behind a camera that made me a lot more relaxed. Maybe I should approach Amy Loubalu with a camera and ask her out that way. Then, of course, I’d have to bring it on