Amanda told me, but I had a hard time believing it. “What do you mean theatrical glue won’t stick to my skin? Doesn’t it stick to everyone’s skin?”

She shook her head. “I’ve had this problem before, usually with kids who have really smooth skin. The glue just doesn’t stick.” She showed me how easy it was to peel off a second application of theatrical glue holding my costume in place. “I’ll have to use the glue we use for appliances.”

I knew what she meant, but I was deep into character as Hallie Jones, the ditz. “What am I, a refrigerator?” I waved my hands about, acting that I was just so confused, letting my voice go up into my squeaky register.

From beyond the curtain, I heard Doug snicker. “Maybe you can use magnets?”

“Magnets?” I squeaked.

“You know,” he said. “Like on the refrigerator door?”

I poked my head around the corner and stuck my tongue out at him. Then I giggled. This felt like some of the wilder Improv sessions we used to have back in Drama class. Actually, I was having fun; being Hallie was a hoot.

Amanda rolled her eyes at me as I pulled my head back. “We have had to use magnets for some costumes,” she said. “But the magnets get glued to the skin so a metal costume piece can be held in place.”

“Ohhh!” I said like the light had finally dawned. I iced that with another giggle. Amanda grinned at me, appreciating that I was playing at my characterization.

“We’ll have to use the stronger medical glue, also called prosthetic glue,” she explained. “You need a bit of solvent to get it off completely. It won’t just rub off like rubber cement.”

“What’s it called?” I asked as I sat back down where she could work on me.

“Prosthetic glue. You know, for gluing on prostheses, like wooden legs.”

“I don’t need a wooden leg!” I protested. Being blond-to-the-bone seemed to come naturally to me.

“No—you—,” she stopped trying to explain and settled on a frown. She looked at me over her glasses and sniffed. Maybe my act was wearing thin on her.

I giggled. I used to try to avoid giggling, but it was kind of fun.

“Are you going to be a handful?” she asked severely.

I resisted glancing down and pointing out that I was already several handfuls; that was most of the problem. “No, ma’am,” I said meekly.

She grinned at me and replied, “I think you probably will. But you look terrific in this outfit. We just have to figure out how to keep it on you.”

“Aww,” came the sound of theatrical disappointment from Doug on the other side of the curtain.

“You keep out of it,” I protested, giggling again.

But Amanda soon had me sorted with the flimsy, sparkly top more strongly glued in place. “It itches a bit,” I mentioned.

“Don’t scratch at it,” she warned me. “And if you break out in hives, we’ll have to try something else, so don’t.

I waggled my shoulders back and forth, trying to see if it pinched or pulled. Not too badly, but I was aware of the glue on my skin. It pulled and kind of pinched when my skin stretched. Not wonderfully comfortable, but it should help keep the heifers within range.

“Thanks, hon,” I said, and I don’t know why but I offered her a quick hug, and we swapped squeezes.

“Hey,” Doug complained, apparently having come around the curtain. “I gave you the ride down here; don’t I get a hug?”

“I’m trying to keep my clothes on, Dougie,” I said sweetly. “Not get them ripped off.”

He gave me a hurt look, complete with puppy dog eyes. But he was still chuckling when we got back into the golf cart for the return to where the cameras were set up.

“I’m looking forward to working with you, Hallie,” he commented. “You seem like a lot of fun, and I know it sounds weird, but movie-making can be a grind. A few laughs can make it more bearable.”

The new glue still felt weird, and I wriggled a bit, trying to get comfortable. Then I left that off when Doug almost drove through a flower bed. He looked at me and waggled his eyebrows alternately, first one then the other, and I giggled.

“I didn’t know you could do that!” I said.

He laughed. “It’s not a talent that I get to use much in the action flicks I’m usually working on. But, this is supposed to be a comedy.”

“Huh, yeah,” I agreed. The dumb blonde act must be working because he laughed again.

* * *

Delgado and Harrelson had been joined by Russel Aarons, the principal director for the movie, whose first words when he met me were an aside to Delgado, “I see what you mean.”

Then he turned his ginger charms toward me and enthused, “Miss Jones! I’ve heard a lot about you in the last few minutes.”

“Some of it good, I hope, Mr. Aarons?” I replied with a giggle.

He broke out with that grin that had made him a child star back in the sixties. “Please call me Rusty,” he said, “because I’m certainly going to call you Hallie.” He still had that rubber face, too, and pulled his famous mock frown. “That’s okay, I hope?”

“Oh, sure,” I agreed. Rusty Irons was the gag name of his character in a series of screwball comedies in the eighties before he got behind the camera instead of in front of it, supposedly because he had lost most of his trademark orange curls.

“All right then!” he exclaimed. “One big happy and all that, huh?” Another plug for his old TV show, One Big Happy.

I pretended to roll my eyes and giggled again. Rusty Irons may have come down in the world, directing cheapo flicks for Jesse Delgado, the King of the Zs, but he knew comedy, and I really felt good about the idea of working for him.

Well, heck, I would be working in movies which was something I had wanted to do since I was a little boy. Uh…. I glanced down to make sure I hadn’t fallen out of my costume again since everyone, including my snappy ginger boss, seemed to be unable not to keep glancing at my chest if they weren’t outright staring.

Experimentally, I waggled my shoulders, causing a sigh to ripple through most of the crew. Doug and Rusty grinned at me, acknowledging that they knew what I was doing.

But, did I…?

* * *

The whole thing today was basically about selling the picture to Mr. Delgado. The set was generic, the typical modern city street used in so many cop shows and comedies that it had a name, East Gower Avenue. It hadn’t been redressed as a futuristic setting yet, and I wasn’t sure that it would.

They didn’t have a script yet, so watching Rusty and Todd (might as well call Mr. Harrelson by his first name, too) try to sell a pig-in-a-poke to Jesse Delgado was entertaining in itself.

While I posed in front of various shops and some admittedly futuristic car mock-ups, Delgado pretended to listen to their pitch. I say pretended because it was obvious he was keeping his eye on me.

Doug had driven off in the golf cart at one point and reappeared in a get-up that seemed straight out of a 1940s revue.

I giggled and pointed at him. “You look like the usher for a musical comedy version of War of the Worlds!” I told him.

He grinned, impervious to my snark. “Thanks!”

Which only caused me to giggle more. Can you get drunk just from giggling?