You Look Different in Real Life

and they probably wouldn’t come near it except to poke at it with a long stick, but I don’t care. I feel better instantly. The footage they got today, the thought that Ian might be hoping for screen time—all things to toss and turn about later.
    This is where somebody might say something along the lines of, “It’s okay, Justine. We all do things we regret.”
    Instead, Lance asks: “Les, what do you think?”
    “I’m thinking we can use the narration as voiceover later. Right? She was looking at me and not off camera, so we’d have to.”
    “I was thinking the same thing,” says Lance.
    I used to tune out this kind of chatter between them. Italways seemed boring. Just put the camera back on me, will you? But now I understand what they’re doing. They’re thinking about both sides of the process at once. While they’re shooting they have to mentally edit too. I don’t know how I know this. But I can see it in my head as if I’ve tapped into some psychic wire between Lance and Leslie.
    “We have to include that in the first rough cut,” says Leslie.
    “You’re already doing a rough cut?” I ask.
    “The people at Independent Eye want to see footage every few weeks,” Lance says.
    “The suits,” Leslie adds, smiling.
    “Our producers ,” says Lance, shooting her a serious look, and Leslie’s smile goes away. “They need to see if we’re on the right track.”
    So this is their punishment for the Five at Eleven fallout. No more artistic carte blanche. They’re being monitored now, which is maybe a small price to pay to continue the series. Or a huge one.
    “Thank you, Justine,” says Leslie. “Thank you for giving so much of yourself today.” They needed this.
    I didn’t plan on the giving, but on the other hand, they didn’t force me to hand anything over.
    So how, and why, do I keep doing exactly that?
    Rory uses a metal skeleton key to open the tall wood-and-glass cabinet. It’s an antique piece, lovely in that cold, untouchable way. Not something you’d expect to find in an eleven-year-old girl’s bedroom.
    “This is my Tudor Monarchs collection,” she says a bit anxiously, running a hand through her dark blond hair. It’s cut short and elfin, just like her best friend Justine’s. “It’s about three years’ worth of stuff, ever since I was eight and the school librarian gave me a biography of Henry VIII. It was five hundred pages long and I read it in like a day.”
    There’s a cut to a drawing by Rory of King Henry. It’s pretty terrible, almost a caricature, but Rory’s had it matted and framed. Surrounding it are six smaller, equally unrecognizable portraits of his famous wives. Now Rory unscrolls a paper banner on which she’s created a computer-generated flowchart of Tudor-era family and political relationships. “I have another one of the timeline, but I’m still fiddling with it.”
    What follows is a series of shots where Rory’s showing off the various treasures of her collection—books and figurines, a “Bloody Mary” Christmas ornament, replica jewelry—pulling them out of the glass cabinet one by one, then replacing them carefully when done. The montage ends with Rory emerging from the closet wearing a floor-length Queen Elizabeth I costume, complete with ruffled collar and curly red wig.
    She spins for the camera and laughs. “I’m going to be volunteering at the Ren Faire this summer!”
    In the next shot, she’s sitting on her bed in the gown, fingering the curves of the collar. “Why do I like this stuff so much?” she asks, in response to a question. “Because it’s full of characters who are more interesting than the ones in any fiction book I’ve read, except these were real people. The more I learn about them, the more I learn about people in general.”
    There’s a cut to Rory walking up the front steps to a house, still dressed in her costume. We know from earlier scenes that this is my house. “It’s the Spring Carnival at school,” she says toward the camera. “Justine and I are going together.”
    She knocks. After a few moments, I open the door. Look her up and down with an expression of pure wonder, but not the good kind.
    “What. Are. You. Wearing?” I ask.
    “I’m Queen Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen, sometimes known as Good Queen Bess.”
    “You look ridiculous.”
    Rory pauses. “Do I?”
    “Was this the thing you spent six months’ worth of allowance on?
    “Yes,” says Rory. “You’re supposed to