When does reality begin and fantasy end?

They met again in the food court, as arranged. "It would be stupid to eat here when we're both on expense account," Phil pointed out, leading the way to one of the nicer sit-down restaurants in the mall. "And I may be vain, greedy and too damn slick, but I ain't stupid."

"Yes," said Andy and Phil laughed. At the restaurant, he held the door for Andy, who after all was carrying several bags of stuff from Macy's.

They took a quiet table near the windows. Outside, a mockingbird sat huddled against the February chill, keeping an eye on the scrub jays and pigeons policing the sidewalks.

"Remember, eat a salad," said Phil as the server, a man named Simon who spoke English with a buzzing El Salvador accent, passed out menus. The place ran heavily to pastas and steaks, with shrimp and langostino for alternates.

"What I was going to have anyway," said Andy. "I'm thin because I eat thin already." He ordered a chopped chicken salad with vinaigrette dressing on the side.

Phil ordered a New York cut with shrimp and baked potato. "I know," he said. "I'm just having a little fun ragging on you."

Andy shook his head, annoyed and amused at the same time. He sipped his mineral water, Phil had insisted that he order something.

"I got a call from the producer while you were shopping," said Phil after the waiter had poured his rosé. "They really want you for this show."

"We've made a pretty good deal already, I'm in," said Andy.

"If we can get your dad to sign."

"He'll sign."

Phil nodded. "We've got a sweetener."

"You don't need it," said Andy. "He'll sign, he needs the money and it means I will move out." He looked out the window at the mockingbird. "We don't get along anymore."

"A sweetener for you," said Phil. The server came back with a plate of bread sticks, Andy ignored them.

Phil took a breadstick and buttered it, lightly. "A sweetener for you," he repeated. "A three year contract instead of just one. A second show, probably, and a movie deal, guaranteed. A ghost writer to help you put out a book."

"What?" said Andy, stunned.

"Look, we planned to start filming in April or May, soon as we got a full house, eight people. Film all summer, through the fall till about this time next year. The first episodes would air in September or October and we'd slowly catch up till we could air our final episode during sweeps next February."

"Um? Isn't that a usual sort of schedule?"

"More or less," agreed Phil. "But if we can sign you to these additional projects, we would start filming you almost immediately. Start showing episodes sooner, like August. Keep the production going longer with a second, follow-up show. Maybe a movie and certainly a book."

Andy felt afraid but he could not exactly say why. He looked at the sparkles in his mineral water. "That would be three years of my life. And you'd probably want me... dressing the part the whole time...."

Phil nodded. "That's the idea."

"How would I ever get any other sort of part? No one would take me seriously as a male actor."

Phil said nothing for a moment. Finally he asked, "What's more important, some future role or career that may not ever happen or a real chance at stardom now while you're young?"

Andy shook his head, unable to answer.

Their food came. Phil's steak was rare instead of medium rare but he did not send it back, leaving the bloody middle on his plate as he ate around it. Andy tried not to look at it. His own salad was fine, with a spicy taste to the chicken he couldn't identify. Phil offered him a shrimp on a toothpick and Andy ate it, savoring the plump buttery flesh and smiling.

Phil told stories about people he knew in Hollywood and Andy laughed in the right places. They didn't talk about anything relating to their mutual project again until Simon, the server, asked if they wanted dessert. Phil said no, and Simon turned to Andy.

"And you, miss? A small flan, perhaps?"

"No," said Andy, shaking his head.

After Simon had taken the check and Phil's American Express, Phil asked, "Does that happen often?"

"No," said Andy.

"But it has happened before," said Phil.

Outside the window, Andy saw that evening had come and the mockingbird had left the little tree. Headlights glittered unevenly on the freeway, some people had not turned theirs on yet. Across the corner of the valley, the backside of the Malibu hills showed a few lights of homes on their less fashionable but still expensive slopes.

Simon brought the check back, along with two mints in little twisted wrappers. Phil signed and took one of the mints. "You want the other?" he asked. "They're good, Swiss chocolate with a crunchy peppermint shell?"

Andy said no and Phil pocketed both of the candies.

Simon appeared from somewhere and held Andy's chair as he got up.

"Thank you," said Andy, a reflex of politeness.

"De nada," said Simon. He smiled, a tower of Hispanic machismo over six feet tall.

Phil gathered up the packages which Andy had almost forgotten.

The woman at the door held it open for them and wished them a good evening. For some reason, she smiled and winked at Andy.

"They're going to make some kind of offer to you tomorrow," Phil said as they walked toward the car. "You're a pretty tough negotiator but would you like an agent to be with you?"

Andy blinked. "Someone you would recommend? Someone who would take a percentage? With a kickback for you?"

Phil opened the door for Andy and stowed the bags in the backseat. "You sure you're only seventeen, you're awfully cynical for someone so young?" he asked as he slid into the driver's seat.

Andy snorted and rolled his eyes. "An agent is supposed to find work for you. I've got a job offer and I know what I want. I don't need an agent, though I may need a lawyer."

"Okay," said Phil.

At the hotel, Phil helped Andy check in and carried the bags again all the way to the room which had an outside entrance facing north. Miles away in that direction, Andy's father had already got the message that Andy would not be home that night.

The suite had a dining table, a couch and an oversize television in a front room, a tiny but complete kitchen alcove, a huge bed and another big television in the back room with a luxurious bathroom attached.

"Good enough," said Phil, dumping the packages on the bed. "I'll call for you in the morning. They planned the meeting for eleven now, so we've time for breakfast and...." He pause. "Who would you accept a recommendation for a lawyer from? Someone I could reasonably be expected to get ahold of tonight?"

"I don't know," said Andy.

"I don't want you picking someone from the phone book," said Phil. "Lots of shysters out there."

"How about that girl singer in the story you told? Is she still speaking with you?"

Phil grinned. "Lula X? A.K.A. Louise Alexander? Her mom is an attorney here in town."

"Okay," Andy said. "Maybe she could meet us for breakfast."

"Don't count on it, but I'll try. You gonna be up long enough for me to do some phone calls and get someone to call you?"

"Sure," said Andy. "Not sure I'm going to sleep at all."

Phil laughed and said good night.

Andy closed the door behind him, took a bottle of water from the miniature fridge then stepped out onto the tiny balcony outside the room. A small table and two chairs took up almost all the space. The view was nothing special, the lights of the San Fernando Valley laid out like a bright quilt, surrounded by the green gray of invisible mountains and the blotchy darkness of urban sky. The last crescent of the old moon hung above the eastern hills.

Andy sat, sipping water, watching the night gather and thinking until the phone rang inside and he went to answer it. "This is Wren," he said.