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who dabble with casting, fuss with the writers on story issues, and attend all the parties.
    Then there’s the team of writers, whom the actors either love or hate, depending on whether they pass down scripts with lots of dramatic close-ups or meaningless drivel to be recited over cold mugs of coffee. As the writers work in another building, we almost never see them, though when we do have a chance to engage, I notice them eyeing the actors with the wariness of an allergy patient at a petting zoo. Are they confusing us with the characters we play? The indigent, lying, conniving, serial-killing, merry folk of Indigo Hills? I do wonder.
    The director has a certain amount of clout: the director is king or queen for the day, with limited power, since various pros trade off in directing each episode. Our directors are fairly easy to work with, as long as they get along with you-know-who.
    Today’s director, Stella Feinberg, was one of my personal favorites, a no-nonsense woman whose oversize sweaters and nurturing concern made you want to initiate a group hug.
    â€œOk, ladies and gents,” Stella called some thirty minutes after Deanna’s dramatic exit. “We have a revised script to work from. Sean and Iris are giving out copies. Read over your lines quickly and we’ll do a run-through.”
    â€œThat was fast,” someone commented as I flipped through the revised script in search of my only scene of the day. There it was—a scene with Deanna, not cut, thank God, but significantly changed. In the previous version, my character, Ariel, who was trying to figure out her past (like whether or not she was a mermaid) had approached Meredith (Deanna’s character) and accused her of locking Ariel in the pickle barrel and pushing her over Indigo Falls.
    No more.
    Now Ariel was threatening suicide, confessing that she’d locked herself in the pickle barrel, telling Meredith that she had nothing to live for. The scene ends with Meredith demanding that Ariel pull herself together. When Ariel curses her for caring, Meredith slaps my character across the face.
    Smack! Wham!
    â€œHow’s that for ending with a punch?” I said aloud. The abrupt violence surprised me, but then again, what did I expect when the writers had squeezed this one out in a matter of minutes?
    â€œHailey?” Stella glanced at me over her reading glasses. “A word?”
    â€œSure!” I followed her over to one of the darkened sets, a graveyard scene with a stained statue of a fierce angel in the foreground. Creepy. “What’s up?” I asked cheerfully, ever hopeful that she had something to say about my recent performance or Q ratings or a new contract. Directors didn’t usually deal with personnel issues, but hey, I could hope.
    â€œIt’s about the rewrite.” Stella threw an arm around my bare shoulders and pulled me into her cable-knit sweater. For a second, I got a mouthful of fuzz and soapy smell.
    â€œMy new scene with Meredith?” I lifted my head and wiped a bit of fluff from my lips. “You’re not cutting it, are you?”
    â€œNo, of course not. But tread carefully, sweetie. The rewrite? The suicide intentions? The slap?” Her brown eyes held a doleful expression. “They were all Deanna’s ideas.”
    â€œOh.” I tried to absorb the meaning of it as Stella nodded knowingly. “But what does it mean? I mean ... is Deanna trying to get rid of me? Doesn’t she like me?”
    Every once in a blue moon, the writers and network took it upon themselves to explore an “issue”—sort of a public service announcement. For the actors, it meant weeks of anorexia, infertility, alcoholism, or Alzheimer’s. Recently, there had been some buzz about exploring youth suicide, which could be compelling, yes, but I didn’t want my poor Ariel to be the victim of the issue of the month!
    â€œPlease, tell me the truth, Stella,” I