Brenda Camille took off her J-Lo sunglasses long enough to peer out her limo's window. She noticed that on the upcoming sidewalk stood a mob of people. Oh, this is such a waste of time, she thought. I should be at that fashion shoot making sure those models pose well in my new line of high-heeled shoes. As the limo came to a full stop, many people crowded around the vehicle. They jumped up and down wildly and screamed things such as, "Ms. Camille! Please sign my magazine!" Her chauffer turned around, his wild red hair all amiss under his small hat, his face having a strange everlasting smile no matter how hard he tried to frown. "Ms. Camille? Should we try to find another way in?" he asked. Brenda frowned. "Uh, no. Well, maybe, I mean, I don't want my hair messed up. I spent hours sitting in a hard chair having it done. Yes, Tom, find another way in." Tom turned around and drove past, or should I say through, the throng of nearly senseless people. They reached a side door, which, actually was more crowded than the first. Tom turned and was about to say something, but it was interrupted by Brenda's voice. "No, Tom, this will do." Brenda opened her door and a sudden stream of screams rushed into her ears. She stepped out with her brand-name high-heeled shoes (of course, not her brand-name, that would be tacky) and dropped her feet on the pearly-white, marble sidewalk. She stood up and put on her brightest smile and waved to the crowd. She looked up at the glamorous building sitting before her, one of the World Trade Center's towers. She looked at the magnificent windows and saw the Statue of Liberty in the reflection, just vaguely. She noticed the bravura architecture of the entire building. Even the doors were glorious. She walked on the sidewalk while reporters asked question after question in her ears. She walked through the doors and into the lobby.

In the lobby, a mass of reporters still remained, crowding around the red carpet leading into the heart of the building. As Brenda walked along, her only thoughts were, Oh, I hope my hair is ok. If it's not, every magazine in the country will be talking about it. I'll be in fashion police! Being an actress, and remembering the reason she was here, she managed to generate a single, perfect, glistening tear at just the right moment for every camera to see. She turned to walk along the carpet at a more regular pace and stopped only about every 15 seconds to pose for a camera or two. Suddenly, a reporter's screech managed to make its way into the ear everyone was crowding around, "Ms. Camille, would you like to comment on how much you realize that this is an important event in the United States' history? You aren't even worried about your mascara running when you cry about it!" Brenda stopped. She came to the horrified realization that she was not wearing waterproof mascara! She tried to play it cool. It'll be ok, I just have to act as if I meant it to happen, she thought to herself. She flipped her hair and said in a very loving and gentle manner, "I love our country, and even though I may not agree with some things our political leaders say, I will always stand up for the United States of America." She then walked a little more briskly down the carpet, towards the bathroom. She had an escort take her there. She made her escort make sure there was nobody in the bathroom, and then she dashed right in. She stared at her self horrifyingly in the mirror. The mascara was all over her face! She pulled out her Prada pocketbook and searched hastily for her waterproof mascara. She found it, sighed a sigh of relief, and looked in the mirror to take off the drooped mascara. She wiped it off easily with a paper towel, and put a fresh batch on. She and her escort then left the bathroom, to face the crowd in the lobby.

She met with a few famous actors (as if she hadn't dated each of them at least twice already) and went to the dining room on the 2nd floor. In the dining room, there were a few people she didn't know, and made a point of looking at them in a way which made them feel inferior. Her favorite look was the, "Do I know you? No, you're nobody."