“I’m twenty-one,” Raj says. “I’m a senior at the California Film School.”
“What’s your style like? I mean, as a director.”
“I’m still figuring it out, I guess.” His cheeks flush. It’s official. He’s a blusher. “Of course I love Hitchcock. Do you?”
“I’ve actually never seen one of his movies.”
“No way! I’ll have to show you one sometime. If I weren’t working tonight, I’d show you one as soon as we got back. God, which one should I start with?”
“Can I just say that you two are so cute,” a mom says as she enters our fake living room. There’s a tiny, sleeping baby strapped to her chest in some elaborate wrap. “It looks like you live here together. Are they paying you to sit here?”
“Nope. We do it for free,” Raj says.
“You’re an adorable couple,” she stage-whispers.
“We’re not together,” I say, surprising myself with the speed of my reaction. I see something—hurt? embarrassment?—flash across Raj’s face. The truth is that I can’t imagine being anyone’s girlfriend but Alex’s. Not yet.
“Oh,” the lady says and makes an oops face. “Sorry,” she adds before heading toward the dining room display.
“Aaaannnyway,” Raj says.
I stare at the carpet. I feel the cozy spell of the staged living room break. It’s my fault. I couldn’t seem to help it, though. It’s like my heart has an electric fence around it.
“Let’s get going,” Raj says. “I gotta get back.”
“You’re the best for helping me today,” I say with a little too much enthusiasm. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“No problem,” he says, but there’s heaviness in the air between us.
My phone rings and I’m grateful for the distraction. “It’s my mom. I’d better get this.” I answer. “Hi, Mom. I’m actually at Ikea right now, so I can’t—”
“Why did you text me that license plate? Whose white car is that? Are you in some kind of trouble?” she asks with the kind of speaking-loud-but-not-yelling volume exclusive to mothers. I hope Raj doesn’t hear her.
“You texted your mom my license plate?” he asks.
“I didn’t know if you were going to kidnap me,” I say with a shrug.
“Do I look like a criminal?” he asks.
“Oh my God, no!”
“Honey, who are you talking to? Are you okay?” Mom asks through the phone.
“Yes, I’m fine, Mom. I’m just at Ikea. I promise I’m okay.” I turn to Raj and whisper, “I barely knew you when I got in your car!”
“I look like a criminal,” he says, and walks a little taller. “That’s kind of awesome.”
After we return to the Chateau, Raj helps me carry the stuff up to my apartment. He has to get to his job.
“So, are you a waiter at this downtown hotel?” I ask as we navigate the stairs with my overflowing bright blue reusable bags.
“Bartender,” he says. “I kind of hate it. My cousin Brandon is the manager. He’s a douche bag, but the money’s green.”
“I bet you’re a good bartender,” I say as we put the stuff inside my apartment. “You’re clearly very service oriented.”
“Yeah, well.” He laughs a little. “You’re on your own for the assembling part. Unless you want to wait until tomorrow?”
“I can do this,” I say.
“Okay. I’ll go get my tool kit and drill for you.”
“You have a drill?” I ask as he walks down the hall and disappears into his apartment.
When he returns and hands the drill to me, I hold it as if it’s a loaded gun. “I’ve never used it. But good luck to you,” Raj says.
“The Ikea effect,” I say.
“Exactly. So, what’s your plan?” he asks. He folds his arms and leans against the door frame.
“I think I’m going to start with the table…” I say.
“No, I mean the big plan. You’re giving yourself one year to become an actress, so what’s your plan?”
“Oh, I’m going to get an agent,” I say, thinking of my list. “I’m going to get one tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” His face brightens. “Do you have a meeting?”
I nod. I don’t have an official meeting, but I know that if I try hard enough, I can make something happen by tomorrow.
“Good for you. I’m impressed.” He lingers for a moment. “And stop by the bar later if you want. Hotel Uno.”
“I’m only eighteen,” I say.
“That’s a problem.” Raj smiles. “Unless you know the bartender.”
As soon as he leaves, I open my notebook and put a check next to numbers two through five.
Mom was right. Checking off my notebook goals is satisfying.
That afternoon, I tackle the things that need to be assembled first. I’m able to jump onto someone’s unprotected Wi-Fi network called SAFARISOGOODY. Even though the signal cuts in and out, I watch YouTube tutorials by someone named Helpful Dan who guides me as I put the table and chairs together in under an hour. I had originally only wanted to get one chair so that I could also afford the soft blue blanket, but Raj convinced me the second chair was the priority.
“You need a minimum of two chairs,” he said. “You have to think positive about your social life. You’re at least going to want the option of eating with another person.”
I open the curtain package to realize that not only are the panels way too long, I have no fixtures to hang them with. The lesson of the day seems to be that in order to be a successful person in this world, I have to think of the beginning, middle, and end of my ideas. I can’t just wake up and expect there to be breakfast. I have to buy not only the food, but also be prepared with a spoon. I can’t just “go to Ikea.” I need to think about how to get there and bring the stuff back. I can’t just toss a package of colorful curtains in my shopping cart and think that as soon as I unwrap them in my apartment they will somehow hang themselves. Without my mom here prompting me to think these things through (“How are you going to hang those, Becca? Will they need to be hemmed?”), and without Alex, who somehow knows how to do just about everything (even if he’d never used a drill, he would figure it out and have built a working boat by the end of the day), I’m finding myself either needing to be bailed out by the kindness of strangers, or stranded midway through my missions, realizing I’ve skipped some vital steps in the process.
And of course, as I hold the curtains up just to see what they’d look like if I had thought everything through, I realize that I’m starving. Again. Even after the $3.99 lunch at Ikea.
I wonder why I’m so hungry all the time. It’s as if the taking in of new landscapes and information is burning twice the calories. I make another half-starved trip to the Mayfair. When I get there, I take a deep breath and remember the lesson of the day: think things through. After all, I’m not the spoonless girl of this morning. I’ve got brand-new cookware, a colander, a chopping board, and a full set of cutlery. I buy what a smart woman on a budget would buy. Beans and rice. Tofu dogs. A head of lettuce. Spaghetti and sauce. Maybe I’ll be a vegetarian like Raj, I think, who chose the pasta over the meatballs today. I add a couple of bananas to my cart. I buy mac and cheese and frozen peas for old times’ sake, a loaf of whole wheat bread, some peanut butter and jelly, three apples, and a large container of yogurt, which is more cost-effective than the single servings.
I carry the heavy bags down the block, putting them on the curb to push the “walk” button. I check Instagram while I wait for the light to change. I’m bombarded with pictures of college life: a fountain at Georgetown, selfies with roommates, the insanely cute Boston College crew team in the cafeteria. The traffic rushes past me on Franklin Avenue, coughing exhaust in my face. I catch glimpses of the people in their cars. The girl eating a salad in her BMW, the guy head-banging in the beat-up van, the gardeners with a truck full of equipment. They seem to belong here as much as the letters of the Hollywood sign.
I take another glance at the photo of Brooke curling her hair (#auditions #psyched #blessed). My throat feels like it’s full of cotton balls.
After the letter from Juilliard, I experienced a full week of post-rejection crying—like breaking down in math to the embarrassment of Mr. Stebbins, weeping quietly through French class (the unflappable Madame Laurent ignoring me), and faking period pains in gym class so I could sob in the locker room. Mom let me stay home from school on Thursday and Friday. I got a new haircut on Saturday morning and spent the weekend giving myself pep talks in Mom’s full-length mirror. I steeled myself on Sunday night. On Monday, with my shoulders back, my head held high, and a big smile on my face, I told my classmates my plans. “I’m moving to LA to be an actress.”
A bunch of kids were impressed, but Brooke tilted her head, pouted, and said, “Aw, my heart really goes out to you. Sounds so tough.”
She’d seen my pulsing jugular and gone for it. As I sucked in my breath, I felt tears welling. I hated myself for feeling so much—always and all the time. As I stood to clear my lunch tray, I heard her remark that NYU was in the best neighborhood in New York. I hid in the science wing. Alex found me and wrapped me in his arms. I breathed into the soft cotton of his oxford shirt.
“You’re going to make it,” he said. “I know you are. You’ll leave all these idiots in the dust.” He was so confident and sure that I believed in myself all over again.
If he believed in me so much then, he must still. That doesn’t just go away. Love doesn’t turn off like a faucet. Otherwise it couldn’t have been love. And if I know anything, it’s that Alex and I were in love.
I’m going to make it, I tell myself.
After I cross the street, I take a selfie with the Hollywood sign in the distance and post it. A breeze is blowing my hair across my face, and I can see myself as that person. Did you hear about Becca? people will say as they look at this picture. She’s this very cool, very independent LA actress. She lives near the Hollywood Hills. Her building is full of artists and filmmakers. Oh, and she’s a vegetarian now. Her skin is, like, luminous.
When I get home two guys from 1-800-GET-A-BED have just arrived. Yes! They’re early! I let them into the apartment. They set up the frame and stack the box spring and mattress on top. I give them water using my new Ikea cups. Then I unload the groceries and feel a sense of satisfaction at the sight of the stocked refrigerator. I proudly check off number six.
Standing on my tiptoes on a chair, I hang the curtains with thumbtacks. Curtain fixtures will just have to wait. I use the ties that came in the package to gather them in the middle. Sure, there’s an extra foot of material on the ground, but the way the white cotton pools on the floor actually looks kind of romantic. I unpack my suitcase. I sweep the floor clean. I plug in the lamp. I place it on the bedside table that I found in the AS IS department. I try the sisal rug in three different spots, finally settling on the area under the windows. Then I make the bed and lie down.
I have a place now. It still needs so much stuff. It needs pictures on the wall and a sofa with some colorful pillows. But it’s mine. My little corner of the world.
It’s not until later that I realize that the soft blue blanket, the one I had wanted but been unable to afford, is at the bottom of one of the giant Ikea bags. Raj must have bought it for me. He must’ve put it in the bag without me noticing. I wrap myself in it. I close my eyes and the first thing that comes to mind is the Leaping Dolphin Inn, this little place off of Highway 1, which is at the exact midpoint between Palo Alto and LA. It’s right on the beach. Alex and I were supposed to meet up there every two weeks. We’d even studied the website and decided that we were going to stay in room 2 every time. According to the pictures, room 2 has it’s own patio, a fireplace, and views of the sunset that would melt even the coldest heart.
THERE’S NO BIG SIGN for Mathis Allen Artists on the outside of this Beverly Hills office building. It’s not until I locate the intercom system inside the entryway that I see a small plaque with the talent agency’s name on it. I take a deep breath and press the intercom button.
You got this, I tell myself.
I slept a blissful ten hours last night in my single bed and woke up ready to tackle my most important goal, and number one on my list.
I took a shower, put on my favorite jeans, my cutest top, and a pair of flats. I couldn’t blow-dry my hair because I didn’t bring a hair dryer with me, but I towel dried it roughly to add some volume. I own barely any makeup, but I did the best I could with some lip gloss and mascara. Then I searched online for “best talent agencies in Los Angeles,” read a little about what seemed like the consensus for the top ten, and narrowed the list down to five.
From what I read, Mathis Allen Artists seems like a great option. It’s a medium-size agency with clients who range from recent graduates to pretty famous. A little more investigation turned up an interview in Backstage with a young agent there named Aaron, who aside from coming across like a really nice guy, said he was actively looking to build his list and loved nothing more than the thrill of discovering emergent talent. That’s me, I thought. Emerging talent! And here I am at eight thirty, most likely the first hopeful actress of the day to knock on their door. I review the confident-but-not-pushy line I came up with on the bus ride: “Hi, there, my name is Becca. I’m new in town and would love just a minute of your time to see if we might be a match.”
To my surprise, the buzzer sounds. I push the door open and make my way to suite 213. And I thought I might have trouble making it past the entrance. Maybe this is going to be easier than I thought!
“Thank God you’re here!” a pretty receptionist says as I walk into the lobby, which is decorated with mid-century furniture and contemporary art. I thought I looked put-together today, but in this context and in comparison to the receptionist, who can’t be much older than me, I feel like some kind of adult orphan. In her oversize blazer and statement necklace, this chick has got casual elegance down to a science. Her eyes are expertly lined, her hair professionally blown out, and her teeth—oh my God, her teeth—are so white they almost glow.
“Hi,” I say. I’m about to launch into my rehearsed line when she cuts me off.
“I’m Daisy. Thank you so much for coming right away.” It’s pretty clear that she’s mistaken me for someone else, but she doesn’t give me an opening to explain. “Okay, so Miranda just dropped off Max even though Todd says it’s her day. This divorce is getting messier by the minute. And poor Max is losing his mind. Like, in general, but also today. Our intern, Marley, is entertaining him in the copy room, but he’s already jammed the machine twice. I’m hoping you can take him to the park and just run him around—he had gluten by accident and it’s been HELL….”
“Um, I’m not—”
“There’s also a nine a.m. class at the Kid’s Gym, which you could make if you hurry,” she says, glancing at the clock. “They have a membership there. Let me just grab Max and the two of you can get going—”
“I’m not who you think I am,” I blurt before she can pivot down the hallway to which she’s been gesturing.
“Huh?” Daisy asks.
“I’m hoping to meet with Aaron Danielson,” I say.
“You’re not the babysitter?” she asks. I shake my head no. She covers her face with her hands and takes a deep breath. “You’re here for the meeting? Oh my God. I’m so sorry. No one is ever early to these things. Are you a new client?”
“Actually, I’m not a client. YET! My name is Becca, and I’m new in town—”
“Wait. Hold on.” Daisy’s face falls. “You just came in…off the street?”
“Technically, yeah, but I wouldn’t put it like that,” I say with a laugh, trying to hold on to my courage. “See, I read about this agency online, and I think Aaron and I would be a great match. I’ve just turned eighteen and I have a monologue prepared.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have time for this,” Daisy says, looking as if I’m causing her p
hysical pain. “The agents have a meeting in twenty minutes, and I need to set up and find the babysitter who was supposed to be you. And where the fuck are the caterers?”
“I can babysit,” I offer, thinking that maybe this will be my in. I can see that Daisy is actually considering this when a girl in a UCLA sweatshirt appears in the doorway.
“I’m Olivia from Sitters at Your Service,” she says.
“Oh, thank God you’re here!” Daisy says.
“So…” I feel the opportunity slipping away from me. “Would it be okay if I just waited here in the lobby for Aaron? Or I can come back after the meeting?”
“This better be the caterer,” Daisy says as the phone rings. She hops behind the desk. “Mathis Allen Agency.” Relief floods her face. “Yes, come right up!” She hangs up the phone and sighs. “Phew! Olivia, Max is in the back to the right. Can you grab him and take him to the park around the corner?” Olivia nods and heads down a hallway.
“How about me?” I ask, and smile at Daisy expectantly.
“Oh, there’s no way I can just schedule a meeting with Aaron for you.” I’m about to protest when she cuts me off. “I’ll tell you what. I don’t normally do this, but I’ll take your headshot and keep it on file. How does that sound?”
“I don’t have a headshot,” I say. “Yet.”
“Wow, you are green!” She laughs loudly and it catches me so off guard that I almost cry. “I’m sorry, but it’s time for you to go, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. It takes all of my strength to smile as I walk out the door. My stomach grumbles as I pass the caterers with baskets of sweet-smelling pastries and steaming carafes of coffee.
I stop at a juicery called Feeling Fine on the first floor of the office building before I tackle the next agency. I could certainly use a little extra help feeling fine. Daisy’s cackle is still echoing in my ears. I pick out a bottle of green juice called Your Best Self and head to the cashier, who with her perfect complexion and shining flaxen hair looks like she probably drinks Your Best Self by the gallon.
Hello, Sunshine Page 4