“That’ll be ten fifty,” she says.
“Excuse me?” I ask. She can’t possibly be telling me that this single serving of juice costs more than the cutlery set I just bought.
“Ten dollars and fifty cents,” she says, her nose ring glinting in the light.
“I didn’t realize that’s what juice went for these days,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s all organic, locally sourced, and fresh pressed.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “I’ll just put this back.”
“I got it,” says a voice behind me.
I turn and see a pleasant-looking guy in a nice suit holding his own bottle of Your Best Self. His smile is genuine and a little goofy.
“Wait, really?” I ask, confused.
“That is so sweet,” the cashier says. “I love it.”
“I really can’t accept—” I start, wondering if he’s going to want something in exchange, but before I can finish my sentence, he’s swiped his card.
“Too late,” he says.
“Uh, thanks,” I say.
“You look like you could use someone doing something nice for you today,” he says.
“I do?”
“Let me guess. You just moved here?”
“A week ago,” I say.
“Knew it. You have that look about you,” he says, though not in a way that makes me feel bad about it. “Welcome to LA.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, feeling a little off-balance from this wave of niceness coming so quickly on the heels of Daisy’s laughter.
“Ain’t no thing. And chin up,” he says, shaking his juice. “It’ll happen.”
“What’ll happen?” I ask as he walks toward the door.
“Whatever it is you’re waiting for,” he calls over his shoulder. And then he disappears around the corner.
“That was, like, beautiful,” the cashier says, a hand on her heart.
“Yeah,” I say. “It really was.”
And just like that, my courage is back. I feel like a better version of myself before I even take a sip of the juice.
I stop by the other places on my list, but I don’t have any luck. Three of the agencies are in office buildings with guards in the lobby. They won’t let me up without an appointment. I ask if there’s any way they can make an exception, because don’t they want to help give a hopeful young actress her shot, but the first two don’t even crack a smile. I feel as small as a flea. The security guard at the third agency says, “Aren’t you a little young to be wandering around by yourself? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“I’m eighteen,” I say. He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that makes me really uneasy.
The last agency has a plaque that reads HEADSHOTS HERE, with an arrow pointing to a mail slot. After I’ve stopped by all the agencies on my list, I catch the bus east. I’m actually looking forward to seeing the Chateau Bronson—a place I’m absolutely sure I’m allowed inside.
When I get back to the apartment, there’s a note tucked under my door. It’s a hand-drawn invitation to dinner from Marisol. She’s written her number at the bottom and the letters RSVP.
Can’t wait for dinner, I text.
Marisol: Yay! Be here at 7.
Me: Do you think you could help me with my résumé?
Marisol: Most definitely! Bring your laptop!
I definitely wasn’t premature in checking off number nine—at least not the first half.
“Hello?” I knock on her door. I hear country music playing inside, which is a surprise. There’s nothing about her that says country to me.
“It’s unlocked,” she calls. “Come on in.”
As soon as I walk into her apartment, my Mac under my arm, I can tell that Marisol has real style. Like, magazine style. Instead of my bare-bones setup, her place looks like the inside of Anthropologie, only more original. The walls are an unexpected shade of gray, and the floors are painted white. A shaggy cream-colored rug adds coziness. An artful stack of books sits on a sleek glass coffee table. Her jewelry is organized in little boxes on a tea cart. Instead of posters, real art hangs on the walls. An iron-frame bed with a batik bedspread adds a splash of bohemia to the refinement. Where did she get all this stuff? Not Ikea.
“I love your place,” I say. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Oh, thanks,” she says, emerging from the kitchen area in a kimono, gold slippers, and giant earrings. She sings along to the feisty country music. I’m too swept up in her performance to feel bad about the fact that I’m wearing a boring Old Navy T-shirt and jeans.
“You have a nice voice,” I say when the song is over.
“I just love Loretta Lynn,” she says. “Do you like her?”
“I don’t know her music.”
“Let me educate you.” She gestures for me to take a seat on a butterfly chair with a cowhide cover. If someone else said this, it might come off as patronizing, but with Marisol it feels more like an invitation.
She turns up the volume on her speakers as I take a seat, pours white wine into juice glasses, and dances a little as she pulls a couple of frozen potpies from the freezer. She unwraps the plastic covering and puts them in the oven. I had lots of friends at the beginning of high school, but after I got serious with Alex, I kind of drifted out of the bigger cliques and into our party of two. Alex became both my boyfriend and my best friend. But I realize now that deep down I’ve always wanted a friend like this—wild and free. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who can pull off orange lipstick, a kimono, and a penchant for country music all at once.
“Ah! This is beautiful,” I say, spotting her headshot on the coffee table. I lean forward and pick it up to study it. She looks gorgeous, relaxed but professional. It perfectly captures Marisol—her quirky charm and her soulful beauty. “I need a headshot! Did a friend take this picture?”
“Uh, no,” she says, turning the music down. “That’s a professional shot.”
“But some people take their own headshots, right?” I ask hopefully.
“I guess so. I mean, I’ve heard of it. But I wouldn’t. You’re all the way out here. You don’t want to waste your time with something that looks homemade. You know what I mean?” She reads the back of the potpie box and sets the timer on the microwave.
“How much did it cost?” I ask.
“A thousand,” she says with a shrug and bites her lip.
“Dollars?” I almost spit out my wine. “Whoa. That’s my rent.”
“But that included everything,” she says, and sits on the sofa. “Hair and makeup and all the digital images.”
“Still,” I say.
“Anyway, that’s why we’re going to make you two résumés: an acting résumé and a bread-and-butter job résumé. I bet you’d do well as a waitress.”
“I’ve never waitressed before in my life,” I say, placing the headshot on the table with great care and opening my laptop. “And I’ve never acted professionally either.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll just make some shit up and you’ll be fine.”
“You mean lie?” I ask.
“Trust me.” Marisol tucks her feet under her. “You need to make shit up. Everyone lies. And by the way, you’re too cute for someone to actually check your references.”
“I am?” I ask.
“Hell, yeah,” she says. “With those freckles? Are you kidding me? And people pay for cheekbones like yours.”
“Oh.” I smile and touch my face. “So, do you have an agent?” I ask.
“I’m freelancing with a commercial agent, but she doesn’t send me out very much,” she says, exhaling in a pouty, French sort of way.
“How’d you get her?”
“I was in this weird acting class for a little while in West Hollywood, and one of my scene partners gave me a reference after we worked together on a bunch of stuff. I sent the agent my headshot, and a few days later I had an audition,” she says as she tops off our juice glasses.
“That was nice,”
I say. I feel very grown-up drinking wine on a random night. I hardly ever drank back in Massachusetts, and when I did, it was only sips of beer. But here I am on a Wednesday, sipping white wine like the ladies in Mom’s book club. I spot a camera on her bookshelf. “Hey, is that a real Polaroid camera?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, grabbing it up. “It’s called a Joy Cam. My boss, Agnes, gave it to me because she said it no longer ‘brought her joy.’ She even gave me a whole box of film to go with it, but I don’t really use it.” She snaps a picture of me and the film comes out, a black square in a white frame. She places it on the coffee table. “That’s going to be cute. Hey, can I do your makeup?”
“Sure,” I say, grinning. Her instant familiarity takes me by surprise. I’ve heard about friendship-at-first-sight, but it’s never happened to me before.
“Okay.” She licks her lips. “Sit on the sofa; the light is better there.”
As she skips to the bathroom, I move to the tufted velvet sofa. Her attention is like a ray of sunlight. I feel a part of myself coming to life—something tender and green shooting up through a crack in the sidewalk.
She returns from the bathroom with what looks like a professional toolbox of makeup.
“What do you do for money?” I ask as she pushes the coffee table out of the way, pulls up a stool, and sits across from me. She studies my face. “Are you a waitress?”
“I’m a personal assistant,” she says. She selects a giant fan brush and dusts it with powder. Then she taps the brush on her wrist to remove the excess.
“To a movie star?” I ask. The makeup brush is light and gentle on my skin. As she tilts my chin, I realize I haven’t been touched since I arrived in California.
“Nope. To a rich housewife,” she says, leaning back to consider her next move. “I mean, she thinks she’s an actress, but she’s just playing at it.” Marisol sighs. “I’m part of the sad charade. Hey, how do you feel about a really smoky eye?”
“Great,” I say.
“Let’s go violet.” She taps her lip with one finger as she selects a tube of mascara. “I’m going to bring the drama out of you, okay?”
“Sounds fun,” I say. She smiles as she leans in. She opens an eye-shadow palette and rubs a tiny brush over a dark green color.
“Close your eyes,” she says.
I do, and I can smell the wine on her breath as she covers my eyelids. “How long have you been living here?” I ask.
“At the Chateau Bronson? Just a month.” When she adds mascara she says, “Oh, this is going to look so good on you.”
“Did you go to college?” I ask.
“I went to University of Miami, but I dropped out and moved here.”
I’m a little taken aback by how casually she says this. Why is it that getting into college feels so easy to everyone else?
“Why’d you drop out?” I ask as she does my lower lashes.
“I want to be an artist, not a student. Artists don’t need school,” she says.
“You’re so right,” I say and open my eyes. We exchange a meaningful smile.
“Hey, do you have a boyfriend?” she asks.
“Yeah. I mean, yes and no. We’ve been together for two years, but we just broke up.”
“Did you break up with him or did he break up with you?”
“Technically, he broke up with me. He’s just up at Stanford.”
“Fancy.”
“Yeah. He’s insanely smart.”
“Not if he broke up with you,” she says, and even though she’s trying to be nice, I flinch. She rubs her hands together. “Okay, your eyes are almost done. I just need to add a final touch.”
“The thing is that we just broke up. And the only reason is because he was going to college and I wasn’t and blah, blah, blah, but I don’t know. We’ve been together since junior year. He’s just an hour away by plane. I’m pretty sure this isn’t a permanent thing.”
“But why do you want to be with someone who, even for a second, decided he didn’t want to be with you?” she asks as she searches for something in her makeup kit. I feel the wind knocked out of me for a second—I hadn’t thought about it like that.
“He’s just going through something,” I say. “We’re really close. I doubt it’s over for real.”
“Whatever you do, don’t look at his social media, okay? That’s a recipe for heartache and depression,” she says. And I know she’s right. Checking up on him is the worst thing I can do. I promise myself I won’t do it, and then I nod, now officially on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry,” she says, pausing to look me in the eye. “Obviously you know the situation and I don’t. I’m just protective of my friends.”
“How about you?” I ask, dying to change the subject. “Are you with anyone?”
“Nope. I’m single and loving it,” she says with a grin. She pulls out a little tub of cream and unscrews the top. The stench makes me cough.
“What’s that?” I ask, wincing.
“Pig placenta,” Marisol says, scooping up some with her finger.
“Ew! I don’t want that on my face.”
“Why?”
“Why? It’s pig placenta! Is that even legal?”
“Not sure.” She bites her lip. “I got it at this place near Koreatown. It’s what all the movie stars use. My boss is obsessed.”
“It smells like poop.”
“Maybe. But it’s going to make me beautiful.” She dabs it around her eyes. “I’m going to walk down the street and people are going be like, Who is that fine-looking baby-faced bitch?”
We both laugh. Then she stands back and looks at me. She places her hands in front of her chest in prayer position. “Okay. I may have been a touch heavy-handed with the eye shadow.”
“Let me see,” I say. She holds up a mirror.
“I look like a prostitute!” I exclaim, and she shrieks with delight.
“A very expensive escort,” she says.
“An expensive escort who wears Old Navy,” I say. And we laugh again—louder this time.
“Look at this,” Marisol says, picking up the Polaroid picture of me sitting cross-legged on her sofa. She hands it to me and calls it adorable, but to me, I look a little lost.
The oven timer goes off.
“Oh, our potpies!” she says and leaps up. Her dangly earrings make a clinking noise as she sashays into the kitchen. I love her so much.
“HERE’S YOUR DRILL,” I say to Raj a few days later when I knock on his door, and amazingly enough, he answers it—wearing a fedora. Alex would never wear a fedora—he thinks they’re for douche bag hipsters—but I think Raj looks elegant. He can definitely pull it off. I’ve tried to return his drill several times, but he must have the busiest schedule because he’s never home. Today I figured I’d try to get him first thing in the morning. I know from our rooftop encounter that he’s an early riser.
It’s not like I’ve been around a lot either. I’ve spent the past few mornings searching for agents and hitting up restaurants in the afternoon. I know I need a headshot, but it couldn’t hurt to try to literally get in the door. My theory is that if the agents have actually met me, then when I send my picture, I’ll be following up rather than just taking a shot in the dark. I figure this way my headshot will have a better chance of not landing in the trash. I’ve stopped by eight more agencies but only made it in the door of Liz Harper Agency, which specializes in child actors. Many teen roles are played by adult actors who look really young. The receptionist took a snapshot of me but was very firm about how I should not call them. Still, it made my week.
I’ve been taking the same approach to getting a restaurant job—going door-to-door wearing my best smile, a fake résumé in hand.
“Did you use the drill?” Raj asks. He’s got his backpack on and is clearly on his way out. He puts the drill on the entryway table, steps into the hall, and locks the door behind him.
“I did,” I say.
“Then you’re the first,” he says. “
How was it?”
“Well, it works! I’d been using thumbtacks, but the curtains kept falling, so I took the bus to Target and bought actual curtain rods and brackets—and get this, a stud finder.”
“Why do you need a stud finder? I live right down the hall,” he says, and then instantly blushes. “That was the worst, stupidest joke in the world.”
“No, it’s funny,” I say, giggling.
“Please, can you please forget that I ever said that? Just continue your story.”
“Well, it took a few tries to find the studs in the walls, and yes, the rods are a little crooked, but hey, I did it.”
“I’m impressed,” Raj says as we walk down the hall, pausing in front of the door to my apartment. “Do you want to walk with me to class? It’s just up the road.”
“Sure,” I say. “Let me just put on some shoes and lock up.”
“This is a huge improvement,” he says when we step into my apartment. He admires the curtains and gives them a little tug. “And those curtains aren’t going anywhere. Not with those brackets.”
“Nope, they are drilled into the studs!” I say, slipping into my sandals. I see him notice the blue blanket, which is tangled with the sheets on my bed. I’ve slept with it every night, either wrapped inside it or clutching it. “And oh my God, thank you so much for the blanket. I love it. It’s the softest thing I’ve ever owned.”
“No worries,” Raj says, as I lock the door behind me.
“It was so nice of you to get it for me,” I say.
“I figured you deserve it,” Raj says. “Moving out to LA all by yourself.”
“That’s really sweet,” I say, but I have to look away. I deserve it? I can’t help but wonder would he feel the same way if he knew that I’d been rejected from every single college I applied to. That I was the only one in my class who was rejected on such a massive scale? Would he say that if he knew that I broke my mom’s heart by moving out here instead of doing something practical and working twenty-four seven on college applications?
“So I got a job,” I say, as we step outside and head toward the hills. It’s September, but it doesn’t feel like any September I’ve ever known. The air is hot and as dry as newspaper on the verge of catching fire. The light is so bright it feels like the sun is under a magnifying glass. I notice for the first time that there’s a lemon tree in our next-door neighbor’s unkempt front yard, and that its branches are heavy with fruit. I’ve never seen lemons anywhere except the grocery store. I actually wonder for a second if they’re edible.
Hello, Sunshine Page 5