Me: And back.
I open up my laptop and, of course, the first school I look at is Juilliard. How could they not want me? I would so fit in with these people with their dramatic expressions, in their leotards and Shakespeare costumes! Ugh, I was born to spend the day in a leotard! I have to get off the website before I start to get angry. I take a deep breath and review the application. Of course, I’m going to have to get two letters of recommendation. Do I ask the same people I asked last year? Or do I ask new people because obviously the ones I asked didn’t do me much good?
I look at the Stanford website next. There’s no way I’d get in. Ever. I imagine Alex among the Spanish-style buildings. It’s been five weeks since we’ve seen each other. Where is he? I scan the pictures as if he might actually appear in one. I look at my phone and consider calling him. All it would take is one push of the button. It’s so weird that the number that I’ve called so many times in the past is off-limits now. At least it is, if I stick to my guns and make him call me after such a big fuckup. But why hasn’t he reached out? How long is this “beat” going to last? Looking at the Stanford website is turning into an exercise in torture.
I decide to check out Raj’s school, California Film School—a place with no personal pain associated with it. The website looks nothing like the others. It’s different because of the angle of the pictures of the campus, the way the students all appear to be in motion, the totally un-academic font, and the neon color palette. Here, the goal is total authenticity, I read. And my heart starts to race.
The school calls itself a laboratory for storytelling and asks its students to set themselves apart by diving deep within, while at the same time building personal relationships to create a community of artists. And the classes look so cool: Screenwriting for Animators, Finding Your Story, Visual Personal Essay, Real World Survival Skills. There are even acting classes like Scene Study, Improvisation, Advanced Acting, and Clowning. Clowning? That actually sounds kind of fun.
I click on the “apply” button and scan the requirements. No SAT—that’s a relief. (But then, does that mean it’s not a real school? How come I haven’t heard of it until now?) I read on. I’ll also need two letters of recommendation, which should be written by someone who understands my artistic voice. In addition, students must submit a screenplay, a film, or video. Finally there’s a choice between an essay and a collage. Either one should express where you’ve been, where you are, where you’re looking to go.
A collage. I haven’t made one of those since middle school.
Hmm, I think, and make myself a cup of coffee. Hmm.
“I think he likes you,” Marisol says quietly, nodding at Raj. We’re spreading one of Marisol’s blankets on a patch of grass as Raj chats with a classmate about ten feet away from us. We’re in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, where every hipster in Los Angeles has congregated to see the classic Edward Scissorhands. Raj seems to know half of the people here. On our walk into the cemetery, he stopped to talk with at least five people who are either friends from work, his regular customers, or people he goes to school with. I’d asked Raj to join us at the last minute, and he said yes without even thinking, and even offered to pick up samosas from his favorite Indian restaurant. I don’t know what a samosa is, but he’s promised me that I’m going to love them.
“Raj is supercool,” I say, sitting down on the blanket and unpacking our picnic food.
“And cute,” Marisol says. “In that doesn’t-see-the-sun-much-and-drinks-too-much-coffee filmmaker kind of way.”
“But I’m still in love with Alex,” I say.
She raises her eyebrows. I spray cheese on a cracker and hand it to her. Marisol brought spray cheese and Ritz crackers to our picnic, saying it was the only cheese she could afford.
“What?” I say, in response to her look. “I can’t help it.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?” Marisol asks, munching on the cracker. “This is delicious, by the way.”
“Five weeks ago,” I say, spraying cheese on a cracker for myself. She’s right—the spray cheese is so bad that it’s good.
“I don’t mean to be harsh, but don’t you think he would have called by now if you were going to get back together?”
“A month is nothing in the grand scheme of things,” I say. “Not when you’ve been together for two years. And by the way, yes, that’s harsh.”
Mom said that if I was patient, she was sure he would come back to me. She told me the important thing was not to chase him. Men are like rubber bands, she’d said, quoting some dating self-help book. Give him lots of room and he’ll snap right back.
“I think you should call him,” Marisol says.
“Really?” I ask, excited by the possibility.
“Why not?” Marisol says.
“Shouldn’t I let him come to me?”
“What are you, some damsel in distress? Hell, no. You are a modern woman. If you want to talk to him, call his ass.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I say, imagining how incredible it would be to pick up the phone and hear his voice. Maybe he’s feeling the same way I am, but he’s scared to make himself vulnerable. “I think I will.”
“Do it,” Marisol says, helping herself to more spray cheese. “Right now, you’re just reading tea leaves. But if you call him, you’ll at least get some answers.” A breeze sends picnic plates and napkins flying and people jump up to chase after them. “If you’re looking for a new boyfriend, though, Raj would make a good one. You can tell he’s really sweet, you know?”
“Do you like him?” I ask.
“Just as a friend. And anyway, like I could get him to look at me if you’re nearby.”
Could this be true? When I’m with her, I’m hardly ever thinking about my looks. But if I do, I feel plain in comparison. Is she just being nice? I wonder as she pushes my hair behind my ears. And yet, right now, she’s regarding me like I’m the most interesting, adorable creature on earth.
“You’d look awesome with a topknot,” she says.
“Really?”
“I’m all about playing up those cheekbones.” She nudges me. “Oh, he’s coming.”
As images begin to flicker on the giant inflatable screen, Raj saunters toward us with his bag of samosas, striking a lean silhouette, which for some reason reminds me of a cowboy.
And just like that, I have an idea. I turn to Marisol. “Hey, can I borrow your Polaroid for a little while?”
“The Joy Cam? You bet,” she says. “And take the film, too.”
“HOLD STEADY,” Marisol says as she applies a final swoop of blush. We’re in her apartment, and various outfits are splayed all over the available surfaces. We settled on a chambray shirtdress, flats, and a bold cuff bracelet. She’s blow-dried my hair and done my makeup so that I look polished and put together, but in a way that’s just right for an eighteen-year-old. I have my first actual appointment with an agent today, and I want to look absolutely perfect.
“There,” she says, stepping back so that I can see myself in her full-length, freestanding mirror. She stands behind me, her hands on her hips. We look like such a pair.
“Don’t move,” I say. I grab the Polaroid and take a picture of our reflection.
“What are you doing with all these pictures?” she asks.
“Making a collage,” I say, blowing on the undeveloped picture. As it comes into focus I have to admit to myself that I look good. I smile at my friend. “I think you nailed it.”
“I had a lot to work with,” she says. She scrunches my hair to add a bit of messiness and hands me a container of organic coconut water. “Now drink up. Hydration is your best friend.”
“No, you are,” I say. She actually blushes. “Wish me luck.”
Suzi Simpson says that when you’re searching for an agent you should let everyone know that you’re looking. “You never know who has the perfect connection. Don’t be embarrassed, hon! That’s not going to get you anywhere. Go ahead, ask yo
ur second cousin who works in corporate law, your pals from the coffee shop, and don’t forget the folks at your day job.”
I found out on Tuesday while we were setting up for breakfast that Chantal has a cousin, Athena, who’s an assistant-on-the-rise at one of the most reputable agencies in town: the Talent Commune. It was one of the first agencies I went to, the one with the creepy security guard in the building’s lobby.
“Do you think she might meet with me?” I asked as I wiped fingerprints off the jukeboxes.
“I dunno,” Chantal said, setting the tables at her usual rapid speed. “She thinks she’s better than me because she went to USC and I didn’t go to college—at least not yet.”
“Me either, Chantal.”
“Really?” She paused her setup and looked at me as if reconsidering her original assessment. “Go figure. You look like such a perfect little ‘college girl.’”
“Well, I’m not.” I shrugged.
“Anyway, now that she has this job, her head is so fat I’m surprised that she can fit into her brand-new MINI.”
“Is it a convertible?” I asked with a smile.
“It is!” Chantal hooted with laughter. “That’s how she does it! Good one, Shrimpy.” She’s been calling me this on occasion and even worse, she’s also said, “Don’t fall in” every time I take a bathroom break. I tolerate these little abuses because it’s the only way to get along with Chantal, and getting along with Chantal is critical to making it through the day at the diner.
“Do you think you could find out if your cousin might possibly schedule an informational interview with me?” I asked. Suzi Simpson suggests the term “informational interview” as a way of putting agents at ease. She says that it’s a “softer” way of requesting a meeting.
“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll text her,” Chantal said. “But I’m not making any promises.”
Mid-shift, Chantal grabbed me by the arm and said, “Smile, Shrimpy!” Before I could respond, she’d snapped a picture of me with a Coke in one hand and a plate of fries in the other.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I bumped open the kitchen door with my hip.
“Athena wants a pic.” Chantal stared at her phone as she texted.
“Oh my God, you’re sending that to your cousin?” I delivered the Coke and fries to table ten and returned to Chantal. “You could’ve at least warned me! I have a professional headshot, you know!”
“I don’t have time for your professional headshot. Table nine is being a pain in the ass. They’re all, ‘Can I have the chicken salad, but without the chicken?’” Her eyebrows raised as she read a message on her phone. “She’ll meet with you. How’s Friday?”
“Holy shit! She said yes?” I gasped and jumped up and down. “Are you serious?”
“Hey,” Gloria said, bursting into the kitchen. “Would you two Chatty Cathys get your butts out on the floor? I just sat a table of six.”
“Of course,” I said, masking my joy for Gloria’s sake.
“I’m picking up food,” Chantal said defensively.
“You’re texting on the job. I can get new waitresses like this, you know,” Gloria said, and snapped her fingers briskly. As soon as she was gone, Chantal and I gave her the finger.
“Friday at two. Take it or leave it,” Chantal said as Peanut lined up her plates on the counter.
“Friday’s perfect!” I told her, smiling so big that it hurt.
“Careful, plates are hot,” Peanut said.
“I am so grateful. So, so, so grateful!” I opened my arms to hug her, but she’d given me the hand.
“Don’t,” she said. “You’ll make me drop something. Follow me with their sides?”
“Anything, Chantal.” I grabbed the platters of greasy onion rings and fries. “Anything for you!”
“Remember us when you’re famous,” Peanut said, as Chantal kicked open the out door and we’d headed back into the fray.
Now Friday is actually here. My first agent meeting! I’m really looking forward to crossing my number-one goal off of my list today. My mouth goes dry at the thought, and I guzzle the coconut water.
“You’re going to kill it,” Marisol says, unbuttoning yet another button at the top of the dress I’m wearing. “Better.”
“Too much?” I ask, glancing down.
“Please, this is LA.”
There’s a knock at the door.
“Taxi service here. Are you ready?” Raj asks. Marisol opens the door. Raj takes me in. “Whoa. You look amazing.”
“Raj!” I say, surprised to see him. “Are you seriously going to give me a ride?”
“There’s no way you’re taking the bus to a meeting at the Talent Commune,” he says.
“It’s a special occasion, so I was going to grab an Uber…” I say.
“What if you get an idiot driver who takes Melrose?” Raj asks, waving me into the hallway.
“Or even worse, Fountain,” Marisol says.
“No, you can’t leave this in the hands of a ride-sharing service.” Raj tosses his keys and catches them. “I’ll take you.”
“That’s so nice.” As Raj and I head out the door, I feel so taken care of. I am definitely going to cross number nine off my list—boldly now—the tentative s, too.
“Break a leg,” Marisol says, and gives my hand a squeeze. “This afternoon I’ll take you to the hotel pool I’ve been crashing and you’ll tell me all about it.”
Raj drops me off in front of the building on Sunset Boulevard. “I’d wait for you at the Coffee Bean, but I have to get to work,” he says.
“Thank you for the ride,” I say, and lean over to hug him.
“Remember, you’re interviewing her, too. A bad agent is worse than no agent. Not that I’d know, but that’s what I’ve heard.”
The same creepy security guard is in the building lobby. I can tell he’s trying to place me, but I don’t give him a chance.
“I have a meeting with Athena Jordan at the Talent Commune,” I say in a tone of voice that makes it clear there’ll be no suggestive glances today. He locates my name on a list and asks for an ID, which I hand over without making eye contact. I don’t acknowledge him when he lets me through the turnstile.
What a difference having an appointment makes! Not only does the receptionist welcome me, she actually smiles and offers me a choice of water, tea, or coffee.
“Water would be lovely,” I say. “Is it around the corner?”
“Oh, I’ll get it for you,” she says with a little laugh. “Sparkling or flat?”
“Flat, please,” I say, taking a seat on the white leather sofa. If Athena becomes my agent, I will always remember this white leather sofa, I think. A moment later, the receptionist hands me a real glass of ice-cold water and a cocktail napkin with the Talent Commune logo on it.
“You must be Becca,” Athena says when she arrives a minute later in the agency lobby. She looks like an older, taller, better-groomed, better-dressed version of Chantal.
“Yes,” I say, standing up to shake her extended hand.
“Come with me,” she says, gesturing down a hallway. “To the smallest office in the world.” I follow her with my water, because I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do with it.
Athena’s office is small, tiny even, but there’s a window with a view of the Sunset Strip. She sits at her desk and I sit across from her, still holding my water. It seems presumptuous of me to place it on her desk, where there’s so little room. We chat for a few minutes about Chantal and waitressing and Boston, which she visited once when she was twelve.
“Here’s my headshot,” I say, removing it from the folder in my bag.
“Let’s have a look,” she says. I hand it to her. “Cute shot.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“So, you don’t really have any training,” Athena says as she looks over my résumé.
“I just got here. As soon as I find the right class I’m going to enroll.”
“But you can play s
uper young, so that’s good.”
“I’m totally willing to go out for young roles, tween roles even.”
Her phone rings. “Hi, can I call you back in one sec? I’m just finishing something up.” My heart sinks. Finishing up? I’ve only been here for five minutes. Athena hangs up and smiles at me, hands folded on her desk. “I love that you’re so new in town. I love that you haven’t made the rounds yet.”
“Thanks,” I say. Okay, this is better. This is more like it. “I’m definitely a fresh face! I’ve only met about twenty people total in all of LA, not counting the restaurant customers, of course.”
“And I like your attitude,” Athena says. “You have a great vibe. Casting is going to love that.”
“I can’t wait to meet them,” I say.
“You can definitely give me a call when you get into SAG,” she says, pushing her card across the desk.
“Oh,” I say, picking it up. “How do I do that? I have the rest of the day off, so if you tell me where to go…”
“OMG, you are so cute,” Athena says. She checks her watch. “You have to get into the Guild to get a SAG card, and that’s…kind of a whole Catch-Twenty-Two thing.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Basically, in order to get into the Guild, you have to get hired in a speaking role for a SAG production, but you can’t go out for those roles unless you have your SAG card. It’s totally annoying.”
“Sounds kind of…impossible,” I say.
“It is, but it isn’t,” Athena says, waving away my concern. We smile at each other awkwardly, and then she opens her office door and I follow her down the hallway in awkward silence, my full glass of water still in hand. When we arrive at the agency’s entrance she smiles again and says, “Don’t look so worried. You’ll figure it out. And when you do, you have my card.”
“Thank you so much for meeting me,” I say. I hold up the glass of water. “Should I…?”
“I’ll take that,” Athena says.
As I ride the elevator to the first floor, I wonder how our meeting is already over. It feels like it barely even happened. I’m dreading getting my ID back from the security guard, but he’s so engrossed in conversation with a guy about the LA Dodgers that this time it’s he who hardly acknowledges me.
Hello, Sunshine Page 8