“Stand in the back. We’re oversold,” says Jesse, the assistant director, to whom I’ve just introduced myself. She tells me to look at the part of Young Anna and hurries down a flight of stairs, speaking into her headset.
I make my way through the crowd and find a spot by the sound booth. The set is simple: Astroturf, three large wooden boxes, and a screen where a dynamic night sky is projected. A three-piece jazz band plays stage right as the audience files in. A guy bends into his bass, one plays his clarinet with his eyes closed, and another hits his drums in a loose, solitary joy.
I stand between two couples, but I’m not lonely. I could be a part of this. The house goes black. The audience quiets. The band bursts into a new tune as twelve actors run onstage, and it’s clear the audience is in the hands of experts. To prevent heartbreak in case I don’t get the part, I search the cast for a weak link or proof that this isn’t any better than Baby Bear, but I find no such evidence. Everyone is good. One guy is so gorgeous I can’t take my eyes off of him. He’s lithe, agile, and confident, electricity shaking off his body like salt. I check the program. His name is Reed. He’s from Seattle. He went to Yale.
The performance hums along, surprising and electrifying me. The jazz band plays throughout the show, and I realize that I like jazz. I mean, I really like jazz. As of this moment, it’s not just pretend. I want to be out there with the actors so badly that I’m afraid I’ll jump onstage or raise my hand. Young Anna is a small but memorable role. In her one big scene, the character delivers a stream of consciousness diary entry as she fends off “cosmic ninjas,” played by the chorus: three guys and two girls who appear throughout the play as townspeople, demons, and a PTA committee. The language in the monologue is by turns grounded and fanciful. The actress playing the part has an edge of sarcasm. I think it would be funnier played straight. After the show, I linger in the lobby as the rest of the audience files out. Jesse approaches me.
“Well, what did you think?” she asks. Her stance is wide and confident.
“I loved it,” I say quietly. We schedule an audition for the next day. The actors emerge from the dressing rooms. Reed is even better looking offstage. He’s taken a shower (they have showers here?) and he’s wearing jeans and a broken-in leather jacket. He looks like he smells good.
I tap his shoulder. “You were incredible up there.” My breath gathers in my throat as I take in the alarming blueness of his eyes and the health of his skin. If I had a little more restraint I wouldn’t speak at all. I can’t trust myself in the face of this kind of attraction. “You were, like, glowing,” I say, feeling my face redden. To him, compliments are probably as common and meaningless as pennies.
“What a beautiful thing to say.” He takes my hand. Instead of shaking it, he just holds it. We softly swing our connected arms. My smile grows until it breaks into a soundless laugh. “Hi,” he says, tilting his head, smiling.
“Hi.”
“Who are you?”
“Becca,” I say. My pulse gallops. My heart knocks.
Still high from hand-holding/arm-swinging the night before, I practically skip to the audition the next day. I wonder if I’ll see Reed again. He’s so good-looking that he almost doesn’t seem real. Like he stepped from the pages of a J.Crew catalog. He’s crush material: distant, sparkling, and as easy to crave as ice cream.
It’s cold today. Not Boston cold, but LA cold, and I wish I’d worn a jacket. I hustle from the Hollywood and Vine Metro stop to the theater, passing people dressed up as Marilyn Monroe and superheroes—people do this for tips—and laugh as I remember that the last time I was here I was auditioning for that Hamlet-in-the-nude play. In fact, I start laughing so hard I get a few looks. I really wish I’d brought my ballet sweater. I’m wearing the rest of what has become my audition uniform: my red T-shirt, jeans, and zebra flats. Once the theater is in sight, I mentally salute the yellow Company One flag. I pass a girl who looks at me suspiciously and imagine that she’s just come from her audition. I meet her gaze and smile. We each size the other up, but for reasons I can’t explain, I don’t feel intimidated.
I check in with Jesse, then pop into the bathroom to take some deep breaths and to add a touch of lip gloss. I wait on the piano bench in the lobby that had been so crowded the night before. Now I can hear the activity in the pipes.
“So just go ahead and do the monologue when you’re ready,” Jesse says. Her voice is slow and liquid, giving the impression that she’s listening at the same time she’s speaking. Her head is cocked to the side as she settles into her seat. “I’ll be right back,” she says when I finish. A minute later she returns with Kingman. He’s the kind of slender, fine-featured man who’d make a beautiful woman.
“Take it from the top,” Kingman says. I do, and afterward, Kingman is beaming. “Well, you’re definitely an actress,” he says, wiping his chin with his hand as if stroking an imaginary beard. “You understand we don’t pay? You can get great exposure, but we don’t pay.”
“Yes.”
“You have someone who can vouch for you? A director from another play?”
“Yes.” Dawn from the Hanukkah play will be cool, I hope.
“We’re seeing a few more people. We’ll know by tomorrow morning. Thanks for stopping by.”
ALL MORNING I listen for the phone. I curl in my warm sheets, thinking about Reed, how his hand felt and how he looked at me. I think about sitting at a diner with him late at night, talking about movies and plays. I think about sinking into the seats of a movie theater, resting my head on his shoulder. I think about having him in my bed, rolling around with him until dawn. He’ll wake me up with his warm hands and kisses. I’ll make him chocolate-chip pancakes, and he’ll make bacon. Even if we only hook up and none of these other moments come to pass, I bet I’d still enjoy it. I’ve never had a random hookup before, but maybe that’s what I need. Maybe that will help me get over Alex, finally. As Marisol says, maybe I need to “cleanse the palate.”
Except for my mom and Marisol, who each call twice to see if I’ve heard anything, the phone is silent. My mood grows increasingly sour as the hours march by like staggering zombies. Maybe I’ve grown overconfident because the Volkswagen commercial came so easily, but I thought I was going to get this part. I went to bed last night feeling like I got it.
Kingman said they’d know by morning, so when my Ikea clock hits twelve, disappointment clamps my chest. I tell myself that for some, morning might extend until the afternoon, until 2 p.m. even. But 2 p.m. comes and goes as quietly as a cat. I decide to work a little more on my collage, which is taking on a narrative of sorts. I add the pictures from Baby Bear’s First Hanukkah: one of the theater exterior, with a giant Jack in the Box soda cup rolling past the entrance, another of Goldie Lox’s bra on a hanger labeled with her character’s name, one of Sally—aka Mama Bear—applying her makeup, and one of me in the bear suit, looking conflicted. At three o’clock, I knock on Marisol’s door.
“Are you in there?” I ask. “Do you want to go for a hike?”
“I’m napping,” she calls back. “Come back in a half hour.”
I knock on Raj’s door. I feel sort of weird about it, but he did say that he wanted to be friends.
“Come in,” he says.
I open the door and ask him if he’ll go on a hike with me.
“I’m writing,” he says, looking up from his laptop.
“What are you working on?” I ask, leaning in the door frame.
“Another screenplay. This one’s a kind of forties-style mystery.”
“Oh my God,” I say, taking in the Post-its on the wall. There are twelve rows of them, all in perfect lines. “What are these?”
“Those are scenes. I’m not like you. I can’t just improv my stuff. I have to go into it and write out every detail.”
“This is awesome,” I say, seeing how he’s color-coded each scene according to whether they are the A, B, or C plotline.
“Can’t you take a break?” I ask.
“Maybe it would do you good.”
“I promised myself I’d write out the first act. Can you wait a few hours?”
“I need to do something now,” I say. “I’ve been waiting around all day and it’s killing me.”
“For what?”
“To know if I got this part at Company One.”
He finally stops typing. “Oh my God, Becca! That would be amazing!”
“I know! Hence all the anxiety.”
“Can’t you go for a hike by yourself?”
“I’m too scared,” I say.
“Of what?”
“Rattlesnakes and rapists.”
“Rattlesnakes and rapists, huh?” He sighs and rubs his eyes. “I’ll go with you later. In the meantime you need to channel your anxiety through creativity. Make another one of your webisodes. You don’t believe me, but it’s a great idea. I brought it up in class, actually, and my professor used it as an example of a perfect concept for a small-budget production.”
“Really?” I asked, flattered that Raj would mention it to his professor.
“Yeah,” Raj said.
“All right,” I say. “That’s what I’ll do. I just need to rally Marisol.”
“Good luck with that,” he says.
I walk back down the dim, carpeted hallway to my apartment, wait Marisol’s requested thirty minutes, and then float the idea by her.
“What do you say?” I ask.
“Sure. But can you think of another good character?” she says, and narrows her eyes.
“What if you were one of the extras that you met this morning?”
Marisol has landed a gig as an extra on a soap opera.
“That’s easy,” Marisol says. “There was this girl today who made sure everyone there knew that she was Eva Longoria’s body double, but it was all so desperate. Kind of sad, actually.”
“Perfect,” I say.
Since Raj isn’t available to record us, I set up my computer to do it. We get on a roll and record a bunch more. Once I start thinking of characters, I can’t stop. Marisol and I trade places, so that she’s the therapist and I’m the client. I become the security guard at the Mayfair, Oh Fucky, Miss Nancy, Gloria. In addition to her love of country music, Marisol has a huge collection of hard-core rap and we take dancing breaks in between takes. Before I know it, several hours have passed.
“Okay, I need another nap now,” Marisol says after we have over an hour of recorded sessions. She yawns and heads back to her apartment, which will soon be our apartment.
I’m watching the footage on my laptop when Raj knocks on the door.
“It’s too late for a hike, but we could go for a walk?” he says.
“Actually, want to sit on the roof with me? I want to show you what we did.”
“Sure,” he says. “But it’s kind of dark out.”
“Like a movie theater,” I say, closing my laptop and tucking it under my arm.
“How do you feel about your screenplay so far?” I ask as we climb the stairs to the roof.
“This one’s going well, I think. Hey, so remember that banquet at the end of January I told you about? Do you still want to come with me? As friends, of course. That way I can introduce you around and make you want to go there even more. They’re going to announce the winner of the screenplay contest then.”
“I’d love to,” I say, stepping outside. It’s cold again today and on the verge of rain. Dark clouds hang over the mountains. “Are you nervous?”
“Totally. Can you imagine—a hundred thousand dollars to tell the story I want to tell. If I can do this, if I can make it happen, then I can start looking for agents, too.”
I show him the footage and he laughs throughout, pointing out why some episodes are better than others. Pretty soon, a pattern emerges. “Marisol is hilarious, but you’re the star of this thing. The British PE teacher is the best. Miss Nancy?”
“She’s based on a real person from my high school, Ms. Bishop.”
“I love the line: ‘Only moments of pain and beauty change our lives.’ Okay, let’s pick the best four and put them up on YouTube and see what happens.”
“Can you help me edit them and stuff?”
“Sure,” he says.
I feel my phone ring in my pocket and almost have a heart attack. “Hello?”
“It’s Jesse. We’d like to offer you the part of Young Anna.”
“Really?” I squeal.
“Really,” she says, laughing, and tells me she’ll text the rehearsal schedule.
“I got the part!” I say to Raj.
“Becca, you did it.” He high-fives me.
I want to jump into his arms, but I hesitate. Would this be leading him on? He rolls his eyes as if he can read my mind, then smiles and gestures come here. I leap and he catches me.
Me: Mom, I’m on fire! I’m going to be in a play at Company One.
Mom: What? What’s that?
Me: It’s a theater that’s owned by Kingman Brewster and AMELIA KIRK!
Mom: Honey, that’s fabulous! You’re having an amazing month. Is Amelia Kirk going to be in the play?
Me: No, but I think I’m going to meet her.
Mom: I can’t wait to tell my friends at work. I’m so proud of you!
Me: I’m doing it, Mom. I’m really, really doing it.
Mom: Yes, you are, honey! And once you get those college applications behind you, you’re going to feel even better.
I sigh and press the phone into my pillow to keep from throwing it. Why is she so obsessed with college applications? Why can’t she just let me have this moment without making it about college? I take a breath and text her back.
Me: Right now, I’m just so happy about the play. This is a HUGE deal.
Mom: I know. And I’ll get to see you in it, right? I’ll be there in a week!
Me: Yes! I can’t wait!
TWO DAYS LATER, it’s my opening night at Company One. I’m sitting in the bathroom-size dressing room in my schoolgirl costume. I’ve had only two rehearsals prior to tonight, both led by Jesse. The only people I’ve rehearsed with are those in the scenes with me: a girl named Molly, who plays my sister, and a guy named Jack, who plays a bartender/poet. I haven’t met the rest of the cast, nor have I seen Reed or Kingman again.
I’ve arrived early to meet Jane, the costume and makeup person, who gives me a ziplock bag of (free!) MAC makeup and shows me how to apply it to make myself look younger. When she’s finished, I look in the mirror and see Young Anna. I see someone who has never worked for twelve hours straight or freaked out about her bank account. Jane dusts off her expert hands before she gathers her black leather bag and heads out, leaving me alone to await the arrival of my castmates.
“I thought I heard someone in here.” Reed stands in the doorway. He’s wearing a blue T-shirt, a beige Carhartt jacket, and jeans. From the arches of my feet to my eyelids, I’m burning up.
“Hi.”
“You okay?” he asks. I nod, smiling. “I was hoping that when they said Becca had been cast that it was you.”
“It’s me,” I say, and shift back in the chair, striking an understated pose.
“I can see that.” He leans against the door frame. “You’re here early.”
“Makeup.” I hold up the ziplock. He sits next to me.
“Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
“Everyone’s really nice. It’s a great show.” Heels click down the hallway, the doorknob turns, and I smell the perfume seconds before Pam enters. She’s Carson Smith’s client, who plays Anna. Pam is from Kansas and older (twenty-six; she volunteered her Northwestern graduation date in the program bio), but her stature, dark hair, and bold features give her a foreign, worldly appearance.
“Everyone’s nice, except Pam,” Reed jokes. “Pam” doesn’t suit her. She should be named Consuela. She should be standing on a balcony in a red dress, drinking cognac.
“I heard that, Reed,” she says, and punches his arm gently.
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“Oh, hey, Pam,” he says with exaggerated surprise. Does Reed like her? How could he not? I feel his hand on my back. “This is Becca, our new Young Anna.”
“Carson told me about you,” Pam says. “Said you were spunky. Isn’t he a doll?”
“A total doll,” I say, though the comment sounds strange coming out of my mouth.
“I’ll let you ladies get dressed,” Reed says, and gives my shoulder a squeeze. His thumb touches my neck. He shuts the door behind him. I wipe my brow.
“You all right, there?”
“Hmm?”
She laughs. “Be careful,” she says. “That boy is a player.”
The door opens. Shoshanna, who plays a clairvoyant waitress, arrives in business attire and sneakers. She carries her work shoes in a tattered Rite Aid bag. She drops the bag on the floor and kicks it under the counter.
“Well, my day sucked,” she says, then peels off her coat and heads to the bathroom.
“Shoshanna works full-time at some evil real estate corporation,” says Pam under her breath. Pam takes off her shirt and unhooks her bra, revealing a pair of perfectly matched, magnificent boobs. I stuff my head in my purse and paw around in there to avoid an eye-to-nipple exchange.
“So do you have a job, Becca?”
“I do commercials,” I say. It’s not technically a lie.
“That’s it?” Pam asks. “You must work a lot.”
“I mean, I’m a waitress, too,” I say, a little embarrassed to have been called out. “But I just did a commercial for Volkswagen.” When I resurface she’s zipped up her dress.
“Cool. I heard your audition was amazing, by the way.”
“Really?”
“Apparently there was no contest.” She speaks evenly so as not to disturb her makeup application. “You blew them away.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I say, and feel myself glow.
Shoshanna reenters, strips to her thong, and applies her makeup. I’m already in my costume, but I contemplate undressing just to fit in. A few minutes later, Molly rushes in. Molly promptly puts in her earphones and turns up her iPhone to a dangerous volume, focusing so intently on herself in the mirror that she could burn a hole in it. She rocks out as though she were alone. Her elbow nearly takes out one of my eyes. I put my hand to my face.
Hello, Sunshine Page 18