Hello, Sunshine

by Leila Howland

  “Okay. Did you try replacing the bulbs?”

  “You’re a little slow today,” she says, annoyed.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t get it.”

  “I couldn’t pay the bill. I’m totally out of money. Totally and completely wiped out. I have nothing left and only a few weeks to go.”

  “A few weeks until what?”

  “My birthday. I’m going home to Miami. Everyone will know I’m a failure. I said I could do this on my own, but I can’t.” She hangs her head, tears dripping directly from her eyelids to the lap of her skirt.

  “Failure? What? No. Look, I know how you feel. Trust me. But we’re supposed to be broke. We’re actresses. We’re teenagers.”

  “You’re a teenager. I’m almost twenty-one.”

  “That’s so young! Twenty-four is young. Twenty-eight is young! Thirty-five is…Well, thirty-five is old, but we have a long way until then. Let me make us some tea.” I walk to the kitchen and fill the kettle.

  “But actresses don’t age like other people. We age like dogs. One year is worth about seven.”

  “You’ve lost perspective. You’re not even making sense.” I place the kettle on the range, turn it on, lighting it with a match, and pop back out to the living room. “You know what Miss Nancy would say?”

  “What?” she asks.

  “Deep breath, duck,” I say in my best Miss Nancy voice. “Imagine a shock of golden energy coming straight through the pelvic floor, up the diaphragm, and out the nostrils.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” she says. She slides out of the harsh sunlight that’s streaming in the window and lies down on the sofa.

  “You’ll get another commercial soon,” I tell her. “You obviously have the look.”

  “Things haven’t picked up like I thought they would. I’ve only had three auditions since, and I didn’t get a single callback. I thought after that ECS thing that I was going to be fine, but it turns out it was just beginner’s luck.”

  “You’ll get something soon. Or maybe you could find another job? Or maybe Agnes would hire you back. Remember how much you loved it when she gave you all those clothes? Not to mention this awesome furniture.” Against her will, her mouth turns up in a smile.

  “Stop cheering me up,” she says. “I was prepared for a day of self-pity. I even dressed for it.” She points to her black ensemble. “What am I going to do about the electric bill?” She lowers her voice. “It’s so overdue that it’s three hundred dollars. And my cell phone’s been cut off, too. And honestly, I don’t know how I’m going to eat. I’m lucky my car hasn’t been repo’ed.”

  “Can’t you put it on your credit card?” I ask.

  “They’re all maxed out,” she says.

  “I’ll pay for it,” I say. “I’ll pay for your cell phone and even help with a car payment. And then we’ll go grocery shopping.”

  “No,” she says firmly. “No.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. We can’t live in the dark.” I sip my tea. “Literally.”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “You’ve worked so hard to get out of debt.”

  I shrug. “And now I’m going to help you out. It’s what friends do.”

  “Becca, I can’t take money from you.”

  “You’re not taking anything. I’m giving it freely. We need electricity. It’s one of those things that define our first-world existence. What are we going to do, use headlamps?” I laugh, picturing Marisol in her vintage nightgown and an industrial-strength headlamp, going about her ten-step evening beauty routine. She starts to laugh, too. “Besides, what if that producer Hal loves Talk to Me? I might start making real money, baby. TV money.”

  “That would be so awesome,” she says, and we both knock furiously on the wooden café table. “I’m going to pay you back as soon as I can.”

  The teakettle whistles. I return to the kitchen nook to make our tea.

  “I always see this place on Western by that pho restaurant Raj likes. I think it’s called the Cash Depot. It’s one of those check-cashing places, and according to their neon sign you can pay bills there, too. We’ll take care of this after we finish our tea.”

  She tilts her head and looks me in the eye. “Becca, I’ve never had a friend like you.” Though she shifts her position on the sofa to avoid the glare of the sun, it keeps catching up with her. The light slides over her face again. I notice that there are a few tiny lines around her eyes. I would never tell her that I’ve noticed them. She would hate that, though they only make me love her more. They’re the lines of someone who feels things and shows it. They make me feel like I know someone in this world.

  “I’m going to make this up to you,” she says, her dark eyes catching flecks of gold as I hand her a mug of chamomile tea.

  Her Jeep has not been repo’ed. It’s in perfectly fine condition, parked not even a half block away. We hop inside and drive to the check-cashing store, where we pay her electric bill and cell phone bill. The place smells like urine. The carpet is stained and fraying where it was roughly cut to fit this dark, cramped space. The employees are behind bulletproof plastic. We pay the bill and fly out the door.

  “Is that going to be us someday?” I ask her. Then I cover my mouth. “Oh my God, it is us. Today.”

  “Come on,” she says, linking her arm with mine and steering us toward her car. “I need to cleanse your palate. Let’s go to Silver Lake—there’s a gorgeous new boutique on Sunset.”

  “My shift starts in two hours,” I say.

  “We’ll just take a peek,” she says. “Maybe try on a few things?”

  I shouldn’t. I don’t have a prayer of finishing the Common App, but I can at least write that letter of recommendation for myself for Kingman to sign. And yet, I freeze at the thought. It’s almost harder than the essay about failure. Marisol is looking at me.

  “On to Silver Lake?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. And just like that, I’ve decided not to apply to college. I feel like my insides are floating inside my body. It’s freeing—horribly so. “Let’s go.”

  “DOLPHINS,” MARISOL SAYS, pointing to the sleek, arching bodies in the distance.

  “Amazing,” Raj says. “Are there four of them?”

  “I see five,” I say. “And I love each one of them. How do they move together like that?”

  The air coming off the ocean wraps around me and coats my skin and hair. It’s a bright January afternoon, warm and then chilly when a cloud slides across the sun. Raj, Marisol, and I are standing on the damp sand in Malibu on our own private stretch of beach, gazing out at the sparkling blue Pacific. Raj is housesitting for his “douche bag cousin,” Brandon, and we are in what is essentially his backyard—the beach. We’re all going to spend the night here.

  Douche bag or not, he’s got an amazing house: modern and minimalist, with the breath of the ocean soothing the place into a dream state. The freezing water nips my toes, and I suck in air, enjoying the sharpness of the sensation. The deadlines have passed. I never submitted the Common App. Honestly, it’s a relief that it’s over. Now with the cold sand under my feet, the salt stinging my skin, I feel suspended in the moment with the five dark dolphins dipping and rising through waves. The sun catches their fins, and college applications hardly seem to matter.

  “I feel like dancing,” Marisol says. “I feel like leaping. The spirit of the dolphin is upon me.”

  “Leap, Marisol, leap!”

  “You can’t ignore the spirit of the dolphin,” Raj says.

  Marisol takes off down the beach in surprisingly elegant ballet leaps as the wind whips her hair. Raj and I cheer her on. With his pants rolled up and his hair mussed by the sea air, Raj looks handsome. I can see him as an older person. I can tell he is the kind of guy who gets even better-looking with age.

  “What?” he asks, his eyes wrinkling at the corners.

  “Nothing,” I say. He smiles and shakes his head. I swear sometimes that he can read my mind.

  Later t
hat night, we sit on the back deck, wrapped in mohair blankets and drinking hot cocoa. The stars above us are brilliant and infinite. Every surface is coated with sand. The ocean is so loud we have to speak in raised voices to hear each other.

  “I didn’t apply to college,” I say, practically shouting.

  I expect to see judgment or surprise on their faces, but instead they just seem to be listening.

  “I think it’s great,” Marisol says with notes of wildness and glee in her voice. “It’s fine. We’re going to be fine.” She’s so certain. She’s so free. “We’re going to be perfect.”

  “Are you okay?” Raj says. “You were so close with CFS. That collage…?”

  “I know,” I say, feeling my guts shrink inside me. “The only thing I had left to do was to write my own recommendation letter. Kingman said he’d sign it. And I just…I don’t know. I couldn’t do it. I panicked.”

  “There’s so much you can learn outside of college,” Raj says. “And you can always take a class or two.”

  “Besides, it’s not like starting college at twenty would be the craziest thing in the world,” Marisol adds. Twenty sounds old to me, worlds away, but I don’t dare say this to Marisol, who is so freaked-out about turning twenty-one.

  “I should’ve at least applied to CFS,” I say.

  “You don’t need to worry so much, Becca. And you’re not alone. We’re in this together,” Marisol says.

  “But what if I don’t make it? What if the phone never rings? What if an agent never calls me? What if my mom is right?” I ask.

  “I know you love your mom more than anyone in this world. And I’m sure that if you had two lives to live, you’d live one of them for her,” Marisol says. “But this is your life. Your only one. You have to live it for you.”

  “She’s right,” Raj says.

  “The worst part is that I lied to her. I lied to my mom,” I say, tears stinging my eyes. But they can’t hear me. The wind has picked up and carried my words out to sea.

  I wake up the next morning to my phone ringing. I’m under the mohair blanket on the window seat. Marisol is sleeping on the sofa, her mouth wide open and a notebook in her hand. I see the phone on the table with my half-finished mug of hot cocoa and leap to answer it.

  “Hello?” My voice is thick with sleep.

  “Is this Becca? I have Hal Fogel on the line for you from MTV.”

  “Yes, yes. It’s me,” I say. “Please put him through.”

  “I’ve got good news, Becca,” Hal says.

  “Oh my God.”

  “The execs love Talk to Me. We want to hire you to write your own pilot.”

  “Will I get paid?”

  “Of course.” He laughs. “That’s what ‘hire’ means. It won’t be crazy. It’ll be guild minimum. What is that? Fifty grand? You’ll have to look it up.”

  Fifty thousand dollars? Fifty THOUSAND dollars?

  “Wait, do I need an agent?” I ask, panicked.

  “No! You already got the job. Why do you want to give away ten percent? Come on by the offices to meet everyone on Tuesday at eleven. Our people will get started on a contract. Sound good?”

  “It sounds amazing,” I say.

  “Enjoy the rest of your weekend. Amelia was right about you—you were totally worth checking out. Congratulations.”

  “Wait. Amelia was behind this?”

  “She told me to go see you in the show.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I guess my moment with Amelia Kirk, as dreadful as it was, did pay off. I’ll have to send her flowers or wine or whatever it is that people send. “Thank you, Amelia,” I whisper. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  I’m about to wake up Marisol and Raj but decide to keep this moment for myself. I let it fill me until I’m light and buoyant. I stand on the window seat and watch the ocean push the shore. I touch the cold glass. I’m a part of things. I’m not on the outside anymore, wanting in. I’m on the inside—the sweet, bright inside of life.

  When I get back to the apartment, I make an addition to my list and check it off right away:

  MARISOL SENDS ME a text the next day.

  Marisol: Off to Miami! See you in a week. Can you water my succulents?

  Me: Succulents need watering?

  Marisol: And love. Just one drink will do it.

  On Tuesday, the day of my meeting at the MTV offices in Santa Monica, I wake up before the sun. I’m just so ready for my new life to begin. It’s time to tell my mom the truth. I’m not going to college. I’m going to be a TV mogul! It’s so early that I catch her before she’s at work.

  “Mom, I have some news. I’m going to have my own show on MTV.”

  “What?” she asks. “Wait, wait. Are you joking?”

  “I’m not joking, Mom. They are going to pay me to write and star in my own show.”

  “Becca! Oh, Becca, I’m so proud of you! Holy…I’m about to go into work, but I want to hear the whole story later!”

  “That’s not it, Mom. There’s something else I need to tell you.”

  “Can it wait? I’m just about to step through the door. There’s my boss. I can’t wait to tell him. Oh, and I have to put in a special call to Connie Ashworth. Honey, I am bursting with excitement.”

  “I just had this feeling that I was going to make it,” I say, unable to tell her about college. Maybe it doesn’t matter now anyway.

  “You were so right, baby! You were so right. I’m so proud of you.”

  As I open the door to the MTV Studios, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. I can’t believe how myself I look. It’s like my insides and my outsides are finally aligned. I wish I could take a snapshot of this and show it to my earlier self, the one who arrived in September feeling so lost.

  Look, I’d say. It’s all going to be worth it. You’re going to make it. There’s nothing you can’t handle.

  Instead, I take a picture with my phone and post it to Instagram: #MTV #DreamsComeTrue.

  “Hi, I’m Becca Harrington,” I tell the receptionist. “I have an appointment with Hal.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “He didn’t call you?”

  “Call me? About what?”

  “He’s no longer with MTV.”

  My stomach drops straight to the ground.

  “There’s got to be some mistake. We just talked on Thursday. He said we had a deal. He said they were drawing up contracts.”

  “Didn’t you read Variety this morning?”

  I shake my head. My heart is pounding in my chest, and it feels like there’s a rock stuck in my throat.

  “The whole digital department was fired. New management cleaned house a lot faster than anyone anticipated.”

  Cleaned house? Jesus, is the world this cruel? Can my dream be ripped away from me like this? My vision blurs as tears sting my eyes.

  “So my project is just over?” I ask. I already know the answer by the way she’s looking at me—looking through me. I once again feel like an actress coming “off the streets” without a headshot.

  “I’m really sorry,” she says.

  Tears fall down my hot cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand. This can’t be possible. “Can I have his phone number? Can I call him?”

  “No, no. I’m not allowed to give out private numbers. Soooorrry.” She hands me a tissue box.

  “Do you know where he is?” I’m openly sobbing now. “In a new office somewhere?”

  “I think he said he was going to Palm Springs to clear his head, but don’t repeat that, because I really, really wasn’t supposed to say it.”

  “As if it’s of any help at all!” I blurt out, surprised by the rage in my voice. I’m so mad at this innocent receptionist. I’m so mad at Hal. At the new management. At the world.

  “Um, you can leave now,” she says, scoffing as she sits up a little straighter.

  “Fine,” I say.

  I quickly push the elevator button ten times, but it can’t come fast enough
. I take the stairs, dash out of the lobby, and onto the Santa Monica sidewalk, which is bathed in the Southern California midday light. It’s reflecting off the pale sidewalk and white building. It’s so bright I can barely see.

  I take the bus home, sitting in the back and weeping into the sleeves of my sweater. Once I reach the Chateau Bronson, I draw Marisol’s curtains shut. I want to stay put in the apartment for as long as possible. I want to freeze the world outside while I figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life. I visit college websites online. I pore over them, envious of the dorms and the classrooms, the structure and the safety. My old life, the one where I wasn’t in LA trying to do something so difficult, living on a very sharp edge, fills me with a sense of relief so profound that I actually feel lighter within seconds of considering the possibility that I could have some form of it back.

  I pull out my old notebook and pencil and start to put together a new list.

  I text Chantal and ask her to cover my shifts. Luckily, she’s just bought a new Fiat, which is even cuter than Athena’s MINI, and she needs more money to cover the payments. She says she’s happy to cover my whole week.

  Later that night, there’s a knock on the door. “Becca. It’s Raj.”

  I freeze, a woodland creature startled by a flashlight, holding the teakettle like a precious nut. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to explain why I’m wearing pajamas, an inside-out T-shirt (which I’ve only just realized is inside out), and mismatched socks at 7 p.m. He knocks again.

  “Becca, are you in there?” I hold my breath, and as I shift my weight, the floorboards creak beneath me. “I can hear you in there,” he says. “I’m dying to know how it went with Hal…aaaand I have some really good news.” I gingerly place the teakettle on the burner, and it makes a scraping sound. “Hellllooooo?”

  I shuffle over to the door, fiddle with the locks, and open it up.

  “What happened to you?” he asks. I run a hand through my hair as I watch him take in my disheveled appearance. “Jesus. Are you okay?”