Hello, Sunshine

by Leila Howland

  “For me?” I ask. It’s the priciest thing on our menu.

  “Kitchen mistake.” He winks and puts some change in a jukebox.

  “Thanks,” I say. Moments later, a Frank Sinatra standard fills the empty restaurant. Peanut sings along. To my surprise, he has a pretty voice.

  “You sound good, Peanut,” I say.

  “I have dreams, too, you know,” he says, and he smiles as he returns to the kitchen.

  “I think you can make it,” I call after him.

  As I pour myself a Coke to go with my salad, I decide that Company One is like my college. Kingman is just as respected and knowledgeable as anyone teaching at Juilliard, I’m sure. But I didn’t really get to learn from him the way that the rest of the cast did because I was a late addition. If I got in at the beginning of the process, I bet I’d grow a lot as an actress. I’m totally embarrassed about not having written that letter, but there are worse things in life than being embarrassed. Nothing could have been more humiliating than the Amelia gaffe, and that actually led to something good—or almost good. Which reminds me that I need to send her something for hooking me up with Hal.

  Flowers, I decide as I take a bite of the finest food Rocky’s Café has to offer, and the crooning voice of Frank Sinatra puts me in a sentimental mood. Flowers are classic.

  When I show up at Company One that night, most of the old cast is there along with a handful of other people I don’t recognize but who I gather are from previous shows. Tamera and Reed are holding hands.

  “What’s up, bud?” Reed asks me.

  “Not much, chief,” I say. “What’s up with you?”

  He smiles bashfully and Tamera leans into him. They have that look of love about them. That glow. I guess Tamera is the one to end his player ways. I’ll never know why, and he probably won’t either. Love is weird like that. Kingman gestures for us to sit around the table, which is set up in the middle of the stage.

  “Okay,” he says. “So tonight we’ll be reading a play from the nineteenth century called Billy the Kid. This is some weird shit. I think we could have some fun with it. Or maybe it’ll be a total dud. Who the fuck knows? Let’s read it and see what happens. Who’d like to read for Billy, iconic bad boy of the West?”

  Reed, the quintessential handsome cowboy, raises his hand. Kingman is about to toss him a script when I shoot my hand in the air.

  “I’d like to try,” I say. Kingman raises his eyebrows. He smiles and hands the script to me instead. “Go for it.”

  “I will,” I say, and smile back.

  Despite Marisol’s request, I’m not quite ready to return to the Chateau. After the Company One meeting, which was some of the most fun I’ve had since I’ve moved to LA, I go back to Vivian’s condo and spend another quiet night in her guest room. After she leaves for work, I decide to call Alex. Not because I want him back, but because I have something to say to him, regardless of how he feels about it. After I have a cup of coffee, I dial his number. This time I’m not sweating or panicking. I have no expectations.

  He answers right away.

  “Hey, Becca,” Alex says. “What’s up? Did you get the package?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Thanks for sending those. And also, Alex, I just want to tell you something.” I’m about to tell him how much he hurt me, but I stop myself. I know he knows this all too well. “I wish you’d found a kinder way of treating me.”

  “I just felt like you wanted something I couldn’t give,” he says.

  “Come on, Alex,” I say. “You’re better than that.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. I can hear in this pause that he knows I’ve nailed him. Alex, smartest boy in our class, wordsmith extraordinaire, is speechless. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I say. And we both sigh.

  “So, what are you thinking for next year?” he asks.

  “I’m not totally sure,” I say. “I’m working on it.”

  “I just want to put it out there that I think you’re too smart to be an actress. And you’re definitely way too smart for LA.”

  “Thanks,” I say quietly, because I know he means this as some kind of compliment. People don’t respect actors unless they’re famous. Until then, we’re just wasting our time. People think that we’re selfish, reality-avoiding, self-obsessed, vain, insecure, immature dreamers. It’s probably true for some of the actors out there, but I don’t agree with this generalization at all. It’s certainly not true for me or Marisol. As for LA, there’s nothing about this place that’s stupid. It’s complex and contradictory and gorgeous and smoggy and too hot. But it’s not stupid. “But I don’t agree with you.”

  “That’s fair,” he says. “You always did have your own opinions.”

  Duh, I think.

  “I got a new car,” he says. “One I can take to go to Tahoe in the winter.”

  “That’s great,” I say, realizing with a little kick of elation that I don’t care. “I hope you take some awesome trips in it.”

  After I hang up, I’m ready to go back to the Chateau. Maybe not for good, but for a little while, or at least until I figure out what I’m doing next. I pack my suitcase and take an Uber back to Hollywood. Marisol is waiting for me in her kimono.

  “This came for you this morning,” she says, and hands me an envelope from Raj. “Open it.”

  I do, and inside is the ticket to the banquet and a note.

  I know you’re mad, but I really want you to be with me tonight. Please come. You’re so much a part of this, it won’t feel right to not have you beside me. I love you. Raj.

  “That is so sweet I think I’m going to puke,” Marisol says.

  “Marisol!” I say. “That’s private.”

  “Shut up. You have to go.”

  “I don’t know if I can face him after my freak-out.”

  “He told you he loves you, fool!”

  I can’t suppress my smile.

  “But what if Sierra is there, too? What if I see her and panic?”

  “First of all, I really doubt she’s going. And secondly, do you really think that’s going to happen? Do you really think you have so little control over yourself that you’re going to spaz at a formal banquet at California Film School?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” I say. “I scared the shit out of myself the other day.”

  “You need to get your head on right.” She takes another look at the ticket. “Okay, this thing starts in two hours. I’m sending you for a walk around the block to clear your mind. When you come back I’m going to have an outfit laid out for you.”

  “If Sierra goes, she’s probably going to look gorgeous,” I say.

  “Go for your walk and get perspective,” Marisol says.

  “I, like, invented Olivia,” I say, as she’s pushing me out the door.

  “You’re taking this whole situation the wrong way. Get out there and take some deep breaths.”

  I head out of the Chateau for a walk around the block. I blink against the bright light, wishing I’d brought sunglasses. It hurts to lift my gaze above the sidewalk. I walk past the house with the sofa on the front porch that Marisol and I think is a halfway house. I continue beyond the apartment complex with a dark red rock garden that looks like it’s from Mars. I pass the house with the overgrown lawn, odd assortment of potted cacti, and the lemon tree. I pick up a fallen lemon that’s escaped the chain-link fence. It’s nestled under a tree whose roots are bursting through the cement and climbing with bougainvillea vines, the papery hot-pink leaves rustling in the breeze. It’s hard to believe it’s January. I’m about to turn onto Franklin, when who do I see running right toward me in his skimpy workout gear, dripping with sweat, a stone-cold look of determination in his eyes? Oh Fucky.

  I can’t, I think. I can’t handle seeing him right now. I do an about-face, but before I can turn all the way around, he taps me on the shoulder. I can smell his sweat and feel the heat radiating off of his body.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “
Long time no see,” he says, taking a microfiber towel from the waist of his shorts and wiping off his face. “So, I need to ask. Is that guy I’ve seen you driving around with your boyfriend?”

  “Yes,” I say without even thinking about it.

  “Damn,” he says. “You’re so cute. I could just…” He sucks air through his teeth.

  “Thank you, but please don’t elaborate.”

  “You can probably tell that I’m always trying to improve myself.”

  “I can see that,” I say.

  “So I’d just like to know, why did you choose him over me?” he asks. As ridiculous as he is, there’s sadness in his eyes that I can’t ignore.

  “It’s hard to say,” I say. As I try to formulate an answer, I think of Alex. Yes, he could’ve been kinder to me, without a doubt. He could’ve treated me in a way that acknowledged everything we shared. But ultimately if he didn’t love me anymore, there’s not much he could do about it. He could’ve done better—a lot better—but he wasn’t trying to be mean. Love can’t be manufactured just because someone else wants it from you. “I guess we can’t really explain our feelings, right?”

  “I have no regrets,” he says, staring into the distance. “The greatest risk is the one not taken.”

  “I believe that,” I say.

  “Do you? I have that quote in a very tasteful frame in my apartment, which you would know if you’d even given me a chance,” he says.

  “It’s good advice,” I say.

  “And especially true when it comes to love. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

  “A broken heart, I guess,” I say, thinking to myself, I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with Oh Fucky, whose shorts are way too tight, and who I swear is standing in such a way that he wants me to check him out.

  “Eh, there are worse things,” he says. “Besides, in order for the heart to really open, it needs to break at least a little.”

  “Wow,” I say, stunned by this unexpected wisdom.

  “Booyah!” he shouts, making me jump a bit. “You didn’t know I was so deep, did you? Hey, are you going to use that lemon?”

  “Take it,” I say, and hand it to him.

  “Did you know a lemon has more antioxidants than a pomegranate?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “See how much you could’ve learned from me,” he says.

  “My loss,” I say.

  “True dat. Now, if you’ll step out of the way, I’m going to bring it home hard, like I always do, baby.”

  I step aside. With the lemon in one hand, he sprints toward the Chateau like a man on fire.

  EVEN THOUGH MARISOL gave me a ride in her Jeep, I feel like a star as I enter the Palace Theatre, a recently restored movie theater from the 1940s. California Film School went all out when they rented this space for their Winter Banquet. It’s downtown, on a street mostly lined with dollar stores, food stands, and sketchy motels. But inside, the theater has been returned to the glory of the golden age of film. The lobby is flat-out gorgeous with a red carpet, grand staircase, sparkling chandeliers, gilded ceilings, and ornate murals.

  I barely make it past the entrance when I spot Juice Man, taking a glass of champagne from a server’s tray. Okay, universe, I think. Message received.

  “I think it’s time we meet,” I say. “I’m Becca Harrington.”

  “I know,” he replies.

  I blink.

  “You do?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Who are you?”

  “Sam Hallgren.” We shake hands.

  “Hello, Sam. So, what are you doing here and how do you know who I am?”

  “I’m a CFS alum and this is a great event not only for the free food and booze, but also for finding new talent. I know who you are because I was an agent with the Talent Commune for the past few years.”

  He’s an agent?

  “I met with them,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “When we ran into each other in the building lobby, I saw on the sign-in sheet that you met with Athena.”

  “Yeah, we weren’t a match,” I say.

  “But I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

  “You have?” Is this why I’ve been seeing him everywhere? Because he was looking for me?

  “Yeah, you were genuinely funny in that bear play. I was actually laughing during that chase scene. And I thought you nailed it in the Company One production. I mean, even Variety noticed. Plus everyone’s talking about the girl in the Volkswagen commercial.”

  “Really?” Everyone? Who the hell is everyone? “Why?”

  “Casting directors want authentic. And you have that in spades. It’s very appealing—and rare.”

  “Wow,” I say, standing a little taller. “I guess I do have that.”

  “Yes.” He smiles. “Anyway, I’m actually starting my own agency. I’ll only have a few clients. But if you’d be willing to take a chance on me, I’d like to take a chance on you. You want to come in to my office for a meeting next week?”

  Are you freaking kidding me?

  “I’d love to!” I say.

  “Let’s get it on the books.” He whips out his iPhone and says, “How’s Monday?”

  “It’s perfect,” I say. I give him my number, and he texts me the information.

  “See you next week,” he says.

  An agent! An actual agent who wants to work with me! I feel color fill my cheeks, and I can’t stop smiling. I feel like I’m weightless, like my veins are flowing with champagne, as I maneuver through the crowd to look for Raj. I’m glad that I borrowed Marisol’s floor-length emerald-green silk dress—a vintage piece that was a hand-me-down from Agnes. It fits me perfectly, and as I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the gilded mirrors, I realize I’ve never looked better.

  Then I see him. Raj. He’s in a tuxedo, looking as handsome as I’ve ever seen him. He’s talking to an older couple, also dressed to the nines. In fact, I don’t want to let him see me yet. I just want to admire him for a few more seconds. I definitely don’t have to worry about manufacturing feelings for Raj. My love for him is clear and as palpable as the pounding of my heart. I can feel my cheeks flush as I approach him.

  “Hi,” I say. Without thinking about it, I slip my hand into his.

  “Becca,” he says, and smiles at me. “You’re here.” He squeezes my hand and looks at me with such sweetness and hunger that I have to look away or risk bursting into flames. He leans in to kiss my cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Me too,” he whispers back. “It’s okay.” He pulls away and gestures to the older couple. “Your timing is perfect. There’s someone I want you to meet. Becca Harrington, this is Bill and Margo Rushfield. Bill is my teacher and the head of the new media department.”

  “And a big fan of Talk to Me,” Bill says.

  “Really?” I ask. “Oh, right! Raj mentioned he showed it to you.”

  “He did, and I was really impressed. Your voice is so fresh. I think you have a lot to offer. You can imagine how pleased I was to pass on your application to Jonah Kaplowitz, our director of admissions.”

  “My…application?” I ask.

  “That’s right,” Raj says, and squeezes my hand again. “The complete application.”

  “Isn’t it too late?” I ask.

  “Deadlines are more like strong suggestions,” Bill says, and chuckles.

  “At least when it comes to exceptional applicants,” Margo says. “So don’t quote him on that.”

  “Jonah will be contacting you for an interview soon,” Bill says. “I’m making sure of it because I want you in my class.”

  “Thank you,” I say. I’m breathless, bowled over by the joy that has been this day.

  “You’re welcome,” he says. “Raj, good luck to you today.”

  “We’d better go mingle,” Margo says. “See you two at the reception.” Bill and Margo disappear into the crowd.

  “Oh my God, how did you do
that?” I ask Raj.

  “Your application was done. Marisol found it. All we needed to do was to turn it in with your collage.”

  “But I didn’t have a second recommendation letter,” I say.

  “Marisol wrote it,” Raj says.

  “As Kingman?” I ask, horrified for a moment by thoughts of a forged signature.

  “No, just as herself. She wrote about your talent, your spirit, your courage, your ambition. You’ve got to read it. It’s a work of art. She loves you. And so do I.”

  “I love you, too,” I say as tears prick my eyes. “Thank you.”

  The lobby lights blink. An announcer says that the screenings will begin in five minutes.

  “Let’s go find our seats,” Raj says. “The show’s about to start.”

  Together we go inside.

  A HUGE THANK-YOU—always—to Emily Meehan, life-changer and visionary. Endless gratitude to Kieran Viola, editor extraordinaire, who helped shape this book with her pitch-perfect ear, amazing storytelling skills, and patience. Working with you has been an absolute gift and an author’s dream. Thanks also to Heather Crowley, Cassie McGinty, Marci Senders, and the whole talented bunch at Hyperion. You rock! Sara Crowe, my super agent, you make everything possible. Thank you. I could not have finished this book without the love and support of Kayla Cagan and Vanessa Napolitano, dear friends and fellow writers; Penny Hill, library buddy and life support; and my beloved friends and family. Most of all I’d like to thank Henry, the sunshine of my life.

  ALSO BY LEILA HOWLAND

  Nantucket Blue

  Nantucket Red

  A graduate of Georgetown University, LEILA HOWLAND spent five years acting in New York in everything from an MTV public service announcement for safe sex to a John Guare play at Lincoln Center, and was a proud company member of the award-winning Flea Theater in Tribeca. Currently, she is a school librarian in Los Angeles, where she lives with her family. Find her online at www.leilahowland.com.