ONCE THE SUN RISES, I throw on some clean clothes, deciding there’s nothing more civilized than fresh, well-fitting underwear, and head to the supermarket to get my toxic cleaning supplies and some food. A cool breeze rustles the palm fronds high above me, though I can feel heat coiled in the air. Bright, tropical-looking flowers peek at me from slightly dilapidated front yards. I reach Franklin Avenue and am surprised by the number of cars rushing by. It’s not even 6 a.m. yet. Where is everyone going?

I stop by a supermarket called the Mayfair Market and pick up yogurt, a bagel, soap, Lime Out, and bleach, and then search for shower curtains. They don’t sell them here, so I’m going to have to make my own. I’ll get a real one later, but the need for a shower now is intense. I feel a little kick of pride at my ingenuity as I throw duct tape and extra-large, heavy-duty garbage bags into the cart.

I spot a copy of Backstage, the trade magazine for actors, in the checkout lane. For a moment my hunger and discomfort disappear. The lead to my first job might be inside this magazine. Slightly breathless, I open to the casting section. The first notice calls for four “adorable actresses” who must be “comfortable with love scenes.” After noting where aspiring ingénues should send their headshots it says in bold: “Nudity required. No pay.”

Ugh.

“Miss, are you okay?” the cashier asks.

“Yes,” I say, debating whether to buy the magazine. It’s just one ad, I tell myself. I toss the Backstage on the conveyor belt. “I’m fine.”

When I get back to the Chateau Bronson, I put my cleaning supplies and groceries away and then head all the way up the stairs with my untoasted, unadorned bagel. The landlord said something about a rooftop terrace. I push the door open and almost laugh. This is hardly a “terrace.” It’s just a regular roof, the uneven surface covered in a gray, sandpaper-like material. There are a couple of scattered, rusty beach chairs. Still, the light is a cool blue-yellow and there’s a nice breeze. I see a bunch of tall buildings in the distance, and I’m trying to figure out what it is—Santa Monica? Downtown?—when a voice startles me.

“Sometimes you can see the ocean.”

“Huh?” I relax when I see the guy who’s sitting in a beach chair with a computer on his lap. He looks about my age, maybe a little older. He has a soft smile and bright eyes. His hair is cropped close and neat. An open collar displays his long neck and a peek of clavicle. Even though he’s sitting down, I can tell he’s not too tall, which I like. I already feel too short most of the time.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I came up here to see if I could find some writing inspiration. I’m Raj Singh.”

“I’m Becca Harrington,” I say.

“Did you just move in?” he asks, and stands up.

“Yesterday,” I say. I was right. He isn’t too tall. In fact, he might be one of those rare guys short enough for me to kiss without having to stand on my tiptoes. I hope that thought travels to Alex. I hope it zips up the 5 Freeway all the way to Palo Alto and bites him like a horsefly.

“Welcome to the Chateau.” He makes a goofy gesture, bowing like he’s lord of a great castle, and I have to laugh. He’s suddenly serious again, and I worry that I’ve embarrassed him. “It’s kind of smoggy today. But on a clear day after it rains, you really can see all the way to the ocean.” I squint, but a stripe of brownish haze rests along the horizon, blocking the view. “Raymond Chandler used to live across the street.” I’m not totally sure who Raymond Chandler is, but from the way Raj said his name I know I’m supposed to. “But who knows. They say he lived everywhere. Pretty much any historical building you go to, Raymond Chandler lived there.”

“The guy got around, I guess. Hey, what’s that place?” I ask, pointing to the golden turrets.

“Oh, that’s the Scientology Centre. Stay away. You don’t want to mess with them,” Raj says. “Did you move here by yourself?”

“Yeah,” I say. And even though seconds ago I wished my thoughts would sting Alex, I miss him in a punched-in-the-gut way.

“That’s really brave,” he says.

“Thanks.” But I don’t feel brave, just alone. Alex literally left me on the curb, Vivian thinks I’m a nut, and if I’m honest with Mom about how I feel, she might actually convince me to go home. Don’t cry, I tell myself. Hold it in.

“You okay?” Raj asks.

“I’m just really tired. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Maybe you could sleep now?” Raj asks.

“I think I’ll try,” I say.

“Hey, I’m in number seven if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” I say, and I head back down to my apartment, more exhausted than I’ve ever been in my whole life.

Despite my grand plans and new supplies, I can’t imagine cleaning the shower right now. I put on flip-flops, make my duct-tape-and-garbage-bag shower curtain, and take a hot shower without touching anything but the faucet handles. Then I climb back into my sleeping bag, throw a T-shirt over my eyes to keep out the light, and after twenty-four hours of being painfully awake, I finally fall asleep.