“HERE’S YOUR DRILL,” I say to Raj a few days later when I knock on his door, and amazingly enough, he answers it—wearing a fedora. Alex would never wear a fedora—he thinks they’re for douche bag hipsters—but I think Raj looks elegant. He can definitely pull it off. I’ve tried to return his drill several times, but he must have the busiest schedule because he’s never home. Today I figured I’d try to get him first thing in the morning. I know from our rooftop encounter that he’s an early riser.

It’s not like I’ve been around a lot either. I’ve spent the past few mornings searching for agents and hitting up restaurants in the afternoon. I know I need a headshot, but it couldn’t hurt to try to literally get in the door. My theory is that if the agents have actually met me, then when I send my picture, I’ll be following up rather than just taking a shot in the dark. I figure this way my headshot will have a better chance of not landing in the trash. I’ve stopped by eight more agencies but only made it in the door of Liz Harper Agency, which specializes in child actors. Many teen roles are played by adult actors who look really young. The receptionist took a snapshot of me but was very firm about how I should not call them. Still, it made my week.

I’ve been taking the same approach to getting a restaurant job—going door-to-door wearing my best smile, a fake résumé in hand.

“Did you use the drill?” Raj asks. He’s got his backpack on and is clearly on his way out. He puts the drill on the entryway table, steps into the hall, and locks the door behind him.

“I did,” I say.

“Then you’re the first,” he says. “How was it?”

“Well, it works! I’d been using thumbtacks, but the curtains kept falling, so I took the bus to Target and bought actual curtain rods and brackets—and get this, a stud finder.”

“Why do you need a stud finder? I live right down the hall,” he says, and then instantly blushes. “That was the worst, stupidest joke in the world.”

“No, it’s funny,” I say, giggling.

“Please, can you please forget that I ever said that? Just continue your story.”

“Well, it took a few tries to find the studs in the walls, and yes, the rods are a little crooked, but hey, I did it.”

“I’m impressed,” Raj says as we walk down the hall, pausing in front of the door to my apartment. “Do you want to walk with me to class? It’s just up the road.”

“Sure,” I say. “Let me just put on some shoes and lock up.”

“This is a huge improvement,” he says when we step into my apartment. He admires the curtains and gives them a little tug. “And those curtains aren’t going anywhere. Not with those brackets.”

“Nope, they are drilled into the studs!” I say, slipping into my sandals. I see him notice the blue blanket, which is tangled with the sheets on my bed. I’ve slept with it every night, either wrapped inside it or clutching it. “And oh my God, thank you so much for the blanket. I love it. It’s the softest thing I’ve ever owned.”

“No worries,” Raj says, as I lock the door behind me.

“It was so nice of you to get it for me,” I say.

“I figured you deserve it,” Raj says. “Moving out to LA all by yourself.”

“That’s really sweet,” I say, but I have to look away. I deserve it? I can’t help but wonder would he feel the same way if he knew that I’d been rejected from every single college I applied to. That I was the only one in my class who was rejected on such a massive scale? Would he say that if he knew that I broke my mom’s heart by moving out here instead of doing something practical and working twenty-four seven on college applications?

“So I got a job,” I say, as we step outside and head toward the hills. It’s September, but it doesn’t feel like any September I’ve ever known. The air is hot and as dry as newspaper on the verge of catching fire. The light is so bright it feels like the sun is under a magnifying glass. I notice for the first time that there’s a lemon tree in our next-door neighbor’s unkempt front yard, and that its branches are heavy with fruit. I’ve never seen lemons anywhere except the grocery store. I actually wonder for a second if they’re edible.

“Congrats!” Raj says. “Where?”

“Rocky’s in Los Feliz.”

“I bet you can make a lot of money there,” he says as we turn down Franklin Avenue, which is blissfully shady. “Los Feliz is a cool neighborhood.”

It is cool. There’s a little movie theater, a taco stand, a bunch of restaurants and coffee shops. There are vintage clothing boutiques, an art supply store, and a supercool, bright bookstore with a tree growing in the middle of it. There’s a library, a post office, and a yoga studio. And it’s only a mile and a half from the Chateau Bronson. Almost walking distance, but not quite.

Rocky’s is right in the middle of it all. It has a 1950s diner feel to it with miniature jukeboxes on each table. On my third day of looking for a job, a tired-looking manager named Gloria agreed to give me a shot without even glancing at my fake résumé.

“We need someone for brunch,” she’d said, as a strong girl wiped tables at the back of the restaurant. “The first shift is on Sunday. It’s a double. Can you handle it?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation.

“We’ll see how you do,” Gloria said. “You’ll start training Wednesday. If it works, we’ll give you more shifts, but I’m not guaranteeing anything. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, thinking I’m not guaranteeing anything either, then I rushed home and jumped for joy after checking number eight off my list.

“When do you start?” Raj asks. At the crosswalk, he uses the side of his fist to tap the button that activates the walk signal. We’re back in the sun, and I can feel sweat beading on my forehead.

“I’m training tomorrow,” I say. The traffic is paused, and I’m about to dart across the street when Raj reaches for my hand and pulls me back to the curb.

“Careful,” he says, his hand wrapped around my wrist. “People drive like psychos on this street.”

“Thanks.”

He smiles shyly. When he lets go of my wrist, it tingles.

“Now I just need to get headshots,” I say as the walk signal lights up and we cross the wide avenue.

“I can take them for you,” he says, “I mean, if you want.”

“Really?” His strides are quick and purposeful, and I skip-jog to catch up.

“Sure,” he says when we reach the other side. “I am a director, you know. I can take pretty good pictures.”

“That would be so great, because there’s no way I can afford professional ones.”

“We can go to Griffith Park,” Raj says.

“Where’s that again?” I ask.

His face breaks into a warm smile. “It’s right here.” He gestures up the hill. “Remember we drove by it on our way to Ikea?”

“Oh, yeah.” I hope I start to understand this geography soon.

“We’ll get a really natural look there.”

“That’d be awesome,” I say. The sidewalk is on an incline. We’re both sweating by the time we reach the gate of California Film School. “When can we do it?”

“How about Monday?” Raj asks. “I think you’re getting a sunburn.” He takes off his fedora and puts it on my head.

“Thanks,” I say, surprised. “What about you?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’ll be inside all day.”

“Perfect,” I say.

“See ya,” Raj says. I watch him open a gate and walk onto campus.

He has a place where he belongs, I think—an actual gate to walk through and close behind him. For a moment, I want to follow him inside—just to be enclosed somewhere instead of so exposed. College is like training wheels for adulthood. You live away from your parents, make decisions about your own life, but in a place that keeps you safe if you change your mind or lose your footing. As I turn back down Franklin Avenue, I feel thrust out in the world too soon. I’ve been knocked off of my tricycle and been handed a bike, but there are no training wheels for me. I’ve just got to hop on and learn how to ride.

I might not have a school to attend, but I do have a mission, I tell myself as I, the lone pedestrian, walk along the cracked sidewalk, past a gas station. I’m here to be an actress. Even though my path is not mapped out with a curriculum or guided by professors, I know where I want to go. The traffic is getting thicker and the sun is getting hotter, but for the first time since I arrived, I’m relieved the whole day is in front of me. There’s something great about knowing I’ve got a job and not having actually started yet. I decide that I’m going to finally stop in Word of Mouth, the used bookstore/record store near the Mayfair.

I’m the first customer of the day, arriving just as a clerk with dreadlocks and a hippie skirt unlocks the door, a mug of coffee in her hand. She nods hello and puts on a jazz record while I search the section labeled drama. There are tons of old books about acting, some of them dating back to the early 2000s or even earlier, but the one that catches my eye is a newer-looking book simply called Making It in Hollywood! The cover is an illustration of a girl who could be me, holding a suitcase and gazing up at the Hollywood sign.

On the back is a picture of the author, Suzi Simpson. She grins up at me from her headshot. She has red hair and a genuine smile. She reminds me of one of my favorite teachers, Ms. Bishop, and I feel just by looking at her that she’s my ally. Like on a tough day she’d make me cookies and be straight with me. I flip to the table of contents and every chapter heading excites me, especially the first several.

“Welcome to Hollywood”

“Great Expectations”

“The Dreaded Day Job”

“Your Body Is Your Instrument—Taking Care of You”

“Help! I Need Headshots”

“Getting an Agent (Or How to Deal Until You Do)”

Perfect. I check the copyright. The book is six years old, but I buy it anyway.

After I leave the bookstore, I stop at the Mayfair for groceries. Now that I have a job, I don’t have to be quite so frugal, and, as Suzi Simpson says, I need to take care of my body, so I buy sliced turkey, apples, grapes, Cheerios, organic milk, English muffins, and a package of mint Milano cookies. It’s gotten hotter as the morning has gone on, and by the time I get back to the Chateau, I’m sweating through my shirt. I’m unlocking the front door with my groceries balanced on my hip, when I hear someone humming to himself behind me. I turn and see a guy who looks about forty on his way up the steps. He must live here, too.

“You’re new,” he says, taking a quick step up so that he can hold the door for me.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m Becca.”

“Let me carry that for you, Becca,” he says, taking my groceries. “I’m Nathan. You can’t be from here. You’re too sweet.”

“I’m not. I’m from Boston,” I say. He gestures for me to go up the stairs ahead of him. “Where are you from?”

“The rotten apple!”

“New York?”

“You got it. Now, I can’t help but notice that you have a very nice rear end,” he says as I stop in front of my apartment. I laugh nervously. “Hey, would you like to nibble on some raw fish with me this Friday?”

“I have a boyfriend,” I say, as I grab my groceries. “And I hate sushi. But thanks!”

He’s openly staring at my butt now. I put my groceries down, fumble with my lock until at last I get the door open. I walk briskly into my apartment, covering my “rear end” with my hands. As the door shuts behind me I hear him say, “Oh fucky, fucky, fucky!”

Fucky? What? Who says fucky?

Should I have not talked to him at all? Should I have just flipped him the bird when he held the door open for me, and then sprinted up the stairs? I lock my door and sit on my bed, trying to decide if that was funny or scary or both.

I’m about to open my new book when I get a text from Mom.

Mom: Hi, honey. How’s it going?

I debate telling her about Oh Fucky, but it will only scare her.

Me: It’s great. I have my bed now. And my apartment is looking cute.

Mom: When do you start at the diner?

Me: On Sunday.

Mom: So proud of you for getting a job, sweetie. Look, I know it’s only September, but it’s not too early to think about those applications! Just a friendly reminder!

Me: The deadlines aren’t until January 1.

Mom: Not if you want to apply early.

Me: Okay, Mom.

Mom: Love you to the sky.

Me: And back.