“GO GET THEM!” says Gloria in a harsh whisper.

“What? No! I can’t.”

The two customers left at Rocky’s don’t notice this tense exchange next to the elaborately old-school cash register. I wish they would. I wish they’d stand up for me, but they’re not paying attention. They’re busy enjoying their own conversations. My apron’s stiff with ketchup and maple syrup, and my knees are tingling with fatigue. It’s almost the end of my first real day of waitressing, and I’m afraid I might pass out from exhaustion.

I trained on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, shadowing a waiter named Manuel. I was scheduled to train for two days, but Manuel suggested I extend my studies to include a third. He’s a true gentleman, introducing me to the rest of the staff as though I were a dignitary. “Peanut,” he said to a rough-looking cook. “This is our newest server, Becca.” Peanut just grunted in return. Manuel is also the embodiment of patience and calm. With him by my side, talking me through every order, my training days were easy and kind of fun. I was okay even when he treated me like a toddler.

“Good girl!” he said when I successfully punched an order into the computer in less than ten minutes. “Way to go!” he said when I finally managed to carry two plates of cheeseburgers at a time. (The other waiters can all carry four.) I didn’t mind. I needed the extra encouragement. I wouldn’t have minded if he coached me through the rest of my day, saying things like, “You can do it!” when I opened a bank account or, “Keep trying!” when I got lost looking for a CVS.

But I’m a mess without Manuel. I can’t keep the orders straight or deliver the food fast enough. I keep forgetting to ask how people want their burgers cooked or if they want fries or a salad, which means I have to go back to the table and apologize and ask them to clarify. Of course, the salad answer begs the dressing question. And there’s the appetizer thing. You need to punch a special button on the computer if someone orders appetizers. If you don’t hit that button, all the food comes at once. People hate that. People hate it so much that they yell. I had no idea how sensitive people can be about their fucking appetizers. Also, I only trained for two to three hours at a time, but today I got here at 7:00 a.m. and now it’s almost 10:00 p.m. I sat down only once to scarf a turkey burger.

And now…this disaster.

Gloria looks at me sternly. Her haircut reminds me of my strict fourth-grade teacher. “You heard me. Don’t just stand there, go get them!” She points at the street, to the four guys who walked out on their check.

“But they’re huge.” The unpaid check for eighty-three dollars is trembling in my hand.

“If they don’t pay for it, you will.”

Gloria makes a harsh gesture toward the door. I cannot pay eighty-three bucks for random strangers’ food, so I open it. The wind could just blow me away, and I want it to when I see the guys sauntering down Vermont toward Sunset. They are pale, too pale, like they live in a basement. They have skateboards under their arms. They are skinny but also look weirdly strong. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think that I can confront these guys and ask them for the money they owe me. But then I wonder if I’m being judgmental. They could be playwrights or producers for all I know. I jog toward them, my heart flapping. When I’m a half a block away, I downshift to a speed walk.

“Excuse me! Excuse me but you forgot to pay your bill.” They keep walking. I know they can hear me. “You forgot to pay your bill,” I say. The smallest one turns around to face me. He smiles in a way I don’t understand. “It’s eighty-three dollars. Here.” I hand him the check with a shaking hand. He bends down so that he’s looking me right in the eye.

“Caw! Caw!” he says, flapping his arms like a prehistoric bird of prey.

I scream, pivot, and race up Vermont Avenue. I can hear him laughing. Where are the police? Where are the helpful people of the world? I turn my head around to make sure that they’re not following me, and sprint across the street. I open the heavy glass door of the restaurant and run inside. The last remaining customers have left, and Chantal, my fellow waitress, is laughing so hard she can barely breathe.

“You’re going to get all the tables next Sunday, now that I know how fast you can move,” she says, wiping her eyes.

Gloria is straight-faced and jowly as she counts her money, expertly flipping the bills so that they all face the same way. “Because I’m in a good mood we’ll let it go this time. But don’t let it happen again. Polish the dessert station, tip out the bus-boys, and you can go.”

You. Can. Go. The words fall on my ears like not guilty from a jury.

Chantal and I wipe down the dessert display, take off our aprons, tip out the bussers, and get our purses from behind the bar. Gloria locks the restaurant behind us as we leave. Chantal takes a cigarette from her purse and walks to her new-looking truck, toting a plastic bag full of food. I’m debating whether I should walk or take the bus, when I see Chantal waving me toward her, away from the glass door. Is she going to offer me a ride?

“Here,” she says, taking out a plastic container with a slice of banana cream pie in it. “I was going to eat it, but I’m giving it to you instead. The first night at a new place always sucks.”

“Thanks, that’s super sweet of you!”

“Don’t get too excited,” she says, stepping backward. “I’m not always this nice. See ya tomorrow.”

I speed walk back to the apartment in the half-dark of the light-polluted evening, gripping the container of pie. The late September winds they call Santa Anas are blowing strong and warm. The smell of fire is in the distance. The palm trees brush above me like brooms sweeping the sky. I’m hoping that Marisol or Raj will want to share the pie with me, and I can tell them about the guys I chased. But when I knock on their doors no one answers.

As soon as I get into my room, I pull off my jeans and Rocky’s Café T-shirt. I put on an old sweatshirt that I haven’t worn yet, so it still smells like home. The money I earned today, two hundred and fifteen dollars, goes in my desk drawer, and I head up to the roof with the slice of pie. One faint star hangs above. I take a bite and wait to stop shaking.

“I can’t believe I’m in a city,” I say to Raj when we’ve made our way to the top of Mount Hollywood in Griffith Park for my photo shoot. My legs are throbbing from yesterday’s double shift, but I try not to think about it as I take in the scenery around me. The pine, sycamore, and oak trees; the dry scraggly brush; the bright September sky; the smell of eucalyptus and sunbaked dirt; the feel of sunlight filtered through branches; and the back-and-forth song of birds. It’s hard to believe that this park, which has to be at least one hundred times bigger than Boston’s Public Garden, is right in the middle of LA and that we live so close that we can walk to it. “This is practically the wilderness, right?”

“That might be an exaggeration,” Raj says as he looks through the photos he’s taken so far. I watch his expression to see how he feels about the pictures, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Excuse me, but we saw signs warning us about rattlesnakes and mountain lions. To me that means wilderness,” I say.

“Maybe ‘urban wilderness,’” Raj says as a traffic helicopter hammers above us.

“Yeah. That sounds about right.”

I was glad we didn’t see any snakes or mountain lions. Squirrels and birds were our only wildlife sightings. We passed a few other people on our way up Mount Hollywood—hikers, a woman walking two giant German shepherds, a group of high school kids hanging out by a picnic table, and a couple on horseback (horseback!)—but mostly it seemed like we had the park to ourselves.

The wide, dusty trail curved along ridges, offering views of a mountain range that Raj said was the San Gabriel Mountains. He also pointed out downtown and Santa Monica. After a half hour or so and several steep inclines, we arrived at a large, round building that Raj said is an incredible observatory. He shot a bunch of pics around the exterior and then continued on to the top, which took us another twenty-five minutes. By the time we reached the peak of Mount Hollywood, my heart was pounding in my chest and I could feel the color in my cheeks. Marisol had insisted I bring makeup, but I read in Suzi Simpson’s book that the most important thing about headshots is that they look like you, and I never wear makeup. Besides, Raj kept telling me that I looked great in the natural light.

I wonder if he was just saying that to help me relax, because there were some seriously awkward moments. Even though I knew this was what I was signing up for, it was just plain weird to have someone taking my picture constantly as I hiked up a mountain. Raj kept saying, “Just pretend I’m not here,” but that’s actually a really tall order. How can I not be aware of the guy following me with a camera? I realize that this is the essence of film acting, but it’s got to be less weird if it’s not your neighbor behind the camera.

During a break, Raj leans against a big rock, grimacing as he scrolls through the pictures.

“Any good ones?” I ask.

“Well, you’re really cute,” Raj says. “There’s no doubt about that.” He smiles as he looks at one picture, and I feel myself blush. “But something’s missing.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, joining him by the rock to look over his shoulder at the viewfinder.

“I feel like you have a wall up. Do you see what I mean?” Raj says, showing me some examples. In the shots where I’m making eye contact with the camera, I see that I’m a little removed. They look like pictures for Facebook, not headshots. “I think you need to open up a little and…how do I say this?…reveal something.”

“Okay,” I say. The muscles on the back of my neck tense. “You’re a director, can you…direct me?”

“Sure,” Raj says, standing up. “Let’s try some shots by that bench.”

I walk over to the bench, sit down, and smile, feeling even more self-conscious than before I knew I was inadvertently putting up a wall.

“Just close your eyes and breathe,” Raj says. I take a few deep breaths. Then I open my eyes, look up at him, and smile. He snaps a picture. “Let’s try that again.” We do, but clearly I’m not letting my guard down enough. In fact, the harder I try, the tenser I feel. “Okay, I have an idea,” Raj says. “Think—without thinking too hard—about a moment when you felt really happy. Get really specific. Where were you? Who was with you? What were you doing?”

What comes to mind immediately is Maine, the day before Alex and I set off on our road trip. We were on the ferry to the little island where his family has a summer home. It wasn’t raining, but it was misting. There was supposed to be a send-off party for us with his whole family and all of his cousins, before we drove across country together. I picture Alex, one arm wrapped around me, as he leaned in to kiss my cheek. And suddenly I can feel his skin—my hand on his. I remember thinking that we fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I remember feeling lucky, even though I hadn’t been accepted to college, because I already knew where I belonged. I remember that my fingers were chilly, and then he took my hands in his and blew on them. I remember the smell of his damp wool sweater. And that’s what does it. That’s what sends up a wave of emotion from my gut so forceful it hits me like a fist. Raj is clicking his camera, but I cover my face and turn away.

“You okay?” Raj asks.

I nod, but I can’t speak. If I do, the tears will surely start. And once they start, I’m not sure they’ll ever stop. I walk away and face the San Gabriels. I hold my breath until I feel the wave subsiding.

“Hey, are you okay?” Raj asks again.

“Yup,” I call back, and I hold up my hand as if to say, One minute. I don’t turn around until I’m one hundred percent positive that I won’t cry.

“Do you see what I mean about shooting headshots outside?” Marisol asks later that night as the three of us eat Thai food and look over the pictures in Raj’s apartment. I promised Raj I would buy him dinner for all of his help, and Marisol didn’t have any cash on her, so I bought enough for all three of us. There are no less than eight Thai restaurants within a two-mile radius of the Chateau. “There are too many factors to consider,” she says as she slurps her spicy shrimp soup. “Not to mention hair and makeup.”

“Yeah, but you can’t beat the setting,” Raj says as he pops a spring roll into his mouth. “Or the natural light.”

“These are amazing shots,” I say, clicking on a picture of myself leaning against a curved wall of the observatory. “Couldn’t I use this one?”

“It’s a beautiful picture, but it’s too serious for you,” Marisol says. “If you were in your forties and hoping to play a divorced mom, I’d say go for it. But you’re eighteen and comedic, I think. People aren’t going to know what to do with you with that shot.”

“So we need a close-up of Becca smiling,” Raj says, quickly clicking through the one hundred and ten pictures he took.

After a container of pad Thai, two sides of chicken skewers, some fried tofu, and a fistful of fortune cookies, we narrow it down to three good pictures. Even if I do seem somewhat removed in them, and despite the fact that I could use some mascara and some concealer, they are at least a good representation of me.

Marisol sighs. “As brilliant as you are, Raj, I just don’t think they look like headshots.”

“But they’re shots of my head,” I say.

Raj laughs. “She has a point. I’d call her in for one of my films without a doubt.”

“I’m afraid that if you use them, you’re going to look like you don’t know what you’re doing,” Marisol says. “No one will take you seriously with those shots.”

“Whaaaat? Come on, now.” Raj’s voice has a defensive edge.

“Relax,” Marisol says. “Let me show you what I mean.”

Marisol shows us the online portfolio of her headshot photographer, and I see that she’s right. The actors look perfectly groomed and flawless. They look, well, like actors.

“Okay, okay, we get the point,” Raj says after we’ve seen enough doe-eyed ingénues to sink the Titanic.

“I’ve come all this way, the least I can do is get a headshot that looks real,” I say.

“I’m sorry, boo,” Marisol says. “I’m just telling you the truth.”

“The sad truth,” Raj says. He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Our pictures are much cooler.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “Friends are honest, right? But I don’t know how I’m going to do it. I don’t have a thousand dollars just, you know, lying around.”

“That’s why God made credit cards,” Marisol says, and smiles.