MARISOL’S PHOTOGRAPHER IS booked until Christmas. So I research headshot photographers online and meet with my three favorites. I hire Theresa Vasquez because she accepts credit cards and the people in her pictures look engaged, like they’re listening to a story with a luminous vulnerability or a charming, restrained enthusiasm. I scroll through the pictures on her site. The last one is a picture of a lady angling for school principal and judge parts. “I’ll allow it, Counselor, but you’re on thin ice,” her expression says.

“Bring five of your favorite outfits. You want to feel like yourself because you need to look like yourself,” Theresa says when we schedule. “And bring lots of textures. I love texture.” I choose a blousy top that has metallic threads running through it, a tank top with lace trim, a T-shirt with a scoop neck, a retro denim jacket, a sundress, a chunky cardigan, and my favorite jeans.

The morning of my shoot, I wake up early, leaving plenty of time to take a shower, wash and dry my hair, pick up a coffee at Starbucks, and get the bus downtown without any stress. I’m making my way to the bus stop on Hollywood Boulevard, an Ikea bag with my outfits in one hand and my latte in the other, when a Honda Civic pulls up next to me.

“Becca?”

It’s Oh Fucky!

“Hi,” I say, wishing I’d never told him my name.

“Can I offer you a lift?” he asks.

“No, thank you,” I say, continuing to walk. He drives slowly next to me. I feel like I should be scared, but I’m not. I just want him to go away.

“Do you like avocado?” he asks.

“Um, yes?”

“I knew it. Women love avocados. Now, I know you don’t like sushi, but I can make an avocado filled with itty-bitty shrimp that will blow your mind. What do you say? A bottle of red. Avocado and prawns. Chocolate. My place or yours—wherever you feel more comfortable. We’ll light some scented candles? Maybe take a bubble bath?”

“No, no, no thank you. I don’t think my boyfriend will like that.”

“Oh fucky!” He hits the accelerator and drives off.

Ew! A bubble bath? Itty-bitty shrimp? I feel gross just knowing that Oh Fucky’s been planning this evening for us. And he lives right upstairs! I try to shake off the encounter so none of its weird residue interferes with my shoot. My shoot!

Theresa picks through my clothes and pulls out the cardigan, holding it with her thumb and forefinger. “Okay, this could work.” She drops it on a chaise lounge. “If you were fifty.” I feel my throat close a little, the way it does before I cry. She picks up the tank top, checks the label, and runs her fingers over the lace trim. “I’d hate for you to look cheap.” She tosses it on top of the cardigan. My breath gets shallow as she picks up the sundress and frowns, then does the same with the jean jacket. She considers the T-shirt. “We’ll start with this.”

She’s just being honest, I tell myself. This is why I’m paying a professional. She knows what works and what doesn’t.

Her friend Adele walks in from the kitchen and sets up a stool. I’m paying an additional hundred dollars for her to do my makeup. It’s nothing like when Marisol did my makeup. She applies it without tenderness.

“Um, do you think the lipstick’s a little dark?” I say when I look in the mirror. She gives me a condescending look, shakes her head, and touches up her own face with a sponge.

I sit in a chair and smile. Theresa takes a few shots. She lowers the camera away from her face. I wonder if I’m putting up the wall that Raj mentioned again.

“Do you smoke?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.

“No,” I say. “I mean, I did once. I was really stressed-out.”

“I can tell,” she says. Jesus. Wait. I did it once. Don’t all the movie stars smoke for, like, years? “And what kind of stress can you have at your age?”

“Seriously,” Adele says, pressing powder to her forehead. They laugh.

“Kind of a lot,” I say. I’m paying this lady a thousand dollars for an hour and a half of her time, the least she can do is not laugh at me outright. After I leave, fine. Have a laugh at my expense—my very great expense, actually. But now? In the middle of my shoot?

She takes a few more shots.

“How old do you think I am?” She puts her hands on her hips. I know I have to aim low—like ten years low.

“Um, twenty-eight?”

“Forty-three.” She smiles.

“Wow.”

“Doesn’t she look fantastic?” Adele asks. The way she says it sounds like funtastic.

“Want to know how I do it?”

“Sure.” No. I want you to focus on me and take my headshots. I’m talking about a thousand dollars that I don’t have, that I’m putting on a new credit card.

“I’m a vegan. I get ten hours of sleep a night. I do yoga every day. I drink four glasses of water before breakfast. No sugar. No caffeine. No alcohol. And certainly, no cigarettes.” Well, she’s definitely not funtastic. Up close I think her skin looks a little too moist. I think she might need to take her moisturizing routine down just a half step so she doesn’t glisten with quite as much aggression. She stands back and assesses me. “Okay, babe. You’re stiffer than a corpse. We need to loosen you up,” Theresa says. “What kind of music do you like?”

“I don’t know,” I say, afraid I’ll have the wrong answer.

She frowns, puts on a hip-hop mix, and takes what feels like a million pictures. Half the time I’m in the scoop neck T-shirt. The other half I’m wearing one of Theresa’s kurta shirts. We try to do something with a scarf, but it doesn’t work. We seem to reach the same point I did with Raj. I’m guarded, but in this environment, I don’t know how not to be.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Theresa says. “Pretend like I’m your best friend.” I sigh. This is going to be a stretch. “Imagine you’re about to tell me something funny, something that you know will make me laugh.” Immediately Oh Fucky and his gross date suggestion comes to mind.

“I can see you’ve got something,” Theresa says, softening. “Perfect. Can you tell me the story?”

“So there’s this guy in my building…” I start.

“Yeah?” Theresa says. I can see a smile forming behind her camera. “Go on.”

I tell her the story, imagining that she’s Marisol, and as I go on about the avocado and the scented candles, Theresa laughs and shoots away.

“I think we got it,” she says, biting her lower lip.

A week later, I return to her studio, where we go over the pictures. In some of them I look like I’m in a yearbook trying to appear casually popular. In others, I have a deer-in-the-headlights, glazed, nobody’s-home look. And then there are the I-could-eat-you-with-my-enthusiasm shots that were taken when I was imagining she was Marisol. All the pictures I like, in which I think I look good, Theresa tells me look nothing like me.

“This is the one,” she says, pointing to a shot I skipped over.

“I look like an elf.”

“But you’re connecting with the camera.” This makes me think of what Raj said, about how I have a wall up. Still, I can’t help but notice she’s not arguing with my elf assessment. “And your smile’s not too big. It’s natural. You can see your collarbones. That’s a good thing. Shows you’re thin.” She looks at me with narrow eyes. “How do you stay so thin?”

“I don’t know.”

“Be careful. You almost look prepubescent.” Gee, it’s hard to win around here. Last week I was prematurely aging due to a single cigarette. She points to the image. “This is the one. See how alive your eyes are? The way you’re looking up at the camera?”

“But do you think I look pretty?”

She sucks air in through her teeth. “I wouldn’t worry about that too, too much.”

“Why?” The whole point of these pictures is to look as good as you possibly can. Everyone knows that actors and actresses are supposed to be beautiful.

“You’re a character actress,” she says. My heart drops a little. A character actress is one who plays a supporting role—someone unusual or eccentric. “What? Did you think you were a Leading Lady type?”

“No, no. Not at all. No,” I say. I guess I hadn’t thought about my looks beyond believing that I’m appealing and maybe even pretty. I certainly never thought of myself as weird-looking.

“Do you mind if I ask what type you thought you were?”

“I don’t know,” I say, answering honestly. A Leading Lady type in Hollywood is someone indisputably beautiful. Maybe a tiny part of myself hoped I was a lead and indisputably beautiful, and just hadn’t realized it yet, but another more realistic part of myself knew it wasn’t true. I guess, if I were a great beauty, I’d know it by now. Theresa is smiling at me as she awaits my response. “I guess I thought I was a Girl Next Door,” I say. A Girl Next Door type would be someone with a sweet, normal sort of prettiness. Not expected to be a great beauty, the Girl Next Door can nevertheless be a love interest and score a big part.

“No, no, no. You’re a character. Trust me. I’ve been in this business a long time,” she says, as she scrolls through my pictures.

I unnecessarily push my hair behind my ears and guzzle my sparkling water. A character actress, especially one as young as I am, is relegated to a lesser role like the really kooky best friend, or a slightly bonkers camp counselor, maybe the member of a cult, or a teenage mom living in dire straits. Even female high school “nerds” are played by the Girl Next Door types.

“I haven’t upset you, have I?” she asks. I study my jeans. “I think you’re taking this the wrong way. Lots of nice-looking girls are characters.” She points to another one of my shots. “Hey, in this one, you look like you could be the Girl Next Door’s sister.”

“Oh,” I say. “Okay.” The part of Girl Next Door’s sister doesn’t sound so bad, but it certainly isn’t the stuff that dreams are made of. It isn’t why I moved to LA with nothing but a broken heart and a few suitcases.

“This is totally your shot,” Theresa says, tapping her computer screen. “You can send this one out for more serious roles. The other one is a better commercial shot.” She downloads the files onto a memory stick, hands it to me, and smiles, sending her glossy crow’s-feet down her cheeks. “You have the files now. You’re on your way. Don’t worry. You’re going to make it. I know you are. Just stay positive and drink a lot of water. And please, don’t forget to leave a review on Yelp. It’d really help me out.”

As I’m unlocking the door to the Chateau, I run into Marisol, who is on her way to an audition. Her hair looks like it’s been professionally styled, and her barely there makeup gives her a polished yet fresh appearance. She’s definitely a Girl Next Door, if not a Leading Lady. I feel a stab of jealousy, but before it sinks in or starts to ache, Marisol embraces me. She smells like soap and laundry and kindness.

“I have a plan for us for tonight,” she says. “We’re going to this cemetery where they screen movies. Tonight it’s Edward Scissorhands. How fun is that? We can bring a picnic and blankets, and it’s totally free.”

“I’ll make some pasta,” I say.

“Perfect,” Marisol says. “I’ll bring the blankets and swing by around five. Love ya!” She blows me a kiss.

“Love ya, too!” I say, and blow a kiss back.

When I get back to my apartment, I download the pictures immediately. A few minutes later I get a text from Mom with a picture of her at our favorite restaurant attached. The sight of her face on my screen after being away from her for a whole month makes my breath catch in my throat.

Mom: Hi, sweetie. Did you pick out a good headshot?

Me: Yes, I think we got some OK ones. I have a commercial one and a serious one, too.

Mom: Send them to me!!

Me: Here.

I send the pics and she writes back right away.

Mom: Becca, you are GORGEOUS! How is that my baby?

Me: Thanks, Mom.

Mom: I miss you like crazy.

Me: Me too, Mom.

Mom: You’re my brave girl.

Me: Do you think you can come visit?

Mom: I’ve been thinking the same thing. Unless of course you want to come home?

Me: You come here!

Mom: OK. Christmas?

Me: Yes, come out at Christmas!

Mom: I’ll start looking at tickets. Now, I hate to ask…

Me: I haven’t started!

Mom: BECCA. I want you to get your college list in order. Tomorrow is October 1!

Me: OK.

Mom: You’ll have a list in a week?

Me: Yes.

Mom: You’ll get online now?

Me: Yes.

Mom: Promise?

Me: Promise.

Mom: Love you to the sky.

Me: And back.

I open up my laptop and, of course, the first school I look at is Juilliard. How could they not want me? I would so fit in with these people with their dramatic expressions, in their leotards and Shakespeare costumes! Ugh, I was born to spend the day in a leotard! I have to get off the website before I start to get angry. I take a deep breath and review the application. Of course, I’m going to have to get two letters of recommendation. Do I ask the same people I asked last year? Or do I ask new people because obviously the ones I asked didn’t do me much good?

I look at the Stanford website next. There’s no way I’d get in. Ever. I imagine Alex among the Spanish-style buildings. It’s been five weeks since we’ve seen each other. Where is he? I scan the pictures as if he might actually appear in one. I look at my phone and consider calling him. All it would take is one push of the button. It’s so weird that the number that I’ve called so many times in the past is off-limits now. At least it is, if I stick to my guns and make him call me after such a big fuckup. But why hasn’t he reached out? How long is this “beat” going to last? Looking at the Stanford website is turning into an exercise in torture.

I decide to check out Raj’s school, California Film School—a place with no personal pain associated with it. The website looks nothing like the others. It’s different because of the angle of the pictures of the campus, the way the students all appear to be in motion, the totally un-academic font, and the neon color palette. Here, the goal is total authenticity, I read. And my heart starts to race.

The school calls itself a laboratory for storytelling and asks its students to set themselves apart by diving deep within, while at the same time building personal relationships to create a community of artists. And the classes look so cool: Screenwriting for Animators, Finding Your Story, Visual Personal Essay, Real World Survival Skills. There are even acting classes like Scene Study, Improvisation, Advanced Acting, and Clowning. Clowning? That actually sounds kind of fun.

I click on the “apply” button and scan the requirements. No SAT—that’s a relief. (But then, does that mean it’s not a real school? How come I haven’t heard of it until now?) I read on. I’ll also need two letters of recommendation, which should be written by someone who understands my artistic voice. In addition, students must submit a screenplay, a film, or video. Finally there’s a choice between an essay and a collage. Either one should express where you’ve been, where you are, where you’re looking to go.

A collage. I haven’t made one of those since middle school.

Hmm, I think, and make myself a cup of coffee. Hmm.

“I think he likes you,” Marisol says quietly, nodding at Raj. We’re spreading one of Marisol’s blankets on a patch of grass as Raj chats with a classmate about ten feet away from us. We’re in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, where every hipster in Los Angeles has congregated to see the classic Edward Scissorhands. Raj seems to know half of the people here. On our walk into the cemetery, he stopped to talk with at least five people who are either friends from work, his regular customers, or people he goes to school with. I’d asked Raj to join us at the last minute, and he said yes without even thinking, and even offered to pick up samosas from his favorite Indian restaurant. I don’t know what a samosa is, but he’s promised me that I’m going to love them.

“Raj is supercool,” I say, sitting down on the blanket and unpacking our picnic food.

“And cute,” Marisol says. “In that doesn’t-see-the-sun-much-and-drinks-too-much-coffee filmmaker kind of way.”

“But I’m still in love with Alex,” I say.

She raises her eyebrows. I spray cheese on a cracker and hand it to her. Marisol brought spray cheese and Ritz crackers to our picnic, saying it was the only cheese she could afford.

“What?” I say, in response to her look. “I can’t help it.”

“When was the last time you talked to him?” Marisol asks, munching on the cracker. “This is delicious, by the way.”

“Five weeks ago,” I say, spraying cheese on a cracker for myself. She’s right—the spray cheese is so bad that it’s good.

“I don’t mean to be harsh, but don’t you think he would have called by now if you were going to get back together?”

“A month is nothing in the grand scheme of things,” I say. “Not when you’ve been together for two years. And by the way, yes, that’s harsh.”

Mom said that if I was patient, she was sure he would come back to me. She told me the important thing was not to chase him. Men are like rubber bands, she’d said, quoting some dating self-help book. Give him lots of room and he’ll snap right back.

“I think you should call him,” Marisol says.

“Really?” I ask, excited by the possibility.

“Why not?” Marisol says.

“Shouldn’t I let him come to me?”

“What are you, some damsel in distress? Hell, no. You are a modern woman. If you want to talk to him, call his ass.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I say, imagining how incredible it would be to pick up the phone and hear his voice. Maybe he’s feeling the same way I am, but he’s scared to make himself vulnerable. “I think I will.”

“Do it,” Marisol says, helping herself to more spray cheese. “Right now, you’re just reading tea leaves. But if you call him, you’ll at least get some answers.” A breeze sends picnic plates and napkins flying and people jump up to chase after them. “If you’re looking for a new boyfriend, though, Raj would make a good one. You can tell he’s really sweet, you know?”

“Do you like him?” I ask.

“Just as a friend. And anyway, like I could get him to look at me if you’re nearby.”

Could this be true? When I’m with her, I’m hardly ever thinking about my looks. But if I do, I feel plain in comparison. Is she just being nice? I wonder as she pushes my hair behind my ears. And yet, right now, she’s regarding me like I’m the most interesting, adorable creature on earth.

“You’d look awesome with a topknot,” she says.

“Really?”

“I’m all about playing up those cheekbones.” She nudges me. “Oh, he’s coming.”

As images begin to flicker on the giant inflatable screen, Raj saunters toward us with his bag of samosas, striking a lean silhouette, which for some reason reminds me of a cowboy.

And just like that, I have an idea. I turn to Marisol. “Hey, can I borrow your Polaroid for a little while?”

“The Joy Cam? You bet,” she says. “And take the film, too.”