“SO YOU’RE JEALOUS,” Suzi Simpson writes in a chapter titled “I Will Survive.” “Well, whoopty-flippin-doo. We’re all jealous! No matter how far you get in life someone is always going to have it better. I know that probably doesn’t help. I know it doesn’t make you feel better. But what if I told you that jealousy can be a tool—just like rejection? That’s right. The same way that rejection can be your fuel, jealousy can be your GPS. The next time you start to feel yourself ‘go green’ (and I’m not talking about recycling, though Lord knows we should all be doing that, too!), whip out that little notebook I told you to buy back in Chapter 2 (you didn’t skip it, did you?), and write down what the other person has that you want. Circle it twice and call it a GOAL.”

I did not skip Chapter 2, I tell Suzi in my head as I pour myself another cup of coffee at my kitchen table, which only wobbles the tiniest bit, and pull out my list. I already know my number-one goal.

I circle the word agent twice. Then I skip to Chapter 6, which begins with Suzi’s advice about how to get representation and ends with a list of agencies in Los Angeles. I’ve read it a bunch of times, but I read it again.

“Okay, kiddos, bad news first,” Suzi writes. “It takes an agent to get an agent. But here’s the good news. You already have one. Look in the mirror and meet the person who’s going to make your dreams come true. That’s right—YOU!

“Everyone wants digital submissions these days,” Suzi writes. “But I believe that nothing stands out like a high quality photograph, the kind you can actually hold in your hand, delivered in person by you—the most neatly groomed and presentable version of yourself, that is.”

I’ve been there and done that, and I only got one receptionist to take one measly Polaroid, but I don’t know what else I can do, and I have to do something. Maybe it’ll be different this time. Maybe I don’t look like I just got here anymore—this will be especially true if I can figure out eye makeup. I take a quick trip to the Mayfair, buy whatever I can from their small makeup section, and then watch several YouTube videos. By the time I go to bed, I can confidently check number seven off my list.

So on my next day off, armed with a bus pass, an outfit I borrowed from Marisol, and my subtle yet effective eye makeup, I set about hand delivering my headshots—again—to talent agencies. I make a list of fourteen agencies that I haven’t been to yet. I address each cover letter and envelope to a specific agent. Then I plan out a route that starts in West Hollywood, continues to Beverly Hills, crosses to Century City, and ends in Santa Monica, where Marisol is going to meet me for what she calls the best happy hour on the planet.

“You like oysters?” she asked.

“Oh yeah,” I said.

“Then, girl, get ready to feast. I’ll see you at the Lanai Hotel at four.”

Rejection is my fuel, I tell myself every time Alex creeps into my mind. And I swear, this little mantra is working. Instead of feeling sad, I feel pissed off. But that anger doesn’t get me down. Instead, it gets me going. If I feel tempted to get off track and browse in a store, I remember that I am my own agent, working for myself, and I’m not about to slack on the job.

Many of the agencies have a mail slot with a HEADSHOTS HERE sign. It seems to defeat the purpose of hand delivering as I don’t get to make any personal contact, but I think the universe is taking note. At some agencies you can just walk through the door like you belong there. I always smile as I drop my carefully addressed, handwritten envelopes off with the receptionist. Suzi tells me to say that I was “in the area for a dance class.” I haven’t actually taken a dance class since I was six, but I love the line and what it implies about my life.

“I was in the area for a dance class,” I tell a gorgeous twenty-something in a modern office with a view of the Hollywood Hills. She’s wearing full makeup and an expensive suit.

“There’s a dance class around here?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. I nod. “Really? You mean the pole dancing class?”

“Yes! It’s great for the abs,” I say, smiling and making a quick exit.

“Hello? I was in the area for a dance class,” I call down the hallway of an office in Beverly Hills that appears to be empty. I figure everyone is in a meeting, place my headshot on the empty reception desk, and slip out the door.

“I hope it’s not a problem that I’m dropping by, it’s just that I was in the area for a dance class,” I say to a girl in jeans and a T-shirt at a small office in Santa Monica.

“I read that book,” she says, and she winks as she takes the envelope from my hand.

Later I meet Marisol at the Lanai Hotel. She’s found a table in the bar area with a breathtaking view of the beach, and ordered us two glasses of crisp white wine. It must be Marisol’s confidence, but no one asks us for ID. She looks timeless in a yellow maxi dress and a white shawl, her dark hair piled on top of her head.

“Come, my darling,” she calls to me as I walk toward her. The air is sweet with salt and rosy with afternoon sun. Ropey-legged joggers run past the hotel in neon sneakers. Seagulls strut in the sand. The ocean roars in the distance. A chilly breeze sends goose bumps up my arms, as a waiter in a blue oxford shirt delivers an icy platter of oysters and a basket of warm French bread.

“We’ll need two more of these,” Marisol says, gesturing to our wineglasses, even though I’ve only had one bracing sip. “I took the bus, too,” she says. “So we can really enjoy ourselves.”

“You took the bus? But you hate the bus.”

“But then I realized that we could party, and somehow my fear just”—she snaps her fingers—“went away.” I laugh as she tips an oyster back into her mouth. “Now, tell me about your journey.”

I go over all the places I visited today, and we eat like we own the town, taking advantage of every last minute of the happy hour. At six o’clock, after two hours of drinking white wine and stuffing ourselves with bread and oysters, our bill is seventy-five dollars, which is somehow so much more than I was expecting it to be. I’m a little worried about making rent this month, but I try not to think about it as I place my credit card on the table.

“Oh no!” Marisol says when she looks in her purse. “I forgot my wallet!”

“Don’t worry, I got it,” I say, even though the money I spend makes me feel a little sick. I could have just spent twenty bucks at the Mayfair on beans and rice and a bottle of cheap Chardonnay.

“Thank you,” Marisol says, resting her head on my shoulder. “I’ll get you back, I swear.”

Marisol and I stumble out into the sand, take off our shoes, and watch the sun drop into the sea. My head is swimming with wine, and my limbs are loose and warm. We sit back-to-back, and she sings a song in Spanish. I try to join in with her, approximating the words as best I can because I don’t know Spanish. Our voices grow louder and more dramatic, until we are nearly peeing ourselves with laughter. The sky dissolves into lavender, then indigo behind the Santa Monica Pier. Blue-and-red lights illuminate the outline and spokes of a Ferris wheel, like it’s a giant unicycle about to spin across the Pacific.

For the moment I can forget about the college applications I haven’t been working on. The one exception is the California Film School. I keep pulling up their website when I’m on the bus. It’s so different from the other schools. I think I can ask Mr. Devon, my theater teacher, for a reference again, but who can I ask to write my artistic reference? Who knows my voice when I’m not even sure what it is yet?

But as far as the other applications, I’m so behind. I feel nauseated with guilt. I take a picture of Ferris wheel lights with the moon behind them and text it to Mom.

Me: To here and back.

Mom: Always. Again and again.

Marisol ties her dress in a knot and turns a cartwheel in the sand. I take the Polaroid camera out of my bag and snap a picture for my collage.