THE REHEARSAL SCHEDULE for Baby Bear’s First Hanukkah is a jam-packed three weeks. We’re expected to be off book, which means have our lines memorized, after one week. During my waitressing shifts I go over my lines in my head. I keep pages of my script tucked into my apron, and when I have a down moment, I duck into the coffee station and study them. I finally seem to have the knack for waitressing as long as it doesn’t get too busy and no one yells. Ever since my suspension, I stay as far away from Gloria as possible. When she criticizes me for not looking neat enough or being too slow or saying, “I’ll have to check,” when a customer inquires about every single ingredient in the Cahuenga salad (there are eighteen), I don’t make eye contact with her, but focus on a spot on the wall, nod, and just say, “Okay.”

One day after Gloria reads me the riot act over a mixed-up order, a bodybuilder leaves me a crisp hundred-dollar bill as a tip on a twenty-dollar check. I can’t believe my luck. It would ruin it completely if I spent it on something practical, so I pop into a cute new boutique in Los Feliz and buy a shirt that costs seventy-five dollars. I know it’s stupid to spend so much on a single shirt, but it’s a deep red that brings out my coloring, and the fabric is fine and soft, draping over my body in just the right way.

And then, even better, there’s a new waiter, a musician named Jimmy. Gloria focuses on him for several shifts, allowing me to fade into the background. I had to cut back two of my shifts in order to make all the rehearsals. When I tried to figure out how I was going to cover my bills this month, I realized there was no way that I would. I put the most basic things, like food, on my credit card and try not to think about it even though the balance is creeping north of three thousand dollars. My limit is five thousand dollars, so I need to be careful. But the truth is that if I were to keep my head above water in LA, I’d never have time to pursue acting. Denial is part of this adventure.

Almost every day I meet Marisol at the café near the Chateau. We don’t like our jobs and have made a pact to not discuss them so that we can spend as much time as possible focusing on our real lives, our acting careers. I take the last bite of avocado salad. This salad, which has a whole avocado and two hard-boiled eggs, has become our staple. It costs eight dollars. We figured out that if we split the salad and ask for extra bread and butter, it’s enough food for two. We always eat at the same outdoor table.

I look at my watch. “Oh shit, I’ve got to go to rehearsal.”

“Wait. There’s this agent workshop thing on Saturday, and I know they have some spots left. I signed up for it this morning. It’s at a place called Entertainment Connection Studios. You pay seventy-five bucks and you get to audition for four commercial agents.” She scribbles ECS and a number on a napkin. “Call this number to make an appointment.”

“Why are you going to one of these things when you have a commercial agent?” I ask.

“Because I want a better one,” she says. “That guy hardly ever sends me out.”

“It’s seventy-five dollars?” I ask, even though I’ve just spent that very amount on a shirt.

“If we get commercials, we can quit our jobs. You can make fifty thousand dollars for a national commercial.”

“Really?”

“Think about it. I know a girl who booked three commercials in LA in one year. She bought a bungalow in Echo Park.”

“Wait, are you going home for Thanksgiving?” I ask. It’s next week, and the closer it gets, the more bummed I am to be spending it alone.

“Nope,” Marisol says. “I thought I was spending it with you.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Of course,” Marisol says. “We’ll think of something fun.”

“We always do.”

She blows me a kiss.

Raj and I have developed a routine. I bring us coffee in my Ikea mugs, which just so happen to be the exact right size for the Corolla’s cup holders, we walk to wherever his car happens to be parked that day, and he drives me to the theater before heading to work.

On the way, we discuss his screenplay, which he’s making great progress on. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so into something. Raj is eating, breathing, and dreaming this script, which is now called Hotel California.

“So I still don’t know why our protagonist Olivia can’t leave the hotel. What’s the psychological reason the spirits are holding her there?” he asks as we make a right onto Santa Monica Boulevard. The traffic is thick.

“I’m going to be late,” I say, checking my phone.

“All the more time for you to help me get to the root of this problem. I mean, not that I want you to be late of course.” He places a hand on his chest and smiles at me. “I only have your best interests at heart, despite the fact that you’re awesome at constructing a story.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I say as a Nissan Altima cuts us off and then slows down so that he makes it through the light, but we’re stuck at the red. “Damn!”

“Why’d you have to do us dirty, Mr. Nissan?” Raj asks, shaking his head.

“Talk to me,” I say, surrendering to my tardiness. I’ll have to hope I can sneak by the moody Dawn.

“Olivia is a control freak. That’s her character flaw. So she needs to get over that in order to escape. She’s going to have to think about her world in a completely new way, but I need to put a finer point on it, and make the psychological fear take a visual, tangible form.”

“So let’s think about this,” I say. “What is being a control freak all about?”

“Being a perfectionist,” Raj says. “Not wanting to hear anyone else’s point of view.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I think it’s about…avoiding chaos. Why do people avoid chaos?”

“They’re scared,” Raj says.

“Right. They don’t want to get hurt,” I say. Of course I’m thinking of Alex, who chose to cut me off emotionally so that he didn’t have to deal with the messiness of being separated from me. “They want to avoid pain.”

“Yes!” Raj says, barely making it through a yellow light.

“So in order for Olivia to escape the grip of the hotel…” I begin.

“She’s going to have to deal with some ancient pain.”

“Something that’s been haunting her,” I say as he pulls into a loading zone in front of the theater. “Only now, it’s literally haunting her!”

“I’m going to have to park and write this down,” Raj says.

“Are you sure you don’t mind all these rides?” I ask, stepping out of the car. “I should at least reimburse you for gas.”

“It’s on the way to work.”

“No, it’s not,” I say, with a smile. Of course, he blushes. Now I’ve lived here long enough to know that Raj is definitely going out of his way to bring me to rehearsal.

“It’s fine. It’s actually really selfish of me because you help me talk through all my script issues,” he says. “I owe you.”

“You can thank me by giving me a part when you’re a famous director,” I say.

“You got it,” he says, and I run around the theater to the back door, hoping to avoid Dawn.

“Guys, something’s up with Dawn. I’m ten minutes late and she just winked at me,” I say as I walk into the small, co-ed dressing room at the theater. It’s our final rehearsal for Baby Bear’s First Hanukkah.

“She’s in a good mood,” Jeffrey, or Papa Bear, says. “This is what they call an upswing,” he adds gravely.

“I guess that’s better than a downswing?” I say, and find an empty metal folding chair in the tiny room. It’s about eighty-six degrees in the dressing room with all the bodies crammed into such a small space. Naked lightbulbs border the mirrors. Costumes hang on racks. The wire hangers are labeled for each character with tags fashioned out of masking tape. Little pots of makeup—tiny bowls of blush, eyeliner, lip liners, and jars of cold cream—crowd the counter. I take off my cardigan to reveal my lucky red shirt. I catch my reflection in one of the many mirrors; it was worth it.

Sally, aka Mama Bear, is in her slip, laughing at something Max, aka Hunter Green, has said. Sally, as true to her part as ever, is our actual den mother, always making sure that everyone’s okay. She’s in her fifties with pockmarked skin and the easy laugh of someone who’s had a lot of therapy and gets life’s ironies.

“Hey, sweetie,” she says. “You look cute today.”

“Thanks, Sally. This shirt was way too expensive, but I bought it anyway.”

“The price us dames pay for beauty,” she says, and bats her eyelashes.

Jeffrey’s dressed and ready to go a full hour before showtime. He’s sitting in front of the dressing room mirror with his feet on the counter pontificating to Anya, aka Goldie Lox, who is complaining about her Republican boyfriend.

“You’ve got to be a Democrat when you’re young, and a Republican as you grow older,” Jeffrey tells her, then adjusts his bear costume.

“He is fifteen years older than me, but I still don’t think that’s any excuse to be a Republican,” she says.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Never ask an actress how old she is,” Jeffrey says. “Trust me.”

“I don’t believe in that garbage,” Sally says. “I’ll be fifty-six in May.”

“A Gemini! I knew it!” Anya says as she takes off her shirt to reveal a surprisingly antiquated pointed bra and grandmother-style underwear. Jeez. Is Anya, like, fifty, too?

“Do you think these costumes have ever been washed?” I ask Sally, as I slip a leg into my bear suit.

“Not in the seven years I’ve been doing the show,” she says, and ties an apron around her furry waist. As much as I like Sally, I say a silent prayer that I won’t be wearing this bear suit seven years from now.

After rehearsal, I head to Entertainment Connection Studios. I tried to simply sign up for an “agent workshop” over the phone, but the young woman on the end of the line insisted that I “schedule a consultation.”

It’s in a modern building in West Hollywood, and only a short bus ride from the theater. ECS has glossy wooden floors and sleek, modern furniture. I walk down a hallway lined with advertisements for headshot photographers until I reach a reception counter. The pert receptionist adjusts her headset and smiles up at me.

“I have an appointment with Danielle.”

“You’re going to love Danielle,” the receptionist says, and presses a button on her phone.

Danielle appears from around the corner. Her nose looks like it’s being pinched by a clothespin. She extends a hand for a limp handshake, and it feels like it’s made of bird bones. She leads me back to her cubicle, pulls out a chair for me like we’re on a date, then sits and studies my headshot and résumé.

“You’re like me. You look so young. And you’re very commercial, though I can tell that you’re capable of dramatic roles as well.” She cocks her head to the side. “You might benefit from some headshot advice.”

Ugh. The headshots again.

Then, after extracting enough smiles from me to feel we have bonded, she begins a line of questioning: “Have you ever had representation? Do you even know what you’re looking for in an agent? Do you have any idea what the different agencies offer?” She tilts her head like a puppy. “No? This is all so new, isn’t it? What you need is our full membership program.”

“What is that? How much is that?”

“Let me tell you what it includes. For starters, you get individual career counseling, priority admission at high-demand workshops, pre-printed mailing labels—”

“Is it free?”

“Hold on. You also get fifteen percent off of a professional headshot consultation—”

“Yes, but how much does it cost?”

She smiles stiffly. “It’s nine hundred and ninety-eight dollars for the first year.”

“I just wanted to sign up for the workshop with the commercial agents.”

“You can do that, but that’s going to cost you seventy-five dollars, which I could just put toward your membership. Twelve more workshops like that and you’ll have your membership, and the classes will basically be free! You’ll get unlimited use of our Macs and printers, a copy of our ‘Taking Charge Actor’s Handbook.’”

“No, thanks. I can only afford one workshop.”

“I don’t think it’s a valuable use of your time or your money. You’ve got to see yourself as having your own corporation. It’s called Becca Inc. You have to spend money to make money. These headshots, for instance, really aren’t going to be much use to you.”

“I like my headshots,” I say.

“If you don’t put your absolute best foot forward for the industry, I have to wonder how you feel about yourself.” She pulls a calculator from her desk drawer. “We could work out a payment plan.”

“I just want to sign up for the Saturday audition thing next week.”

“All I can tell you is that you’re lucky there’s even room. And that’s because of the holidays. The workshops with the good people, anyway—I mean, everyone we bring in here is good, but with the really well-known agents, those workshops fill up right away. In an hour sometimes. Last week one filled up in twenty minutes.”

“Danielle.” (Danielle, who are you? Where are you from, you little snake?) I take a deep breath and sit taller. I’m even shaking a little. But I know when someone is trying to take advantage of me, and after so much waitressing, I’ve learned how to stand up for myself. When I say her name I feel that I’m taking the power back. “Danielle. It’s a risk I’m just going to have to take.”

“Okay.” Her shoulders slump, and she reluctantly prints out a sheet of paper and hands it to me without making eye contact. “Tara will take care of you at the front desk.”

When I get to the lobby, I hand the sheet of paper to Tara. “Do you take credit cards?”

“Sure,” she says. I feel a little sick as I hand over the card.

As I’m leaving the building, I pass Juice Man, who’s on his way in. He’s on his cell phone and does a double take when he sees me. Who is this omnipresent man?

“Are you following me?” he asks, grinning.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” I say. He laughs and continues his conversation.

“See you later,” I say under my breath.