“YOU WERE BEGGING? On Venice Beach?” Mom asks. I’m lying on my bed with my limbs bent and splayed in a pose of defeat, like an actor on a Civil War reenactment battlefield.

“I wasn’t begging, Mom. I was giving advice. I was providing a service,” I say into the phone. I sit up and stare at my Polaroids, which I’ve been sticking to my mirror in no particular order.

“On the beach?”

“Kind of. I was more on the boardwalk. But, yeah.”

“Whatever. It was outdoors. It was begging.”

“You wouldn’t say that if I’d been playing the flute in a velvet skirt,” I say, placing the picture that Raj took of Marisol and me next to the one of her doing a cartwheel on the beach. So far the collage looks kind of messy, but I’m messy inside right now, too, so at least it’s authentic.

“What was Alex doing there?” Mom asks.

“He was going to see that Jones concert that we’d bought tickets to back in June. He went with his roommate.”

I tape up the other two pictures I have from today, one of our bare feet in the sand, and one of Raj listening to me, his hand curled under his chin like The Thinker.

“He wanted to see you,” Mom says. “And I think maybe you wanted to see him, too.”

“It was a total coincidence,” I say. “I promise.”

“That you went to Venice, where the concert was being held?”

“The concert was in Santa Monica,” I say.

“Close enough—on the day you knew Alex had the tickets. I don’t know, honey. I really think you should come home.” I hear her spoon hit the side of her tea mug. She sips the drink, and I listen as she takes a bite of what I know is toast with apple butter on it, because it’s December and we always have toast with apple butter in the winter. I feel a pang, wishing I were with her.

“I can’t come home.” I’m surprised by my own certainty.

“What do you mean you can’t? Pack up your stuff, get on a plane, and come home. You can use my credit card.”

“I’m not ready to surrender.” I close my eyes and fall back on my bed. “Besides, I’m in a play.”

“The bears one?”

“Yes,” I say, annoyed by her tone. “It’s a real play, Mom. And they pay me. And I have an idea for a web series.”

“LA is a big city. A big, expensive city. You obviously can’t afford it, honey.”

“Yes, I can. I made my rent. And Marisol and I are going to move in together. We decided today.”

“What about the college applications? You have less than five weeks. They should be just about done now. Are they?”

“Almost,” I say, though this is not the case at all. And it’s not just because I feel a little sick every time I open the Common App. It’s also because I don’t want to give them the chance to reject me all over again. And I’m not sure if I belong in college. What if Marisol is right, and I’m a genuine artist who doesn’t really need college? “I’m not ready to give up on acting, Mom.”

“Have I told you about my old classmate Caroline Windsor?”

“No,” I say. My feet are starting to itch again. I peel off my socks.

“We were tied for valedictorian in high school.”

“You can tie for that?” I ask, threading my fingers through my toes to get to the really itchy places.

“Sure. She went to Harvard. And then she became an actress. She’s a pretty lady, too. At least she was. Time has not been kind to her. All that hard living, I suppose. She crashed on couches and ate ramen long after the rest of us moved on. She had bit parts here and there, but she never had a break. The whole thing is very sad if you ask me.”

“Maybe her big break is right around the corner,” I say, putting her on speaker and carrying the phone to the bathroom so that I can wash my hands.

“Oh, honey, that’s the kind of thinking that got her in trouble in the first place. Grandma told me that she still asks her parents for money on a regular basis. At thirty-eight. A Harvard graduate. Can you imagine? At one point, she was a clown. From Harvard to the circus. She’s the antithesis of the American dream. You don’t want to end up like Caroline.”

“Jeez! Aren’t you being a little judgmental? Maybe she enjoys being a clown.” I remember that California Film School offers clowning classes, and smile to myself. It sounded fun to me. The hot water feels good and I decide to soak my feet. “Maybe she brings people happiness. Did you ever think of that? Besides, don’t you believe in me?”

“Oh, I believe in you. I believe you are a beautiful, intelligent, incredible young woman. And I want to see you succeed. I don’t want you to miss out on college. If you let these next few weeks get away from you, I promise that you will regret it. What are you doing? Are you taking a bath?”

“I’m just soaking my feet,” I say, then realize if I tell her I’ve contracted athlete’s foot from a gnarly bear costume, she’ll use it as ammunition. “To, um, relax. Anyway, I’m not going to let anything get away from me, Mom. But I do love California.”

“You can apply to schools in California, honey. But I’m not going to sit back and watch you let the years go by, sitting on the sidewalk with a coffee can, all because you can’t get a part in a chicken soup commercial. It’s beneath you, and you know it. Don’t you want to succeed?”

“Of course.” Monistat and antifungal foot cream are on the sink. My black waitressing sneakers, the toes curled up with wear, are in the spot I kicked them off last night. Next to the toilet is Making It in Hollywood! From her author photo, Suzi Simpson looks at me with her kind, no-nonsense expression. I grab the Polaroid and capture the scene. Then I tuck the undeveloped picture into the mirror.

“Promise me that you won’t miss those deadlines. I’m on your side, you know. No matter what, I’m always on your side.”

“I know,” I say, wincing with pleasure as I slip my feet into the hot water.

“Tell you what. I’ll pay the application fees.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I’ll send you a check tomorrow. In return you have to promise me to apply.”

“Thanks, Mom. I promise.” I debate telling her about my application in progress—my collage for California Film School—but for some reason I don’t.

“And you know, maybe you should call Caroline. She might have some advice. I’ll e-mail you her contact info. I’m sure I have it somewhere.”

“Maybe I will,” I say, though deep down, I have to admit that her life seems pretty depressing, even if she does occasionally bring happiness to others. “She sounds like a very brave person.” Mom sort of grunts. “It was an adventure today, Mom. There was this guy next to us playing drums, and Raj brought us iced coffee, and I think Marisol met a guy. And the beach, Mom. It’s just beautiful. I think you’d love it out here, actually. Maybe you could do, like, a Murphy’s Soap commercial.”

“Murphy’s Soap? I’m not that old.”

“You’re getting there,” I joke.

“I’m hanging up. I love you to the sky.”

“And back,” I say.

We hang up. I glance at the Polaroid picture. It’s not ready yet, but I have a feeling when it develops it’s going to be heartbreaking.

Later that night, Raj knocks on my door. I’m a little embarrassed about the state of my studio since his is so neat and tidy. But he doesn’t even seem to notice.

“I want to show you this footage,” he says. He sits on my bed and I sit next to him. He shows me the scenes we recorded on his iPhone, and we both laugh. It’s not just the improv between Marisol and me that works, it’s the places that Raj zooms in and pulls away. It’s who he chooses to focus on and when.

“Do I think this is funny just because of the Ikea effect?” I ask.

“Do you mean because we made it?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“No way,” Raj says. “There’s poetry here. I like how you recovered when your hat blew off. It was this totally real moment, and I love that you just went with it. A lot of people might have frozen up.”

“Wait, is my wall down?” I ask, grabbing his hand.

“I think so,” Raj says, and turns to me. For a moment we’re both very still, and then I realize what’s about to happen. He leans in for a kiss, and I pull away.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my heart racing. “I can’t.”

“Becca, I really like you.”

“Yeah, but…” I freeze. I feel like I’m watching the scene from a distance. Something deep inside of me has gone numb. If my wall was down today, it’s back up now.

“It’s because of Alex?” Raj asks, and I wince at the sound of his name. Is it because of Alex? I was feeling something this morning. I was so easy, so free with Raj. I feel smarter around him, better than my normal self. So why do I feel so locked up inside? Raj’s jaw tightens. His eyes flicker with pain, and I feel desperate to get out of this moment. “You want to get back together with him?”

“No,” I protest. “I mean—I don’t know. I should be over him by now. I know that, but it’s like I’m stuck.” He sighs and stands up. “I’m confused. I feel—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says, backing away. As he’s about to leave, he pauses in the doorway. “Remember when we were talking about Hotel California? You were the one who said that avoiding pain is what keeps people running in circles, staying in the same place.”

“How can I be avoiding pain when I’m in so much pain?” I say, holding back tears.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

I stand up and open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, I feel something sharp and foreign in my chest, like a rock. No matter which way I move today, something hurts.