THE NEXT DAY Marisol and I go to the Ramada Inn pool, aka our pool, which really is—as I know all too well—way too easy to sneak into. We don’t even have to walk through the lobby, where the hotel staff might start to get wise to us. We just amble through the parking lot and open a back gate, and voilà, we’re in our own little paradise. We’re usually the only ones here, but today a pasty, middle-aged couple who look like tourists from the Midwest have crashed our party, sitting in lounge chairs and looking at those maps that show where movie stars live.

“I can’t believe you broke up with him,” I say.

“I can’t believe that I didn’t see his uptightness sooner,” Marisol replies. “Usually I can sniff out an uptight person like that,” she says, snapping her fingers. “My radar must be way off.”

The couple turns around, startled by her volume. They continue to watch her, captivated, no doubt, by her vintage bathing suit and sunglasses, and all-around self-possession. She looks like a 1940s movie star as she takes off her sunglasses and says, “Besides, how could I be with a man who tried to silence you?”

The couple gathers their things and heads inside.

I laugh and she does, too. I’m glad to see her looking so happy and free. Marisol booked that cereal commercial and then quit her job. However, she hasn’t booked another one since.

“We need to celebrate my new single status and your career advancement. Let’s go out again tonight!” She claps her hands and rubs them together.

“I can’t jinx it. My official audition is tomorrow at eight. But tell me everything you know about commercials.”

She pulls out two iced teas from her purse and tells me that a national commercial on this scale would earn an actor between twenty and sixty thousand dollars. The actor gets paid a flat fee for the day of work. That fee varies depending on the actor, the part, the product, and if the commercial will run on cable or on the networks. It’s usually about five hundred bucks. If an actor’s in the Screen Actors Guild, he or she earns a small amount of money every time the commercial plays. This money is called residuals, and it’s where the twenty to sixty grand comes in. Because I’m not in SAG, I won’t get residuals. The payment for the day will be my only payment.

“Without an agent, you’re really going to have to fight for yourself.” Marisol dives into the pool, swimming to the end underwater before coming up for air. “But you need to negotiate hard.”

I put my head in my hands. “The last thing I negotiated for was twelve dollars an hour for a babysitting job. Working up the guts to do that gave me a stomachache for a week.” I slide into the pool. “How will I know how much to ask for? How will I know I’m not being ridiculous?”

“Well, they want your dance moves. They made that very clear.” She floats on her back. “You have special skills. I know one girl who got six grand for a day of work because of her special skills.”

“Jesus. What could she do?”

“Speak Japanese and juggle fire. But you’re a really good dancer. Play hardball and see what happens.”

This conversation is running through my mind as I sit on a red leather sofa in the slick Santa Monica offices of the advertising agency. I had a brief audition for Woody and some Volkswagen executive earlier in the morning. I danced and lip-synched to Michael Jackson’s “The Way You Make Me Feel” in a large conference room. I wasn’t trying to be funny, but they laughed when I said the one line of copy, “I love the way you make me feel, Volkswagen,” and offered me the part on the spot.

Marisol insisted that I wear a short skirt and heels, so now the backs of my knees are sticking to the red sofa. I take a deep breath as I get to the page in the contract that specifies the amount paid for services rendered. “I’d love to do this for a thousand dollars. However—”

“That’s more than they usually pay for a day of work,” Woody says.

“But because I’m not in the union and this isn’t a SAG shoot, I won’t be getting residuals….”

“I don’t mean to be a jerk, but that’s part of the reason we went non-union. Dealing with agents is just…ugh. It’s a nightmare.”

I think of Suzi Simpson. I need to be my own agent. Suzi Simpson says you can always walk away.

“I’m not sure this is going to work out,” I say. “I realize I don’t have an agent, but that means I have to really look after my own interests here.”

“What would you consider fair?” Woody asks, jingling change in his pocket.

“I was thinking…five,” I say, feeling the color rise in my cheeks.

“Five thousand dollars?” The change stops jingling.

“Most actors would make at least thirty thousand with residuals. So, like I said, I won’t see a dime of that because this isn’t a SAG gig. I understand if there’s another actress you’d like to go with, but personally, I need to pay my rent and put some food on the table. I mean, what would you do?”

He smiles. “Let me see if I can get you two.”

“Five,” I say, holding five fingers in the air.

“I’ll be right back.” He opens the glass door of his office, then sticks his head back inside and smiles. “Balls of steel, by the way. Love it.”

The second he’s gone I peel my legs off the sofa and start panting with anxiety. I fan my shirt away from my perspiring body and gulp the Diet Coke Woody gave me from his personal mini-fridge.

Woody bursts back into the office so suddenly I almost spit the soda all over him. He grins and opens his arms. “Tell you what, Becca. You have us over a barrel. Five thousand it is.”

All I can think is that Suzi Simpson would be so proud. I should have asked for ten.

Me: Mom, I’m going to be in a commercial!

Mom: What? That’s amazing! What for?

Me: Volkswagen. Can you believe it?

Mom: How did this happen?

Me: Karaoke! I was picked out of the crowd at a bar.

Mom: Amazing! Wait, how did you get into a bar?

Me: Mom, that’s not the point!

Mom: Okay, okay. I know, but I can’t help it. I’m your mom. When can I see it?

Me: I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I do.

Mom: My baby is famous!

Me: Ha! Not exactly. I gotta go. I have to get my beauty sleep.

Please don’t ask about college applications, I think. Please, please. The only one I’ve made any progress on is the California Film School one.

My favorite thing about the day of the actual shoot is the terminology. I have a call time (time you need to be at the set), a wardrobe fitting (they pick out your costume), and a hair and makeup call (self-explanatory). It’s a rainy December morning, and I treat myself to an Uber to make sure I get to the set on time. It’s in a studio in a weird area near downtown. As instructed, I check in with the AD (assistant director). I stop by craft services (free food!) for breakfast. Later, I’m outfitted in a bright blue dress, and my hair is trimmed and blow-dried while a pretty girl with a super-stylish Afro does my makeup.

“You have great cheekbones,” the makeup girl says.

“I do?” I ask. Even though I’ve heard this before, it feels new and special coming from a real makeup artist.

“And good lips, too,” she says, smiling. “Let’s listen to some music. Do you like Joan Armatrading?”

“I love her,” I say, even though I have no idea who she is. When they’re done, I check myself out in the mirror. I know it’s a total cliché, but I can’t believe I’m getting paid for this.

The director, Doug, wears a sweatshirt and jeans with holes in them. I have to dance to “The Way Make You Make Me Feel,” a bunch of times before I’m in the groove. But then, it seems, I get it right. Five thousand dollars for only five hours of work!

“That was it,” he says on the fifth take. He shakes my hand. “That’s a wrap.”

When I get home I really want to see Raj. I get as far as standing in front of his door, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel…appropriate. I hate the word as I think it. Why isn’t it appropriate for me to share the best news ever with the person who will be the happiest for me?

Because I’ve hurt him, I think. Because even though I like him, I can’t return his feelings. And yet, I miss him so much in this moment, this joyful, over-the-top, victorious moment, I’m on the verge of crying.