I DEBATE QUITTING my waitressing job. It would feel so good to march out of this restaurant. But instead, when the check clears I decide to pay down my credit card. Now that I’m in a commercial, waitressing doesn’t make me feel so crappy. In fact, Gloria has ceased to be scary. I used to fantasize about telling her off and quitting on the spot, but when I watch her counting bills now, she looks tired and small behind that ridiculous old-fashioned cash register, which looks even more ornate in contrast to her plainness.

“Is your commercial on TV yet?” Chantal asks after she drops off food to a table of hipster chicks who are all dressed like nineties schoolteachers for some reason.

“I just shot it,” I say. It’s a slow morning, so I’m drying and sorting silverware until more customers come in. “I don’t know when it’s going to air.”

“I hope you told my cousin about it. I still can’t believe she didn’t take you on like this.” She snaps her fingers. “You’re my people. Therefore, she’s supposed to give you preferential treatment. I think she did it to get back at me for telling her mom about that weekend in Vegas.”

“It was so unbelievably nice of you to get me a meeting, and for her to meet with me. I sent her an e-mail about the commercial, but she didn’t write me back, so I don’t think there’s anything else to do. Besides, she’s not a commercial agent, she’s a legit agent, so it probably doesn’t mean that much to her.”

“She’s going to regret it when you start making serious bank,” Chantal says.

“Becca,” Gloria calls from the front. “You have a visitor.”

It’s Raj! Standing at the counter in his fedora and a wool coat. He looks like a proper gentleman. Chantal actually whistles. A couple with a set of twins walks into the restaurant behind him, and Gloria seats them in my section.

“I’ll get them,” Chantal says. “You go see your visitor man.”

“Hey, Raj,” I say. I motion for him to join me by the twirling stools in the back. “Now it’s my turn to get you something to drink. What will it be? A Coke? A Sprite? A root beer float?”

“Water’s fine,” he says, and takes a seat. I pour some for him and sit on the stool next to his.

“I just wanted to come by and say that I heard about the commercial, and I’m so proud of you. I hope that doesn’t sound condescending or anything.”

“No, it doesn’t. Thank you.”

“So tell me about it?”

“It was awesome. It was fun and I felt good at it. And they had these delicious tacos for lunch. They let me keep the dress I wore. It was the best!”

“That’s awesome. I’m really, really happy for you.”

“Me too. Have you heard about your screenplay yet?”

“Not yet. But I should any day now,” he says. “I don’t want to jinx anything, but I have a good feeling.” Chantal is lurking by the soda hoses. She’s pretending to wipe down glasses, but I know she’s eavesdropping. I catch her eye and wave her away. “And I also wanted to tell you that I want to be friends.”

“So do I! I miss you so much—and not just for the rides.”

“I have a plan for New Year’s Eve, if you’re up for it,” he says.

“I’m up for it. Whatever it is. I’m up for it!”

After my shift, I buy an eight-dollar juice and I don’t even finish it. I stop by the fancy boutique with the seventy-five-dollar T-shirts, feeling like I have a right to look, even if I don’t buy anything. My mom is coming in two weeks, and I want to get her the perfect gift. I’m sure a part of it is guilt that I haven’t filled out my college applications.

But there’s another reason. She’s worked so hard for so many years to take care of me, and no one’s really ever taken care of her. Not since she was a kid. I pick up a gauzy cashmere scarf that’s two hundred and fifty dollars. It’s an emerald-green color that would look amazing against her pale, Irish complexion. But it’s not quite what I have in mind for her. I want to, somehow, get her something life changing. I’m folding the scarf and placing it back on the shelf when my phone rings—it’s an LA number that I don’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“I have Carson Smith at the Ace Agency on the line for you,” a young female voice says. “May I put him through?”

“Yes,” I say.

Oh my God! It’s an agent. An actual agent! My legs go numb.

“Becca, hi, it’s Carson.”

The second I hear his voice, it hits me. Carson Smith is the agent who liked me from ECS.

“Hi,” I say, stepping out onto the street. I immediately turn down a quiet alley to make sure I don’t miss a word.

“A client of mine is in a show at Company One. Do you know it?”

Do I know it? Yes. I sent my headshot to them. It’s the hot theater company run by Kingman Brewster. He’s a theater director, an indie filmmaker, and husband to the blockbuster movie star Amelia Kirk. Kingman is a huge supporter of young artists. He gives the best experimental playwrights a shot at having a real production, and he always casts from Backstage cattle calls, never through agents. I went to audition for them once, but over two hundred actors beat me to it, so I couldn’t get a slot.

“Yes,” I say. “And it’s so nice to hear from you by the way. Do you know I was in a Volkswagen commercial?”

“Listen, Company One opened a new show last week and they need a replacement actress who’s small and can pass as a ten-year-old onstage. I thought of you. Are you available?”

“Oh my God, yes!” I say. Carson gives me the information and tells me that I need to meet the assistant director tonight. “This is going to be a very fast process if you get it. You’ll maybe have one or two rehearsals, then you’re on. Can you do it?”

“Yes. Thank you so much. Um, does this mean you’re my agent?”

“I only work with models, hon,” Carson says, “and you’re—”

“A character, I know. But then why are you doing this for me?”

“Someone did it for me once. Break a leg.” He hangs up before I can thank him again. I float home, warm and buoyant despite the first LA rain I’ve ever seen, felt, or smelled, soaking my jeans and seeping through my sneakers.