A FEW DAYS later the Variety review comes out. At 7 a.m. my phone explodes with group texts from the cast. I could look it up online, but I want to see it in print. I don’t bother changing out of my pajamas. I just slip on my sneakers. The streets are quiet and dark. I can see my breath in front of me as I jog to the Mayfair.

I pick the top paper from the stack and search for the review. I find it and let the rest of the paper fall from my hands. It’s a rave. Most of it is about the play itself (“provocative,” “sharply directed,” “a gem”), with a focus on Pam (“stunning”) and Reed (“raw and brave,” “with James Dean looks”) and the cast as a whole (“a winning ensemble”), but I have one line, one beautiful string of black ink on newsprint, dedicated to me: “The winning gamine Becca Harrington shines as Young Anna.”

Gamine. I search the definition online: a girl with mischievous charm. It makes me smile. It’s better than the Girl Next Door. I’m physically unable to stop smiling. I buy four copies of Variety.

I call Mom, right there in the parking lot of the Mayfair.

She answers on the first ring. “I’m getting ready to head to the airport, sweetie. Tell me, how cold—”

“Mom, go online and find the review of the play in Variety. Now.”

“Okay, okay,” she says. “Let me just get to my laptop. In the meantime, what are the temperatures like there at night? Should I bring a jacket?”

“Yes, yes, bring a jacket—have you found it yet?”

“I’m looking, I’m looking.…Okay, here it is. Company One, right?”

“Yeah—are you reading it?” I ask.

“Oh, sweetheart, this is good,” she says as she reads it to herself. “This reviewer liked it. That must make you feel really good.”

“Keep reading, keep reading,” I say.

And then I hear her gasp. “‘Winning gamine Becca Harrington shines as Young Anna.’ Oh my God! This is incredible. Variety! Honey, you’re a star!” I pull the phone away from my ear as she screams with delight. “Jesus H. Christ, wait until I tell Grandma. I’m going to get this framed. First I’m going to get it blown up. They do that at Staples, right?”

“I don’t know, Mom,” I say, tears streaming down my face. It feels so good to have her be proud of me. It feels so, so good.

“I’m going to see you so soon, and, sweetheart, we are going to celebrate.”

“I haven’t gotten you a Christmas present yet,” I tell her. Maybe I’ll do one application today. Just one. For her.

“Nothing could be better than wrapping my arms around you,” Mom says. “My winning gamine!”

After my morning shift at Rocky’s, I’m thinking I’ll get that application done. But instead, Marisol and I spend the afternoon celebrating. We go for a hike in Griffith Park, and then I take her out for coffee and croissants at the French place in Los Feliz, which has been completely decked out for Christmas. Streetlamps are decorated with wreaths, and fake snow has been sprayed inside store windows. I can’t wait for Mom to get here. I can’t wait for her to see the show tonight. Marisol and I go to the little boutique. Instead of completing an application, I buy Mom the gauzy scarf I saw last week.

“There’s my star!” Mom says as she climbs out of the cab in front of the Chateau. I run toward her and throw my arms around her neck. I squeeze her neck and don’t let go for at least a minute. The familiar smell of her rose soap catches me off guard, and my throat tightens up. The cabdriver unloads her bags on the steps of the apartment building, and when we’re done hugging, Mom hands him a big tip.

“This is adorable,” Mom exclaims after I take her up to my apartment. I’ve borrowed an air mattress from Marisol and made it up for her with Marisol’s fancy sheets and the soft blue blanket that Raj bought for me. “From the way you described it on that first day, I was prepared for the worst. But it’s clean and cute and even has a certain charm.”

“Thanks, Mom. Would you like coffee?”

“You’re a coffee drinker now, are you?” I nod. “Well, then yes, I’d love some.”

As I scoop the coffee into the filter, I feel her watching me.

“What?” I ask.

“You just seem so grown-up. And you look, well, gorgeous. This outfit is so chic.”

“Marisol found it for me in Goodwill. These jeans are Calvin Klein from the nineties.”

And somehow, with my mom’s stamp of approval, I feel like I can finally check off number ten.

“Sounds like she has an eye for fashion,” Mom says, checking out the contents of my refrigerator.

“She does.”

“And thrifty, too,” Mom says. “You know I admire that. Organic yogurt? Salad ingredients? Sliced fresh turkey? I’m even impressed by your fridge, honey.”

“My body is my instrument, you know.”

Mom nods, though I think I see her biting back a smile.

“I wish you could meet Marisol, but she’s with relatives in Orange County for Christmas.”

“Me too. I told all of my friends about your review in Variety,” Mom says. “At least everyone I could text before I got on my flight. I stopped sending individual texts by the time I got on the plane, and then I sent out a mass message to all my contacts seconds before the flight attendant told us to shut off our devices. I’m so proud of you.”

I beam as I hand Mom her coffee.

“Hey, is your mom here?” Reed asks when he comes into the dressing room after taking tickets up in the lobby. Pam and I are chatting and applying our makeup.

“Yes, how’d you know?” I ask, adding just a bit more blush to my cheeks.

“Because she’s your twin,” Reed says. “She’s really young, huh?”

“Don’t get any ideas, Reed,” Pam says.

“Yeah, that’s a bridge too far,” I say, disgusted at the direction this conversation is going.

“You really think the worst of me,” he says. “I hate that. All I was thinking was that you two must have a deep bond.”

“We do,” I say. He’s giving me puppy dog eyes, begging me to say, Of course I don’t think the worst of you, but I won’t say it. Tamera enters the dressing room, late as usual, and Reed’s focus immediately shifts to her.

“Would you please scram so that we can get dressed?” Pam asks.

“Sure,” Reed says, and closes the door behind himself, but not until he gives Tamera’s shoulder a little squeeze.

“Be careful,” I whisper to Tamera. She looks at me as if to say, What could you possibly mean? I just smile, because she knows exactly what I mean.

My mom is here, I think before I go onstage. This is my chance to show her I can do this. I take a deep breath and remind myself of Kingman’s advice about taking the shit out of it, just doing the scene without any extra emotion. My job is to make my scene partners look good. I hear my cue, and I’m off.

My scene feels great. Alive and awake but not forced or pushed. The whole show feels great. It goes by fast, and I’ve found peace in the routine of it: the lifting of the tree, the handing off of the tray, applying Pam’s bruises, the reliable music cues and audience responses, the pulsing electricity of a live performance.

After the show, when I spot Mom in the lobby reading over the program, she’s smiling to herself so broadly, I take out Marisol’s Polaroid and snap her picture without her even realizing it. Just as I’m about to greet her, Kingman taps me on the shoulder.

“Becca, this is Hal Conway, he’s an old friend of the family and a producer at MTV.” Kingman raises his eyebrows at me in this way that lets me know this is a big deal.

“Hi,” I say. “Becca Harrington. It’s so nice to meet you.”

We shake hands. It feels for a second like a spotlight is shining on this moment. I can sense something important is happening, and I’m absolutely present.

“I just wanted to let you know you were terrific,” Hal says to me. “I’m always on the lookout for young talent.”

“Wow,” I say, wondering if I might be sparkling from the compliments. Out of the corner of my eye I see Reed and Tamera holding hands, but I don’t think anything could get me down right now.

“Normally I’d contact your agent, but Kingman said you’re looking for one….”

My breath leaves me for a second. I look to Kingman, and he smiles the smallest of smiles. It’s hardly a gesture of reassurance. More like an acknowledgment of what happened.

“I don’t, it’s true—” I begin, but Hal cuts me off.

“That’s okay. Do you have a website?” Hal asks.

“I don’t have a traditional website, but I do have a bunch of work on YouTube,” I say. “Webisodes.”

“Excellent,” he says. “Every actor needs to be creating her own work these days.” He hands me a card. “E-mail me the link, okay? Let’s keep in touch.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’d love that.” We shake hands again and he walks out the door.

“Kingman, thank you so much,” I say. He waves me off. I glance at Mom, who is watching this conversation with wide eyes and a smile as big as her face. I don’t think she can hear us from where she’s sitting, but she knows something good is happening. I give her the one-second signal. There’s something else I need to do while I’m still high on this moment.

“So, I’m going to apply to California Film School.”

“Good for you,” he says.

“Is there any way you would write me a recommendation? It would really mean a lot to me.” I feel a little light-headed, and my mouth is dry, but that spotlight is still on me. I can feel it. I have to take the risk.

“Sure,” he says.

“Really?” I ask. “It’s due in a week.”

“How about this: you write it for yourself and then I’ll sign it, okay? Assuming I agree with everything you write.”

“Thank you so much!” I say.

“You’re welcome,” Kingman says. “Now, I think you have another fan.”

I turn around and see Mom, watching from afar, beaming at me.

“That’s my mom,” I say.

“I guessed that,” Kingman says, and he politely excuses himself.

Mom opens her arms and I leap into her embrace. I don’t care if it looks uncool. Mom whispers in my ear, “I’m so proud of you.”

“You’re never going to believe what just happened,” I say.

“What?” Mom asks.

“I’ll tell you all about it in the Uber.”