I’M ACTUALLY GOING to miss this little apartment, I think as I lock the door and place the key into the padded envelope with the landlord’s address on it. I was able to sell my entire Ikea collection for a whopping one hundred and fifty dollars to a guy just moving into the apartment downstairs. He’s an aspiring model. Even though Marisol’s apartment is nearly identical, and a whole lot nicer given her furnishings, it was kind of sweet having my own little corner of Los Angeles. Still, the relief of splitting the rent—and the damn trash bill!—is nothing to ignore. Even though I technically have this place for another night, Marisol and I decided I should just move in today before my afternoon waitressing shift. That way we could relax and enjoy New Year’s Eve without thinking about hauling my stuff. She cleared three drawers for my clothes and half a rack in her closet, which I’ve already filled. My Ikea sheets are on her trundle bed, waiting for me.

I pick up my collage, which I’ve transferred onto the foam core using the adhesive spray, and head over to Marisol’s.

I knock on the door and she opens it wearing black jeans, a black sweater cape, and sunglasses. I don’t think much of this look given her eclectic style choices.

“What’s that?” she asks, dabbing her nose with a tissue.

“It’s my collage,” I say. I haven’t shown it to her yet. I haven’t shown it to anyone except Raj. But I just can’t hide it from her now that we’ll be living together. “I’m making it as part of my application to California Film School.”

“You’re applying?” she asks.

“I think so,” I say. “And anyway, it’s been fun to work on.”

“It’s so cool,” she says. “Look, there we are with our advice booth! And ooh, is this that list you told me you made when you first moved here?”

“Yep,” I say, blushing just a bit.

Marisol takes off her sunglasses to get a better look, and that’s when I see that her eyes are bloodshot and wet.

“Oh my God, have you been crying? What’s wrong?” Her face is streaked with tears. I take a seat on the sofa and motion for her to sit next to me.

“It’s terrible,” she says, shaking her head and holding an embroidered handkerchief to her nose.

“Oh, no.” I wrap my arms around her. She sits down, gives me her full weight, like a little kid, and sobs into my jacket. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s awful.”

“It’s okay. You can tell me anything. Anything.” I take her by the shoulders and look in her eyes. “Is it herpes? If it is, I’ve heard it’s not as terrible as they make it out to be. And warts can be removed, regardless of their location.”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” she says, shaking her head. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and lowers her voice. “I found a gray hair.”

“Where?”

She looks at me with complete and utter disbelief, and then I realize.

“Oooh. I thought maybe you found one in your soup.”

She laughs for a moment before the laughter morphs back into tears.

“I’m aging prematurely,” she moans. “Today it’s gray hair. Tomorrow I’ll be hobbling toward a bus stop in my nursing-home shoes. And I’ve made nothing of myself. Nothing.”

“This is crazy talk.” I pull a napkin from the dispenser and hand it to her. “You’re twenty. It’s just a freak thing. Unless…are there a lot of them?”

“No, just one.” Marisol delicately pats her reddened nostrils.

“You want my advice?” She nods soberly. “Say fuck it and pluck it.” I smile, pleased with my cleverness. She laughs. And once again, before I can blink, she slides back into tears. I cover her hand with mine. “I get it. It’s upsetting. But I think it’s probably just one of those random things, you know? Is there something else going on? I’ve never even seen you cry before. Not once.”

She sighs, resting her forehead in her hand briefly before she begins. “Well, something else happened this morning….” She waves her hand in front of her face to fan away the rising emotion.

“Deep breaths.”

“Yes.” She inhales three times, exhaling dramatically. “This morning. I went to turn on the lights. And they wouldn’t turn on.” Her hand worries the handkerchief.

“Okay. Did you try replacing the bulbs?”

“You’re a little slow today,” she says, annoyed.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t get it.”

“I couldn’t pay the bill. I’m totally out of money. Totally and completely wiped out. I have nothing left and only a few weeks to go.”

“A few weeks until what?”

“My birthday. I’m going home to Miami. Everyone will know I’m a failure. I said I could do this on my own, but I can’t.” She hangs her head, tears dripping directly from her eyelids to the lap of her skirt.

“Failure? What? No. Look, I know how you feel. Trust me. But we’re supposed to be broke. We’re actresses. We’re teenagers.”

“You’re a teenager. I’m almost twenty-one.”

“That’s so young! Twenty-four is young. Twenty-eight is young! Thirty-five is…Well, thirty-five is old, but we have a long way until then. Let me make us some tea.” I walk to the kitchen and fill the kettle.

“But actresses don’t age like other people. We age like dogs. One year is worth about seven.”

“You’ve lost perspective. You’re not even making sense.” I place the kettle on the range, turn it on, lighting it with a match, and pop back out to the living room. “You know what Miss Nancy would say?”

“What?” she asks.

“Deep breath, duck,” I say in my best Miss Nancy voice. “Imagine a shock of golden energy coming straight through the pelvic floor, up the diaphragm, and out the nostrils.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she says. She slides out of the harsh sunlight that’s streaming in the window and lies down on the sofa.

“You’ll get another commercial soon,” I tell her. “You obviously have the look.”

“Things haven’t picked up like I thought they would. I’ve only had three auditions since, and I didn’t get a single callback. I thought after that ECS thing that I was going to be fine, but it turns out it was just beginner’s luck.”

“You’ll get something soon. Or maybe you could find another job? Or maybe Agnes would hire you back. Remember how much you loved it when she gave you all those clothes? Not to mention this awesome furniture.” Against her will, her mouth turns up in a smile.

“Stop cheering me up,” she says. “I was prepared for a day of self-pity. I even dressed for it.” She points to her black ensemble. “What am I going to do about the electric bill?” She lowers her voice. “It’s so overdue that it’s three hundred dollars. And my cell phone’s been cut off, too. And honestly, I don’t know how I’m going to eat. I’m lucky my car hasn’t been repo’ed.”

“Can’t you put it on your credit card?” I ask.

“They’re all maxed out,” she says.

“I’ll pay for it,” I say. “I’ll pay for your cell phone and even help with a car payment. And then we’ll go grocery shopping.”

“No,” she says firmly. “No.”

“Yes, yes, yes. We can’t live in the dark.” I sip my tea. “Literally.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “You’ve worked so hard to get out of debt.”

I shrug. “And now I’m going to help you out. It’s what friends do.”

“Becca, I can’t take money from you.”

“You’re not taking anything. I’m giving it freely. We need electricity. It’s one of those things that define our first-world existence. What are we going to do, use headlamps?” I laugh, picturing Marisol in her vintage nightgown and an industrial-strength headlamp, going about her ten-step evening beauty routine. She starts to laugh, too. “Besides, what if that producer Hal loves Talk to Me? I might start making real money, baby. TV money.”

“That would be so awesome,” she says, and we both knock furiously on the wooden café table. “I’m going to pay you back as soon as I can.”

The teakettle whistles. I return to the kitchen nook to make our tea.

“I always see this place on Western by that pho restaurant Raj likes. I think it’s called the Cash Depot. It’s one of those check-cashing places, and according to their neon sign you can pay bills there, too. We’ll take care of this after we finish our tea.”

She tilts her head and looks me in the eye. “Becca, I’ve never had a friend like you.” Though she shifts her position on the sofa to avoid the glare of the sun, it keeps catching up with her. The light slides over her face again. I notice that there are a few tiny lines around her eyes. I would never tell her that I’ve noticed them. She would hate that, though they only make me love her more. They’re the lines of someone who feels things and shows it. They make me feel like I know someone in this world.

“I’m going to make this up to you,” she says, her dark eyes catching flecks of gold as I hand her a mug of chamomile tea.

Her Jeep has not been repo’ed. It’s in perfectly fine condition, parked not even a half block away. We hop inside and drive to the check-cashing store, where we pay her electric bill and cell phone bill. The place smells like urine. The carpet is stained and fraying where it was roughly cut to fit this dark, cramped space. The employees are behind bulletproof plastic. We pay the bill and fly out the door.

“Is that going to be us someday?” I ask her. Then I cover my mouth. “Oh my God, it is us. Today.”

“Come on,” she says, linking her arm with mine and steering us toward her car. “I need to cleanse your palate. Let’s go to Silver Lake—there’s a gorgeous new boutique on Sunset.”

“My shift starts in two hours,” I say.

“We’ll just take a peek,” she says. “Maybe try on a few things?”

I shouldn’t. I don’t have a prayer of finishing the Common App, but I can at least write that letter of recommendation for myself for Kingman to sign. And yet, I freeze at the thought. It’s almost harder than the essay about failure. Marisol is looking at me.

“On to Silver Lake?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. And just like that, I’ve decided not to apply to college. I feel like my insides are floating inside my body. It’s freeing—horribly so. “Let’s go.”