“YOU LIED TO ME?” I ask, standing up, feeling as though the walls of this tiny apartment have just closed in another few inches on each side. “You’re some kind of undercover rich girl?”

“I didn’t outright lie.”

“Because I didn’t ask you directly if you were a millionaire? What else is there? I mean, do you have a baboon heart?” A headache grips my forehead. I massage my temples.

“Becca, why does it matter?”

“Because I trusted you! Because I gave you almost the last of my money to pay your bills!” I cross my arms. “If it didn’t matter, you would’ve told me.”

I turn my back on her and storm into the bathroom, shaking.

“I thought if you knew who I was you would hold it against me—just like everyone else.” Marisol follows me, standing in the door frame. “My whole life, this money defined me. Money I had nothing to do with. I was always just the rich girl.”

“It’s really hard to feel bad for you.” With my makeup bag under my arm and my overpriced shampoo in my hand, I squeeze past her, back into the main room.

“I never knew who was my friend and who just wanted a glimpse at our house and the maids and my weird parents. The only people I could trust were my cousins, and they completely suck. I wanted to see if I could make it on my own. I wanted to see what I was like without the money. And I met you.” She inhales roughly, her voice catching. “Becca, you’re my first real friend.”

“That’s right. Your friend. I told you everything.” I pull my suitcase out from under the bed. I remove my clothes from my one drawer and throw them in. “That was all real to me, but it was some kind of game to you, some kind of social experiment. You were just making shit up.”

“It was real. I was broke. I just got the money this week.”

“The money? Oh, you mean the two hundred million dollars?” I look around, panting, for whatever else is mine.

“And you wanted to do those things—pay for things. You said so. You made me believe it was your pleasure. Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.” I spot my overdue library book (a biography of Zelda Fitzgerald), my mug, and my sneakers, and stuff them in my bag.

“Becca, can’t you see? I’m jealous of what you have.”

“You want to have fifty dollars to your name? You want to have to move back to freezing cold Boston and go to some community college? I doubt it. I mean, that’s such complete and utter bullshit.” I sit on my suitcase, twisting my body to zip it shut. She puts her hand on mine, stopping the zipper. “And by the way, that’s something only a rich person would say,” I add.

“People love you because of who you are. When you do things, when you get things, no one can say you didn’t earn it. It’s yours.”

“This is my real life, Marisol.” I shake her hand off of mine and zip shut the suitcase. “And I have nothing.”

“But what about MTV?”

“They backed out. It’s all over. Hal is in Palm Springs or something.”

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” She steps toward me as if she’s getting ready to hug me, but I put my hands up, stopping her. She retreats.

“You don’t understand. It’s so different for you. You can stay here and do whatever you want, whenever you want, for as long as you want. You can be an actress forever. I have to go deal with my life. Don’t you think I want to stay out here with you?”

“Don’t take your anger out on me.” She stomps her foot like a little girl. Fat tears spill down her cheeks.

“You lied to me for our entire relationship. And the worst part”—my voice trembles wildly—“the worst thing is that I thought we were in it together, but this whole time I’ve been alone.”

“We were. I mean, we are in it together.”

I lose control of my voice. It has a life of its own. It’s high and loud. “Then you should’ve told me the truth.”

She pulls back, alarmed by my transformation.

I take a deep breath. “I need to get out of here.” I strap on my backpack and bang out the door.

“Wait, don’t leave! Where are you going?”

“To Raj’s.” I head out the door, leaving a pale, speechless Marisol in her doorway.

I knock on Raj’s door, and he calls, “Come in.”

I open the door and drag my stuff inside. He turns around and beams at me. Then he takes in my stuff, wrinkles his brow, and gives me the one-second signal. That’s when I see he’s on his computer, FaceTiming with Sierra.

“So we’ll need to shoot tomorrow, if you’re free,” he says. “As early as possible.”

“I’ll be there at six a.m., camera ready,” Sierra says.

“Perfect,” Raj says. “I’ll text you the directions. And thank you so much for doing this for me last minute. We should be able to get it done in one day, though if you could reserve Thursday in case we need to reshoot, that’d be great, too.”

“You know I’d do anything for you, sweetie,” Sierra says.

“Thanks, Sierra,” Raj says.

“Call me Olivia,” she says. “I’m going to start getting in character now.”

“You cast her?” I ask, feeling as if this day couldn’t possibly get any worse. My throat is as dry as paper.

“Okay, see you soon.” Raj quickly signs off and turns to face me.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know you said you wanted to play Olivia, but the part is so not right for you. Olivia is supposed to be this controlling, unemotional, unattainable—”

“Unattainable? Beautiful, you mean,” I say.

“Oh my God, no. I mean, yes, but that’s not why—”

“So you don’t think I’m good enough. Is that it?” I ask.

I think it was Ms. Bishop who told me that the heart has muscle memory. Now I know it’s true because the place where mine has been ripped in half is burning, tearing at the seams. Heartburn.

“Becca,” he says, standing up and taking me by the shoulders. “It’s about being right for the part. Just this one part. I have to nail this. The whole school is going to see this.”

“Really?” I say, freeing myself from his grip. “So it’s not about the fact that she looks like a model and has been on TV. You probably want to take her to the banquet, too, don’t you? Because it will impress people.”

“NO! Oh my God. I want to go to the banquet with you.”

“You’re just saying that because we slept together and you feel bad for me,” I say, tears streaming down my face. “Admit it.”

“Becca, you’re not listening to me.” His eyes are wide and panicked.

“Oh no. I’m listening. The message is perfectly clear,” I fume.

“You’re overreacting!” he says. “Where is this coming from? And it’s not like I wasn’t going to cast you at all. I was thinking you would make the perfect hotel maid.”

My jaw sets, and I can see from his face that he knows he’s just made a huge mistake. “That’s one of the best parts in the script.”

“She doesn’t even have a name, Raj,” I say. My voice is so low that it’s practically a rumble.

“If you’ll just come and sit next to me and take a deep breath, I think I can explain this all in a way that makes sense to you.”

“No way,” I say. Whatever has come over me is strong and angry. “I’m getting out of here.”