Hello, Sunshine

by Leila Howland

  “Sure, honey. What is it?” Mom blinks back at me from our kitchen, where I watch her pour hot water into a mug. “Wait, what time is it there?”

  “Four thirty, I think.”

  She almost chokes on her tea. “What are you doing up?”

  “I never went to sleep.”

  “Why?” Mom asks. I drop the soaked paper towel in a grocery bag, which I’m using as the trash, and head into the main room. The faintest light is seeping into the sky. If I had a comfy sofa, I’d flop on it. Instead, I sit back down on my sleeping bag and lean against the wall. Noticing the background for the first time, Mom asks, “Where are you?”

  “Before you freak out, I want you to know that I’m safe,” I say.

  “Jesus. Where’s Vivian?” Mom asks, trying to see behind me.

  “Probably at her place in Pasadena?” I say, and I brace myself.

  I was supposed to stay with Vivian until I got a job to support my acting dreams in LA. Mom was hoping for some sort of 9-to-5 office-job-with-potential, even though I explained I needed something more flexible for auditions, like waitressing. But Pasadena felt almost worse than Boston, where my failure followed me like a stinky fart. Vivian’s condo complex was full of what she calls “young professionals,” but what I call “middle-aged squares.” There were literally no sidewalks within a two-mile radius, so I couldn’t go anywhere except the condo complex gym, and she made her point of view on my situation abundantly clear. (“Acting is a total waste of time. Hardly anyone makes it. You’re just going to wake up when you’re my age and realize that you’re five years behind everyone else! Quit now and focus on getting your shit together.”)

  “You’ve lost me, Becca,” Mom says, her brow pinched with concern.

  “I’m not exactly at Vivian’s anymore,” I say, gritting my teeth.

  “What?” Mom yells. “Becca Harrington, where are you?”

  “I couldn’t stay there. Vivian’s energy was really getting me down. She’s not a feminist, Mom. She told me I needed to get married on ‘the right side of twenty-five.’ Can you believe it?”

  “I want answers,” Mom says in her sternest voice.

  “I found a place in Hollywood. It’s a studio in a vintage building. It’s cute. See?” I pull the phone back to give her a narrow view of my place.

  “No, no, no. This was not our deal. Our deal was that you were supposed to find a job before you left Vivian’s—if you left Vivian’s at all.”

  “I’ll find some sort of way to pay my rent. Bartending or babysitting or something.”

  “Babysitting?” The vein in Mom’s right temple pops out. “How is that going to look on your college applications? Don’t you know how important this year is?”

  “I’m going to put my acting work on my applications,” I say, regretting this phone call with my entire being. “That’s the whole point of being here!”

  “We agreed that you’d find something résumé-building to do out there while you auditioned. You can do two things at once, you know. We had a plan—”

  “I never agreed to that part of the plan, remember? The only thing I officially agreed to was reapplying to college, and that I’d come home after a year if I didn’t get in anywhere. That’s what we shook on.” She sighs. “It’s just one year, Mom. If I’m going to do this, I have to really do it, you know? I can’t hide out in a condo in Pasadena.”

  Mom closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

  “Where is this apartment?” she asks. She looks as tired as I feel. Mom had me when she was only twenty. I was the result of a one-night stand she had on Martha’s Vineyard. My dad, some guy who could speak French fluently and who had awesome cheekbones, was never in the picture. This was right after her sophomore year of college, so she’s much younger than my friends’ moms. Her dream was to be a marine biologist. She’d just declared her major when she learned I was on the way. She promises me that she doesn’t regret a single moment of my existence, but I know being a pharmaceutical sales rep was not what she had in mind for herself. I swear, sometimes she could pass for a teenager, especially when she does stuff like sit on the floor in bookstores. But right now, she looks older than her age, and I don’t like it.

  “I’m near the Hollywood Hills. That’s where the movie stars live.” I say. “See?” I hold the phone so that she can see the Hollywood sign in the distance. I have to hang out the window a bit and twist my body to the left to get a view of the whole thing, but it’s worth it for the inspiration.

  “That is kind of cool,” Mom says, her voice a little softer now. I turn the phone back to face me and see in her eyes that light I’ve been waiting for. “But is this neighborhood safe?”

  “Would movie stars live somewhere unsafe?” I ask, glancing at the sidewalk below. A skinny guy talks to himself as he searches through garbage cans. I smile back at Mom, and she raises an eyebrow. She’s not exactly buying this pitch. “It’s really cute, Mom. There are cafés and a used bookstore and a supermarket all within walking distance. You’d love it.”

  “You know you can always come home, right?”

  “I know.”

  We stare at each other for a second. She’s sensing something’s off. I can tell by the way she’s searching my eyes. I study the floor.

  “What does Alex think of all this?” she asks.

  Damn! She’s good.

  “Actually, we’re…taking a beat,” I say, and hold my breath.

  “A what? A beep?”

  “A beat. Like a rest. As in…not permanent,” I say.

  “That doesn’t sound good, Becca,” Mom says. “Are you okay?” I nod, still holding my breath. “I want to talk to you about this, but I’m already running late. Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

  “Because I’m fine and he’s just having a panic attack. Please, trust me, okay?”

  “I’m trying,” she says, lines gathering in the corners of her eyes as she squints. “I’m trying. Bye, sweetie. And remember you can always come home.”

  “Wait, wait, Mom! What about the advice?”

  “Oh yeah. What is it?”

  “The bathroom is a little…nasty. I need to know how to get rid of mold and rust.” Her eyes widen in horror. “Mom, deep breath. It’s fine, really. It just needs some freshening up. Please.”

  “What have you been using?” she asks.

  I hold up the All-Natural Multipurpose Cleaner.

  “You need bleach,” she says, shaking her head. “And Lime Out for the rust.” Then she tells me how to put a rag on the end of the broom to get the corners of the shower. “And please wear gloves.”

  “Should I really use stuff that toxic?” I ask.

  “You know what’s toxic? Mold. Call me tonight. I love you, Becca.”

  “Love you, too,” I say. “Mom?” I’m waiting for her to tell me that she loves me to the sky, to which I always reply “and back.” It’s our thing. But it’s too late. She’s already hung up.

  ONCE THE SUN RISES, I throw on some clean clothes, deciding there’s nothing more civilized than fresh, well-fitting underwear, and head to the supermarket to get my toxic cleaning supplies and some food. A cool breeze rustles the palm fronds high above me, though I can feel heat coiled in the air. Bright, tropical-looking flowers peek at me from slightly dilapidated front yards. I reach Franklin Avenue and am surprised by the number of cars rushing by. It’s not even 6 a.m. yet. Where is everyone going?

  I stop by a supermarket called the Mayfair Market and pick up yogurt, a bagel, soap, Lime Out, and bleach, and then search for shower curtains. They don’t sell them here, so I’m going to have to make my own. I’ll get a real one later, but the need for a shower now is intense. I feel a little kick of pride at my ingenuity as I throw duct tape and extra-large, heavy-duty garbage bags into the cart.

  I spot a copy of Backstage, the trade magazine for actors, in the checkout lane. For a moment my hunger and discomfort disappear. The lead to my first job might be inside this magazine. Slightly br
eathless, I open to the casting section. The first notice calls for four “adorable actresses” who must be “comfortable with love scenes.” After noting where aspiring ingénues should send their headshots it says in bold: “Nudity required. No pay.”

  Ugh.

  “Miss, are you okay?” the cashier asks.

  “Yes,” I say, debating whether to buy the magazine. It’s just one ad, I tell myself. I toss the Backstage on the conveyor belt. “I’m fine.”

  When I get back to the Chateau Bronson, I put my cleaning supplies and groceries away and then head all the way up the stairs with my untoasted, unadorned bagel. The landlord said something about a rooftop terrace. I push the door open and almost laugh. This is hardly a “terrace.” It’s just a regular roof, the uneven surface covered in a gray, sandpaper-like material. There are a couple of scattered, rusty beach chairs. Still, the light is a cool blue-yellow and there’s a nice breeze. I see a bunch of tall buildings in the distance, and I’m trying to figure out what it is—Santa Monica? Downtown?—when a voice startles me.

  “Sometimes you can see the ocean.”

  “Huh?” I relax when I see the guy who’s sitting in a beach chair with a computer on his lap. He looks about my age, maybe a little older. He has a soft smile and bright eyes. His hair is cropped close and neat. An open collar displays his long neck and a peek of clavicle. Even though he’s sitting down, I can tell he’s not too tall, which I like. I already feel too short most of the time.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I came up here to see if I could find some writing inspiration. I’m Raj Singh.”

  “I’m Becca Harrington,” I say.

  “Did you just move in?” he asks, and stands up.

  “Yesterday,” I say. I was right. He isn’t too tall. In fact, he might be one of those rare guys short enough for me to kiss without having to stand on my tiptoes. I hope that thought travels to Alex. I hope it zips up the 5 Freeway all the way to Palo Alto and bites him like a horsefly.

  “Welcome to the Chateau.” He makes a goofy gesture, bowing like he’s lord of a great castle, and I have to laugh. He’s suddenly serious again, and I worry that I’ve embarrassed him. “It’s kind of smoggy today. But on a clear day after it rains, you really can see all the way to the ocean.” I squint, but a stripe of brownish haze rests along the horizon, blocking the view. “Raymond Chandler used to live across the street.” I’m not totally sure who Raymond Chandler is, but from the way Raj said his name I know I’m supposed to. “But who knows. They say he lived everywhere. Pretty much any historical building you go to, Raymond Chandler lived there.”

  “The guy got around, I guess. Hey, what’s that place?” I ask, pointing to the golden turrets.

  “Oh, that’s the Scientology Centre. Stay away. You don’t want to mess with them,” Raj says. “Did you move here by yourself?”

  “Yeah,” I say. And even though seconds ago I wished my thoughts would sting Alex, I miss him in a punched-in-the-gut way.

  “That’s really brave,” he says.

  “Thanks.” But I don’t feel brave, just alone. Alex literally left me on the curb, Vivian thinks I’m a nut, and if I’m honest with Mom about how I feel, she might actually convince me to go home. Don’t cry, I tell myself. Hold it in.

  “You okay?” Raj asks.

  “I’m just really tired. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “Maybe you could sleep now?” Raj asks.

  “I think I’ll try,” I say.

  “Hey, I’m in number seven if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and I head back down to my apartment, more exhausted than I’ve ever been in my whole life.

  Despite my grand plans and new supplies, I can’t imagine cleaning the shower right now. I put on flip-flops, make my duct-tape-and-garbage-bag shower curtain, and take a hot shower without touching anything but the faucet handles. Then I climb back into my sleeping bag, throw a T-shirt over my eyes to keep out the light, and after twenty-four hours of being painfully awake, I finally fall asleep.

  THE CALIFORNIA SUN wakes me up after only three hours. I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my head in my arms. I had that dream about Alex again, the one I’ve had several nights in a row. We’re at a costume party and he pretends he doesn’t know me, even when I take off my elaborate feathery mask. My mouth is dry, my jaw hurts, and I’m sweating through my T-shirt. I unzip the sleeping bag and stretch out on top of it, hoping I can get at least another hour, but it’s no use.

  The apartment is wide-awake, flooded with buttery mid-morning sunshine. Outside birds are singing, a truck beeps as it backs up, a leaf blower roars, and someone coaches her dog to go potty in baby talk. The Backstage lays disheveled and exposed next to me like a one-night stand, the kind I’ve only seen in movies. I push it aside, sit up, and rub my eyes.

  The day in front of me seems gaping and enormous. I think about my friends—and of course Alex—starting college. They probably have orientations and class schedules and planned-out days. They’re decorating dorm rooms and becoming instant best friends with their roommates. I wish someone would orient me, but I’m going to have to do it myself. Mom once told me that happiness can be as simple as creating goals. The important thing is to keep them realistic and achievable. I grab my notebook, prop myself against the wall, and start my list.

  The list veers so quickly out of the realm of the realistically achievable that I feel nauseous, but before I can stop myself I have to add one more thing.

  My autonomic nervous system is about to accelerate into full panic when there’s a knock at my door. I tense up and lean forward. Who is it? The Scientologists? The landlord? Raj? The knocker knocks again, this time a little more firmly. I leap to my feet and pull on my jeans. Maybe it’s 1-800-GET-A-BED, running ahead of schedule.

  “Hello?” I ask from behind the safety of the locked door.

  “Hi,” a girl’s voice answers.

  With the chain still fastened, I open the door a crack and peek outside. Standing there is a girl with brown eyes as big as a cartoon princess’s. Her dark hair falls around her shoulders in loose, fresh-from-the-beach curls. She’s wearing a short white dress and cowboy boots.

  “I’m Marisol,” she says. “I live in number nine. I need some help.”

  “I’m Becca,” I say, unlocking the chain and opening the door. “What’s wrong?”

  “You are not going to believe this shit, but I just locked myself out of my apartment. And literally seconds later, I started my period. I have an audition in exactly twenty-eight minutes in…Wait for it.” She holds up her hand and purses her lips. “Culver City.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, though I have no idea where Culver City is.

  “I know, right? I have about five more seconds before I ruin my dress and ten seconds until I’m officially late. If I could have a tampon and use your bathroom, I will love you for life.”

  “Oh, sure. Come on in,” I say, feeling a little self-conscious as I gesture for her to enter. “It’s a little, um, rustic. I just moved in.”

  “Girl, is that where you sleep?” she asks, pointing to my sleeping bag with one hand as she holds her dress away from herself with the other.

  “Kind of,” I say. “I just got here yesterday.” I dig through my suitcase until I find the crushed box of tampons that’s traveled with me all the way from Boston. “I didn’t exactly sleep last night. It’s more…where I lie down.” Marisol throws her head back in a genuine laugh, and I feel myself relax. “Take as many as you need.” I present her with a fistful of tampons. “Take them all!”

  “I only need a couple,” she says, plucking two from the bunch. She tiptoes over my strewn belongings to the bathroom. The air she’s passed through buzzes with energy and the scent of hair product. She’s going to be my friend. I can just feel it.

  “Dude,” she says as she shuts the door. “This shower situation is hard-core. The garbage bag and the duct tape…?”

  “I only br
ought one suitcase,” I say, wondering if she thinks I’m some kind of psycho. Seconds later, I hear her running the water and wish I’d bought hand soap at the Mayfair instead of just the bar of travel-size Dove. At least there’s toilet paper, I think, even if it is painfully cheap. Literally. “And I don’t have a car, so I just had to grab what I could from the Mayfair and make the best of it.”

  “No car?” she asks, emerging from the bathroom and flicking the excess water from her hands. I shake my head no. Some mixture of surprise and horror darts across her face before she assumes a neutral expression and says, “That’s probably for the best since there’s no parking here at the Chateau Bronson.” She casts her eyes around the apartment. “But somehow, someway, you need to make an Ikea run stat. I’d take you myself, but I won’t be back until tonight.”

  “That’s okay. I can take the bus.”

  “How are you going to get the stuff back?”

  “A cab?”

  “That will cost a fortune! Just wait. I can do it on Friday if you want. I’m free.” She glances in the vanity mirror, scrunches her hair, and swipes on orange lipstick. If I wore that color, people would think I’d lost my mind, but Marisol looks chic as she smiles in the mirror.

  “What’s your audition for?”

  “Dog food,” she says, swinging her purse over her shoulder and heading for the door. “That’s right, I’m getting all dolled up for one line in a dog food commercial. Just what my grandma dreamed of when she swam here from Cuba.”

  “Your grandma swam from Cuba?”

  “I’m teasing,” Marisol said. “She had a raft. Anyway, knock on my door tomorrow. I’ll show you my place.”

  “You bet,” I say, blushing because I sound just like my mom. I watch Marisol skip down the stairs to her own little rhythm. I go back inside the apartment, pick up my list, and put a faint but hopeful check next to number nine.

  After Marisol’s exit, my apartment swells with emptiness. Seeing the place through someone else’s eyes makes me realize how much I have to do to make it livable. I take in the wooden floor, which seems to have acquired another layer of dust in just a few hours, the sleeping bag, the suitcase and rumpled clothes, the open Backstage, the paper shopping bag / trash can from the Mayfair, and of course, the refrigerator. I snap a few pictures with my phone. I left the camera that my mom gave me on the front seat of Alex’s car. As soon as he calls I’m going to ask him to send it. But I couldn’t post those pictures online anyway, and right now that’s what I want to do. I’ll need to capture the “before” of this place so my mom and my forty-nine followers on Instagram can truly appreciate the “after.”