Hello, Sunshine

by Leila Howland

  “Oh, I believe in you. I believe you are a beautiful, intelligent, incredible young woman. And I want to see you succeed. I don’t want you to miss out on college. If you let these next few weeks get away from you, I promise that you will regret it. What are you doing? Are you taking a bath?”

  “I’m just soaking my feet,” I say, then realize if I tell her I’ve contracted athlete’s foot from a gnarly bear costume, she’ll use it as ammunition. “To, um, relax. Anyway, I’m not going to let anything get away from me, Mom. But I do love California.”

  “You can apply to schools in California, honey. But I’m not going to sit back and watch you let the years go by, sitting on the sidewalk with a coffee can, all because you can’t get a part in a chicken soup commercial. It’s beneath you, and you know it. Don’t you want to succeed?”

  “Of course.” Monistat and antifungal foot cream are on the sink. My black waitressing sneakers, the toes curled up with wear, are in the spot I kicked them off last night. Next to the toilet is Making It in Hollywood! From her author photo, Suzi Simpson looks at me with her kind, no-nonsense expression. I grab the Polaroid and capture the scene. Then I tuck the undeveloped picture into the mirror.

  “Promise me that you won’t miss those deadlines. I’m on your side, you know. No matter what, I’m always on your side.”

  “I know,” I say, wincing with pleasure as I slip my feet into the hot water.

  “Tell you what. I’ll pay the application fees.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll send you a check tomorrow. In return you have to promise me to apply.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I promise.” I debate telling her about my application in progress—my collage for California Film School—but for some reason I don’t.

  “And you know, maybe you should call Caroline. She might have some advice. I’ll e-mail you her contact info. I’m sure I have it somewhere.”

  “Maybe I will,” I say, though deep down, I have to admit that her life seems pretty depressing, even if she does occasionally bring happiness to others. “She sounds like a very brave person.” Mom sort of grunts. “It was an adventure today, Mom. There was this guy next to us playing drums, and Raj brought us iced coffee, and I think Marisol met a guy. And the beach, Mom. It’s just beautiful. I think you’d love it out here, actually. Maybe you could do, like, a Murphy’s Soap commercial.”

  “Murphy’s Soap? I’m not that old.”

  “You’re getting there,” I joke.

  “I’m hanging up. I love you to the sky.”

  “And back,” I say.

  We hang up. I glance at the Polaroid picture. It’s not ready yet, but I have a feeling when it develops it’s going to be heartbreaking.

  Later that night, Raj knocks on my door. I’m a little embarrassed about the state of my studio since his is so neat and tidy. But he doesn’t even seem to notice.

  “I want to show you this footage,” he says. He sits on my bed and I sit next to him. He shows me the scenes we recorded on his iPhone, and we both laugh. It’s not just the improv between Marisol and me that works, it’s the places that Raj zooms in and pulls away. It’s who he chooses to focus on and when.

  “Do I think this is funny just because of the Ikea effect?” I ask.

  “Do you mean because we made it?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “No way,” Raj says. “There’s poetry here. I like how you recovered when your hat blew off. It was this totally real moment, and I love that you just went with it. A lot of people might have frozen up.”

  “Wait, is my wall down?” I ask, grabbing his hand.

  “I think so,” Raj says, and turns to me. For a moment we’re both very still, and then I realize what’s about to happen. He leans in for a kiss, and I pull away.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, my heart racing. “I can’t.”

  “Becca, I really like you.”

  “Yeah, but…” I freeze. I feel like I’m watching the scene from a distance. Something deep inside of me has gone numb. If my wall was down today, it’s back up now.

  “It’s because of Alex?” Raj asks, and I wince at the sound of his name. Is it because of Alex? I was feeling something this morning. I was so easy, so free with Raj. I feel smarter around him, better than my normal self. So why do I feel so locked up inside? Raj’s jaw tightens. His eyes flicker with pain, and I feel desperate to get out of this moment. “You want to get back together with him?”

  “No,” I protest. “I mean—I don’t know. I should be over him by now. I know that, but it’s like I’m stuck.” He sighs and stands up. “I’m confused. I feel—”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” he says, backing away. As he’s about to leave, he pauses in the doorway. “Remember when we were talking about Hotel California? You were the one who said that avoiding pain is what keeps people running in circles, staying in the same place.”

  “How can I be avoiding pain when I’m in so much pain?” I say, holding back tears.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

  I stand up and open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, I feel something sharp and foreign in my chest, like a rock. No matter which way I move today, something hurts.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I knock on Raj’s door.

  “Hey,” he says quietly. I don’t want things to be awkward between us, but there’s no doubt about it, they are. Normally he invites me right in. But today he’s standing in his doorway.

  “I thought of how your idea might work,” I say. I gesture inside. “Do you think I could…?”

  “Um, sure,” he says. And now I see why he was guarding the door. His usually meticulous apartment is messy. Not by most people’s standards, but definitely by Raj’s. There’s a pizza box on the floor with a half-eaten pie in it, his bed is unmade, and there are papers all over his desk. “Sorry.”

  “Doesn’t bother me,” I say. Ugh. My voice sounds too bright and cheerful.

  “It bothers me,” he says. And now that I look at him a little more closely, I see circles under his eyes and even a stain on his rumpled T-shirt, which is the same one he was wearing last night.

  “Do you want to hear my idea for Can You Watch My Computer?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says.

  “So, in every episode, someone asks something else of a person—doesn’t have to be the same girl, but it could be. You just take questions strangers ask each other and expand them to their fullest capacity. Like holding someone’s spot in line? Asking for the time? I’m not really sure. I just had the thought and wanted to tell you.”

  “Huh. That’s pretty good,” Raj says. Though his interest has perked, I don’t sense his usual enthusiasm or warmth. “Thank you very much.”

  “Oh,” I say. And that’s it. That’s all he says. And before I know it, I’m back in my apartment. Alone. I guess this is how it’s going to be now.

  Mom’s check to cover my application fees arrives in a few days, and I waste no time cashing it. Every day for the next two weeks, I sit down at my computer and start the Common App. Every single day. But every time I get to the essay, I stop. The perfect question awaits me.

  “The lessons we take from failure can be fundamental to later success. Recount an incident or time when you experienced failure. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?”

  My failure is so obvious. I failed to get into college. I am a freak among my peers. So why can’t I answer this question? What did I learn from the experience?

  I learned that rejection sucks, I write. I learned that it’s contagious. I learned that it spreads and infects every aspect of your life.

  Then I delete it.

  There are other questions on the Common App, and I take a stab at each of them, but none of them resonate like this one. This is the one I need to answer. I know it. As Ms. Bishop would say, I can feel it in my stomach-brain. But I can’t bring myself to type a respons
e. Something that feels like a cross between goose bumps and internal poison ivy starts to creep up my throat every time I try to begin this essay. Is it possible that failure can become its own circle? That once you enter into it, there’s no way out?

  Every day I sit here at my vanity-table-turned-desk and sweat for a good thirty minutes in front of my laptop. I sweat salt and coffee, and munch on my cold, hard toast, and clutch my stomach until I can’t take it anymore. I shut the computer and tell myself, Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will apply to college. And then, if it’s warm enough, I go for a swim in the Ramada Inn pool. The water is always soft and warm. The sound of distant traffic from the 101 has started to sound like the ocean to me. I swim laps, counting each one as I turn somersaults at the ends of the pool, and emerge thirty minutes later transformed. Calm. Ready for the rest of my day.

  One day I manage to write to Mr. Devon for another letter of recommendation. I tell him it’s for the California Film School. He agrees with a cheery “good for you.” I still don’t know who else I can ask.

  The two-week run of Baby Bear’s First Hanukkah is a success. Every performance is a full house. The Pull-Ups crowd loves us. In fact, Baby Bear’s First Hanukkah is the hottest preschool show in town, and inevitably toddlers who didn’t plan ahead are turned away at the door. There are only forty seats in the theater, but I never fail to find the line around the block impressive. Raj and Marisol surprise me on my opening afternoon. I didn’t expect to see Raj, even though I put a note under his door to invite him. He’s been so distant—and I don’t blame him. But he’s there. He cheers me on, then leaves immediately afterward to get to work.

  Marisol attends all four performances on my opening weekend. I take her out for tea afterward and she tells me all about her blossoming romance with Dave, the cute redhead we met on the boardwalk. It turns out he’s not only hot and smart, but he has a great job in an advertising agency.

  “Are you in love?” I ask her, my breath snagging on the question. Even though I adore Marisol and want her to be happy, I don’t want to lose my best LA friend to a boy. Not yet.

  “I don’t know,” she says, and I have the distinct feeling that she’s never been in love before. Because it’s not something you have to think about.

  Vivian drives in from Pasadena to see my show the next weekend. She’s brought me flowers and a gift certificate to Trader Joe’s for her little “starving artist.”

  “It was cute,” she says, when we get back to my apartment. “It was much cuter than I thought it was going to be.”

  “Jeez. What did you think I’d gotten myself into, Vivian?”

  “I wasn’t sure, but those kids sure did love it, and the theater was nice. I’m not going to lie, Becca, you can rock a bear suit. When you shook your butt spinning the dreidel? I mean, I was genuinely laughing. And my heart was racing when that hunter was chasing you. I’m not kidding.”

  “See? I can do this. I can be an actress.”

  “I don’t know about this apartment, though,” she says with a grimace. “That bathroom—”

  “That bathroom is clean,” I say.

  “Becca, the paint is peeling everywhere. There’s water damage on the ceiling. I’m proud of you, but I’m also worried about you. What would your mom say if she was here?”

  “She’s coming out here soon. And you don’t have to be,” I say. “I’m fine. And anyway, I’m moving in with my friend at the end of the month.” There’s a knock at the door. “I bet that’s her now.” I open the door and see Marisol all dolled up for her latest audition. I think it was for Wendy’s. “Marisol, this is my cousin Vivian. Vivian, meet Marisol. Best friend and future roommate.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Marisol says.

  “You too,” Vivian says with a smile. “Please tell me your apartment is bigger than this, otherwise I don’t know how two of you will fit.”

  “I’m going to sleep in her trundle bed,” I say.

  “What are you, twelve?” Vivian asks.

  “Sort of,” Marisol says, and giggles as if this is a good thing.

  I see Raj pass by the open door and call out, “Raj, any word on the screenplay?”

  “Not yet,” he says, peeking his head in.

  “Let me know when you hear something, okay?” I say. I miss him. I really do. I miss discussing plots and psychology with him. I miss all of our conversations.

  “You got it,” he says.

  “This is my cousin Vivian,” I say.

  “Nice to meet you,” she says.

  “She finds our building a little less than satisfactory,” Marisol says.

  “It’s kind of grim,” Raj admits. “But that’s why artists like us can afford it.” He shoots me a conspiratorial smile, and I feel like he’s back—just a little. And then he heads down the hall.

  “Would you like some tea or coffee, Vivian? Are you hungry? I think I have some cheese sticks,” I offer.

  “How about I take you two out for dinner? At least then I can tell your mother you’ve had a hot meal. Do you want to bring your cute friend along?”

  “Raj?” I ask. “You think he’s cute?”

  “Very much so,” Vivian says. “I mean, he’s not my type, but he looks like he could be yours.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess he does. I’ll go ask him.”

  I try to catch him on his way out the door, but it’s too late. He’s gone. He must have nabbed a really good parking spot.

  Marisol brings her boyfriend, Dave, to the final show, which goes off without a hitch. I show the appropriate amount of fear at the sight of the hunter, collide as planned with Mama Bear in the chase, and learn from Goldie Lox how to play dreidel. The kids love it. They shriek and giggle and clap. I have to pause for laughter no less than six times. The people laughing don’t have fully developed brains, but it doesn’t lessen the satisfaction. A little girl waves to me during the performance. Despite warnings from Dawn to never break the fourth wall, I wave back. Her face shows pure exaltation. Her mother, who looks like she could use a nap, mouths, “Thank you.”

  When I’m taking my bow I think I see Juice Man standing in the back with a toddler on his shoulders! I can’t be sure it’s him, and before I can take a second glance, I have to step back so that Goldie can take her bow, and she stands right in front of me.

  After the show, I ask Dawn if she has any idea who that guy was. “The one standing in the back with the kid? He had brown hair and glasses?”

  “Brown hair and glasses? Honey, we had a full house, I can’t get a biography on every member of the audience.”

  “Just asking,” I say. “Anyway, thank you so much for the opportunity.”

  She nods and tells me that she hopes I’ll audition again next year. “You did a good job, and it ain’t easy to find someone who can fit into that bear suit.”

  “Thanks,” I say. While I’m flattered, I hope I’ve moved on by next year.

  “You were so cute!” Marisol squeals after the show. Dave says that as a Jew he can officially say that it was a great explanation of Hanukkah.

  “I’m going to bust out of this costume, then let’s get out of here,” I whisper to them, and head back to the dressing room. I affix a note to the bear suit, warning next year’s Baby Bear about athlete’s foot and jock itch. I slather on cold cream, wipe off my whiskers, and apply some lip gloss. I throw on a loan from Marisol, a vintage Diane von Furstenberg dress, and heels. There’s something about wearing a bear suit that makes a girl want to look good. I bid farewell to my castmates, wrap my peacoat around me, and head into the cool, bottle-blue evening with Marisol and Dave.

  I text Raj to see if he wants to join us, but he writes back that he can’t. He’s working extra shifts. I wonder if this is actually true or if he just doesn’t want to be around me.

  “All right, everyone. I’m going up!” I announce to the room full of strangers. It’s several hours later, and Dave, Marisol, and I have migrated to a party hosted by Dave’s advertising firm at a karao
ke place in Koreatown. Earlier in the week they landed the Volkswagen account and they’ve reserved this place to celebrate. We’ve been at the party for almost two hours now, hanging out with Dave’s boss, a guy in his thirties named Woody. Waitresses have brought us endless free drinks and Korean appetizers, and now I’ve hit a Sea Breeze sweet spot. My joints are loose and my spirits are high.

  And the karaoke aspect of this party has been neglected. A heavily lip-lined woman from the accounting department has been dominating the microphone with Frank Sinatra songs. The only variation has been from a freckled executive in a day-to-evening dress who did a pitch-perfect but boring “Bette Davis Eyes,” and two giggling receptionists who abandoned “Islands in the Stream” halfway through. I’ve been resisting getting behind the mic because I technically don’t have any business being at this party. But I can’t restrain myself any longer.

  “Get ready to be entertained. Get ready to do ‘The Humpty Dance’!” I say, and pump the air with my fist. I’ve learned from all the bar mitzvahs I attended in seventh grade that “The Humpty Dance” is an oldie but goodie—a classic that never fails to ramp up a crowd. The DJs played it for the parents, but it never failed to fill the dance floor.

  Marisol claps and cheers. “I told you,” she says to Dave triumphantly. “I told you she was a wild woman just waiting to unleash herself. Let’s see what you got, Becca!”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Dave asks, swallowing nervously. His expression reminds me of Alex’s embarrassment at my dance moves. I hesitate.

  “What do you mean is she ‘sure she wants to do this’?” Marisol asks.

  “This is my job,” Dave says. “And everyone knows I brought you guys.”

  “Yeah, and she’s about to make you look like a damn genius,” Marisol says sharply. She shoots me a look like, Don’t listen to him.