“No, thanks,” she told him, edging away.
“It’s fine.” He shrugged, looking awkwardly at the floor. “I mean, I was already —”
Hallie turned back to the barista. “You know what? I’m detoxing. An iced green tea would be great.”
She peeled off the dollar bills and then took her place waiting by the counter. The scarred guy loitered nearby, so Hallie pretended to click through her cell phone. You couldn’t give them any encouragement, that’s what they’d learned in fifth-period Women’s Empowerment classes: firm declarative statements, and, at last resort, a quick blast of pepper spray. Hallie had left her travel-size canister in her other purse, but she wouldn’t let it get that far; the minute her tea was ready, she hurried out, despairing over her bad luck.
Couldn’t it have been some gorgeous actor looking to save her, instead of some drugged-out surfer dude? They would have struck up a conversation over the condiment station, and by the time their drinks were ready (espresso for him: strong, bold, masculine), he would have been begging her to star opposite him in his new indie film — something harrowing that would make the perfect entrée to the Hollywood elite. Long hours on set together, their overwhelming natural chemistry . . . Hallie would have an A-list boyfriend and an Oscar nomination all sewn up by the end of the year — without needing her material solicited by anyone!
But no, instead she had Mr. Crazypants back there with his creepy serial-killer stubble. Hallie ducked into the nearest store, and then peered out the front window, just to be safe.
“Can I help you?” A polished clerk who reminded Hallie of Portia — all severe haircut and pencil skirt — hovered nearby.
“Just browsing,” Hallie replied, but the woman stared at her with suspicion until Hallie drifted deeper into the store. It was an upscale boutique, full of gauzy dresses and perfect slouchy tanks hung casually from empty rails as if they were works of art. Hallie checked the price tag of a cute dress and winced. Three hundred dollars!
God, she missed having money.
It wasn’t that they’d been rich exactly . . . Well, no, Hallie had to admit: they had been. She’d had a clothing allowance, and money to go out with her friends, and had never once even considered an after-school job — not when she had so many acting commitments to fill her time. Even after their father had left, she’d never worried about money, not when he was lavishing them with guilty gifts, and slipping fifty-dollar bills into her purse every time they had coffee.
But now . . .
Now she couldn’t even afford the basic necessities, like ice-blended coffees, let alone a cute new dress.
“Oh, my God, that is so fierce.”
A voice from the back of the store made Hallie look up. A girl had emerged from the dressing room and was assessing herself in the mirrors; her blond friend sprawled on the couch, tapping at her phone.
“You think?” The girl turned slowly, examining her reflection. She had glossy dark hair that fell in a perfect cascade over the skintight black minidress. “Maybe it’s too classy. I mean, he’s into rock-chick girls — tattoos and leather and stuff.”
“So what?” Another girl looked up from the jewelry she was browsing; beachy and boho in a long patchwork skirt and cropped tank. “Are you going to go pierce something for him?”
“No way.” The dark-haired girl grinned. “We all know how that turned out. Brie.”
The blonde looked up from her phone. “Hey! That was one little tongue stud, and I took it right out!”
“Only after an infection and antibiotic shots!” The girls laughed together, piling onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and necklaces and glossy leather bags.
Hallie watched, struck with a sudden pang. All her friends were back in San Francisco, and although she’d tried to keep up with the latest news — texting, calling, and checking in via Skype — she could feel the distance between them grow: a gaping canyon that used to be filled with after-school hangouts, and nights sharing dim sum in Chinatown, but that now only had voice-mail messages and the occasional afterthought of a chat. Part of the reason Hallie had been so glued to that pool lounger these past weeks was that she didn’t have the first clue how to make friends here in L.A. Was she supposed to join a club? Take classes? Grace didn’t seem to mind her solitude, but to Hallie, the empty space was loneliness: a hollow ache in her chest.
One of the girls saw her staring at them, and raised an eyebrow. Hallie quickly turned and hurried out of the store. For all her talk of belonging, the sad truth was she didn’t.
Not yet.
The sting of rejection still fresh, Hallie regressed to poolside lounging for the rest of the week. She needed a vacation, she told herself, restlessly flipping through plays she knew by heart. She was in recovery, recharging her batteries before her next grand assault on Hollywood. But for all her reasoning, Hallie knew the truth: she didn’t really know what to do next. Plan A had crashed and burned, and she was suddenly completely adrift in her own life, with no schedule or school or social plans to fill her days. Instead of seeming like a marvelous vacation, it felt, to her shame, like failure.
This was why people went to college, she thought mournfully. Not for knowledge, or partying, but four more blissful years of structure and routine.
Hallie wandered into the main house, and found Amber idling in the vast marble wonderland of the kitchen: flipping through magazines with one of the dogs cradled in her arms. Now, there was a woman who didn’t mind a life of utter leisure.
“Hey, sweetie!” She lit up. “How are your mysterious plans working out?”
“They’re not.” Hallie slumped, too dejected even to muster horror at Amber’s matching pink velour sweats. “I can’t get anyone to even look at my headshots.”
“Awww, you poor thing!” Amber put down the dog and enveloped her in a lavender-scented hug. “I know exactly what you’re going through. Trying to get that first break is just a nightmare, but you can’t give up.”
“I won’t.” Hallie may be dejected, but she was also determined. Unlike Amber, she had no intention of finding herself a balding producer and giving up her craft for a life of yogalates and tanning. She would survive! She would endure!
But, she would also need some cash.
“The problem is, I’m broke,” she explained. “I need a job if I’m going to pay for acting classes, and going out, and stuff.”