The Break(28)

A woman with a severe red bob looks up and returns my smile. “Can I help you?” she asks.

I wish I could tell her I was here as an actress to see my agent. “I’m June Waters,” I say instead. I love my stage name so much more than my real one. At some point I’ll have to show them my license if I do get the gig, but I’m pretty sure stage names are appropriate for making appointments. “I’m here for an eleven a.m. interview with Louisa Smith,” I say. I imagine myself sitting down for my interview and Louisa deciding right then and there that she wants me as her client, not her assistant, and then maybe saying something like, There’s this audition for a contract player on a soap opera coming up, and I think you’d be perfect . . .

I know that makes me sound like a jerk. But daydreaming is a thing I do a lot. My biggest fantasy is that I make it to Los Angeles and a month later my mom calls and tells me she’s finally on the right cocktail of medicines for her to see everything clearly, and that it’s just too hard to be this far from me. And then, over shepherd’s pie and without much fanfare, she tells my father that they simply must move to the West Coast; We can’t be without June, my mother would say. In Los Angeles, in this particular daydream, I am successful enough that I buy us a house with a garden so beautiful her eyes mist when she sees it.

“Oh sure,” the receptionist says sweetly. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll let Louisa know you’re here.”

“Okay,” I say, still smiling. “Thanks.”

I sit on a plush seat and try not to squirm. In the waiting room it’s just me and an older actor I recognize from a crime show. He’s reading Entertainment Weekly, and he doesn’t look up at anyone.

I watch the receptionists carefully. I really feel like I can get this job if I’m just charming and sharp enough. Youth and beauty are currency all over New York City, and certainly in places like this, and I have both in spades. I’m not bragging—the rest of me is crap, mostly. You’ve got to use what you have, and I’m certainly not some numbers whiz or anything like that.



I got this interview because one of Sean’s clients is WTA; he built their new website last year. Sean’s a few years older than me, and he’s already done web design for companies so big you’ve heard of all of them. (It’s kind of surprising because he’s not that stylish as a person, but the sites he builds are gorgeous.) He emailed one of the directors at WTA, who told him there was an assistant job open. And presto, here I am.

I’m getting tenser the longer I sit here in the lobby. I try to take a deep breath and think of ways to make Louisa like me during the interview. I glance out the window and spy steel buildings and clouds—I can’t see the ground from where I’m sitting. WTA is perched on the top floor of a slim glass building in Midtown, and even the elevator is ten times nicer than my apartment.

I love calling it that: my apartment. Even when I say it to myself I hear a lilt in my words. For twelve hundred dollars a month, Sean’s place is mine, too. And if I get this assistant job—Sean guessed it would pay a little more than forty thousand a year—I could afford the twelve-hundred-dollar rent each month and even put a little away into savings. And hopefully still have some left over for fun.

I have barely anything left in my savings account; I really need to nail this interview.

A girl wearing a chic trench enters the lobby. She’s sucking on a lollipop, which I doubt any regular person would do: she must be an actress. Her bangs are blunt cut and she’s cute and funky like Zooey Deschanel.

I just know that the faster I get noticed—the faster I get my break—the faster I’ll finally start to feel okay.

Better than okay . . .

Somewhere along the way, maybe when I was twelve or so, I saw the way the world gazed upon celebrities and influencers and the like, as though they were beautiful just for being in the spotlight. It was almost like the spotlight itself bequeathed grace, softening edges, drowning mistakes in adoration.

And now I want it more than anything.

The receptionist grins at the girl with the bangs and ushers her into the hallway. The lobby feels so still when she’s gone. People with a big presence can do that.

“June Waters?” says a female voice. I look up to see another receptionist with jet-black hair shaved on the sides. She locks eyes with me and says, “Louisa will see you now.”

Oh my goodness. “Thank you!” I say, way too excitedly. Please, be cool, June. I take a deep breath and follow her through a glass door with the WTA logo into a conference room. There’s a long chrome table and windows overlooking the skyline. It’s all the things: sophisticated, chill, and edgy, and my stomach twists into knots when I imagine the actresses and writers and film people who have meetings here. “Thanks,” I say to the receptionist, who doesn’t seem much older than me. She’s wearing white sneakers and a lemon-yellow minidress. The vibe here seems more casual than I usually dress. I try to offset my looks and be surprising by dressing more conservatively: a puffed sleeve rather than a plunging neckline. And I only post photos of myself in the aforementioned classic looks, because it’s kind of like a calling card. I actually wish I could post this insanely cool conference room, but I’m sure they’ll check my social media and I don’t want to look too green and wide eyed.