We shared a cramped, two-bedroom apartment in Hollywood above Franklin Boulevard, adjacent to the Magic Castle and with views of two freeways. It was one of those bubble gum pink, stucco, one-story complexes, built in the 1960s. The apartments horseshoed, motel-style around a kidney-shaped swimming pool, the patio of which was adorned with bronzed, mostly male, mostly homosexual, mostly unemployed actors and models, sipping protein shakes and scouring Dramalogue.

Since becoming roommates, Nicole and I weren’t getting along. Just because she had a job, she ordered me to wash the dishes and sweep the floors. Okay so I wasn’t the tidiest person, but I was paying the lion’s share of our bills. It didn’t seem fair.

“Hey, knock it off,” Nicole shouted as water splashed over us.

“Sorry,” a voice called from the pool where several young men were wrestling and playing Marco Polo. They reminded me of my mother and Bea.

After returning from Hawaii, I stayed in bed for two weeks. I said it was the flu, but it was obvious I had a bad case of Merilee. Fortunately, both Daddy and Anna had been respectful enough not to say, “I told you so.” And in the months following, my mother left messages but I didn’t respond. Then, on the last message, she was drunk. Now three years later, I had mostly wiped her from my mind. I hoped poor Mirabelle was living with her father. I hoped she’d forgotten me by now. She’d written me half a dozen letters, but I’d answered only the first one and I felt guilty for ignoring the rest. But I didn’t want Merilee reading my letters. I didn’t want her to know the slightest thing about me, and there was no way to have a relationship with my sister without involving my mother.

I took a last hit of the joint then stubbed it out in a drop of water on the cement.

“I need a boyfriend,” I said. “Isn’t anyone at the Cafe cute?” Nicole waitressed at Café Figaro on Melrose Avenue. Her third restaurant job in a year.

“Oh, sure,” said Nicole. “They’re all cute. And they’re all gay.”

I groaned. “I’m hitting the clubs tonight to try to meet someone.”

“Like where?”

“Helena’s, maybe? Some friends are going later.”

“Don’t you have an acting class?”

“I’ll blow it off.”

“Jackie.” She admonished me with a wagging finger.

“Oh, c’mon. All we do in class is sit around pretending to peel oranges and acting like we’re hot or cold. It’s bullshit.”

“I thought you were working on a scene.” Nicole pushed herself upright on the deck chair. The bottoms of her thighs sank through the plastic weave; making individual squares like packaged biscuit dough. She had gained at least twenty pounds since high school. She and Steffi could be mistaken for sisters now.