Free Jane Austen Goes to Hollywood by Abby McDonald Page B

brighter. “I just want him to take a look. When he sees my test reel, he’ll thank you!”
    “You and five thousand other girls.” He gave her a withering stare.
    Hallie’s smile faded. “Can’t you make an exception, just this once? Just slip it in with his other mail.”
    The man smirked. “Mail comes from the mail room. Does this look like the mail room?”
    “No.” Hallie swallowed. “Can’t you say it’s a delivery? Or even let me take it up myself? I won’t say anything, I promise!”
    “Let you in here?” he snorted. “It’s company policy, there’s nothing I can do. No. Unsolicited. Materials.” The man used his index finger to push the envelope back, a few inches with every word.
    Hallie decided it was time to change tactics. “If those are the rules, then how do I get solicited?”
    He smirked.
    “I didn’t mean . . .” Hallie blushed, realizing her double entendre. Her confidence was crumbling in the face of such disdain. “Just, tell me, please. What does it take for them to take a look?”
    “Have your manager submit it.” He looked bored, already stabbing at the console again. “Get scouted by a casting agent. Perform in a showcase. Jesus, did you just step off the bus today?”
    “A few weeks ago.” Hallie’s voice was small.
    “Welcome to Hollywood, sweetie.” His voice was scathing. “Now, are you going to leave me alone, or do I need to call security?”
    It was the same at all the other agencies. Hallie tried her best smiles, her most charming tone — even buying a bouquet of balloons and trying to masquerade as a PR girl with a special gift delivery — but it made no difference. The receptionists barely looked up long enough to sneer at her with polished condescension, before pushing her portfolio back across the desk, or — worse even — sliding it straight into the trash.
    She stood in line at the Coffee Bean, seething with frustration. It wasn’t as if she’d expected Hollywood to welcome her with open arms, but this was impossible! To have an agent even take a look at her photo, Hallie would have to have a manager submit it, but to get a manager, she had to have interest from an agent. What was she supposed to do?
    “Can I help you?”
    “I’ll have a large vanilla ice-blended with extra espresso.” Hallie eyed the blond barista’s perfectly toned arms. Maybe she should take Amber up on that gym recommendation. “Can I get that light?” she added.
    “Sure. That’ll be five twelve.”
    Hallie opened her wallet. Two lone dollar bills stared back. Her heart sank. Her bank account was empty, and her credit card was maxed out from that spree last week to buy all her “moving to L.A.” essentials. (New wardrobe, audition monologue books, a fabulous new bathing suit with a genuine 1950s vintage cover-up . . . )
    “It’s OK. I can, uh, get that.”
    A guy in line behind her moved to the register, his wallet already out. He was in his early twenties, maybe, with a burnished-copper tan and stubble. His clothes were scruffy — a rumpled navy shirt, jeans that were clearly not designer — and when he turned back from the cashier toward her, Hallie saw an ugly scar snaking up from the neckline of his shirt, the red puckered skin cutting up the side of his neck.
    “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