Starchela in LA

INTRO

We just stand out here, don't say a word. Been staring out in silence way too long now. I know she wants to light up so bad, and I so want to be a thousand miles away and text her rather than stand by her and talk to her.

Dad's taking his time inside. She must have told him that we need to talk. It's chilly out here and she's not even telling me to put on a jacket because her mind's on what she knows I want to tell her. And I know what she'll say.

An empty school bus drives by. Kids will be getting home soon. The Radmills are having a barbecue tonight. It's probably time for me to go.

"They'll know, mom," I say.

"They won't know."

"They'll know the first week."

"You could write that play," she says.

I knew she'd say that. The neighborhood is still quiet before everybody starts getting home. The air is chilly. The colors of the sky rain down in a million leaves and leave it gray. I'm going to the land of constant summer. Will I miss all this in LA?

She stops staring at the end of the street and turns to me, "You'll be fine there."

"They'll know the first week and I'll be three thousand miles away and my tuition's paid for a whole year... And what am I going to do? They'll know. Every day, in every class, for a whole year."

"You'll be writing new stuff, your stuff. You're good."

Twenty years ago my mom wrote this play that got me accepted at UCLA. We sent it as mine. They called. A couple of phone interviews, we Skyped, they sent a letter. Now it's time for me to go.

CHAPTER ONE – FIRST DAY IN LA

My roommate Natalie's coming to pick me up at the airport. LAX, I've seen it in movies. Not a super film buff but I'll always recognize The Spider, that restaurant that looks like a flying saucer on legs in front of LAX.

I found Natalie online, looking for a roommate. We Skyped a couple of times but the webcam's low res didn't prepare me for the way she looked. She's gorgeous in person. Her dad's Mauritanian and her mom's European, so she has these green eyes and this olive skin. Green eyes and black hair, man. She's a bit taller than me.

As she's helping me with the suitcase, we're chatting. This hint of a European accent in her – I'm getting worried that it will be a constant stream of men (not boys, men) through our apartment. Did I say worried?

Natalie's driving a VW beetle but she says she'll get a Lexus hybrid if their deal comes through. She's an assistant to some Hollywood producer and she says they're about to break into the majors. Whatever that means.

We pull out of LAX and a few blocks later we get on the freeway. Sunshine and traffic. Palm trees. I love palm trees. I love the sunshine. I'm even fascinated by the stop-and-go traffic. Every other car seems to be a Prius.

Natalie's talking to me about Westwood where our apartment is. It's a few blocks from UCLA. She's telling me about the theatres and restaurants and coffee shops. Apparently, it's upscale, safe and full of students. I suppose I'll be taking the bus to school.

"Bus? Please," Natalie says. "Not unless you're a bag lady. This is LA. Either jog or drive."

I'm not a jogger. I'll have to get a car soon.

"LA I land in splendor," I Tweet. And then I text, "Arrived OK. Sunshine & palm trees. I love U mom."

We exit the freeway and drive on winding alleys. Pretty houses behind hedges and eucalypts. Who lives behind those tall windows – screenwriters and movie producers? "This is the residential part of Westwood. Now we get to the semi-student part," Natalie explains and there's a group of Asian college girls on the sidewalk.