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front of the room in her sensible pumps.
    Wesly said, “What’s your name?”
    â€œI’m Sophia Marcus, originally from Vancouver, but I moved to Toronto for the acting opportunities.”
    â€œWhat are you performing for us tonight?”
    â€œIt’s a monologue from a show I auditioned for today and…”
    â€œProceed,” he interrupted. Okay, backstory not needed. Got it.
    Sophia exhaled and imagined herself the mean girl, the reigning Regina of high school. Without the pressure of it being for real, Sophia remembered every word of the monologue, and really got into it. When she finished, the group applauded and she took a cheeky low bow. She waited for Wesly’s verdict, but he just sat there, shaking his head at her.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œObviously, you’re gorgeous and your reading was competent,” said Wesly. “But I have to ask: Why on earth are you trying to slog it out in the acting world? It’s dog-eat-dog, dog-puke-dog, dog-shit-dog, dog-eat-shit, and so on. This goes for all of you. Unless you can’t see yourself doing anything else, get out now! Run for your lives!”
    Sophia had certainly heard that before—although not in such gross detail. “Here’s my advice to you, Sophia from Vancouver,” he said. “Go to Los Angeles and ride shotgun in some rich man’s Ferrari for the next ten years. A sexy girl like you shouldn’t have to work. You won the genetic lottery! Cash it in!”
    â€œKa-ching!” she said, pulling an imaginary lever.
    He smiled smarmily. “So who’s next?”
    Sophia took her seat, grinning, squinting at him, imagining she could squash his head like a bug if she wanted. He’d written her off as just a pretty face. Wesly took himself seriously, though. His comments were all borderline cruel disguised as helpful. A classic case of “those who can’t do, teach drama.” Throughout the rest of the class, Wesly kept up the refrain—“Quit now, before it’s too late!”—no matter how good or truly awful the monologues were.
    Acting school might be a good idea, but not here, and not with Wesly Shamrock. When the workshop ended, Sophia was beyond ready to bolt.
    â€œExcuse me, Sophia?”
    A guy tapped her on the shoulder as they filed out of the room. He was around her age, very handsome and as pretty as she was. “Yes?”
    â€œI’m Scott Warren,” he introduced himself. “I really enjoyed your monologue. You’re really good. Don’t listen to Wesly.”
    â€œYou didn’t do one,” she said.
    â€œI went last week, but didn’t have anything new. Sometimes it’s cool to just watch. If you’re free sometime, we could grab a coffee. My friends are bored with my talking about acting and auditions,” he said.
    She laughed. “Same.”
    If he were hitting on her, she would have hesitated. But she didn’t get that vibe. As if to confirm her suspicions, he said, “It’s not a date. You’re not my type.”
    â€œReally.”
    â€œMeaning female. My type has XY chromosomes.”
    Okay, then. “I’d love to have coffee,” she said, smiling. She might not have gotten any acting tips here, but maybe she’d get a new friend.
    *   *   *
    â€œFuck them all. God, I hate casting agents,” said Renee, a bartender at CRUSH where Sophia was a bottle-service waitress. Like Sophia, Renee dreamed of stardom. She’d done some catalog modeling and, awhile back, starred as the Molson Canadian Girl in a commercial. They commiserated together, which Sophia appreciated. Renee was stunning. Perfect abs, toned arms, workout obsessed, beautiful face, and long brunette hair. But she was out for herself. Other people could be selfish but Renee was the ultimate “it’s all about me” person.
    Sophia wore her uniform of full makeup, a black minidress with