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a sequined bustier, and black leather thigh-high boots. The club was empty now, and freezing. In a few minutes, hundreds of people would crowd the dance floor and Sophia would run from table to table for six hours, logging a marathon in high heels. Renee didn’t have it any easier behind the bar. She’d pour thousands of drinks, and do the physical labor of restocking the bar every hour and managing the guys who hit on her. She flirted huge tips out of them, which was how she paid the bills.
    â€œI’ve never blanked like that before,” said Sophia. “It was terrifying.”
    She expected Renee to give her the “It happens to everyone” speech. But instead, Renee said, “Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œI’m going to quote the Buddha now, so brace yourself. ‘In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.’”
    â€œSo I should live more gently?” asked Sophia, laughing. The two of them often talked about when to let go of the dream, if ever, and usually encouraged each other to give it more time.
    â€œAre you still going to LA?” asked Renee.
    Sophia was planning to go to Hollywood in a month for pilot casting season. Agnes had set up some auditions for her. She’d have to take time off from work, which would be a financial blow. But, as Agnes said, “Now or never.” Especially after today, Sophia was wondering if a better description of her acting career was “now and never.”
    â€œWhat’s going on with you?” she asked Renee. “You had an audition this week, right?”
    A blast of music came through the speakers. Sophia and Renee turned to wave at DJ Squayla, tuning up her boards. On either side of the DJ booth were platforms with poles for dancers. Below the platforms were several of the club’s VIP tables. More tables skirted the dance floor. The hierarchy of seating status was determined by location, location, location. The closer to the DJ, the better the table, the flashier the customers, the bigger the tips.
    â€œLess talking, more working,” boomed Vinnie Cardinale, forty-five, Toronto’s poor-man’s version of Tony Soprano. Fat, balding, a lover of polyester shirts, he owned CRUSH and had been her boss for three years. Renee immediately poured him two fingers of whiskey. Vinnie sipped it delicately, smacking his lips. “That’s the stuff,” he said. “Renee, what’s this I hear about you going to Los Angeles?”
    â€œWait, you’re going to LA?” asked Sophia.
    â€œBobby’s got a big mouth.” Bobby was another bartender at the club. He knew, too? “I was going to tell you tonight,” said Renee, seeing Sophia’s expression. “It wasn’t definite until yesterday.”
    â€œWhat wasn’t definite?”
    Vinnie talked over her. “How long are you going to be gone?”
    â€œA month. I’ll be back for Canada Day in July,” said Renee. “Unless.”
    â€œUnless?”
    â€œI’m a hit and you’ll never see me again.”
    â€œBullshit!” said Vinnie. “If you make it big, I’m coming to LA and you can give me a job.” He laughed at his own lame joke, which was his prerogative. “We open in five minutes. Sophia, you’re working section one tonight. Don’t say I didn’t do anything for you.” Section one was like a shark tank, but the tips might be enormous. She took a deep breath, found her inner superwoman. She can do this; she can do anything.
    Vinnie continued on his rounds, checking the various stations and staffers before the all-night party started. Renee filled a sink with ice, and loaded more beer into the fridge behind the bar. “It’s no big deal,” said Renee. “It’s just a commercial for Skyy