Fall Of The Rock Girl: A Lesbian Romance (Revolving Record Book 2)

by Nicolette Dane

  “Just breathe,” said Daisy empathetically. I slinked down in my seat and kept my eyes focused forward on the stage. The ceremony continued on but I was finding it difficult to process.

  “I feel so strange,” I said. “I feel…” I trailed off, looking around, eyes wide. “I feel fake.”

  “This is what you wanted,” said Daisy, threading her fingers into mine and giving my hand a squeeze. “Right? This is where you always wanted to be.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You just have the jitters because there’s a real possibility that you could win,” she said. “That’s all this is. Just nervousness.” Daisy gave me a reassuring smile but I didn’t feel reassured from it. Her words rang true, though. I’d never been up for a Grammy before.

  With Cast Party I had been shortlisted for a Grammy, but since that ended and I went solo, Typical Me had really become my hit album. It had propelled me to fame I’d never even considered. I couldn’t walk down the street without being recognized, any street, and while the kind of fame I was experiencing was very enticing to many, I was finding it to be rather suffocating.

  “I think you’re more stressed that you won’t win,” said Daisy, offering me a small laugh, trying her best to ease my fears.

  “I don’t know,” I said again.

  “You made it back here in one piece,” she said. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “Jack helped me keep it together,” I admitted. “I felt like I was going to fall. I could really use a cigarette.”

  “You don’t smoke anymore, Layla,” said Daisy firmly.

  “I know,” I said.

  I had the sneaking suspicion that I was inhabiting the wrong body. I felt like I didn’t belong, like I was an imposter. Somehow I had tricked all of these people into believing that I was a talented musician, that I was someone special, someone worth listening to, and if I won this award, they would all finally begin to see how I had fooled them. I didn’t even write the music. The words were mostly mine, but they had been doctored by my songwriting team. Was this life even mine at all?

  And Daisy. I felt some kind of disenchantment from her. Some kind of foreignness. I loved her, truly, and she had been with me since the beginning. But I was beginning to feel uncertain as to why she loved me. Was it just because of all this? Was it just as phony as I felt? I was starting to question everything about my life and the conclusions I was coming to weren’t pretty.

  “Layla,” whispered Daisy. “It’s coming.”

  I just nodded, eyes on the stage.

  A very beautiful woman and a very beautiful man came on stage. I recognized them but I couldn’t quite place them. They were most certainly famous. They had wide smiles as they began their banter about pop music. I could feel Daisy gripping tighter to my hand, and I could feel a clamminess in my own hand. Breathing was difficult, my chest felt compressed. The presenters laughed on stage, and then the huge video screen behind them began to play vignettes about each nominee.

  “The Grammy for Best Pop Vocal Album goes to…” said the man. He opened the envelope, and then both his and the woman’s eyes widened as they closed in together.

  “Layla Bean,” they said. “Typical Me.”

  One of my songs played, and Daisy squealed. I felt her kiss me and then fluff me up, coaxing me into standing. I felt weak. I felt like I was going to throw up. But something kicked in, and my body did its thing. I walked down the aisle amid the applause. I had a forced smile on my face, but my eyebrows were turned down. I just felt a lot of fear.

  Then I was on stage and I was holding that weighty trophy. Although I had just held one as a presenter, this time it felt far heavier. I looked down at it and I wanted to weep. I couldn’t determine whether I was happy or I was sad. It was a strange in-between emotion that felt very nebulous and murky. I took a full, deep breath and I looked out to the audience. Their applause had died down and they were waiting for me to speak.

  “Thank you,” I said into the microphone. “Wow, I just…”

  A memory from 15 years prior flashed into my mind. James and I were sitting in his basement on a couch, each of us holding a beer can that we had swiped out of his Dad’s fridge in the garage. We laughed together as we made fun of some of the musicians on the TV in front of us.

  “This is such a garbage award,” said James, taking a deep pull from his beer can. “It’s just an industry thing. It’s whoever the record labels want to win.”

  “You think that?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s whoever they’re currently pushing. I guarantee that a lot of these artists, people won’t even remember a few decades from now.”

  “You think it’s just to sell albums or something?”

  “Yep,” said James. “We’re just watching one big commercial.”

  Then I was back. Back up on stage, holding that statue, gazing out to all the people. I was trying to come up with the words I knew I had to say. The label had coached me, my manager had given me a list of people and told me how defining this moment could be for my career. I wondered… was James watching me?

  “I want to thank so many people,” I mumbled. “There’s people I need to thank.”

  I felt a sudden weight leave my hand, and as I looked down to inspect it, I watched as my Grammy fell to the floor with a thud. And then my head spun, my stomach quaked, and the last thing I remember before everything went black was my own body going slack and my legs giving out.

  I sat upright and cross-legged in a hospital bed with a tray across my lap and affixed to either side of the bed. Dressed in just a gown, my red hair pulled back in pigtails, I dug into a bowl of green Jello and shoved it into my mouth.

  “We’re gonna tell them exhaustion,” said Trish, my manager. She was a hard-headed woman, with big hair, brown with blonde highlights, and tinted glasses. Trish was dressed fashionable, yet conservative, and she always seemed to have a conniving snarl on her face.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means whatever the fuck we want it to mean,” said Trish. She was sitting deep in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, looking at me and plotting. Trish was always plotting.

  “So what do we want it to mean?”

  “Layla, you can tell me,” she said. “I’m your manager. I’m on your team. I work for you. Are you on drugs?”

  “Drugs?” I said, lifting an eyebrow and looking over to her as I spooned another bite of Jello into my mouth.

  “You on the smack?” asked Trish. “The horse?”

  “I…” I stammered, feeling weird. I shook my head. “No Trish,” I admitted. “No, I don’t do that.”

  “I gotta spin this somehow,” said Trish. “We’ve gotta come up with something.”

  “I just fainted,” I said. “I was feeling just… crazy,” I told her. “I had all these thoughts rushing to me. I didn’t feel like myself.”

  “Maybe someone spiked your drink,” she said. “Maybe you were poisoned by a jealous artist.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not it.”

  “We’re going to stick with exhaustion and leave it at that,” said Trish. “You’ve got a lot on your plate right now. The album is big. And that contract,” she said, shaking her head, and whistling. “That’s a doozy.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” I said, frowning.

  “You don’t want to talk about that contract?” repeated Trish. “You don’t want to talk about that contract that made you? Made the both of us, really,” she mused, and then tilted her head and corrected her own ego. “I mean, I’ve been made for a long time, I’ve got a whole stable of big artists I represent…”

  “It just stresses me out,” I admitted.

  “Doll,” said Trish matter-of-factly. “That kind of money, that’s a stress reliever. You sign for a hundred million dollars and things change for you. The world opens up!”

  “Just stop,” I commanded. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Money
solves all problems,” Trish went on, in her own little world. “When you’re making that kind of money—“

  “Trish!” I called out. “No.”

  “Fine, fine,” she acquiesced. “Listen,” Trish continued, in a low and conspiratorial tone. “I’m going to get you out of this jam, Layla. It looks bad. People think you’re sick. They’re worried. The label is worried. You’re an investment, Layla, and you’ve got to pay off for these sharks.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “I feel… immensely pressured.”

  “You’re going to be fine, doll,” said Trish. “Just do as I say, let me handle the press, lay low for a little while. Don’t say a thing.”

  “Okay,” I sighed, giving Trish a nod.

  “You rest up,” said Trish as she stood up. She patted me a few times on my hand. “You eat your Jello, you relax, you try to work out whatever it is you’re dealing with.”

  “They pumped me up with some stuff,” I said. “I’m feeling okay right now.”

  “Maybe we can get you a permanent prescription for some of that,” said Trish with a thoughtful hum. “I’ll talk to your doctor.”

  “Just… no,” I said. “I’ll talk to you soon, Trish.”

  As Trish was making to leave, a nurse popped his head into the door and looked over at us.

  “Miss Bean,” he said. “You have an approved visitor here to see you. Daisy Callahan.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Send her in.” The nurse smiled at me and then he left.

  “You feel better, sweetcakes,” said Trish. She blew me a kiss. “I’ll catch you on the flippy-floppy.”

  “Goodbye Trish,” I said. She smiled flatly at me and then left the room. And with her left a lot of nervous energy.

  After a few moments and a few more cubes of Jello, Daisy stepped into my hospital room with a warm smile on her face. She was a beautiful sight to see. Her blonde hair was perfectly straight, her blue eyes bright, skin clear and smooth. Although this image of her soothed me, I also felt a sense of uncertainty. The same kind of uncertainty I’d felt the night before.

  “You feeling all right?” asked Daisy, walking into the room and tossing her bag down on the guest chair.

  “As good as I can be,” I said. “I told them about my anxiety and they put me on some cocktail. I’m just enjoying this Jello right now.”

  “It was just… so scary,” said Daisy, shaking her head as she remembered. “To watch you fall like that. I jumped up and screamed.”

  “I’m sorry,” I softly sighed. “I was overwhelmed. It was just too much for me.”

  “I know,” she said gently. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You could have really hit your head or something.”

  “I don’t really remember anything after dropping the statue,” I said, as Daisy sat down in the chair next to me, her eyes focused on me. “I saw my hand release it and then I fell, too.”

  “Jack Timberline rushed out to help you,” said Daisy. “He was backstage watching. He was the first one to respond and get you off stage.”

  “He’s a sweet guy,” I said. “I don’t remember that, though.”

  “Everybody’s worried about you, Layla,” said Daisy. “The press is going crazy. There are paparazzi camped outside this hospital, just waiting to catch sight of you.”

  “Maybe I can just stay here forever,” I said.

  “They’re going to release you today.”

  “Drag,” I said with a sad sigh.

  “You know, they almost didn’t let me in here,” she said solemnly. “They let Trish in no problem, but they hassled me… your girlfriend.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said weakly.

  “If it were legal,” said Daisy. “Would you marry me?”

  “Daisy, I…” I said, feeling my stomach go into knots. “I mean, of course. I just… this is a lot for me right now.”

  “But if they make it legal here in California,” Daisy pressed on. “In the future, we could get married?”

  “Of course,” I said again. My body felt pressured. My legs were squirming.

  “I love you, Layla,” said Daisy sweetly.

  “I love you, too.”

  But I was feeling disconnected from Daisy. I was feeling disconnected from a lot of things in my life. It snuck up on me, but I had a difficult time recognizing anything in my life anymore. It had been a few years since we’d moved to LA from New York. It had been a few years since Cast Party had fizzled out, since I’d seen any of them. It had even been a few years since I’d been back home to Michigan. Daisy was really the only person who somewhat tied me to my old life, and even that wasn’t completely true. She had been there at the start of this, but not the start of me.

  I had all these new people around me. Trish and Jack, other famous musicians and actors, it felt like I had this completely different cast of characters around me and it made me feel distant. It made me feel removed, like I was just in this role of Layla Bean, playing the part of myself, but all of it feeling immensely put on, unreal, phony. Although the longer I played the part, the better things ostensibly worked out for me, on the inside I felt like I couldn’t keep up. Like I was gasping for a breath of air that I couldn’t quite get.

  “You’re just tired,” said Daisy. “You’re off a giant tour, the album was stressful, the Grammys,” she said. “It’s all a lot for a person to deal with.”

  “Yeah,” I mused.

  “I’m going to go see if I can talk to whoever about your release,” said Daisy tenderly. “We’ll need a plan to get you out of here safely.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hopefully,” she said, snatching up her purse. “They’ll even speak to me about it. I mean, we’ve got the same address on our licenses,” said Daisy, shaking her head, speaking to herself now. “I’m your emergency contact… right?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Layla,” said Daisy, her eyes soft and empathetic. “I really do love you. I’m in your corner.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m going through something right now.”

  “Don’t leave me behind,” she said, looking sad, lips flat. With that, Daisy turned from me and made her way to the door. I sighed and looked up to the ceiling. I wished I could stay in the hospital forever.

  It was a few weeks later and I had been laying low, letting Trish deal with the media concerning my fall, and just generally avoiding any press that had been written up about me. I knew their speculation would only make me feel worse, and things weren’t getting much better for me. I had this sense of doom hanging over me, despite how everything on the outside appeared, and I knew I was too fragile at that point to have my problems shoved back into my face by people who thrived on the negative.

  But I was feeling very removed from it all. I didn’t leave the house very much. Daisy and I had a beautiful home in the Hollywood Hills, nice and remote and secluded, the kind of place that allowed for the necessary privacy of a celebrity. While Daisy had her job at Municipal Records to do, having transferred to their LA office when we moved, I was able to become a hermit as I dealt with all the confusion that was going on in my head.

  Sitting in a lounge chair on our expansive back deck, offering me a spectacular view of the vast city below, I fished through the pocket of my hoodie that was draped over the chair arm. Almost immediately my hands wrapped around a box, and from the pocket I pulled a pack of cigarettes.

  I opened up the box, yanked out a smoke and a lighter, and sparked it up. I sighed as I exhaled.

  I knew it was bad for my voice. I knew that, ever since I quit, my range had been better, my voice so much stronger, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was a nasty habit, but it gave me control in a way. With everything else feeling so out of control, this made me feel like I was in charge.

  After a few moments of smoky silence, I heard the distinct sound of feet hopping up onto my wooden deck, and those feet stepped across it and in my direction. I turned my head and caught Jack, grinning sheepis
hly, meandering his way up toward me in madras shorts and a tucked in polo.

  “Hey Beaner,” he called out, getting closer. “Burning a doob?”

  “It’s just a smoke,” I said, lifting my hand up to show him.

  “I know,” he said with a smarmy smile. “I was kidding.”

  Jack found himself a chair, lifted it up and walked it over to me. Once he placed it back on the deck, Jack dropped down into it and crossed his leg over his knee.

  “You haven’t been returning my calls,” he said. “Layla, I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I haven’t been returning anyone’s calls.”

  “Everybody’s worried about you,” he continued. “They all think you’ve gone crazy or something.”

  “Maybe I have,” I said.

  “You seem normal to me,” said Jack.

  “Thank you for helping me,” I said, pushing my cigarette to my lips and breathing in. “Daisy told me what you did.”

  “You’re my friend, Layla,” he said. “That was a frightening moment. You never think you’re going to have to hoist your friend up from the ground on live television while wearing a tux. But when it happens, instincts just kick in.”

  “You know, I had this weird thought earlier that night,” I said. “When you and I were presenting together.”

  “Yeah, you weren’t doing too hot then, either,” said Jack.

  “Right,” I affirmed. “I felt like… what was I doing with Jack Timberline.” I shook my head as I thought about it.

  “What do you mean?” he asked skeptically.

  “Jack,” I started. “I remember when you and Five Boys were just getting popular. I was too old to like your music, too punk, and back then… God, I hated you. I mean, I didn’t know you at all, obviously, but just how pop… how saccharine… how corny, I just hated it.” This made Jack laugh.

  “I don’t blame you, Layla,” he said, shrugging it off. “We weren’t your thing.”

  “What I mean is… you were this teeny bopper pop star,” I continued. “And then, after Five Boys, you became just Jack Timberline, still a pop star but even bigger. You’re hugely famous. I didn’t know what I was doing up there with you.”