“Call me if you need anything,” said Trish. “Don’t do anything rash. Stay calm, stay grounded. We’re going to get through this.”
“Thanks Trish,” I said. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Layla.”
I quickly reached down and hung up my phone.
The bathroom completely stunk from the hair dye, the vanity lights bright and blazing down on me, the tile floor cold on my bare feet. I was standing there mostly naked, just wearing a black pair of underwear, little black smudges of dye flecking my shoulders, a few on my upper chest. I didn’t know what was next, how the plan I was trying to devise would work itself out, but I just knew that I needed a change. I needed to disappear. I needed some sort of reinvention.
I thought about the early days, about those first shows with Cast Party in Detroit. It was all so scary. I had never thought of myself as someone who could be the lead singer of a rock band before. The idea of it was pretty laughable to me. But once I found how much it soothed my anxiety, it became addicting. In an effort to feel better, I wanted more and more of the spotlight. Not because I had some runaway ego, but because it calmed my fears and made me feel normal.
But then it becomes a completely different beast. Then it’s like you’re always on stage. I can’t walk down the street, I can’t just grab a coffee with a friend, without feeling like I have to be on. And instead of addressing my old problems, opting instead to mask them, I made it all worse. I still felt like shit. I still felt queasy and worried, but now I had millions of people looking at me as I felt it. This kind of fame didn’t solve my problems, it exacerbated them.
Those early days, though, those times spent with James, Renee, and Paul, they were undeniably fun and exciting. It felt good to be appreciated and wanted, to feel like you were giving the fans something special, something more unique than they’d experienced before. It was a more authentic time for me, maybe more altruistic, but definitely a time I knew in my heart to be more legit than the life I would come to live.
It’s so easy to look at someone like me and think that I have it all. But that’s only if you forget that I’m actually still a mortal person behind the music, behind the image of stardom.
As my brain meditated on these thoughts, and my hands messily colored my hair the darkest shade of black I could find, I heard a pretty firm knock at the bathroom door.
“Layla,” I heard from the other side. “It’s Jack.”
“Come in,” I said, reaching for the doorknob, twisting it, and pulling it open.
“Whoa!” said Jack as he saw me, quickly bringing his hand up to block his eyes, simultaneously turning his head. “Beaner, you’re naked in there.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, looking down at myself. I grabbed a white towel with my black stained glove, and wrapped it around my neck, letting either side of the towel cover my chest. “Sorry. I’m good now.”
Jack lowered his hand and turned back toward me. He had immense surprise in his face.
“What are you doing?” he said. “You’re dying your hair black?”
“Yeah,” I affirmed. It was quite obvious.
“But why?” he said.
“I just don’t want to be noticed,” I said. “I’m going away.”
“Daisy told me,” said Jack. “She said you’re leaving her. You’re leaving all this.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Don’t go,” he said. “Let’s get you some help here in LA. I’ll be by your side, Beaner. Daisy and I will take care of you.”
“I appreciate that, Jack,” I said. “But I need to do this for me.”
“Where are you going?” he said. “Are you just going to run off to some deserted island?”
“Home,” I said. “I’m going home.”
“Back to New York?” asked Jack.
“Michigan,” I said. “I’m going back to Detroit to just disappear for a little while.”
“You think someone like you can just disappear?”
“I think so,” I said.
“I think you’re vastly underestimating how recognizable you are,” he said. “You think you can just walk down— what’s a main street in Detroit?”
“Woodward Avenue.”
“You think you can just walk down Woodward Avenue and nobody’s going to recognize Layla Bean?” said Jack. “Red hair, black hair, it doesn’t matter. Dude, you’re a pop star.”
“Maybe I’ll just… hmm,” I mused, looking at myself in the mirror. Bringing a hand up, I slowly began to unscrew the little titanium ball from my labret piercing. Once it came loose, I used my tongue inside my lip to knock out the flat ended post from the pierced hole and then spat it out into the sink.
“You still look like Layla Bean to me,” said Jack sarcastically.
“That thing has been annoying my gums lately anyway,” I said, puffing my lip out, inspecting the small hole in the mirror.
“C’mon, Layla,” said Jack.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I turned to him, trying to be empathetic to his pleas. “I’ll be okay. I need to do this to try to be okay.”
Jack sighed and slowly nodded.
“Daisy seems really broken up,” he said after a moment.
“I feel alienated,” I said. “I feel alienated from everyone in my life.”
“Even me?”
“Jack,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I just find it all so weird.”
“Okay,” he said. He knocked absently on the doorframe, and I could see the wheels turning within him. “We’ll be here, all right?”
“All right.”
“Take care of yourself, Beaner,” said Jack. He offered me a small smile. “You’re not alone.”
“Thanks Jack.”
After a silent look, Jack turned from the bathroom door and walked away. I stepped closer to the door, and I slowly shut it.
Now, back in the privacy of the bathroom, I tossed the towel from my neck and returned to my dye job. I couldn’t get the look on Jack’s face out of my mind. He was a true friend, someone who obviously cared about me. But it made me feel strange to consider him my friend, solely based on who he was. I couldn’t reconcile the two feelings. They were at odds, and I just had to accept that. For now, at least.
I didn’t expect anyone to understand. I know they try, but if you haven’t gone through what I’ve gone through, felt what I’ve felt, it’s just going to be impossible to empathize with my feelings inside. I thought that maybe it would all go away if I just cast myself headfirst into the pit of fame. If I was always playing a part, I’d never have to address the underlying problems.
How wrong I was.
With my black hood up, outsized headphones over my ears, and big black sunglasses over my eyes, I sat in the LAX airport terminal, slouched in the seat, reading through Spun Magazine. I was in faded black skinny jeans, black combat boots, and had a single black duffel bag near my feet. I flipped the page, reading through an interview with a musician I knew personally, and tried to take my mind off of thinking anything too catastrophic.
I had gone through VIP security upon arriving at the airport, but that didn’t stop a TSA agent from asking for a picture with me. I obliged, of course, because in those kind of situations it’s just easier to do it than to have to explain to a fan why you don’t want the invasion of privacy. A lot of times, the public feels almost like they own you and they can impose anything they want on you if you’re a famous face. Take a picture, sign an autograph. They don’t realize how often you get asked for that kind of thing. And they also don’t realize that you go through very human things, just as they do, and sometimes it’s best to leave other people alone.
But I had made it through the terminal and to my seat without further incident. I was pretty well obscured. The TSA woman saw my ticket, so she knew who I was. But now, with my hood up, sunglasses on, most people probably just thought I was some brooding punk and they stayed out of my way.
The seats at the gate began to fill up as our departu
re time neared, and it wasn’t long before the seat next to me became occupied. The girl who sat next to me was probably mid-20s, and quite hip looking, with dark features. Skinny jeans with rips at the knees, brown leather flats, a white v-neck t-shirt, big black plastic eyeglasses on her face. She seemed cool, and she was pretty. I took a deep breath as she sat, and I caught her looking at me somewhat suspiciously.
We sat next to each other in silence for a few moments before she spoke up.
“I know you,” she said.
I heard her, but I pointed to my headphones and shrugged.
“You’re not even listening to anything,” she said. “I don’t hear music coming out of those.” She was right. I wasn’t listening to any music. The headphones were just a disguise.
“Yeah,” I said, pulling the headphone nearest to her off my ear. “Right.”
“You’re in hiding, huh?” she said, her voice droll, almost like a lazy boredom. “I’m Audrey.” She offered me her hand. After a moment, I shook it.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said.
“I’m going to Detroit, too,” she said. “I’m also from there.”
“How do you know I’m from there?”
“I said I know who you are,” Audrey said, giving me a look like I was being dense. “I used to watch you play at the Mystic, when I was like 16 or something.”
“Cast Party?” I asked.
“Right,” she said. “You guys were a good band.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling sheepishly.
“I was sad when you broke up,” Audrey went on. “But, eh, it happens I guess.” She shrugged.
“It happens,” I repeated. “What about my music now? Do you listen to it?”
Audrey made a face and twisted a little in her seat before she answered.
“I mean, it’s fine,” she said. “It’s just not my thing.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” said Audrey. “It’s just too mainstream. I don’t mean anything by it. I just prefer something a little… grittier, I guess.”
“No, I get it,” I said. “Thanks for your honesty.”
“But I loved you in Cast Party,” she continued. “As a teenage girl, sneaking out to shows downtown, you were so cool.” Audrey gave me a warm smile.
I smiled with her.
“You kinda remind me of how you used to be right now,” said Audrey, motioning toward my outfit. I looked down at myself.
“Yeah,” I said. “All black.”
“Are you doing okay?” she asked gently, uncertainty apparent for the first time in her voice. “I mean, I heard about what happened.”
“The Grammys,” I said. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“At least you won,” Audrey said, giving me a smirk. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“If it’s any consolation…”
“It’s probably been tough, huh?” she went on. “Everybody asking if you’re okay, everybody wondering if you’ve gone mental or something. I get it. LA is a weird place.”
“You live out here?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “I live in East Hollywood.”
“But you’re from Detroit?”
“Right,” said Audrey. “Royal Oak, actually.”
“I’m from Royal Oak,” I said.
“I know,” she said with a grin.
“What do you do out here?” I asked. Audrey was easy to engage with.
“Trying to be an actress,” she replied, giving me a flat lipped smile and another shrug. “But I’m actually just a waitress.”
“It’s a hard thing to do, acting,” I said. “But I guess you just gotta keep at it.”
“Yeah, well…” Audrey said.
“What are you doing heading back home?” I said, getting caught up in the conversation. I felt like I hadn’t talked to someone like Audrey for real in a long time, and I was eager to keep it going.
“My brother’s wedding,” she said. “I’ll be in town for a couple weeks, then back to the grind.”
“It’s good you can take so much time off,” I said.
“Well, it’s not like I’m getting paid for it.”
“Right.”
“But whatever,” she said. “I don’t care. Getting acting jobs is all that matters to me.”
Just then, a man’s voice came over the PA system and announced that our flight was preparing to board. Audrey and I paused our conversation to listen, as the man listed the order of boarding and the typical procedural stuff. I exhaled, and then sat up straighter in my seat, getting ready to push myself up and board the plane.
“I guess we’re boarding now,” I said.
“You’re boarding now,” said Audrey, smirking at me lightheartedly. “First Class.”
“Oh, right,” I said.
“It was nice talking to you,” she said with an earnest smile. “I really was a fan and it’s cool to have had a conversation with you.”
“Maybe I’ll see you around Royal Oak,” I said, returning her smile. “It’s a small place.”
“Yeah, we can go bodice shopping at Noir Leather,” Audrey said and then laughed.
“Hey,” I said in mock-seriousness. “That store rocks. It did in the 90s at least…”
“Hold on a sec,” said Audrey. Reaching down to her backpack, she retrieved a blue ballpoint pen and then turned to me. Without another word, she took my hand and began writing on it. She scribbled down her name, as well as her phone number. I was stunned.
“248,” I said, speaking her area code out loud. “Oakland County.”
“Represent,” said Audrey. “I know you’re… you know… who you are, and everything, but if you wanna get a coffee or something while we’re both in town, hit me up.”
“All right,” I said, looking down at my hand and at Audrey’s phone number. When you’re as famous as I was, absolutely nobody dares to touch you like Audrey did. If they take a picture with you, they give you the hover hug — an arm around your back, but not touching you at all. It’s like you’re untouchable. But this chick, she grabbed my hand without another thought and wrote on it in pen. It was crazy.
“You gonna board?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, slowly standing up and lifting my duffel. “Thanks for the conversation, Audrey. It was really great to meet you.”
“You too, Layla,” she said. “I still think you’re cool, despite… you know…”
“I know,” I said, giving her a nod and a half-embarrassed smile. I looked at Audrey for a moment longer before hefting my bag over my shoulder and walking toward the boarding gate. First Class had already begun boarding, and I increased my pace as I started to realize what Audrey had done to me. She was bewitching, and she reminded me of a simpler time in my life, a time in which I felt more free.
Looking over my shoulder quickly, trying to get one last glimpse of Audrey, I saw that she wasn’t even looking in my direction, she wasn’t watching me walk off as others might do, starstruck from just having met someone famous. Instead, her face was pointed down, looking into the Spun Magazine that I had left, thumbing through the pages without a care in the world. I remembered how it felt to be like her. Easier times back then.
“Welcome aboard… Miss Bean,” said the woman checking passengers in at the gate, looking up to me after reading my ticket. Her eyes lit up when she saw me.
“Thank you,” I said, averting my eyes and speedily walking through the door. The nerves hit me again. I just kept walking.
Two
The oversized black SUV pulled up to my house in the Hollywood Hills and slowly came to a stop. The driver, dressed in a black suit, speedily leapt out from his seat, came around back, and opened up my door for me. He offered me his hand and I took it.
“Thank you,” I said as he helped me down from the lifted vehicle.
While my mind stayed focused on the future of my career on the flight back to LA, it was the drive from LAX to my house that brought me back to the present. I would have to confront Daisy fa
ce-to-face. It’s easy enough to forgive someone over the phone when you don’t have to look into their eyes. But when you’re there together, standing across from one another, that’s when you see the true emotions spill out.
“Your luggage, Miss Bean,” said the driver, handing me my duffel. In turn, I slipped him a twenty dollar bill.
“Thank you,” I said once again with a temperate smile. He nodded, smiled, and then jumped back into the car.
I half-wished he would have accompanied me into the house so that his mere presence could defuse any immediate drama that might happen between Daisy and me. No such luck.
I was always under the impression that relationships get easier the longer they go. I don’t know why I thought that. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. But they never stop being complicated, they never stop presenting challenges. They never stop growing. It’s naive to think they would remain so one-dimensional. But then again, I’ve been naive about a lot of things.
I keyed open the door to my house and stepped inside, looking around it, taking it all in as if for the first time. It was a nice place, simple and modern, a lot of glass, and a far cry from my old place in New York City. I still owned my spot in New York, and it was a familiar respite for me. But this home in LA, I had let Daisy take charge of its design. And she liked things modern Swedish.
“Hello?” I called out into the silent house. I dropped my bag to the wooden floor in the foyer and continued walking. I didn’t know if Daisy was home or not. She might have simply left. She might have decided that we were finished and just took off to avoid any kind of confrontation with me. It made me sad thinking about that, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
As I got deeper into the house, I thought I heard water running and I climbed the staircase to take me up to the bedroom. As I entered the bedroom, I heard the water shut off, and I knew then that Daisy was in the shower of our ensuite bathroom. I took a deep breath and tried to focus, tried to calm my nerves. I didn’t want to get too angry. I didn’t want to get too sad.
Fall Of The Rock Girl: A Lesbian Romance (Revolving Record Book 2) Page 5