I nodded.
“I wished there was something I could have done,” she said. “Hold your hair back or something,” said Nikki with a familiar smile.
“I wish you could have, too,” I said.
“If you’re here to apologize or whatever,” Nikki went on. “You know, for going off and becoming a rock star,” she said. “I don’t blame you. I don’t have any ill will for you.”
“Really?” I said. “I kinda feel like I deserted everyone.”
“Oh, no,” she confirmed. “Layla, you had a really unique opportunity. And, you know, people change. I mean, look at me now,” said Nikki, motioning to the scene we found ourselves in.
“You seem to have a pretty good life,” I said.
“I do,” she said. “I’m really happy.”
“I just got swept up,” I said. “Once everything was rolling with the music, there weren’t any brakes. Just a lot of people who kept pushing me forward.”
“I understand,” said Nikki empathetically. “Don’t worry about me or what I think of you. I’ve been cheering you on from here at home.”
“It means a lot to me to know that,” I said. “I have to tell you, Nikki, I’ve felt really lonely lately.”
“Yeah?”
“I feel like I woke up one day and I had no idea whose life I was living,” I said. “I didn’t feel like myself. I didn’t feel anything like the Layla that you used to know.”
“Like I said, people change,” said Nikki. “Maybe you just changed a lot quicker than you expected.”
“Maybe,” I said. “It’s so inspirational to see you, Nikki. You’ve certainly changed.”
“I used to be really angry,” she said. “But… I figured out how to get away from that.”
“How?” I asked. “What did you do?”
“I don’t know,” Nikki said as she thought about it. “At some point, I was just so tired of it and I let it go. I just released it,” she said, motioning with her hand out as though she were letting go of something.
“I’ve never learned to let go,” I said. “I think I still just bottle it up and try to forget.”
“It’ll come,” she said, smiling.
I smiled back at her and I looked down.
“Layla, I don’t want to sound like a bitch,” said Nikki, lowering her voice when she said ‘bitch.’ “But your hair… it’s a mess.”
“I know,” I said.
“When I saw you on Leno the other week,” she said. “You were beautiful. That iconic Layla Bean bright red hair. Or, well, iconic for the most recent incarnation of Layla Bean. What happened?”
“I did this,” I said, raising my hand to my head. “In an effort to kinda hide myself, I guess. I felt that if I ran off and still had my bright red hair, everybody would know it was me right away.”
“That makes sense,” she said. “But don’t you have a stylist or something? Someone who could have done a professional job?”
“I do,” I said. “But this was a quick bathroom job.”
“Oh boy,” Nikki said, her eyes still focused on my hair. “There’s still red streaks, the color’s just not very even. It’s very frustrating for me to see.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s the best I could do by myself.”
Nikki looked over to her son, and then sighed. She flattened her lips out and she thought.
“Okay,” she said. “I can fix it for you. I’ve got a better quality dye than that. I can at least even it out and make you look… not so messy.” I laughed at her summary of me.
“You really don’t have to,” I said. “That’s not why I came here.”
“No,” said Nikki. “I insist. I can’t stand seeing you with bad hair.”
“Well, all right,” I said. “It’ll give us some more time to catch up. But I don’t want to put you out or anything. You know, with Henry and all.”
“It’s almost his nap time anyhow,” said Nikki. “I’ll put him down and then we’ll fix you up.”
“I really appreciate that,” I said.
“What happened to your labret,” asked Nikki curiously, touching her finger to her own chin as she looked at me intently. “I can still see the hole.”
“I took it out,” I said. “Just another attempt to un-Layla myself. Besides, my skin breaks out like crazy around it and it’s really been wearing down my gums.” With that, I stuck a finger in my mouth to feel at my lower gums. I’d noticed them receding lately.
“You’re not hiding from anyone,” said Nikki with a knowing smile. “You’re quite recognizable.”
“I know,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed.
“You stay here,” she said, standing up now and beginning to walk over toward her son. “I’ll put Henry down for his nap and then we’ll get started.”
“Okay,” I said.
I watched Nikki be a mother. It was really sweet, and it was a role I’d never expected to see her in. But we all go our own way. Friends come and go, things change, people change. It was nice, though, that Nikki and I could sit down and talk like friends, even if it had been almost a decade since we’d last had the opportunity. People change, but when you have something deeper, a greater foundation of friendship and love, there’s something special in all of us that will never go away.
I stood outside Black Arts in Ferndale, the rock venue at which Cast Party had our first show. Spring was beginning to finally happen, and although there was no longer any snow on the ground in southeast Michigan, there was still a light chill in the air. I had my hoodie up over my head, I was puffing on a cigarette, black jeans tucked tightly into my black boots. I inspected the band schedule near the door of the venue. The block was empty, but for the cars racing down Woodward. It was a normal weekday early afternoon.
Feeling a presence coming up to me, I turned my head and saw her. It was Audrey, offering me a smile. She was wearing a form-fitted peacoat, black tights on her legs, cream Chucks on her feet. Her dark hair was back in a ponytail, her black glasses sliding slightly down her nose.
“Hey,” said Audrey as she approached, pushing her glasses up.
“Hi,” I said.
“Black Arts,” she said, looking at the marquee. “Cool venue.”
“Yep.” I smiled and I lowered my hood.
“I thought when I saw you at LAX that your hair was a different color,” said Audrey, as though she’d found out a secret. “But I wasn’t sure with your hood up.”
“I’m in disguise,” I said.
“Right,” she scoffed with amusement.
“You don’t think it helps?”
“Maybe a little,” she said. “But once people see your face, I mean…”
“I guess I didn’t think this thing through,” I said.
“I guess not,” Audrey said and smiled. “So you want to get a coffee?”
“Yeah,” I said. “There’s a cafe over on 9 Mile that I always used to go to when I was younger.”
“Java Hutt?” asked Audrey.
“That’s it,” I said. “I just figured we’d walk over there.”
“Cool,” she said. Audrey started to walk and I followed.
Once we arrived at the cafe, I was immediately hit with a wave of familiarity. It reminded me of that time in my life when Cast Party was just beginning to gain local popularity. My usual haunts were this cafe, and the diner with Nikki. I remembered that I had written much of our song The Forfeited here. I smiled to myself.
Audrey stepped in front of me and made her way to the counter, while I brought up the rear. The barista, a cute young girl who couldn’t have been more than 20, smiled at Audrey as she took her order.
“And I’ve got her, too,” said Audrey, pointing back at me and then taking out her credit card. It was a platinum card that I recognized as something a lot of rich people had.
“Sure,” said the barista. “What will you have ma’am…?” she said, and then paused, her eyes widening. I was used to it. “You’re Layla Bean.”
“I am,” I said, looking around to make sure no one had heard her. “Just don’t say it too loud or anything. I’ll sign something if you want me to.”
The barista nodded quickly and enthusiastically, and then looked side to side. Swiftly, she picked up a brown paper coffee cup sleeve and a pen, and she slid them my way across the counter.
“I’ll have a cafe-au-lait,” I said, darting my eyes up to the barista as I signed.
Sitting down in the back of the cafe, Audrey with her peacoat hung on her chair, wearing a grey cashmere cardigan sweater over a tank top that offered a slight glimpse at her cleavage, and a wool skirt, I watched as she blew on her latte. She caught me looking and smiled.
“So I bet that happens a lot, huh?” she said, motioning with her head back toward the counter.
“Yeah,” I said. “Everywhere I go.”
“So it’s something I should be aware of for when I become a famous actress?” said Audrey, a little glint of fire in her eye. I laughed softly.
“Yes,” I said. “Be careful what you wish for.”
“Right,” she replied. Audrey sipped from her coffee.
“It’s weird how accustomed you get to the invasion of your personal space,” I said. “It’s like, ‘oh, this again.’ But the feelings shift. Like, I used to be nervous about the attention, scared and anxious, but that feeling has been pushed farther up the chain.”
“What do you mean?”
“Um, well,” I said, thinking about it. “Now, the little things like that interaction with the barista don’t get me too bent out of shape. But going on a late night show, being in front of millions, it gets me overthinking and worried.”
“You put on a good front,” said Audrey, her eyes wild as she looked at me.
“The facade is crumbling,” I said.
There was a pause in our conversation. But I had something on my mind that I wanted to ask her.
“This might sound strange,” I said. “Or egotistical or something. But how come you don’t act like that barista around me? Why don’t you go wide-eyed and starstruck?”
“I don’t really get starstruck,” said Audrey with a laugh. “It makes it easier on me when I’m at an audition and someone famous is in the room with us.”
“That’s a good attribute to have in your line of work,” I said.
“And really,” Audrey continued, averting her eyes. “Like I told you before, your music now isn’t really my thing. Don’t get me wrong… I loved Cast Party when I was younger. But you guys stopped putting out records — what? — like six years ago?”
“It’s not that long of a time,” I weighed in.
“To me it is,” she laughed. “I was, like, 19 or 20 when you guys broke up. You just have to move on sometimes. Tastes change.”
“That makes me feel old,” I said. Audrey put on a pouting face and reached her hand across the table, laying her palm atop my hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean to come off as negative. And look,” Audrey continued. “I’m not really frightened of rich people because, well, I come from a pretty nice background.”
“How nice?”
“My Dad’s an auto executive,” said Audrey, looking away abashedly. “Pretty high up. And, you know, we’ve hosted people at our house that are…” she said, stopping herself, trying to find the correct words. “Most likely of greater wealth than even someone in your position.”
“Wait,” I said. “I’m confused. If you’re rich, then why weren’t you in First Class with me on the plane?”
“Ugh,” groaned Audrey, rolling her eyes. “My Dad says I have to earn First Class. Don’t get me wrong, he’s right, but he let’s me fly First Class when we travel as a family. It’s just a parenting double-standard. I don’t know.” She shrugged.
“Sounds like a pretty conservative family,” I said.
“Yeah, well,” she said. “He’s very bootstrappy, if that’s what you mean. But my parents were both very kind when I came out to them.”
“When you came out,” I repeated. “As a lesbian?”
“Yeah,” Audrey affirmed. “They were fine with it. They knew. I was always kind of… counterculture or whatever. I mean, I’m trying to be an actress. It’s an alternative lifestyle.”
At that point, I couldn’t help but feel intimidated. It was almost as though Audrey was put here to tempt me. She was young and pretty, easy to talk to, not scared of me, but also down to Earth and normal. She didn’t seem to care about my money. To her, I was nostalgia. Or just… somebody to talk to.
“Hey,” said Audrey, her eyes brightening. “It’s okay if you say no — I won’t be offended or anything — but I’ve got a question for you.”
“Go for it,” I said.
“I told you at LAX about my brother’s wedding,” she began. “That’s why I’m in town. Would you be interested in, I don’t know, being my date?”
“Audrey,” I said skeptically. “That’s just… I’m not sure. I’m here to escape crowds. To get away from people.”
“That’s fine,” she said, now looking as though she were embarrassed for even asking. “No, forget I asked. That’s crazy.”
“I don’t even have a dress,” I said. “I didn’t really bring anything fancy with me.”
“Don’t worry,” Audrey said, shrugging, not looking at me. “I don’t know what I even expected. It just came out of my mouth.”
“No,” I corrected. I took a deep breath. “Can I think about it?”
When I said this, Audrey’s eyes lit up. She turned her head to look at me once more.
“Yeah,” she said gently. “Yeah, think about it. It’s next weekend. No pressure.”
“Okay,” I said, giving her a smile to know that it was all right.
“Okay,” she repeated, mimicking my smile.
Everything felt really calm in that moment, like time had frozen. I didn’t know what to think about anything but it didn’t concern me. I was fine.
Audrey just went on smiling at me and it was all very comfortable.
“Miss Bean,” said the receptionist, a mildly amused yet even expression on her face. “Dr. Murphy will see you now.”
“Thanks,” I said, standing up. The waiting room was quiet and calm, with delicate lighting, and I had been the only person waiting.
“Just open up the door and head on in,” said the receptionist as I approached the doctor’s door. “She’s ready for you.”
I nodded and followed her instructions.
As I entered the doctor’s office, she looked up from her chair and smiled at me. Standing up, she set her notebook on the chair and approached.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Dr. Louise Murphy.”
“Layla Bean,” I said. We shook hands. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” I looked around Dr. Murphy’s office, noting that it was very wooded. It felt a lot like a special room in a library.
“Have a seat,” she said, motioning toward a couch near her chair.
“Do I lay down or something?” I asked.
“If you like,” she said. “Sit, lie down, either is fine.”
“I’ll sit,” I said. “Can I take off my shoes?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Dr. Murphy. “That’s all right.”
Quickly slipping out of my sneakers, I climbed up on the couch and sat cross-legged. I wasn’t sure what to expect from Dr. Murphy, so I tried to just let her take the lead.
“Just so you know,” she said. “Everything you say here is privileged. I’m bound by my code of ethics to keep it between us. I know that you have a certain position in our culture, and that secrets you have could be troubling for your career. Just know that this is a private conversation. I’m here to help you.”
“Thank you,” I said, rocking side to side, trying to get comfortable on the leather couch.
“We can start where ever you like, Layla,” said Dr. Murphy. “Whatever’s on your mind.”
“Are you
aware of what happened to me at the Grammys?” I asked.
“Yes, I am,” she said. “We can start there.”
“It was weird,” I said, making a face. “Something just came over me there. I’ve always struggled with anxiety, but I thought I’d mostly had it beat. But at the ceremony, something… new happened. In the past, my anxiety was always this fear that people would judge me — any people — but there, at the Grammy’s, it was more that I felt out of place. Like an imposter. Like I was fooling everyone.”
“Imposter syndrome is common with people at higher levels in their career,” said Dr. Murphy. “You might reach an apex and then worry that maybe you climbed the ladder too quickly. That those around you are more talented, more deserving. Does that sound like it?”
“Yeah,” I said absently. “I think that could be it.”
“And why do you feel not as deserving as some of your peers?”
“Maybe it’s not that,” I corrected, trying to figure out myself what it was. “It’s more like… I’m this outsider who somehow made her way into a club that she does not belong in. I feel like I’m this kinda gnarly punk girl, but I now live in this glittery glam pop world.”
“I see,” said Dr. Murphy. “You feel like a faker, a phony.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You don’t feel that maybe you’ve changed?” she asked. “That you were a punk girl when you were younger, but you’ve become someone else just through… age, experience, maturity?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Are you uncomfortable in your new clothes?”
“Yes,” I said. “They don’t seem to fit right.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I think, maybe,” I said, searching my mind. “Because it feels as though someone else picked them out for me.”
“Hmm,” mused Dr. Murphy. She looked down at her notepad and scribbled something. “You feel a lot of pressures to do things a certain way.”
“Yes,” I said. “A lot of responsibilities to do stuff I don’t want to do.”
“Well, we all feel that,” she said. “That’s common among all people.”
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