Music Notes

by Lacey Black

  “Thanks, guys,” I holler as I get inside and turn up the heat. Jay and Zane slide into Zane’s black Silverado and patiently wait for me to pull out of the parking lot. Always the gentlemen.

  It takes me fifteen minutes to get to the small apartment I’ve shared for many years with my mom. Parking in the wee early hours isn’t usually an easy feat in our neighborhood, and tonight, I’m fortunate to find a spot only half a block down. Afternoons are the worst. Our apartment only comes with one designated spot, which we use for Mom’s car, so I’m left to find whatever, wherever I can.

  Making my way up the sidewalk, I revel in the quiet and stillness of the early morning hours. Most of Chicago is winding down for the night and traffic is as usual–light. Few lights are on inside of the buildings around me, and I thankfully don’t pass anyone as I approach the front of our building.

  After a quick shower to scrub the stale beer from my skin, lime from my fingertips, and my face free of make-up, I slip into warm flannel lounge pants and an old concert tee. I’m exhausted and rung out and am instantly lulled to sleep by the soft, gentle snores of Eli. He sleeps peacefully in the toddler bed on the opposite wall of the twin bed I’ve had since I was a teenager.

  As I close my eyes, I slowly relax into my pillow and can’t help but to run through the night’s events. Singing on stage. The corny pick-up lines. The good looking, blue eyed stranger looking for my address. Dividing up the tip jars so that I could replenish my checking account for food, heat, and other necessities.

  Just a typical night in the life of Layne Carter.

  *****

  “So, I have something for you,” my mom says as she places a large garment box on the kitchen table in front of me.

  Grace Carter is the spitting image of the woman I look at in the mirror every day. Though she stands a few inches shorter than me, her caramel colored hair that she keeps cut at shoulder length and deep green eyes are identical. She’s been accused on more than one occasion of being my sister. She was only nineteen when I was born twenty-four years ago and doesn’t look anywhere near her forty-three years of age. In fact, she could easily pass for mid-thirties. She always shocks people when she mentions that she’s a grandma.

  “Why does that scare me just a little when you say that?” I ask as I take a sip of my sugary coffee.

  “Don’t be mad,” she says with bright, consuming eyes. I can already tell that I’m not going to like whatever is in that box.

  Eli eats a pancake from his booster seat next to me as I rip open the lid to the white box. Inside is a beautiful black and gold dress. It looks like a vintage as I pull it out, revealing a deep scoop neck and high waist. The dress is sleeveless and hits at the knees. It’s retro, gorgeous and just my style.

  “Ummm?” I ask, stumped as to why my mom is giving me this beautiful dress. It’s not my birthday and I don’t recall having any upcoming engagements that would require such a lovely dress.

  “There’s more.” She gathers up her to-go coffee mug and purse from the counter, refusing to make eye contact.

  Mom works as a personal assistant at a large accounting firm a few miles away. She’s been there for thirteen years, working her way up from a fill-in secretary to being the woman solely responsible for one man’s schedule and office. She loves her job, and they love her. Plus, she’s fortunate enough that they’ve been flexible with her schedule where Eli and I are concerned.

  I reach into the box and pull out two envelopes. The first one contains a certificate for the salon Mom uses. It’s not the amount on the certificate that draws my attention, but the item listed. Bikini wax? Is she serious?

  But as I glance over at her as she stands in the kitchen doorway, ready to go to work, I can tell by the way she still won’t make eye contact that she is, in fact, dead serious.

  “Uh, Mom, I know we’re close, but I don’t think the state of my bikini line is anything for us to be concerned about right now,” I tell her, shocked that she has chosen this moment to give such a personal and private gift.

  Mom says nothing as I pull out the other envelope. Dread starts to set in as the quiet of the room takes hold. Hell, even Eli isn’t saying anything right now which makes the walls feel like they’re closing in on me. Mom remains mum as I remove the eight and a half by eleven sheet of copy paper revealing the date and time for an upcoming flight to Los Angeles.

  My eyebrows shoot straight towards the heavens as I look up at her. “What’s this?” I finally ask.

  Mom clears her throat before answering, “That’s your ticket to your audition to Rising Star.”

  I peel my eyes off the sheet of paper that is suddenly shaking in my hand and stare at the woman in front of me. I wait for her to yell, “Gotcha!” but it never comes. She appears nervous, yet excited as she stares down at me. I, on the other hand, am ready to pee down my leg, and it isn’t from excitement.

  “What did you do?” I whisper hoarsely as I look back down at the piece of paper. According to the document that I’m trying to strangle in my hands, I’m boarding a flight in less than one week and heading to The Golden State to audition for the hit new singing competition, Rising Star.

  “I’m giving you the little nudge you need–and deserve. This is your chance, Layne. I sent in an audition video of you singing last month at Chaser’s and they called. They want you to be on their audition show in California next week. I’ve already booked your flight, and with the network’s help, your hotel room and a car are arranged for you.”

  I stare up at the woman who has been my sole provider since I was six years old. “I can’t do this,” I mumble, my mind swarming with dread and fear. “I have Eli,” I state matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, you do have Eli and I’ve already talked to Jane next door who is going to help me for a few days. Tiffany has already arranged for Callie and Kyle to handle your shifts at the bar.”

  I blink up at my mom because it’s the only thing I can do. My mind is running a million miles a second in every direction imaginable as I try to process what she’s saying–and what it means for me.

  “This is your time, Layne. I won’t let you sit here and dwell on the crap-hand that life dealt you. Eli and I will be fine for a few days. Go. Give this a try. If you are invited to the show, then we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. But, at least try. At least go and sing the way I know you can. Go and show the world that Layne Carter is as good as all those other guys and girls. Show them you’ve got it,” she says with a motherly smile and a hug.

  But that’s the thing. I don’t know if I’ve got it. I used to think I could do anything, sing any song and perform in front of a few hundred. But, now? Confidence has long ago been replaced with fear and self-doubt. Performing at Chaser’s is one thing. This? This is something completely different. This is terrifying.

  “Why the bikini wax? I don’t think the judges are going to be looking that closely,” I say with a sassy smile.

  Mom laughs. “Nothing helps improve your mood and self-confidence like smooth lady parts,” Mom says with a wink.

  I’ll have to take her word for it. Self-grooming in the lady part region hasn’t exactly been high on my to-do list for quite some time. You know, with working full time at the bar and raising a toddler. I haven’t found the time to add regular visits to the salon to my to-do list.

  Note to self: Check into regular self-grooming waxing.

  “You’ve got this, Layne. I don’t want you to worry about anything at home. I’ve got Eli. Besides, a record contract and one hundred grand? Can you imagine what that grand prize can do for you and Eli? What kind of life it will give you both?” she asks as we both look over at my three-year-old son sitting at the table next to me. His green eyes are the same as mine, but his hair is lighter, almost blond. Like his father’s was.

  I look back down at the paper in my hand. Trepidation and uncertainty still churn in my stomach like bad eggs, but so does exhilaration. Excitement.

  Am I really going to do
this?

  Apparently, the answer is yes.

  Note to self: When the going gets tough, the tough just try not to hyperventilate or vomit on the shoes of the person next to you.

  The flight to Los Angeles was eventful, to say the least. Since this was my first time flying, I was filled with excitement at the unknown. The takeoff wasn’t as scary as I anticipated, and the ear popping wasn’t as bad as I was warned. Then the turbulence started. The constant dropping and shaking of the plane at thirty thousand feet was enough to send even the calmest passenger into drinking-mode. Me? I’d kill for a nice alcohol induced buzz right now. The only thing that kept me from downing five-dollar bottles of vodka was the fact that I’d probably throw up all over the guy in thirty-two B.

  And that’s not the impression I’m looking to make on the residents of LA.

  LAX is huge. Overwhelming. Scary. Other flyers push and move their way through the masses, barely saying excuse me or looking up from their electronic devices. Chicago has its fair share of rude people, but LA seems to be in a category entirely on its own. I’ve been stepped on, tripped over, and moved out of the way five times. And I haven’t even made it to the luggage carousel yet.

  With Mom’s ancient suitcase in hand, I finally make my way towards the arrivals doors. The sun is shining somewhat brightly through a thick cloud of haze as I scan the crowd looking for my ride. Mom said a car from the show would pick me up, but didn’t give me any more details. A scan of the crowd reveals my name in big thick marker on a piece of cardboard, held up by a tall, older man in a hat.

  “I’m Layne,” I say as I approach the gentleman. He doesn’t say anything as he grabs the suitcase out of my hand, turns, and walks out the sliding glass doors.

  Well, then…

  I follow at a quick pace to catch up with his long legs. He’s already throwing my suitcase in the trunk of a black town car when I reach the slick automobile.

  “I’m Bill. I’ll be your driver today. We are waiting for one more passenger and then we’ll head to the hotel,” he says as he opens the rear passenger door for me.

  I slide onto the soft, buttery leather seats and barely have my feet inside before the door is shut, engulfing me in silence and cool air conditioning; all before I can even say thank you. Twenty-two agonizing minutes later–and yes, I kept track–I see Bill approach the car pulling a large suitcase on wheels. Behind him stands an impossibly tall, hairy man with a shaggy long beard and dreads. Dreads.

  The door next to me flies open as Bill waits for the newest arrival to take a seat. I slide over to the driver’s side, since I’m apparently in the way, and watch out of the corner of my eye as Lurch slides in. I try my hardest not to stare, but my need to gawk is powerful.

  “Hey, I’m Troy,” he says with a big, friendly smile.

  I’m thrown against the rear driver’s side door with a thump as Bill pulls out his best high-speed chase maneuvers and we file in line to leave LAX. “Layne,” I say, sticking out my hand as I offer a friendly shake.

  His hand is warm and his blue eyes sparkle as he smiles a dazzling grin. For a hairy man, he has an incredibly attractive smile. I do feel a little bad for him as he attempts to curl his large frame comfortably inside the town car. The man is tall.

  “Nice to meet you. Are you nervous?” he asks, not taking his eyes off of me.

  “A little, I guess,” I say.

  “Me, too,” he confesses, blowing out a large exhale of air.

  Troy and I continue to make small talk the entire ride. Sixty long, traffic-crawling minutes pass before we pull up in front of a large hotel. BLVD Hotel is nestled on Highland Avenue in Hollywood and has a sleek, modern feel with deep rich earth tone colors. And apparently, it’s going to be my home away from home for the next few days.

  “After you,” Troy says as he steps away from the car to allow me room to exit.

  Together, we walk into the lobby of the hotel and approach the front counter.

  “Welcome to BLVD Hotel,” the slim, attractive brunette says behind the counter. “You must be here for Rising Star,” she adds with a smile.

  “Yes,” we both say.

  Ten minutes later, and with plastic room keycards in hand, we’re handed a stack of papers. “Everything you need is here. Your audition schedule is right here and the departure times for each group here,” she says, pointing to one of the sheets in the stack. “You each have a roommate that should already be here since you are some of the last to arrive,” she adds.

  “Thank you,” we each reply as we head towards the bank of elevators.

  It turns out that Troy’s room isn’t too far away from mine. With the promise to meet downstairs where the contestants are all gathering around dinnertime, I slip into my hotel room. My need to take a nap before heading down to meet the rest of the hopefuls is overwhelming. Who knew traveling halfway across the country was so exhausting?

  Before I even have the door completely open, a thick southern accent heckles the hairs on the back of my neck. She sounds annoyed. Okay, she sounds pissed.

  “I told you to get me my own room, Richard. I can’t share a room with some stranger,” she demands into the slim cell phone in her hand. The slam of the hotel door forces her to turn around and face me for the first time. Excitement isn’t exactly the term I would use to describe the look on her face. Actually, the opposite of excitement is closer. Definitely not excitement.

  “Uh, hi,” I say with a forced smile as I walk towards the bed that has the least amount of clothes on it.

  “That’s my bed,” she practically growls at me before turning her attention back towards the phone in her hand. “I thought we had a deal, Richard. I would do this show–win this show–and get the record contract. You are supposed to help make sure that no one stands in my way. That includes making sure I don’t share a room with trash,” she spits into the phone as if it were evil.

  I instantly become offended, as any sane person would. Not necessarily because she called me trash but because I realize this is the woman I’m going to be trapped in sleeping quarters with for the next three days. I’d rather be wearing a paper gown with my feet in the stirrups showing my hooch to everyone and their brother at the gynie’s office right now. Awesome.

  Note to self: Never again complain about your yearly female exam. Ever.

  After a few terse words with whoever Richard is, Country Diva Barbie finally hangs up and slams the phone down on the bed. On the other bed–the one that I assume is supposed to be mine–I start to push some of her clothes over so I have room to unpack.

  “You can hang those in the closet,” she says as she goes about unpacking her cosmetic bag on top of the only dresser.

  “Um, I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot, here. I’m Layne. Your roommate. Not the maid,” I tell her directly.

  Suddenly, I feel completely inadequate with my appearance. I’m wearing my favorite red skinny jeans and kitten heeled black ankle boots. My retro, faded black tee is loose and hanging over my left shoulder, displaying the strap of my black tank underneath. My face is practically make-up free and my hair pulled back in a no-mess pony. Simple. Travel-easy. Comfy. And has completely left me feeling lacking as I stare up at the tall model-perfect woman in front of me.

  “Shawna Reece,” she says without shaking my proffered hand. In fact, the way she rolls her eyes at the gesture leaves me feeling like she’s afraid to touch me for fear of getting cooties.

  Barbie–or Shawna, if you prefer to address her a bit more formally–is wearing a classy pink tea-length dress with a deep scoop back. It flows freely and displays her curves perfectly. Of course, her shoes are tall and strappy and probably designer. Her entire outfit looks expensive as hell and worth well more than the twenty or thirty I spent on mine at the resale, vintage store back at home.

  After hanging up my meager belongings in the closet and placing my other clothes in the two available drawers on the very bottom of the dresser–apparently, Shawna doesn’
t like to bend over–I notice that my roommate has made no effort at removing her clothes from my bed. If I plan to catch a nap before dinner downstairs, I’m going to have to suck it up and move her shit.

  I wish I was the type of person to not care about others–you know, like Shawna. I wish I could just pick up her pile and dispose of them on the taupe lounger in the corner. I wish I could just drop them on the floor in front of her fancy designer shoes. I wish I could toss them over my shoulder like some scorn lover tossing her ex’s clothing out the window. But, I’m not that person. Not that I don’t think it. I just can’t do it.

  Instead of throwing a diva fit like High Maintenance Barbie, I decide to be the bigger person and hang up her clothes. Not because I want to, but because it’s probably the only way I’ll get to lie down on my bed. Lord knows she isn’t about to do it.

  Shawna’s phone rings three times before I have the last of her belongs hung up in the closet. After glancing through her wardrobe, I realize that I am severely underdressed for this whole shebang. I brought comfy, trendy clothes. Not stylish and expensive.

  When I finally have a clear bed, I plop down very un-lady like and pull out my cell phone. I had texted Mom when I arrived at LAX, but I want to call before I have to go downstairs. I know it’s only been about eight hours, but I miss them already. I’ve never been away from Eli before, and the only time I was away from Mom was when I was staying with Colton.

  Four years ago. And sometimes it barely feels like four days.

  I decide to step out into the hall to place my call to Mom. I don’t need Judgmental Barbie overhearing my entire phone conversation. As soon as I find a little alcove vending machine area, I dial the familiar number. It rings twice before my mom answers.

  “Are you there?” she asks, voice laced with excitement.

  “Yes. I’m already checked into the hotel.”

  “Oh? Is it a nice one?” she asks.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. You’d like it. Though, my roommate is completely impossible,” I say as I fill her in on our first meeting.