First Chance

Natalie

“You say you want me! That you need me! Then get on your fucking knees…”

I dislike this song to my core. I also don’t want to get up out of the feathery stuffed bed and shut my alarm clock off, thus shutting the horrible song off.

I’m sure Layla has planned some all-out get-beautified morning for this concert. But first, I need to get up and shut that god-awful song off. Then coffee.

My morning routine I cannot break: coffee, cigarette, then shower, then hopefully I am awake enough to converse with Layla.

I’ve tried it once before, disrupting my routine.

It did not end well for Layla or myself because she ended up talking me into meeting a blind date she had planned and failed to remind me about until the very night of said blind date.

I considered going, but my anxiety clammed me up. I would have embarrassed myself if I went.

To say I’ve learned my lesson is an understatement; she called me hurt and offended when the blind date called her because I never showed.

Since then, she tries to trick me into agreeing to do things she knows I would never agree to. Nothing like a blind date, but for instance, this concert.

She will remind me right up to the date, and the day of she won’t leave me alone. Reassurance I will go along with whatever plan she’s made for me.

It’s clever, I’ll give her that, but it’s also sneaky.

Begrudgingly, I throw my comforter off my body. I put my pink fleece robe on and slide my feet into my house slippers, which are located right next to my bedroom door.

Walking into the kitchen to make some delicious French vanilla-flavored coffee, I see that Layla isn’t awake yet.

A few more minutes of reprieve before I have to listen to her go on about the “mouth-watering” Steele all day.

Once that’s brewing, I go open the sliding glass door to our balcony, located off the living room. Since it’s June, the heat is already sweltering.

Thankfully, the wind is also whirling about, making the heat bearable. I light my morning cigarette. Pulling that first drag into my lungs hits the spot. The spot that has long needed to be filled.

My craving has finally found its fix. I know people are always preaching, especially Layla, about how it “will kill me,” and, “Do you know what poisons they put in those cancer sticks?”

I do not live under a rock, and I consider myself quite intelligent. So, yes, I do know what is in “those cancer sticks.” I also know that one day, it could kill me. But so could many other things.

Although, today is another glorious morning where I do not care.

When I breathe it in, it brings a sense of calm over me, starting in my lungs, moving outward, and expanding, somehow allowing me to feel like I breathe that much easier.

Finishing my cigarette, I butt it out then go inside to start making my coffee. This is when Layla decides to grace me with her presence.

“You smell like smoke, Nat. When are you going to stop?”

“Don’t worry, I will shower before we leave today, and I’ll make sure to carry hand sanitizer and breath mints. Happy?”

She holds a smile tightly.

I know this doesn’t make her happy, but because I compromise, she will close those pouty lips tightly and rein in whatever lesson she wants to teach me today about cigarette production.

“Layla, I am going to shower and get dressed. We can talk about our plans for the day after. If I know you, then I know you have something up your sleeve,” I tell her with fake enthusiasm.

“You’re going to looooovveee what I have planned, Nat.” She squeals with excitement.

“I’m sure I will,” I mumble on my way to my bedroom.

I grab my new Tom Petty shirt, which is still in the bag on my bedroom floor from yesterday.

Opening my dresser drawer, I grab my favorite black lace bra and panties, then my favorite pair of grungy blue jeans.

There are small man-made rips in random places, and the seams are fraying, but I will never get rid of these things. In addition, they will go perfectly with my new shirt.

Matching bra and panties are a small, quirky obsession of mine. They also must be comfortable.

I don’t want a wire digging into my rib cage or an overabundance of padding causing my chest to look as if I have a pair of cone-shaped boobs.

Just because I hide my body’s shape under excessively baggy clothes does not mean I don’t like to admire myself occasionally.

To have that secret confidence underneath my clothing increases my self-esteem a fraction.

The bra and panties I decide on are a classic black demi cup, with matching black boy shorts that always seem to come up over my plump behind.

I hang my robe on the back of my door, take my slippers off, and go to the bathroom, clothes in hand. I strip my tank and shorts off and start the ending of my routine.

I turn the shower off and step out onto the bathroom rug, water dripping off my body and soaking the floor.

I take one of the towels and twist it around my hair then take the other towel and start drying my body off. First my face, then my arms, one by one. My breasts then my legs until I am completely dry.

Anxious about Layla’s plans, I throw my clothes on and meet her in the kitchen.

“Natty…” She only says this when she is up to something.

“Don’t be mad, but I made us appointments at the salon—you know how I like to be pampered and relaxed before a concert. I thought we could make a morning of it.”

And her all too familiar, “You’re not wearing that, are you?”

“Yes,” I say hesitantly, questioning her judgmental observation. “I am wearing something I feel comfortable in. You know I don’t want attention, so why would I dress like that’s my end goal?”

I always dress this way. What the hell has come over her lately?

“Okay, okay, I just thought when you picked up that ratty thing it was for your at-home relaxed days. Nat, you have a banging body. If you would just let me—”

I cut her off right there; I can see where she plans on heading with this. Nope. Not going to happen.

“Layla, I am not some socially awkward experiment. Fuck, I shouldn’t even have to remind you of this. You’re lucky I am even going today.”

“Because you’re my girl, I’m going to let that slide. I know damn well you aren’t an experiment. I’m your best friend, so naturally I want the best for you.

“I’m just tired of you hiding yourself behind clothes and your unapproachable attitude. I just want the best for you, Nat! I truly do. You sell yourself so short,” Layla says pleadingly.

“I don’t want to go around showcasing my goods because I’m not looking for attention. You of all people know any attention is unwanted.

“I try every day; I just can’t wear clothes like that,” I say with a slight quiver in my voice.

She likes to do this a lot. Call me out and try to make me face my demons. Hiding my body is one of the many things she tries to change. I am content with the way I am.

I have goals, and I want to accomplish them without any interruption from anyone.

Layla is the only one I would make a half-attempt at listening to when it comes to making any changes in any part of my life.

“All right, I’m going to let this argument go for the time being, but don’t think for one second that I am done fighting with you over this. Please, just consider the things I say.

“You know I only want the best for you, and it kills me sometimes seeing how out of touch with the rest of the world you are.

“You would rather sit in a room with your music than associate with anyone besides me. We are in college! Live a little, Nat. Go crazy, go to a party, get drunk, and fuck a stranger.

“I don’t care, but just do something that’s somewhat out of control. Don’t you get tired of holding those ropes so tight?” she practically cries, trying to get this through to me.

I can tell I pushed her too far. She’s always staying on the outside of the boundaries I set. Sometimes, it’s just too much for her to handle.

Trying to wash the slate of our current conversation, I act quickly. “I’ll think about it. Let’s drop it for now. Let’s make our way to the salon if you ever want to get to that damned concert of yours.”

“Wait until you see where I made us an appointment,” Layla says happily. She is pleased with herself about this, so I am instantly assuming she has thrown a decent amount of money at this salon.

Layla spoils herself excessively, and if I allowed her to, she would do the same for me, unneeded as I feel it may be.

We make our way out of the apartment and into her Prius. She’s always going on and on about how great the car is for the environment.

Layla is all for world peace and going green. When given an empty ear, she could load it on end about the green movement.

On the drive, I turn the radio on and play with the radio stations until I hear the beat of a familiar Lumineers song. Now, this—this is music. What music should be. In its most raw and purest form.

Singing about obsessed love, how the guy will never get over this girl, not caring how badly she treats him. You can hear it in the singer’s shaky voice, the emotions he has felt.

A perfect example of true musical talent. You should sing about what you know, about what you’ve been through.

To fans, that is what makes you sound so sincere that you have experienced exactly what we have, or what we could be feeling at that precise moment.

As the sound is blaring from the speakers, I hum along, and soon Layla does as well.

We arrive at the G2O spa and salon. I should have known Layla would book us in at the most expensive and luxurious spa in all of Massachusetts.

Joy, her nametag reads, greets us and automatically knows what our plans are. It seems Layla stops here quite a bit.

We’re booked in the experience room, which is over-the-top in over-indulgence.

Joy escorts us to a private changing room, where we strip out of our clothes and enclose ourselves in lavish ivory silk robes.

This room is ours alone for the next two hours. We relax on spa beds while breathing in an ice fog, which is apparently good for your respiratory system.

I only know this because Layla won’t shut up about it. I thought when you went to a spa, it was for peace and tranquility. Not with Layla and her incessant blabbing.

We then proceed to partake in a tropical shower, separately of course.

The water is room temperature, cascading over my body like a rain shower, and the scent envelops my senses, island fruit and ocean salt water.

A breeze swirls around in the air, coming from a fan in the ceiling of the shower stall that can easily fit five people my size.

Regretfully, when the shower is over, I walk back to our personal changing room. Layla is already in there and fully dressed, sitting on a bench along the wall waiting for me.

Just as I’m finishing putting my clothes back on, a knock sounds at the door. It is Joy coming back to escort us to the salon.

As we’re walking through the hall connected to the salon, I tell Layla, “Just so you know, just because I enjoyed that immensely doesn’t mean I will not plan to live without that splendor.”

She grins.

“Nor am I doing a drastic hair change. A light trim and wax, and we are done. Got it?”

“I got ya, babe. Don’t be so damn uptight. I enjoyed it; you enjoyed it. There isn’t anything wrong with pampering yourself occasionally. You could use it with how wound up you are.”

Bitch. Always having the last word.

Approaching the salon entrance, Layla’s stylist whisks her away. A woman about my age with gorgeous cascading shiny red hair greets me.

She tells me her name is Michelle and asks what I would like to have done. I repeat what I just told Layla: Nothing drastic. A light trim and a long overdue brow wax.

My long hair has been a helpful yet convenient safety crutch. I’ve long hidden the emotions I couldn’t hide on my face behind my hair.

Michelle begs me to allow her to apply some makeup. She’s curious to see what she can unveil underneath.

I stubbornly agree, only if she stays with an all-natural look. No caked-on concealer or eyeshadow, and absolutely no lipstick.

I am already finished when Layla comes out. My jaw drops as I see what she’s done. In all our lives, she has never once colored her hair, until today. She is wearing it very nicely.

She added some bleach blonde highlights to her chocolate brown hair, cutting it a little below her shoulders. I’m at a loss for words. Somehow, I manage to push out a compliment.

“You look amazing!”

Not able to ignore the thought in my head, I bluntly ask, “Lal, this has nothing to do with that band member you were drooling over, right?”

“What? No!” she denies.

I roll my eyes at her obvious lie.

“I just thought with all the talk about change, it was time for me to take a step too.”

“Liar,” I say, dismissing her half-attempt of an excuse. Glancing at my watch, I notice we have about a half an hour to make it to the show, even though I don’t want to partake in attendance.

Layla would be pissed. Probably for weeks. It is boring as hell living with a silent, pissed-off roommate.

“All right, let’s get you and your minidress-wearing ass out of here. We have somewhere to be, correct?”

The auditorium is located inside our college. We walk through the student-filled halls. It seems this is the place to be tonight. Everyone is awaiting this show I am dreading even being at.

Making our way to the gigantic brown doors and entering the auditorium, we make a pit stop just outside. The college has set up food and drink vendors—oh, and lookie here: a merchandise table.

Looking over at the table, I notice they are only selling Steele’s Army labeled items. Of course, mainstream record companies and artists are always looking for ways to make a dime.

I know it’s normal for a concert or festival, whatever you want to call it, to sell the performing band’s shirts, sweatshirts, CDs, and posters.

But usually, it’s almost always overpriced, poorly made crap. What college student can afford to spend eighty dollars on a sweatshirt carrying the band’s name?

“Want anything to drink?” Layla asks, interrupting my silent bitch fest, causing me to jump in surprise. I hate when she sneaks up on me like that.

Luckily, no one was in close enough proximity to get hit when I jumped.

“Sure, grab me a Sprite, please,” I say, reaching into my purse to grab a couple of dollars to hand her.

With my hand halfway out my purse, Layla stops me, placing her hand on my shoulder. “I got this, Nat. You are here for me after all.” Dropping her hand, she smiles and walks over to the drinks vendor.

When Layla comes back, she hands out my drink, a red solo cup with ice, filled to the brim with a couple sips’ worth of Sprite. They sure don’t spare any expense.

“Benjamin should be here any second. He said he would meet us here at the entrance.”

Well, I guess this is the same guy who was in our apartment yesterday. The same guy I chose not to introduce myself to because I assumed that, like normal, I wouldn’t be seeing him again.

I don’t like befriending Layla’s men because I know they’re not going to be around for long, and if Layla gets her way tonight with that lead singer, this is the end of the road for him.

Uncomfortable situations are not my forte.

Before I can reprimand Layla, Benjamin chooses to show his face. He kisses Layla on the cheek. She’s smiling; she seems genuinely happy.

“Hey, I’m Ben,” he says in an excited tone while reaching his hand out to shake mine.

“Uh, hi, I’m Natalie,” I say regretfully, introducing myself. I wasn’t expecting him to be so chock-full of upbeat energy.

“Why don’t we go in?” Layla suggests, saving me from an awkward conversation with her temporary beau.

I’m not a conversationalist. Meeting new people has always been difficult for me. You make friends by talking about your likes and dislikes, by spending time with each other.

These are all things that are extremely hard for me to share with anyone. Friendship is not for me, Layla being my only exception.

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. The sooner the show starts, the sooner it’s over. The sooner it’s over, the faster I can leave,” an anxiety-laced voice pushes out of me.

We walk through the entrance. I can see they’ve already set the stage for the main event.

The lights are on, so I can see the old worn red carpet and the high-vaulted ceilings that make up our auditorium.

Part of the contest was that our school would be allowed to showcase its talents. Auditions were held earlier in the week, Layla informed me.

One of the bands that was chosen is onstage now. They sound pretty damn good too. Much better than I would have thought. Bet tonight, for them, will be the time of their life.

Being able to open for such a chart-topping band. They’ll learn, after many mistakes reaching the top isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

The school has removed a couple hundred seats, of course, in the front of the stage.

“At any great concert, there will always be an area for the pit,” Layla once said.

Her idea of a good time at the show is front and center; my idea of a great time is in the way back, taking it all in, experiencing the music, the sound rushing around me. Enclosing my soul.

Closing my eyes and just listening. Feeling the words being sung in every song.

Unfortunately, at this concert, all I wish I had were earplugs to block out the wretched music. Their songs will not touch me, nor will they compel me to feel any kind of emotion.

Their songs are about the cheapening of love, selling sex, and downright full of bullshit.

They could have written a song about being taken advantage of in love and trust; instead, they wrote a song about taking advantage of love and trust.

Every song ever written has some metaphorical meaning behind it. Songwriters have the power to move someone physically and emotionally.

I just hope every lyricist chooses to use that power to showcase raw, pure, and honest meaning.

I notice Layla eyeing the stage greedily. She wants up there, as close as she can get to the stage.

The pit is not a place for me. I would most likely embarrass myself, probably resulting in a massive panic attack.

“Layla, I know you want to go up there, so just go with Benjamin. I will be fine,” I say with an encouraging smile.

“You sure, babe?” she asks.

“Absolutely, go. Have fun. I’ll be right back there,” I say, pointing to the farthest row in the back.

“Find me when the show’s over, or sooner if you feel like leaving earlier,” I say, offering her assurance that I am fine with her leaving me alone.

“All right. And Nat, please just try to enjoy the show. I know you’re picky when it comes to music, and you will try to fight it, but just let it go. Let yourself open up and enjoy.”

I make a false promise; she won’t go if she has any inkling I didn’t mean it.

I make my way to the back row, other students coming the opposite direction pushing their way through me to reach the pit.

After many gropes and shoves, I finally make it, drink in hand and still full. Sitting down, I lift my legs up and prop my feet against the chair in front of me.