First Chance

“Begging for me! Yearning for me! Then drop to your damn knees…”

I can’t stand this song. But I also can’t muster the energy to get out of my cozy bed and turn off the alarm clock, which would silence the dreadful tune.

I bet Layla has a whole beautification ritual planned for this concert morning. But first, I need to get up and turn off that awful song. Then, coffee.

My morning routine is sacred: coffee, cigarette, shower, and then, hopefully, I’m awake enough to deal with Layla.

I’ve tried to break this routine once before.

It didn’t end well for either Layla or me. She managed to talk me into a blind date she had set up and conveniently forgot to remind me about until the night of the date.

I thought about going, but my nerves got the best of me. I would have made a fool of myself if I had gone.

To say I learned my lesson would be an understatement; she called me, hurt and offended, when the blind date called her because I stood him up.

Ever since then, she’s been trying to trick me into agreeing to things she knows I would never agree to. Nothing as drastic as a blind date, but things like this concert, for example.

She’ll remind me about it constantly, and on the day of the event, she won’t leave me alone. She needs reassurance that I’ll go along with whatever plan she’s concocted for me.

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

Reluctantly, I toss my comforter aside. I slip into my pink fleece robe and slide my feet into my house slippers, which are conveniently placed next to my bedroom door.

I walk into the kitchen to make some delicious French vanilla coffee, noticing that Layla is still asleep.

A few more minutes of peace before I have to listen to her gush about the “drool-worthy” Steele all day.

Once the coffee is brewing, I open the sliding glass door to our balcony, which is off the living room. It’s June, so the heat is already intense.

Thankfully, there’s a breeze, making the heat bearable. I light my morning cigarette. That first drag fills a void that’s been aching to be filled.

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

I’m not oblivious, and I consider myself quite smart. So, yes, I do know what’s in “those cancer sticks.” I also know that one day, it could kill me. But so could a lot of other things.

But today, like many other mornings, I don’t care.

When I inhale, it brings a sense of calm over me, starting in my lungs and spreading out, somehow making me feel like I can breathe easier.

After finishing my cigarette, I stub it out and head inside to pour my coffee. That’s when Layla decides to make her appearance.

“You reek of smoke, Nat. When are you going to quit?”

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

She forces a smile.

I know this doesn’t make her happy, but because I’m willing to compromise, she’ll keep her lips sealed and refrain from giving me today’s lecture on the dangers of smoking.

“Layla, I’m going to shower and get dressed. We can discuss our plans for the day afterward. Knowing you, I’m sure you have something planned,” I tell her, feigning enthusiasm.

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

“I’m sure I will,” I mutter as I head to my bedroom.

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

I open my dresser drawer and grab my favorite black lace bra and panties, along with my favorite pair of distressed blue jeans.

They have small, intentional rips in random places, and the seams are fraying, but I’ll never part with them. Plus, they’ll go perfectly with my new shirt.

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

I don’t want a wire digging into my rib cage or too much padding making my chest look like a pair of cone-shaped boobs.

Just because I hide my body’s shape under oversized clothes doesn’t mean I don’t like to admire myself from time to time.

Having that secret confidence underneath my clothes boosts my self-esteem a bit.

The bra and panties I choose are a classic black demi cup, with matching black boy shorts that always seem to cover my curvy behind.

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

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

I wrap one of the towels around my hair and use the other towel to dry my body. First my face, then my arms, one by one. My breasts, then my legs, until I’m completely dry.

Feeling anxious about Layla’s plans, I quickly get dressed and meet her in the kitchen.

“Natty…” She only uses this nickname when she’s up to something.

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

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

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

I always dress this way. What’s gotten into her lately?

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

I stop her mid-sentence, seeing where she’s going with this. No way. Not happening.

“Layla, I’m not some social experiment. Hell, I shouldn’t even have to remind you of that. You’re lucky I’m even going today.”

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

“I’m just tired of you hiding behind clothes and your standoffish attitude. I just want the best for you, Nat! I really do. You sell yourself short,” Layla pleads.

“I don’t want to parade my body around 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, my voice wavering slightly.

She does this a lot. Calls me out and tries to make me face my fears. Hiding my body is one of the many things she tries to change. I’m happy with the way I am.

I have goals, and I want to achieve them without any interruptions from anyone.

Layla is the only one I’d even half-consider listening to when it comes to making changes in my life.

“Okay, I’ll drop this argument for now, but don’t think for a second that I’m done fighting with you over this. Please, just consider what 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’d rather sit in a room with your music than socialize with anyone besides me. We’re in college! Live a little, Nat. Go wild, go to a party, get drunk, and fuck a stranger.

“I don’t care, but just do something that’s a little out of control. Don’t you get tired of holding on so tight?” she practically begs, trying to get through to me.

I can tell I’ve pushed her too far. She’s always tiptoeing around the boundaries I set. Sometimes, it’s just too much for her to handle.

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

“Wait until you see where I booked us,” Layla says, grinning. She’s pleased with herself about this, so I’m instantly assuming she’s splurged on this salon.

Layla spoils herself rotten, and if I let her, she’d do the same for me, unnecessary as I feel it may be.

We head out of the apartment and into her Prius. She’s always raving about how great the car is for the environment.

Layla is all about world peace and going green. Given a willing ear, she could talk endlessly about the green movement.

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

Singing about obsessive love, how the guy will never get over this girl, no matter how badly she treats him. You can hear it in the singer’s shaky voice, the emotions he’s felt.

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

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

As the sound blares from the speakers, I hum along, and soon Layla joins in.

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

Joy, her nametag reads, greets us and automatically knows our plans. It seems Layla is a regular here.

We’re booked in the experience room, which is the epitome of indulgence.

Joy leads us to a private changing room, where we strip out of our clothes and wrap ourselves in luxurious 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 stop talking about it. I thought when you went to a spa, it was for peace and tranquility. Not with Layla and her non-stop chatter.

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

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

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

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

Just as I’m finishing getting dressed, a knock sounds at the door. It’s Joy coming back to lead us to the salon.

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

She grins.

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

“I got ya, babe. Don’t be so damn uptight. I enjoyed it; you enjoyed it. There’s nothing wrong with pampering yourself occasionally. You could use it with how tense you are.”

Bitch. Always has to have 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’d 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 net. I’ve often hidden the emotions I couldn’t hide on my face behind my hair.

Michelle pleads with me to let her do my makeup. She’s itching to see what she can bring out from beneath the surface.

I grudgingly agree, but only if she sticks to a natural look. No heavy foundation or eyeshadow, and definitely no lipstick.

I’m done getting ready when Layla emerges. My jaw hits the floor when I see what she’s done. In all the years I’ve known her, she’s never once dyed her hair, until now. And she’s rocking it.

She’s added some bleach blonde highlights to her dark brown hair, and cut it just below her shoulders. I’m speechless. Somehow, I manage to stammer out a compliment.

“You look amazing!”

Unable to ignore the nagging thought in my head, I bluntly ask, “Lal, this isn’t about that band member you were drooling over, is it?”

“What? No!” she protests.

I roll my eyes at her blatant lie.

“I just thought with all this talk about change, it was time for me to make a move too.”

“Liar,” I retort, dismissing her half-hearted excuse. Glancing at my watch, I see we have about thirty minutes to get to the show, even though I’d rather not go.

Layla would be furious. Probably for weeks. Living with a silent, angry roommate is a nightmare.

“Okay, let’s get you and your minidress out of here. We have a place to be, right?”

The auditorium is on our college campus. We walk through the crowded halls. It seems like this is the hot spot tonight. Everyone is buzzing about this show I’m dreading.

We make our way to the massive brown doors and step inside the auditorium, pausing just outside. The college has set up food and drink stands—and, oh look, a merchandise table.

Glancing at the table, I see they’re only selling Steele’s Army branded items. Of course, mainstream record labels and artists are always looking for ways to make a quick buck.

I know it’s typical 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 overpriced, low-quality junk. What college student can afford to drop eighty dollars on a sweatshirt with the band’s name?

“Want anything to drink?” Layla asks, interrupting my silent rant and making me jump. I hate when she sneaks up on me like that.

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

“Sure, grab me a Sprite, please,” I say, reaching into my purse to pull out a few dollars to give her.

With my hand halfway out of my purse, Layla stops me, placing her hand on my shoulder. “I got this, Nat. You’re here for me, after all.” She drops her hand, smiles, and walks over to the drinks stand.

When Layla comes back, she hands me my drink, a red solo cup filled to the brim with ice and a few sips of Sprite. They really spare no expense.

“Benjamin should be here any minute. He said he’d meet us at the entrance.”

I guess this is the same guy who was at our apartment yesterday. The same guy I didn’t introduce myself to because I figured, as usual, I wouldn’t see him again.

I don’t like getting friendly with Layla’s guys because I know they won’t stick around long. And if Layla gets her way tonight with that lead singer, this is the end of the line for him.

Awkward situations are not my thing.

Before I can scold Layla, Benjamin shows up. He kisses Layla on the cheek. She’s smiling; she seems genuinely happy.

“Hey, I’m Ben,” he says enthusiastically, extending his hand to shake mine.

“Uh, hi, I’m Natalie,” I reply reluctantly, introducing myself. I wasn’t expecting him to be so full of energy.

“Why don’t we go in?” Layla suggests, saving me from an awkward conversation with her flavor of the week.

I’m not a social butterfly. Meeting new people has always been a challenge for me. You make friends by talking about your likes and dislikes, by spending time together.

These are all things that are incredibly hard for me to share with anyone. Friendship isn’t 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,” I say, my voice laced with anxiety.

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 told me.

One of the bands that was chosen is onstage now. They sound pretty damn good too. Much better than I would have expected. 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 terrible music. Their songs won’t touch me, nor will they compel me to feel any kind of emotion.

Their songs are about cheapening love, selling sex, and are 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.

Every lyricist has the power to reveal raw, pure, and honest meaning. I hope they all choose to use it.

I see Layla, her eyes glued to the stage. She’s itching to get up there, as close as she can possibly be.

The pit isn’t my scene. I’d likely make a fool of myself, probably ending up in a full-blown panic attack.

“Layla, I can tell you want to get up there. Go with Benjamin. I’ll be okay,” I assure her, trying to smile.

“You sure, babe?” she checks.

“Totally. Go have a blast. I’ll be back there,” I tell her, pointing to the last row in the back.

“Find me when it’s all over, or earlier if you want to leave,” I add, making sure she knows I’m okay with being left alone.

“Okay. And Nat, try to enjoy the show. I know you’re particular about music, and you’ll resist, but let it go. Let yourself have fun.”

I make a promise I don’t intend to keep; she won’t leave if she suspects I’m not being honest.

I start heading to the back row, navigating through a sea of students coming the other way, all eager to reach the pit.

After a series of bumps and brushes, I finally make it, my drink still in hand and untouched. I sit down, lift my legs, and rest my feet on the chair in front of me.