I've Never Lit a Match

The spring of 2008 came with the typical hesitation that a New England winter always seems to ensure. Every time the leftover snow piles began to melt – leaving residential lawns a gross combination of the oceans of dirty gray and the patchy islands of soggy green – the sun just fell back into remission.

The last new batch of snowfall came well into March that year. It started out slowly in the afternoon, trickling down and disappearing into the wet city streets but spotting on more manageable canvases, like the shoulders of Layla’s black pea coat.

She tucked her red fingers inside of her pockets, muttering, “This is such a bad idea.” Her nervous stomach left her with these choppy, frantic sentences to spit out as they walked from the parking garage to the restaurant, “This was not my idea.”

Kris had left for California two months ago, that demo they made and a picture turned white-side-up on Layla’s dresser the only reminders that he had ever been there at all. He went away without so much as a ‘hey, don’t wait up,’ kissing her on the forehead and never mentioning it would be the last time.

His band’s new album was coming out in the summertime and there were at least five songs that should have her credited as cowriter. But aside from her name printed in size-eight font inside some album booklet and the fact that here she was in Providence, RI meeting the guys from some pop-punk band who had heard and loved her demo, Layla had pretty much picked herself up and left Kris with the passing months. It hadn’t been easy.

Layla’s older brother tucked arm around her back, “We drove all the way to Providence, Layla –” Taylor started but was cut off.

“Let’s just go home!” she joked with an anxious little laugh, “Alex’ll be mad, but I really don’t even know him so… who really cares?”

Taylor ushered her forward. “If you’re still not feeling it when we’re done, we’ll go home and that’s the end of it.”

“Yeah, it’s just my nervous stomach. I feel like I’m gonna puke a little.” She said it more like she was just annoyed, grumbling there on the sidewalk dusty with snow. She was nervous about meeting these guys, about how they had driven almost two hours from Boston suburbs and, after that built up, what if it didn’t go well? She was anxious about it being new and unknown like she had been when she went on college tours with her mom. It was just a reflex reaction, really; when your mind is perfectly confident but still can’t convince your body not to have that nauseous response.

“Thanks for coming with me, Tay,” Layla looked up at her brother.

“No problem,” Taylor gave her shoulder a little squeeze, pulling her into his side as they walked, “I’m happy you’re doing this.”

The two shared big green eyes, waves of black hair, and dedicated souls. They were hard workers; Layla, the right brain to Taylor’s left. Taylor was a type-A med student who threw himself into his studies. He admired his sister’s talents and her reckless spirit, the way she lived out her music in little clubs and on the road with other musicians, how she was always open to learning from others and teaching them a bit of whatever she could. He respected her for the hours of meticulous practice she had clocked and he was glad for her that, it seemed, she was really going to fight for her music now.

The thing was, though, that Layla did fight for her music – always had. She just didn’t do it in a way that most people would recognize, since it certainly wasn’t going to land her any singles on the Billboard Hot 100 or anything anytime soon. But, damn, did she fight. She perfected, years passing with her butt planted on the piano bench. She rebuilt, starting song ideas over from scratch all the time to get them where they should be. She formed half a dozen bands in high school, getting all the way from Massachusetts to Tennessee with one of them. She played in coffee shops and battle of the bands competitions and got all beat up at local hardcore shows. She fought.

“Let’s do this thing,” Layla bobbed her fist for emphasis and Taylor chuckled.

A couple weeks after Kris had gone, Layla was waiting outside the high school to pick up her younger brother Parker from basketball practice when she picked up her phone and found a voicemail left by some guy named Alex Gaskarth. He didn’t sound too old – early-twenties, maybe – and in the message he introduced himself as the singer in a band Layla had only vaguely heard of.

Alex’s band, All Time Low, was signed to the same label with Kris and the guys. Somehow, Alex and his buddies had gotten their hands on a copy of Layla’s demo. Alex claimed he loved the songs – five of Layla’s originals and one cover of Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic – so much that he just wanted to call the girl who sang them and find out who she was. Layla was both polite and dismissive, floored by the huge compliment but also trying to end the call as this kid just kept chatting away with her.

Alex was just the lead singer in a relatively small band, not a manager or record exec or “anything fancy,” he told her, but his band was getting pretty popular itself and he had connections that might be able to offer something to her career. He called because he wanted to help her out.

Any little thing I could do, he had said.

“I think we’re here,” Taylor pointed down the street towards the restaurant where they were supposed to be meeting the guys, just a block down.

Layla made a face, a goofy half-smile-half-grimace conjured both by her desire to shake the nerves and by the remaining parts of her that still felt like puking.

“Yeah, definitely grin like a cartoon villain like that. Great first impression, Layla!” Taylor rolled his eyes, but laughed. “Chill out!” he instructed, shaking her shoulders.

That first phone call from Alex probably would have marked the start and end of their relationship, if he hadn’t been so persistent. Layla tried to simply thank him for the offer, explaining how things had changed since she recorded those songs, but Alex just kept talking and Layla realized that “things” hadn’t really changed at all. She still loved to play music. She still acknowledged it couldn’t hurt having people around who just wanted to help her simply be able to play music.

He was sweet and fun to talk to and a week later, when Layla realized that she had talked to Alex more days that week than she had not, she saw that they were beginning to develop this odd telephoned friendship. They began to talk regularly and, while it always started off about her music in the beginning, their conversations became so frequent that they ended up with easy, daily phone calls talking about how each other’s days had gone. He introduced her to his band mates over skype. She emailed him files of new songs she had recorded and copies of lyrics she was working on.

They were perfect strangers but, somehow, also friends. And Alex was persistent. He was always pitching proposals to her – like a manager or agent to potential talent – and she would laugh and shoot down his ridiculous ideas, some more serious than others.

Okay what if we stormed the stage at a Beyoncé concert. I’d hold the queen back while you grabbed the mic and wowed them with your voice...
Alright how ‘bout we leak a sex tape? That always works, Layla. Always.

It was a game they played, a casual routine.

Then, about two weeks ago, Alex had slipped it into a phone conversation with Layla that he and the guys had a show in Rhode Island soon and she should come down to the city for the day. She had agreed to meet them for lunch down the street from that night’s venue.

As Layla and her brother neared the restaurant, she recognized Alex and his band mate Zack standing out front on the sidewalk. They were taking pictures with two teenage girls, fans who must have stopped the guys on their way inside. Layla looked fondly on, remembering how she used to walk the streets of Boston on Kris’s arm – sometimes on their way to a coffee shop to play open mic nights together or sometimes just window shopping – and how people would occasionally recognize Kris and stop them. He would usually pose for a quick picture with them. Layla smiled, remembering how Kris would always kiss her temple when he was done and thank her for being patient.

Alex and Zack wore genuine smiles as they scribbled their autographs. They waved polite goodbyes to the fans before hurrying to greet her.

“Layla!” Alex squeezed her first.

He was a skinny guy, bundled up with a denim jacket layered over a t-shirt and black hoodie. His hair was light brown, peeking out all around his face from beneath a snug, gray beanie. His eyebrows were thick, his jawline scruffy, and his smile excited and sweet.

“Hey,” Layla replied once Alex had let her go, a relaxed smile replacing her knotted stomach. “Zack,” she greeted, taking a step closer to give Zack a brief hug.

“It’s weird to finally see the girl Alex hasn’t shut up about for weeks,” Zack offered. His hair was a sandy-colored mess of shaggy ringlet curls and his arms were thick and strong, hidden inside a buttoned-up flannel and leather jacket. Zack played bass in All Time Low.

“Now that you mention it, I’m pretty sure he’s kind of obsessed with me,” Layla replied, grinning easily up into Zack’s amused, hazel eyes.

“Grow up!” Alex interjected, “But, wow, it is good to see you. You’re smaller than I expected, girl,” he noted.

“Whatever,” Layla dismissed the playful insult. “Uh, guys, this is my brother, Taylor,” she gestured, “Tay – Alex, Zack.”

“Hey, nice to meet you,” Taylor shook both their hands before he and Layla followed the guys inside, Alex draping his arm comfortably around Layla’s shoulders as they went.

“Layla-bo-bayla,” a gangly guy with disheveled black and white hair folded Layla into another hug as soon as they got to the table.

“Jack,” she smiled into his chest.

Jack Barakat was all bone: long, pencil legs; thin, noodle arms; and pointy hips and elbows. While some had curves, he had angles. He was also frighteningly tall, with a round nose, caterpillar eyebrows similar to Alex’s, and brown eyes that were forever smiling. Jack was ATL’s guitarist.

“Ah, I’m so excited you’re here!” Jack hastily informed her. From her few interactions with him and from all the stories Alex had told her, Layla had come to think of Jack as acting like a big, lanky seven-year-old with a drinking problem. “Are you pumped?”

“Yeah, I’m excited, Jack,” she answered, turning to wave across the table at the fourth member of All Time Low. “Hey, Rian.”

“Hi Layla,” Rian waved back. Other than Alex, Rian was the member of All Time Low that Layla had talked to most. Like Alex, he was a very supportive sweetheart, with a full gorgeous smile to match.

Layla introduced Jack and Rian to her brother and the six of them settled around the table and into conversation. They talked about the show the guys would be playing down the street later that night; the six-year age difference between Layla and Taylor and how cool it was that he was willing to drive her down for this; the amount of bras Jack had thrown onstage for him every night, which was, apparently, quite a lot; and, finally, Alex steered the conversation in the direction of how flawless he thought Layla’s music was, asking Taylor what he thought about having a sister so musically brilliant.

“Laying on the flattery…” Layla teased, with a dramatic scoff.

“Hey now, I was i talking to Taylor,” Alex sassed back.

For the next few minutes, Layla just listening to them all talk about her. She sat back in her seat and let them go, skeptical about the whole situation she was in with these guys but intrigued by their earnestness and how engrossed they got when talking about her pretty songs. They all seemed to care and Layla wondered where in the hell this band of fabulous supportive friends had come from.

“Okay, so here’s what’s up,” Alex folded his hands beneath his chin, elbows on the tabletop, and Layla knew what was coming next. Their plans to meet today had really been about forty-percent because they actually wanted to see each other in person, after all these weeks of phone calls, and sixty-percent because of this other thing Alex was just now rolling out. “We want to take Layla on tour with us this summer.”

Taylor sat back in his chair, watching his little sister for hints. He knew this proposition was why they had come and still had no idea which direction she was leaning about this. He was mostly there for moral support but, if he could, he and Layla both knew he was going to try and convince her to go for it.

Alex had brought the idea up a few weeks back – the first one he and Layla had ever seriously discussed – and Layla was still uncertain and hesitant about it all. Though, she was also fascinated by all the possibilities Alex was tossing around so casually.

We could bring you out as, like, an unofficial member of our band, he had explained. You’ll play some rhythm guitar on stage with us and we’ll get your name out to a whole bunch of our fans. Maybe sometimes you can play some of your songs while they’re letting people into the venues. Anything to get your name out there…

Alex and Layla had agreed not to talk about whether or not she would go for it – that was her decision to reveal once she had come to it. Instead, they talked about the details, about what would happen if she did say yes. They arranged to meet that day in Providence so Layla could get comfortable around them in person and gauge the situation. Alex was hoping that Layla would say ‘yes’ over lunch that day – that she would come with it prepared – but, honestly, Layla never thought much about yeses and noes. She thought about the offer, cautious but interested, and about how odd it was to look forward to her first meeting with someone she already felt like she knew.

“Well, Layla already knows where I stand on this,” Taylor looked down at his sister. “I still think you should do it,” he told her.

Layla took in an exaggerated breath.

“It’s just for the summer,” Rian offered, “If you hate it, you go back home and go to college and,” he shrugged, “that’s it.”

“Just the summer,” Taylor nodded, “it’d be, like, a vacation.”

“Ganging up on me…” Layla sighed.

“Dude, I’ve heard your stuff,” Rian pressed, “You are way too fucking good to just be some audio-engineer chick and produce other people’s albums.”

“Speaking of,” Alex segued with a sly crook in his smirk and a finger in the air, “Why did you even let Kris record you and send out copies if you were gonna be so weird about actual offers?”

“Because I thought ‘what could it hurt?’” She answered, knowing she’d been caught.

They all let that sink in for a moment before Taylor spoke up. “Layla was supposed to go to Berkeley for the fall, but a few months ago she just freaked out and deferred to the spring. ‘said she wanted to do something worthwhile before another four years of school. Never been one for routine.”

“I remember you told me about that,” Alex said to Layla, his smile continuing to perk up. He looked her in the eyes across the table, his mouth devilish as he argued, “I think you want this more than you know.”

“Guys…” Layla whined.

“Hm?” Alex twisted his lips and crooked his brow at her, taunting.

Layla sighed, examining her hands as they rested in her lap. “Oh what the fuck ever!” she sighed.

“Is that a yes?” Alex began to laugh.