I've Never Lit a Match

On the first night of the tour that summer, Layla opened with a cover of Gwen Stefani’s “Cool” before playing three originals and finishing up with “The Girl’s a Straight-Up Hustler” (with Alex’s permission). It went well enough, met by polite but mostly distracted applause. Even onstage, her role that summer felt a bit like that of a glorified street performer at times. Her sets were thrown together casually and were practically anonymous, save for the Thank you. My name’s Layla. Check me out on soundcloud, after each one.

Taking each day one at a time, Layla came to let go of her original distaste for the whole situation and have fun onstage with her friends. She understood – and begrudgingly accepted – that the entire summer was about publicity; her friends in All Time Low were the difference between a genuine tour and headlining local basement shows and park benches. They were trying pretty hard to spread her name, going so far out of their way to help her that Layla wound up too busy feeling grateful to still feel self-conscious over “vapidly chasing fame.”

By the time they arrived, parked outside a venue in Atlanta, Georgia, on Saturday, eight days and six tour-dates had passed by. In that time, Layla had already been persuaded into repeating her street performance twice. She hadn’t meant for it to be an ongoing thing, just a one-time spur-of-the-moment exercise in calming nerves before her first show with the guys. But Alex kept nudging her to do it again; and he was pretty persistent.

Layla had actually managed to settle into somewhat of a routine in the week since the tour began. Most of it was actually pretty mundane: waking up around ten or eleven; catching breakfast, with whoever was awake and ready, from whatever coffee shop was nearby; a little later going for a post-lunch run with Zack, which was always risky considering the fact that afterwards shower access was never guaranteed. The days were pretty simple and lazy, easing into performances most nights. After the shows let out, each night on the bus was usually a party where the guys would make a big show out of pretending to not let her drink because she ‘wasn’t old enough to party with the big boys.’ Layla would scoff in return and ask which ones in the group they were trying to pass off as big and tough. It was the only time that the age gap and the fact that she was technically a minor were ever mentioned.

That morning in Atlanta – with the bus parked curbside while Jack was still tucked inside his bunk and Alex was out on the sidewalk playing Hacky Sack with Evan and Vinny – Layla was on her way back from a mid-morning coffee run with Rian. She hadn’t seen Zack since she woke up that morning and imagined he was off somewhere on his own, like usual, maybe taking photographs of the city like he did sometimes.

“Yo when’s the set today?” Alex called as he saw her walking back with Rian, trays of iced coffee stacked in both their arms.

He saw her walking towards them in skin-tight black shorts with a red-and-white handkerchief in her hair and thought that she seemed like one expertly choreographed wink away from a pinup look he could hang in his bunk like an old-timey soldier. He didn’t know that the reason Layla was wearing her hair tied up in that bandana was because she hadn’t been able to shower in a few days and it was getting greasy.

“Not today,” Layla answered, taking her drink out of its holder before passing the tray over to Vinny.

“Thank you, m’lady,” Vinny took it from her, unusually peppy considering the monster hangover Layla was sure he was nursing behind those sunglasses.

“You’re no fun at all,” Alex pressed, only half-teasing Layla about playing again this afternoon. The five of them were standing in a misshapen sort-of semi-circle on the sidewalk now. Alex had stopped passing the Hacky Sack, shuffling it between his own hands instead.

“I’ll strain my voice if you keep making me play twice a day,” she grasped for an excuse.

Alex scoffed, “Diva.” He was smiling at his own joke, Layla tucking fly-away bits of hair beneath her bandana as she looked back at him.

Alex watched as she turned, taking the paper bag and the other coffee tray out of Rian’s hands for him and offering to deliver breakfast orders to the rest of the crew inside. She climbed the few steps up onto the bus, her spandex-tight shorts stretching with her body.

“I saw that,” Rian started laughing as soon as Layla closed the door behind herself.

“What?” Alex’s gaze snapped back to his friends.

“You staring at her ass,” Rian answered, calling him out.

Normally, Alex would have replied with some sort of cheeky joke but, instead, his face went uncharacteristically red. He tried sucking on his bottom lip to bite back an awkward smile. “In my defense…” he offered after a moment, “it’s a really nice ass.”

Rian just looked down, chuckling, “Yeah…”

“Right?” Alex tried to shift his guilt by emphasizing Rian’s agreement. Rian was laughing along – and, yeah, kind of agreeing – but he wasn’t buying it. He knew he had caught Alex checking Layla out and he hadn’t yet decided whether or not he was going to let him live it down.

“Whatever, man.” Rian rolled his eyes.

Still in their little semi-circle, the boys traded their earlier game of Hacky Sack for the coffee cups now in their hands. Vinny lit a cigarette and the four of them started in on a group conversation not significant enough to be remembered later. They split up after about twenty minutes, with Rian going off to call Kara and the other three shuffling inside the venue. Vinny went looking around for a bathroom, while Evan and Alex ran into a guitarist from one of the opening bands. They wound up making small talk about touring together on Warped a few summers back.

It was one of the more boring afternoons on the road, with everybody off in separate directions mostly just trying to stay out of the harsh sun. Layla and Zack opted not to go running in ninety-degree weather, instead choosing to listen to Van Morrison in the back of the bus. The two were slowly developing a friendship independent of the group. Layla appreciated that he wasn’t the kind of person who was afraid of silence or spending time by himself. That kind of introversion was something she found attractive in the people around her; there was something very comfortable and healthy about building a relationship – platonic or otherwise – with someone you could be quiet beside.

“Mm, I love this song,” Layla was sprawled out on the beige couch at the back of the bus, “Brown Eyed Girl” playing on the stereo. Zack agreed, in a similar position flat on his back on the floor.

They stayed like that for a while, listening to the whole album and occasionally talking about things like Zack’s dog and other little things. Layla stayed like that, humming along to the stereo even after neither of them had said anything for quite a while. When she realized that Zack had fallen asleep on the floor, she left him there snoring.

“Hey, Belle,” Alex offered when Layla walked inside the venue, finding him sitting alone by the empty bar.

“Are you gonna call me by my middle name forever?” she asked, climbing onto the barstool beside his.

“Yes,” he answered simply.

“Well, okay.”

“’bout an hour till doors open,” Alex turned in his chair to face her, “How ya feeling?”

Alex had been watching Layla all week. As far as playing for crowds was concerned, he knew she was pro. Still, he saw how she eased into it a little more each night, the subtle way her presence seemed to grow and demand more attention. He recognized her voice getting louder, thicker, and more demanding while she sang and heard her speaking more clearly when she introduced herself between songs. She was starting to get used to playing every night; he was certainly getting used to watching her.

“I’m feeling…good,” she answered.

“Why the hesitation?”

“I don’t know,” Layla laughed and Alex watched the way her eyes kind-of rolled when she smiled like that. “It’s just so weird to even be here. Like, two weeks ago was my graduation.”

“I kinda know what you mean,” Alex said, “We pretty much did the same thing: graduated and immediately went on the road. It’s…” he hesitated, thinking, then added, “difficult to describe.”

Layla nodded. “Kind of amazing, though, playing music every night.”

Alex cut her off, “Are you finally admitting I was right about making you come out here?”

“Maybe,” she conceded, actually rolling her eyes this time. “Okay. Thank you.”

“It has absolutely been my pleasure,” Alex said sincerely, only allowing the serious moment to hang in the air for just one more second before lightening the mood with a mocking wink thrown in Layla’s direction.

He winked at her the same way onstage, later that night. It was during “Vegas,” their last song before the clichéd, planned encore. Bobbing behind his microphone stand, Alex could see Layla off to the side twirling behind her guitar. He had been noticing all night that she was acting differently during this set, less like a guest on someone else’s stage. After a week performing with her friends, Layla wasn’t so worried about keeping herself discreetly in the back anymore and Alex noticed, winking a quick encouragement her way.

Layla was the kind of musician who liked to let the music eat her alive. She welcomed shivers and goose-bumps. She loved live folk songs with extra minutes of improvised verses, eye-closed humming and chanting. Alex had always recognized that intensity in her and, while she wasn’t exactly having a spiritual experience on the stage floor to “Vegas” of all songs, he was happy that she wasn’t behaving so carefully onstage anymore.

He imagined how she acted with the other bands she had been in, the ones that were actually hers and whose music left more room for that sort of improvisation, those live performances that get carried away. He thought of his Layla Belle – the one he knew so far – fronting her basement-scene bands, belting on a stage floor in Nashville. He didn’t really feel cool enough to know her.

“We love you. Thank you,” Alex shouted into his microphone after their encore. “This is our beautiful friend Layla. We’re All Time Low. Goodnight. Stay sexy.”

As the show ended, lights flashing while Rian hammered out a final few beats on the drums, Alex took a step back to wave at the crowd just in time to watch Layla undo her guitar strap and dive into the pit. No, he really wasn’t cool enough to know her, he thought, grinning.

She even looked pretty cool when the security guys pulled her from the crowd and hoisted her back up onto the stage, her nose dripping blood after she had smashed it onto something in the crowd – the floor? the barricade? a person?

Backstage, Layla fell back into a plush dressing-room couch, smirking beneath her bloodied nose and upper lip. “That was fun,” she said, accepting the icepack a venue-employee was offering her.

Alex agreed. Layla held the icepack to her face as he sat down beside her, snagging a box of tissues off the coffee table. “You’re kinda a wild woman,” Alex chuckled, holding a tissue out to her.

“No,” she disagreed, trading the icepack for the tissue and starting to dab it beneath her nose.

“Music’s wild,” she began, waving the tissue in her distractedly gesturing hand. “You feel it. It makes your body react,” she said it in an excited sing-song, wiggling her torso to and fro.

“Yeah?” Alex listened, taking the tissue from her hand. Layla had dried blood settling around her mouth; her cheeks were flushed, her neck and chest were shiny with sweat, and her tank top was completely wet. Alex recognized an exhausted post-show high in her; her eyes were tired but tonight’s show had her up. He knew the feeling. He tugged at her arm and pulled her over to his side of the couch. “Here,” he offered, trying to clean up her face.

“It’s about getting lost in it, ya know? Letting the music…” she looked for the word, “possess you.”
“I get that,” Alex nodded into her eyes, their faces a few inches apart now as he leaned in to wipe a small patch of caked blood from her cheek.

“Oh my god, I sound so obnoxious and cliché. But, I was always so adamant before,” Layla went on. “I did, like, DIY tours, throwing ‘em together, ya know? Doing it in tiny vans. I liked kinda fighting for scraps in the local scene?” She said it like a question, wondering if he knew what she was getting at.

“I thought that was the right way to do it, playing with bigger bands I knew when they offered me an opening slot. I didn’t really want Kris to make that demo or to let you help me because I thought trying to go for it in any mainstream sense was like…ruining something pure. …So pretentious,” she shook her head at herself, laughing under her breath.

“So ya changed your mind?” Alex sat back into the couch, ready to listen.

“Kinda, I think,” she answered. “I think I was being a little pretentious,” she said again, chuckling, “thinking that there’s any wrong way to do music. Not as long as it’s still fun.”

“Right, Bambi,” Alex patted her head like he would a puppy.

“Wait, I’m not a Bambi,” she objected, laughing like an overexcited kid. “I’m hardcore,” she pointed to her nose as proof.

“To me, you are. I decided.” Alex got up. “You’re my Bambi,” he told her from the doorway.

“You ditching me?” she called.

“Nah, I’m gonna go get a towel so we can get all the dry blood of your face,” he answered.