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.
“Well, don’t let the Country Bimbo get to you,” Mom says. She always has a way with words.
“I’m not. How’s Eli?” I ask, excited to hear just a sliver of information about my son.
“He did just fine after you left this morning. I called Jane at noon and checked in with her. She said he’s fine and was getting ready to take a nap,” Mom says.
I smile absently at the thought of my son. “I’ll call you later tonight after dinner, okay?”
“Sounds good. Try to relax and have a little fun. We’ll be fine so don’t worry about us. Oh, and kick ass tomorrow,” Mom says with a laugh.
“Thanks, Mom. I love you,” I tell her before signing off.
As I walk back towards my room, Troy walks out of his, followed closely behind by another tall, muscular man. He has blond hair and dark blue eyes the color of sapphires. Throw in his walk and the way he carries himself, and he reminds me of Colton. Already I don’t like him.
“Hey,” Troy says with a friendly smile. “Watcha doing in the hallway?”
“Oh, I called home,” I tell him as I linger outside of my door.
“This is my roommate, Ben Atwood. Ben, Layne Carter.” I give the newcomer a small smile as Ben continues to stare at me.
“Hey, Ben. Nice to meet you,” I say as I shake his hand. His touch is warm and lingers a few seconds too long. You know, one of those handshakes that boarder on creepy.
“We’re going down to check out the hotel. Wanna come?” he asks with twinkling eyes. It takes me a few moments to extract my hand from within his without seeming too obvious.
“Sure. Let me grab my bag,” I say as I slip back inside my room. Shawna is still there, talking rudely on the phone to whoever is less than fortunate enough to receive that phone call. I feel instant pity for whoever it is.
“So, where are you from?” Troy asks as we hop on the elevator and head down to the first floor.
“Chicago. You guys?”
“I’m from St. Louis,” Troy says.
“Nashville,” Ben adds.
We find ourselves in a quaint little bar on the first floor. Over a few house brand beers, I find out that Troy is twenty-nine, married to his high school sweetheart, and has four kids. A chorus and band teacher by trade, his wife encouraged him to finally follow his musical aspirations and try out for the show. He loves everything from Bob Marley to Billy Joel and sings an equally eclectic variety. Though he won’t tell me which song he plans to sing, he did tell me he’s going with one of my personal favorites from Fleetwood Mac.
Ben is as country as country gets. With a deep southern drawl and worn, dusty cowboy hat, he was raised in the heart of Nashville, singing everything from Johnny Cash to Waylon Jennings. Though he grew up singing the classics, he says that his music choices today steer more towards Jason Aldean and Beau Tanner.
“If you get the chance to pick which team you’re on, who are you going with?” Troy asks as I take a sip of the brew.
“Well, my first choice is going to be Felix Booker. He’s an amazing record producer and I really think I could learn a lot from him. He’s produced some huge hits from some award-winning rockers,” I say. Felix has this look about him that demands respect. Always dressed in all black, the man’s name is attached to some of the biggest artists and albums from all over the country.
“So, you sing more rock music?” Ben asks.
“Yeah, I love Heart and Journey. Bob Seger is another of my favorites. Anything with beat and soul,” I tell them. “Just no country.”
Ben’s right eyebrow reaches skyward. “You don’t like country?”
“It’s just not my thing. It’s so twangy and sad. It’s all broken hearts and crying over lost dogs. I’ll take an acoustic guitar or a big bass over anything.”
“It’s not all like that. You find plenty of bass and acoustics in country, too. Look at Beau Tanner,” Ben says with the shrug of his broad shoulders.
Ah, yes. Beau Tanner. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Tight Wranglers. Stetson cowboy hat. Anyone with a pulse knows Beau Tanner and it isn’t exactly because of his music. In fact, I barely know his music. But I know those dark steel gray eyes and that devilishly handsome smile. You know the type of smile. The one that creeps up oh so slowly on just one side. The type of smile that promises dirty, dirty things to come. The one that gives your battery operated boyfriend a workout late at night. That smile.
“Beau has really made a name for himself this past year,” Troy adds.
“That’s because of his position on the show,” I throw out there. “He’s only as big as he is because of being a coach on Rising Star. Otherwise, he’d be another name on the marquee sign trying to sell tickets.”
“Well, however he did it, he definitely doesn’t need to try to sell tickets anymore. I heard his last set of shows sold out in under three minutes flat. Fifteen thousand seats. Gone,” Troy adds with the snap of his fingers.
“True. I’m going with Beau if I get a choice. I have a country background and it just seems right, you know?” Ben asks with a smile.
“How about you?” I ask Troy.
“I think I’m going with JoJo. She’s a little more Joss Stone and her music is great,” Troy says. JoJo Warner has a deep, soulful voice. Her range is amazing and every song she writes lately is certified Platinum. Plus, she’s as smart as they come, utilizing her business degree from Harvard to manage her own management company. And she’s only Twenty-Eight.
“She’s my second choice,” I tell them.
Sophia is the fourth and final coach. At the ripe ol’ age of twenty-two, Sophia is huge with the tweens and teens. Her debut pop hit shot up the charts so fast that they almost had to create a category just for her. And she hasn’t looked back since. Three Double Platinum albums and millions of downloads later, Sophia seems to be at the top of her game. Even a recent hotel “incident” can’t seem to tarnish the good girl’s name. She’s practically untouchable.
Dozens of other men and women start to file into the lounge. Ages range from the eighteen to the thirty-year-old cap for the show. People of every race, musical genre, and background. All walks of life, all convening together with one common goal: to be the next Rising Star.
“Everyone, we’re going to walk down the block and have dinner. You’ll be introduced to the producers of the show, Rising Star, and we’ll run through what to expect over the next three days. Are you ready?” a man in a suit and tie says from the doorway.
I follow Troy and Ben as we head outside. The streets are busy and lined with fast moving cars. Horns honk and birds fly–and I’m not talking about the ones in the sky–as we make our way down Highland Avenue.
The restaurant is your basic family style restaurant. Dark tables and padded chairs with paper place settings fill the open room. High class, it is not. But, that doesn’t bother me any. I prefer small and quaint to overpriced and fancy, any day. Our group is led back to a banquet room in the rear of the restaurant. Banquet style tables span the entire length of the room as everyone scurries to find a seat. Troy, Ben, and I grab some seats at the end of one of the rows.
“Is this seat taken?” a petite redhead asks, indicating the seat next to me.
“No, it’s all yours,” I tell her as she pulls out the available seat.
“Thank you so much. I was just praying I wouldn’t get stuck sitting next to that blond viper over there,” she says, shaking her head. Further down the row, people scramble to make way for Bitchy Barbie. Of course. Shawna.
“I don’t know who she is, but she sure is a snarky thing,” the woman next to me says. “Corie Brooks,” she adds as she extends her manicured hand.
“Layne Carter.”
She shakes hands with Troy seated across from me and Ben on my other side.
“Seriously, I was walking close to that woman and she bitched at everyone within a two block radius. Apparently, she’s going to win the whole thing and us peons are just for show,” she says with a friendly smile.
“Be lucky you were only close to her for a few minutes. I have to share a room with the woman,” I mumble. Eyes practically pop out of the heads of everyone around me.
“Really? You poor thing,” Corie says with pity. “I hope she doesn’t slaughter you and sharpen her claws on your carcass in the night.”
I laugh hard and turn to the woman next to me. I can tell instantly that I like her and we’re going to be friends. She appears to have just enough sass inside of that polite, pleasant persona.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, can I have your attention?” The entire room quiets down until you can hear a pin drop. “Thank you. Welcome to Rising Star. Each of you was hand chosen from your audition videos by our panel of experts and invited here to tryout. Auditions will take place over the next two days. There are one hundred and twenty-four singers here from all walks of life vying for forty-eight positions on the show. Tomorrow, we start our recorded auditions with the four show coaches. Each coach is looking to fill twelve spots on their team. If a single coach chooses you, they will drop a red flag in front of their designated seat, and you will be on that coach’s team. If more than one coach chooses you, you get the final say over which team you are on.
“From there, you will be whittled down until there are four singers on each coach’s team who will compete for votes in front of our live studio audience. Each elimination week will be conducted with a live performance show on Wednesday and the live elimination show on Thursday. If you are chosen this week as a team member for one of our four coaches, you will be asked to return in two months when we begin our live shows. From there, you will have a potential eight to ten week show commitment. Those chosen to fill the twelve vacant positions on each coach’s team are required to attend a meeting on day three of this week to go over more details of the show. Does everyone understand?”
We all nod our heads, knowing that the contract we signed before we even boarded the plane spelled out the rules. If I’m chosen to come back for the live shows, I’m theirs for a minimum of eight weeks. Don’t ask me how I’m going to pay my bills because I don’t know. Mom convinced me that she could handle everything at home and had been saving for a while for this moment. I couldn’t say no. And believe me, I tried.
The hardest part is being away from Eli for any length of time. How am I going to sustain a separation of two to three months? Will he forget me? Will he even notice I’m gone? Again, Mom sensed my internal struggle and promised nightly FaceTime chats if we get to that point. My son won’t forget me, and win or lose, will be waiting for me when I get home.
But that’s a bridge I’ll cross if I make it to the live show. If.
“What group are you guys in?” Corie asks between bites of her salad.
“We’re in the last group of day one,” Troy says about him and Ben.
“I’m in the first group of day two,” I confirm.
“I’m in the first group of day one,” Corie says. “I think they’re going by room number. My roommate and neighbors are in the same group I am.”
After we walk back to the hotel, we all decide to head up to our rooms for the evening. Nerves are coursing through the entire hotel so thick you can practically see them bouncing off the walls like a little rubber ball. Throw in the fact that everyone seems to be sizing up the competition. Everywhere you look, someone is checking you out; gauging your strengths and weaknesses just by appearance alone.
While Troy and Ben are right down the hall, Corie’s room appears to be on the opposite side of the hotel. Before we part ways, we arrange to meet for breakfast in the morning. Well, if our nervous stomachs will allow us to eat anything. I’m not sure how much food my stomach will handle tomorrow.
Shawna makes her grand entrance into the room just as I’m exiting the bathroom. Donning my favorite pair of flannel boxers and vintage Kiss concert shirt, I scramble into bed and grab my phone. I dial that familiar number through FaceTime and wait for the answer.
“Hi, honey,” my mom says as soon as her happy face fills the screen.
“Hi, Mom,” I reply with an equally joyful smile.
“How was the first day? Did you make any new friends?” she asks eagerly.
“Uh,” Shawna says loudly as she grabs something silky from the top drawer.
Ignoring Snooty Barbie as she gathers up her belongs and steps into the bathroom, I fill Mom in on the dinner. I tell her about the conversations I’ve had with Ben, Troy, and Corie, avoiding mentioning the extent of my anxieties.
“Is your roommate still foul?” she whispers into the screen.
I award her with a small chuckle before answering. “Rabid dogs won’t even go near her,” I whisper as I tune out the singing coming from the bathroom.
“Do you want to say hello to Eli? He’s getting ready for bed,” Mom says.
The face of my greatest joy fills the small screen. I blink back tears as he tells me in great detail about playing with Jane this afternoon. “And then we sorted all of the balls by colors. The blue ones were my favorite. There were six of them. I had some grapes with lunch. But not the green ones cause I don’t like the green ones. We watched some cartoons too. Did you know Tom is a cat and Jerry is a mouse? Jerry is my favorite because he’s fast. I like to run. Did you see Tom and Jerry on TV?” Eli says practically in one long, breathless sentence. You couldn’t scrape the smile off my face with a putty knife.
After thirty of the fastest minutes known to man, Shawna finally emerges from the bathroom, a cloud of steam billowing behind her. She looks fresh, clean, and fashionable as she struts towards her queen sized bed in a long, satin nightgown. Hairbrush in hand, I watch as she begins to count to one hundred, each number representing a stroke of the brush through her golden locks.
“I should probably head to bed,” I tell my mom as longing starts to settle deep within my chest.
“Don’t you worry about me and Eli. We are just fine. I want you to do your thing and sing for those judges like I know you can. I love you and am so proud of you,” Mom says as I struggle to rein in my tears.
“I love you, too,” I croak over the lump in my throat.
When I hang up the phone, I just start to reach for the remote. “It’s about time you finished that phone call. Some of us require beauty sleep. Though, it looks like you could use a few day’s worth of sleep to catch up,” Shawna snipes.
Bitch.
Note to self: Accidentally drop her toothbrush in the toilet tomorrow morning.
“Yes, well we can’t all be as fortunate as you,” I reply with as much sarcasm as I can muster.
I decide to forgo the television. There’s probably not anything good on anyway, but I don’t really want to listen to Shawna complain and moan all night about the sound or the show I pick. So I settle for Facebooking and Internet browsing.
An hour later, my eyes are finally droopy and my hands are numb from blood loss. Shawna fell asleep with her iPod securely in her diamond-studded ears about thirty minutes ago, so I roll over and try to get comfy. My mind automatically goes to images of Eli’s bright eyes and big, toothy grin. He’s my other solace. He brings me inner peace like no one person ever has before. He has no clue that he saved my life before he was even born. No clue of the power he holds over me. In his three short years of life, he is everything to me.
I hold on tightly to the images of my little boy as I slowly succumb to sleep.