Jumpin' Jumpin' (age 9)

She had wanted to hang out with the Big Kids. Her alleged supervisors because the female Dr. Wright had been paged and the male Dr. Wright was already at work. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence. The tiny thing, more curls than person, had infilitrated the High Schoolers' hang out as carefully and quietly as a mouse. The starting line had been a low table in the far corner. Over the course of an hour, Layla had worked her way first to the floor, and then across the span of the finished basement. Finally, she reached the finish line: on her belly next to where they all sat, crayons and coloring book sprawled out before her. The radio had been on and she had started to mumble along with the lyrics, and that's when she had caught it. The pretty girl with shiny straight hair who was sitting closer to Alex than the number of the people on the couch required.

"What did you just sing?" She smirked at Layla, obviously amused.

". . . 'cause the club is full of ballers and their pockets full of gum." Layla mumbled the words towards the floor, her cheeks beet red.

Ignition remix (age 12)

The negotiation, if it could even be called that, had gone more easily than Layla could have wished for. The grandparents and aunts and uncles and younger cousins were long gone. The doctors Wright's goodnight to Layla hadn't even included the assumption she would come back inside with them. Just a reminder not to stay up to late. It hadn't taken long for her to take up a seat on the ground next to the table and chairs on the deck. A mostly silent observer, content not to be excluded, unnoticed by most of the Class of '03. While the more boisterous attendants of Alex Wright's graduation party had taken to dancing when they heard the first notes of the next song on the mixtape. It was one of the quieter, more sullen kids who kept disappearing around the side of the house who offered Layla a red solo cup full of orange juice and something that burned and made her gag with a puckish grin. She finished it anyway, because he stood there staring expectantly. And then she asked for another, because she felt funny and interesting and her limbs were warm and heavy.

Crazy (age 15)

The oversized Bose headphones hung around Layla's neck, restraining her curls at the base of her skull. Second Period gym class had been especially unappealing after Robbie had invited her to cut class. They were a cipher of five, seated in a pattern roughly akin to a circle, in various states of repose. Layla the lone freshman selected for the adventure to the edge of campus. The group mostly quiet aside from the Ray LaMontagne that emanated from Layla. The smell was familiar by now, sharp and sweet and skunky. Robbie sat up a bit, pushing off the ground with the arm he had extended behind himself to support his weight, wearing that lopsided grin that left Layla speechless with a stomach full of butterflies. "Shotgun?" he inquired with a raised eyebrow. She could only find it in herself to nod, careful with the intensity of the motion as not to look over-eager. A first kiss of sorts, the senior leaned in to cover her mouth with his own and exhaled directly into her lungs.

Two Weeks (Age 18)

The hour wasn't clear, but it didn't matter. Layla had been adding to her bedroom walls. Once upon a time, they had all been a pale pink. Now they were a riot of colors. A series of disconnected thoughts she had made semi-permanent over the past three years. Her parents had been unamused at first, but somewhere along the line they had decided it wasn't a battle worth their engagement. Another potential point of conflict added to the list of things they were too tired or too busy to deal with; right next to Layla's continually abysmal report cards and inquiries into just what it was she did with herself during their long work days. The tiny lilac pills had hit her all at once after she had stolen a shot of vodka from the bottle shoved in the freezer. Her latest creation abandoned in favor of sprawling her paint-stained form across the mattress with wide blue eyes glued to the ceiling. Every time you try, quarter half a mile, just like yesterday

Hold On (Age 21)

The desert was hot and unbearable. The gnarled Joshua Trees and impossibly tall saguoras in muted tones of green and brown and beige. A sun-bleached landscape she ached for as she scurried down the strip with her arms tight to her body, eyes on the pavement while she tried to weave in between flocks of tourists. There was a chill in the air, but the day's heat was still radiating from the pavement. He had wanted to come here to start over. A clean slate so they could reset to what things had been two years ago. Her agreement had been reluctant, borne of desperation. Vegas was devoid of them, but not of him. His ancient history was everywhere. All of her reservations seemed to be bearing fruit. The text exchange was a familiar one. Promises to be home soon made and broken. The last from Johnny had come through hours ago, undoubtedly playful in his mind. "You got to hold on." Forever the one trying to find her footing; anxious without anything to anchor her.

Younger (Age 23)

The song that wouldn't leave her alone. Eternally stuck in her head on one level or another. You ain't getting any younger. She wasn't. A thought she found oddly disturbing, even if she was still only 23. She was behind again. Always. Layla had always been behind. The gap kept growing; she wasn't catching up. Every minor setback managed to spiral into a blackhole, putting more distance between Layla and the next mile marker. NO CREDIT. Two words that floated in the midst of her grades for the semester. Better that than an F. The silver-lining offered by her Success Coach because it was the only one available. She could retake the classes over the summer or in the fall. Erase the black mark from the record and rebound. Layla hadn't been able to manage the explanation for her mother. She had opted instead to sit nervously in the cramped office, the tips of her fingers in her mouth as her Success Coach relayed the news. It wouldn't be the end of the conversation. Not by a long shot.