Turn It Loose (2 page)

* * *

After agonizing over the job search for the last week, Jaylah needed a break. She stopped by Cool Haus and picked up a pint of salted caramel ice cream, then crossed the street to order fat-laced enchiladas from Pinches Tacos. Armed with her favorite comfort foods, Jaylah was determined to enjoy her evening and give herself break from the mounting stress.

On a normal Thursday night Jaylah would be two-songs deep into some indie
band’s opening set and hating life because of it. But tonight she was looking forward to getting lost in a sea of Netflix movies and letting the on-screen drama take the place of her own.

Jaylah scrolled through the selections
looking for something to watch.
Insidious?
No, she was not in the mood to be terrified.
Requiem for a Dream?
Hell no, she was already depressed enough. Jaylah was intrigued by the synopsis of Laurent Cantet’s film
The Class,
but changed her mind when she realized it was in French and she’d have to suffer through two hours of subtitles.

After twenty minutes of searching,
she finally landed on
Bridget Jones's Diary
and found herself chuckling right away.
Score
.

To her surprise, Bridget Jones’s fictitious life
mirrored her own. They were both curvy girls, had terrible track records with men, and both knew it was time to change their lives, but didn’t quite know how.

By the
end of the film, Jaylah was hit with a sudden bit of inspiration and she knew exactly what she needed to do.

She called her mother to tell her the news.

“Hello?” Mrs. Baldwin’s voiced oozed into the receiver.

“Mom, I’m moving to
London!” Jaylah nearly shouted, getting straight to the point.

“Jaylah? What
are you talking about? London?”

“Yes! I was watching
Bridget Jones's Diary
and—“

“How was that
? Always wanted to see it, but never got around to it. Any good?”

“Mom, forget about the movie. Did you hear what I said? I’m moving to London!”

“I heard you, Jay Jay, but how do you plan on pulling that off?”

“I don’t know,
but I have to do something. I went on an interview yesterday and they offered me the job--”

“
That’s great! When do you start?”

“Never. They we
re only offering to pay me 30—“

“Thou
sand dollars? You owe more than that in student loans!”

“Exactl
y! I turned them down and I don’t even feel bad about it.”

“I’m not sure that was the best thing to do Jay Jay.
I mean, you know what they say: the best time to find a job is when you already have one. You could’ve taken it and kept looking.”

“I would have gotten stuck
, mom. It would’ve been super long hours and very low pay. I just couldn’t,” Jaylah sighed, annoyed her mother didn’t mirror her excitement. “Something else has got to be out there. Who knows, maybe I’ll find it in London.”

“
Jay Jay, you can’t move to another country just like that. Don’t they have immigration requirements? Visas? And you need money, don’t you?”

“
I have to look into it, but I can at least stay the summer. Besides, three months is long enough to get my sh—stuff together. I have enough saved up to cover me, especially if I can sublet my apartment.”

“
When are you trying to go? Maybe I can join you.”

“The sooner the better,” Jaylah said, already thinking of people to take over her lease. “
And mom?”

“Yes Jay Jay?”

“I have to do this one on my own.”

* * *

When she got off the phone with her mother, Jaylah Googled flights from LAX to Heathrow. Options were plentiful, but the price—well over a thousand dollars—nearly caused her to rethink her plan. After entering what felt like a jillion combinations, Jaylah decided to bid on a ticket to the Queen’s city to see if she could get it for a ridiculous discount.

“Ok, if it’s meant to be
someone will accept my offer,” Jaylah said to herself.

She typed in
$750, entered her credit card number, and crossed her fingers.

With
in minutes she had an answer.

“Congratulations
,” the screen read in bold type, “Your bid was accepted!”

“
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” Jaylah jumped up and down on her couch.

“I’m going to London!”

As the adrenaline drained from her body the gravity of the situation hit her like an oncoming train. Burning through her savings account to move to London while she was unemployed was a huge gamble. Jaylah knew it would either be the biggest mistake of her life, or be the best choice she’d ever made.

She
slid to the floor and put her head in her hands.

“Well,” she said aloud, “There’s only one way to find out.”

Jaylah descended into the bowels of Heathrow and took a deep breath.
Perspiration dotted her forehead and a colony of butterflies grew wings inside her belly. She suppressed a smile; unsure it fit the paradox of emotions building inside her. She wanted to vomit. Or cry. Or run back to the gate and hop the next plane back to L.A., but she didn’t. She couldn’t give up on herself now.

“You can do this, Ja
y,” she said, giving herself the tiniest of pep talks. “You got this.”

Moving
through the airport Jaylah felt like a swan struggling to tread water while projecting an air of calm to the rest of the world. “Try not to look like a tourist,” her cousin had warned a decade ago when she moved to New York. “They will eat you alive if you look like you don’t belong.” His words echoed through her head as she trudged through the terminal dragging two stuffed suitcases behind her. She didn’t travel 5,000 miles to be anyone’s mark; Jaylah was determined to fit in like a pro.

As she
rode the people mover toward the Tube, she was amazed at just how quickly she was able to pull this whole thing off. She had two weeks to find someone to sublease her apartment, declutter her place, pack up her things, and find an apartment that wouldn’t completely wreck her budget.

The man upstairs definitely had her back, Jaylah
thought, as she marveled at how she lucked up on the flat in Highbury. After scouring the web for hostels, cheap hotels, and summer sublets, Jaylah shot off a frantic plea on Facebook asking friends (and perfect strangers) if they knew anyone with an apartment she could rent. To her surprise, a friend of a friend knew someone who needed to lease their place right away.

A few emails and
a Skype chat later, Jaylah made plans to meet up with Amelia before she left for Portugal for the balance of the year. Although she were hoping to find someone to live in her flat the entire time, Amelia needed it filled—pronto—and Jaylah would have to do. Things like this made her grateful she’d spent so much time attending industry events and always, always talking to strangers. Even if she couldn’t land a job through her connections, she had to admit, her pals came through this time. Now, she just hoped the place was inhabitable and she wouldn’t be spending the summer in a dungeon. This was Europe after all.

Jaylah saw the signs for the Tube and
hurried to the machine to buy an Oyster card. For a brief moment, she hesitated. Though she knew she needed it to get around on buses and trains, Jaylah wasn’t sure what zones she’d be visiting and the price of the card varied greatly based on the zone. After taking a bit too long to figure it out, she decided that she’d defy her cousin and admit she was a dumb tourist—just once.

“Excuse me, can you tell me which zone
Highbury is in? I’m trying to figure out which Oyster card to buy,” Jaylah asked the ticket booth clerk, flashing her brightest smile hoping to beg a bit of sympathy.

“
Highbury is in zone bot’tle ov’ glue,” the stout, pink-faced man replied with a smile of his own.

“I’m sorry?” Jaylah asked,
unable to sort out the man’s Cockney slang.

“
Zone two miss,” he clarified. “How long will you be in London?”

“Three months.”

“Get the Oyster for zones one and two. If you go farther than that you can add money later.”

“Thank you.
” Jaylah bought the card and took out the journal she’d bought to jot down directions, take notes, and scribble her thoughts as she traveled around London. She toyed with the idea of documenting her summer on a blog, but decided it would be too cliché. Moreover, she was hoping to finally work on her own novel and needed to spend the months gathering her thoughts, writing, and actually living, not being tethered to her laptop.

Jaylah boarded the
spacious train and settled in for the hour-long trek to Highbury. As she watched rows of buildings and trees whizz by, she fought back the tears threatening to spill over her eyes.

Being in London was more than just a much-needed
vacation; it was a shot at reinvention. For the first time in 28 years she could be herself, or figure out who she wanted to be without the input of others. A thought flickered inside her; everything before now was merely rehearsal, it was her turn to take center stage.

As the train raced down the Piccadilly line,
Jaylah felt like a two-ton weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She no longer had to be perfect, no longer had to hold her tongue, no longer had to be solid, responsible, sensible Jaylah.

She
closed her eyes and whispered her favorite Audre Lorde quote. “If I didn't define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people's fantasies for me and eaten alive.”

When she went to NYU,
she thought she would finally be able to live by her own rules. Being 3,000 miles away from home usually put some distance between who you were and who you always pretended to be. But between attempting to please professors, hold on to her scholarship, and trying not to become the victim of the same crippling missteps of some of her peers, Jaylah never seemed to find her own footing.

“
If I didn't define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people's fantasies for me and eaten alive.” She repeated the lines again, hoping they’d cause a shift in her brain.

This time
had
to be different. This time Jaylah could define herself. This time she would not be consumed.

* * *

“You made it!” Amelia said, opening the door with a gigantic smile. Her red hair danced wildly as she talked.

When
Amelia told her the apartment was located on the ground floor of a former soccer stadium, Jaylah pictured a living space carved out of dank locker rooms and walls buckling under a hundred years of hooligans. But as Amelia showed her around the spacious condo, pointing out its stainless steel appliances, high-efficiency washer, wall of spotless windows, and two acres of manicured grounds, Jaylah no longer felt stupid for spending three-fourths of her budget on rent.

“Here, you’re going to need these,”
Amelia handed Jaylah the keys to her new place. “This white card gets you into the building and through the courtyard, and these get you in the door.” Jaylah looked around the flat as Amelia talked, aside from the overflowing bookshelves the place looked like it had barely been lived in. “The grounds are very safe and you can cut across the courtyard to get to the Tube. There’s even a night bus stop right up the street.”

“The place is lovely, how long have you lived
here?”

“I bought it two years ago, but I spend most of my time at Finley’s. We’re headed to his place in Portugal in a few days, and hopefully,”
Amelia crossed her fingers, “we’ll come back engaged!”

“Good luck!” Jaylah
said, trying to match Amelia’s excitement.

“
Thank you! I’ll let you get settled. My number is on the table in the dining room if you need me. Like I said, we leave for Portugal in a few days, but everything should be fine.”

“Thanks
Amelia, you really saved my life. I’m not sure where I’d be staying if Brooke didn’t hook us up.”

Amelia
brushed off Jaylah’s gratitude. “I wouldn’t be able to go with Finley if it wasn’t for you. You’re saving
my
life,” Amelia winked. “And please, make yourself at home.”

Jaylah
watched as Amelia skipped out the door leading to the garden, crossed the expansive walkway and headed toward the Tube.

Despite being 5,000 miles away from everyone she knew, Jaylah
felt she was right where she was supposed to be. Home.

* * *

During the Second World War, London was pummeled by the German air force during the blitz. Neighborhoods across The Big Smoke were demolished, driving thousands into the streets, and leveling entire sections of the city. Even Highbury was buzz bombed, killing and maiming scores in the area. But despite being viciously sacked by the Luftwaffe; despite tens of thousands of dead men, women, and children; despite being raided nightly for nearly a year straight—Germany’s bombs did not cripple Britain. Not even close.

Unable to adjust to the eight-hour time difference, Jaylah
surfed the web and read about her new neighborhood. She was struck by its history.

Although she certainly did not know what it
felt like to be in the middle of a warzone or even in mortal danger, she felt an odd kinship to the city that had everything thrown at it, but still didn’t break.

Gettin
g fired felt like being blown apart at the seams. Peyton’s words cut to the bone, exposing a truth Jaylah fought hard to ignore. She
was
slipping. She’d spent the last two years half-assing it at
the L.A. Weekly
, refusing to push herself to uncover interesting stories because working for a paper that was more famous for its back cover escort ads than its feature articles pained her. It was certainly not her first choice and, quite honestly, Jaylah felt she was too good to be banging out mindless crap about indie bands and celebrities she didn’t even care about.

Of course, she would never say this aloud.
She would never admit that she hated her job, not when so many others dreamed of putting pen to paper for a living, and her parents bragged that their baby was a “successful writer.” Instead she’d just grin when her friends gushed about how awesome her job must be, or how lucky she was to get paid to go to Coechella or Lollapalooza or the Laker game. But Jaylah never felt lucky, or special, or even happy.

Instead, she
felt like a stick of dynamite that was thisclose to blowing up.

Jaylah
chuckled at the thought of going off at work. Whenever her editor asked her to churn out yet another reality show recap, Jaylah would fanaticize about cursing him out so badly she’d get escorted out by security. “Fuck off, Peyton,” she’d tell him in her daydream. “I’m not writing about that bullshit anymore. Do it yourself, prick!”

S
he usually swallowed her curse words whole, choosing to release them when she was either alone (in her car or apartment or quietly in her cubical), or not at all. Jaylah was well versed at keeping her not-so-PC thoughts to herself, after all, you don’t get labeled sweet and respectful and good by telling people to go to hell on a regular basis. She wished she had more moxie. Jaylah envied women who talked before they thought, and rarely tempered their words or considered the consequences. For once she’d like to tell someone to shut the fuck up, or shove it, or I love you—and mean it.

“Love,”
she sighed, “What’s love got to do with it?” she asked herself aloud, as she sat staring at the ceiling of her tidy rented bedroom.

Jaylah
didn’t love her job, didn’t love always being the reliable one, and she didn’t have a man whom she loved more than breathing itself.

“It’s such a cliché,” she told her friend
Safiya during their last dinner out. “A woman complaining about not being in love. Can it get anymore pathetic than that?”

“It is. B
ut it’s natural,” Safiya said. “We all want to find that person who makes us feel like the most precious jewel in the sea.”

“Hell, I’ll take semi-precious
at this point,” Jaylah joked, hoping to take the edge off of her forlornness.

At times,
her loneliness crashed down on her like hail from the sky; small and inconsequential at first, but potent enough to do real damage over time. Sure, there were men who rotated on the periphery of her life—Bryce, the guy she mistakenly thought she was dating, but who had firmly placed her in the friends who occasionally sleep together, but nothing will ever come of it box; and Carlos, her crush from way back who never seemed to notice she was interested…or alive.

In the last
three years Jaylah had been in seven weddings, and attended 13 more. Every single time she went alone, too proud to bring a fake date that would cushion the blow between “Why are you still single?” and her reflexive self-deprecating response.

“Because I’m a mess,”
she would think, or “Because L.A. men are too busy chasing models, instead of women they can take home to mama,” but instead she would give the least offensive answer possible: “I just haven’t met the right man yet.”

In theory, she wanted to be in love. Didn’t everyone?
She certainly wanted what her parents and Papa Sonny and Grandma Alice seemed to find in their teens: forever.

But
falling in love meant cracking herself open wide enough to let someone see the ugly, scarred parts she struggled to keep under wraps. Too risky.

She
kissed her teeth at the thought of being vulnerable. “I’m not here to fall in love,” she said, pushing the thoughts of a happily ever after London romance to the back of her brain. “I’m here to have fun.”

* * *

Jaylah emerged from St. Pancras station and marveled at the ornate building. The ceiling was a patchwork of steel and glass, shops selling everything from croissants and curries, to scarves and pocketbooks lined the corridors, and copper sculptures sprang up throughout. St. Pancras looked like a castle that had been ripped from a Victorian novel and placed smack in the middle of modern day London and Jaylah watched as travelers hurried through the station headed off to far-flung parts of England. She was intoxicated; their energy seeping into her pores.