The Way Back Home

by Alecia Whitaker

  “‘Dear Bird,’” Stella reads a few hours later. Marco brought over another box of fan mail that Anita FedExed, and we’re going through it as the bus makes its way to our next stop. “‘I saw that you’re filming a scene in the new Drew Barrymore movie. Any chance you’ll be making a Bird Barrett movie? Like, based on your real life? Even if it goes straight to DVD, I think it would be amazing. I’ve been trying to break into acting, and I would be a perfect body double for your stunts.’”

  “What does this girl think would be happening in your real-life movie?” Dylan asks. “Ziplining through arenas?”

  “And why does she assume it’d go right to DVD?” Stella asks. “That’s just offensive.”

  “Listen to this one,” Adam interjects. He’s holding up a scroll, the back of which is a terrible pencil drawing of my face in profile while a flock of birds fly from my head in what is supposed to represent my hair. I don’t have high hopes for this letter. “‘To the one who flew into my heart, I knew you’d be mine from the start. Our stories so similar, our hearts so familiar, only yellow lines keep us apart.’”

  But it does make me giggle.

  “Please stop,” Dylan says, plugging his ears.

  “What do you think that guy looks like?” Stella asks. “I bet he’s forty and lives in his mom’s basement.”

  “Well, the ones I’m opening are really sweet,” I say. “I love little-kid handwriting. This girl writes every e backward. It’s so cute.”

  “Okay, here’s one you can actually answer,” Dylan says. “‘I have a major crush on a guy at school, but he’s my best friend’s cousin and I can’t tell if he likes me, too, or if he’s just nice to me because our whole group is always going down to the beach together. How did you finally get your guy to notice you, and who is ‘Notice Me’ actually about?’” He looks up at me and says, “Yeah, Bird. Spill.”

  But my mouth just hangs open. It’s gone totally dry. I can feel heat rising up in my chest, and I know that my neck and face are probably bright red. Adam is sitting right beside me. We were finally having a normal day of hanging out that involved video games and opening innocent fan letters, until my idiotic brother shined a spotlight directly onto my soul.

  I glance over at Stella, who is shooting Dylan a laser beam death glare that could zap all the hair off a baby bunny. “What?” he asks. The bus is totally silent. And now it’s just weird. When Dylan looks at Adam, though, who I notice in a lightning-quick glimpse is also bright red, realization dawns. It’s obvious now that Adam knows, too. And I’d say it’s pretty obvious that I want to stop the bus, lie down in front of it, and die as the tour goes on without me.

  “So this one’s pretty good,” Adam finally ekes out. His normally low voice is, like, an octave higher at first. He clears his throat as he tries to change the subject. He reads through a long letter about a girl getting bullied at her school because she is overweight, and I have to say that by the end of it, I do realize that there are much worse problems in the world than my crush finding out about my crush… although I am still contemplating ways to murder my brother in his sleep.

  “You’re bringing your guitar?” I ask Adam. Over the past week, we’ve wound our way across America to Charleston, South Carolina, where we play tomorrow night. Adam and I had to shoot a few promos this morning, but we have the rest of the day off, so we’re going to the beach with Dylan and Stella.

  “Hey, my guitar is as important as sunscreen,” Adam answers.

  “Um, clearly you aren’t fair-skinned,” I say as I lift the back hatch and throw my stuff into the SUV Dylan rented.

  He laughs and loads his stuff, too, then hops into the back, his legs dangling over the bumper. “How much longer? I thought we were leaving soon.”

  I glance over my shoulder at our bus. Apparently, my brother and Stella are having their first fight—something about her not being able to find her cover-up because my brother is a major slob and his stuff is always everywhere—but I’m not sure that’s something I should share with Adam. I’m trying to stay as far out of it as possible. I am Switzerland.

  “Yeah, well, there’s no hurry,” I say, yawning. “I’m happy for a relaxing day with no schedule.”

  “Good point,” Adam says. “Take the day off today, because you won’t be able to relax any when that Rolling Stone reporter joins the tour.”

  Involuntarily, I shudder. “I know. Anita’s making it this huge deal. I wish she’d stop talking about it ’cause she’s just stressing me out more.”

  Adam nods. “A Rolling Stone feature is a big deal.”

  “It’s huge!” I say. “But why does the reporter have to join the tour? She’ll be living on my bus for, like, four days. I’ll have to be on my toes twenty-four-seven.”

  Adam laughs. “Are there many skeletons in your bus’s closet?” he teases.

  I feel my shoulders relax and I return his grin. “You’re right. I’m being ridiculous.”

  “No, you’re being cautious,” he says, surprising me by reaching out for my hand and giving it a quick squeeze. “It’s hard not knowing what people will write, but just try to have fun with it.”

  I nod but am only thinking about that hand squeeze. Was it just encouragement from a good friend or something more?

  His phone beeps and he frowns. “Hey, a couple of guys in my band want to know which beach. Is it cool if they come?”

  “The more the merrier,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. “My bodyguard is coming, and I’m hoping he’s a Speedo type of guy.”

  Adam laughs and looks over at Big Dave. “Oh, me too. A Speedo and tanning-oil type of guy.”

  I swat his arm and we both laugh, the thought of my ex–football linebacker bodyguard lounging in a banana hammock too much for either of us to take. I climb up next to Adam in the back, and for the next five minutes we sit in mostly comfortable silence. Every now and then one of us will talk about the tour or a part of the show or Jacob, but mainly we enjoy the time to be still. Our lives are nonstop. There are very few times we can just be, and very few people we can just be with.

  “Hey, so I was going to play this for you on the beach later, but I’ve been working on something,” Adam finally says, reaching back for his guitar.

  “Oh yeah?” I ask, lifting up my sunglasses. I shed my big hat, too. With the back hatch open we’ve got plenty of shade, and at this point, I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll even make it to the beach. “Something you just wrote?”

  “Kind of,” he says, scratching the stubble on his jaw. “More like something that’s just now coming together.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  “I think I’m on the right track, but I don’t know if it’s really my sound,” he says with a frown. “My label wants something ‘fun’—their word—and I’ve tried a few things, but they’ve called it all generic. And I’m like, yeah, generic because it’s manufactured. Does that make sense?”

  I nod my head emphatically. “Yes. My second album was a nightmare for the same reason. It was like everybody was ordering songs the way you’d order a steak at a restaurant. I wanted to pull my hair out.”

  “That’s it exactly,” he says. “So anyway, I’ve been waiting for inspiration to hit, and I’ve been thinking back to Dylan’s birthday, the whole food fight, and that was fun. I scrawled out some images, but I’m having trouble weaving them together into a story.”

  “I love the premise,” I say, crossing my legs. “Sounds ‘fun.’”

  He grins. “Exactly. It was awesome. But I also feel like there has to be a girl, you know?” He swallows hard, nervous. “’Cause there’s not really enough there with just the food fight itself.”

  I nod slowly, trying to ignore the fact that my pulse just picked up a little.

  “So I was thinking, what’s the food fight represent?” he goes on. “What are the people in the song fighting over?”

  He starts to pick, a fun little quiet melody that surprises me. His usual stuff has a rock edge, but
this is almost playful. He doesn’t sing, but as he plays, the song fills out and his strumming leads to a chorus that has me bobbing my head. Finally, I comment.

  “I love this already,” I say.

  He nods and smiles widely. “Good. Now sing.”

  Startled, I ask, “What?”

  Adam slaps the strings quiet and laughs out loud. “Bird! I’m stuck! Write me a song. I’m begging you!”

  I laugh, too, shaking my head at him. “Oh, Adam, I know we’re laughing right now, but this album is killing you, right?”

  “Torture.”

  “You used to just write what you wanted and sing what you loved and go along down the highway from gig to gig—”

  “Yes! I just made music, whatever was on my mind.”

  “—with no pressure.”

  “Right,” he says. Then he considers it and adds, “Well, there was pressure to make money. If I didn’t play, I didn’t eat.”

  “Oh.” I look out the back of the SUV, remembering once again how different our backgrounds are. We met on the road as teenagers, but I was playing music with my family while Adam was on his own already. We didn’t eat at fancy restaurants growing up, or have expensive clothes, but we were always okay, my folks made sure of it. “Did that ever happen?”

  “Yeah, occasionally.” He picks the strings of his guitar absentmindedly, staring straight ahead. “Not as often as when I was a kid.”

  “That’s crazy,” I say at a near whisper. I picture Adam ten years ago. I imagine a skinny kid, lanky limbs, a middle schooler with an empty stomach and big dreams. I know his dad was never in the picture and that his mom wasn’t dependable—I think she may have had some problems with alcohol abuse—but I never realized it was to the point that he ever went hungry. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugs. “I’m writing a song about this really fun moment, but then it’s like I can’t believe I was throwing food all around that kitchen when I have literally stolen food from my friends’ refrigerators…” He trails off. “Sort of takes the ‘fun’ out of it.”

  I glance over. His eyes are faraway and focused not on the horizon but on the past, and it takes everything I’ve got not to pull him in for a hug. I feel like somebody somewhere needs to hold this boy close and tell him how talented he is and how bighearted and how worthwhile. But just then Dylan opens the door of our tour bus carrying an oversized beach bag, and Stella is right behind him with blankets.

  “Maybe this song isn’t your fun one,” I tell Adam as I hop out of the SUV. I face him and say, “Maybe this song is about what really sustains us. Maybe it’s a song about how our souls need to be fed, too, or how we need more than food to live—how we need love, too.”

  Adam slowly lets his hazel eyes drift over to mine.

  He locks onto my gaze.

  We stay put, staring at each other for what feels like hours but is actually just the fifty paces or so that it takes Stella and Dylan to join us. They throw their stuff in the back, Stella rearranging everything after Adam finally breaks eye contact and gets out of her way.

  We stand to the side as they pack the car, and Adam leans over. “You’re a special girl, Lady Bird,” he says softly.

  I turn my head and face him straight on, wanting him to believe me when I say, “You’re pretty special, too, you know.”

  Dylan slams the back door and calls, “Everybody ready?”

  Stella walks around to the passenger side and opens the back door instead of taking shotgun, letting everybody know that they haven’t quite worked it out yet. I’m sure she’ll want to vent later, and then Dylan will give me his side of things in short, explosive snippets, and I’ll stay neutral and pretend to sympathize with them both.

  But today is my day off. And Adam is here. I just want a peaceful beach day.

  “I think I’m going to grab my guitar, too,” I say, backtracking quickly toward the bus.

  Adam may have writer’s block, but after the way he just opened up to me, I am suddenly inspired.

  12

  “THE ROLLING STONE reporter just texted that she is waiting in Atlanta and will board the bus when you roll in,” Anita says from my iPad screen. “How long until you’re at the arena?”

  “Not long,” I say, looking out the bus window. “I can see it in the distance, so we have to be close.”

  “Good.” She picks up a pen, looks down at her desk, and without even being there in person, I know that she’s got a list of dos and don’ts she wants to go over. “Let’s run through a few quick things before you get there.”

  I grin, glancing up at Dylan, who’s sitting in the kitchenette with me. “That woman is relentless,” he whispers.

  “Who’s that?” Anita says, leaning in closer to her screen. “Dylan? Good. Get Stella, too. These are things that you’ll all have to remember while she tours with you. Reporters dig, they want dirt, they want their exclusive to stand out from all the other interviews you’ve given, and no one on the tour is off-limits.”

  “Then you better tell her about Adam,” Dylan says as I move the iPad back so that we’re both in the shot.

  “What about Adam?” Anita says. “Bird, is that a thing? You know you have to tell me this stuff!”

  “It’s not a thing!” I defend myself, punching my brother in the arm. “There’s no thing. We’re just friends.”

  “The four of us watched a movie on the bus last night, and I’m telling you, you could cut the sexual tension with a knife,” Dylan says, all prim and proper. “I was uncomfortable.”

  “You were uncomfortable?” I echo. “Try crying your eyes out to The Fault in Our Stars while two other people on the couch are playing tonsil hockey.”

  “We weren’t making out,” he says. “We were cuddling.”

  “And I was gagging.”

  “Kids,” Anita cuts in.

  “Like you and Stella aren’t constantly talking about what would happen if you and Adam got back together,” Dylan goes on.

  I feel my jaw nearly hit the table. “Are you kidding me right now?” Then I turn to my supposed best friend as she sits down next to me. “Do you tell him everything we talk about?”

  “Bird, the walls aren’t soundproof,” Dylan says.

  “Yeah, neither is the curtain over your bunk, FYI,” I fire back, fuming.

  “Kids,” Anita says again.

  “Truce, truce,” Stella says, shifting the iPad to fit us all on-screen. “First of all, I would never break your confidence,” she says to me. “I feel like you ought to trust me a little more than that by now. And second of all,” she says, turning to Dylan, “you don’t know how all that went down the first time. I was there, and you’re not being cool.”

  My brother’s eyes widen. “Sorry.”

  “Anita, there’s nothing happening there,” Stella says to my publicist. “Believe me.”

  Anita sighs dramatically. “Fine, but this is exactly the kind of thing that cannot—absolutely, positively cannot—happen in front of this reporter.”

  “I was just joking around,” Dylan says.

  “Joking around right now, but you won’t around the reporter, right?” Anita asks. “Certainly not the first day. You’ll all be on your best behavior. ‘Touring with my best friend is so great,’ and ‘I love the quality time I’m spending with my little sister.’ You think the reporter wants to hear that junk? You think that’s newsworthy? No. By day three you’ll all be quite chummy, and it’s jokes like this that could hijack Bird’s whole story.”

  We all just sit there, thoroughly scolded.

  Anita takes a big breath. “Bird,” she says, softer. “Rolling Stone magazine is major, and they want to do an exclusive feature on you: a day-in-the-life sort of peek into your world. I’ve seen these go well, and I’ve seen these go down in flames. Should I fly out tomorrow? Should I see if one of your parents can join the tour for a few days?”

  “No, I’ll be fine,” I say.

  “I just want you to be happy with the way the world sees
you.”

  I nod. “Right, but I like the idea that the three of us are touring on my bus and doing just fine without a constant chaperone. I’ve made it to all my shows, the media coverage has been great, and I’ve still kept up with all the side stuff Troy books. This reporter’s going to be like, ‘Wow. This girl’s got her act together.’”

  Anita frowns. “That’s our hope.”

  “Anita, we’ll be fine,” an exasperated Dylan says.

  “All right, all right,” she says, holding up her manicured hands. “So a few things: First, a note to all of you, if you don’t want your relationships to be public knowledge, then you have to keep some distance while Rolling Stone is on board. Stella and Dylan, I ask you for Bird’s sake to keep everything rated G.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but I am a gentleman,” Dylan says with a hand over his heart. Stella giggles.

  Ignoring him, Anita plows ahead. “And, Bird, I have no problem with you dating Adam. I want to be clear about that, okay? I think he’s a nice boy, and he also fits perfectly with your image.”

  I roll my eyes. “We’re not dating.”

  “Hey, I was young once, too. If anything does happen,” she goes on, “a late-night hang out where sparks fly—”

  Dylan has to turn his head away to hide his laughter, and I kick him under the table for starting all of this.

  “—or a kiss in the back hallways that you think nobody knows about, then you call me. Going public with your first celebrity boyfriend is a big deal. I would much prefer that we control the way that information is revealed.”

  I put my head in my hands and exhale. I’m actually happy when Anita gets to her list, reminding me to let the reporter see me studying so that people will know I’m actively trying to get my GED. She also says that our family history will definitely come up, especially Caleb, and that Dylan and I should figure out what we want to say about that before the grenade is dropped. She reminds me that this woman will be my shadow: She’ll be in the wings of the show, in the dressing room, and on the bus, sleeping in the bunk below Dylan’s. When someone’s constantly in your space, filling up even the moments that are usually private, Anita reminds me, it can be difficult to keep a sunny disposition, so remember my friendly aura.