Wildflower

by Alecia Whitaker

  “Did you guys see that creepy guy sitting at the bar?” Jacob asks, before pounding a grape-flavored Gatorade.

  “Oh yeah,” Dylan says. “I saw him. He was practically drooling over Bird, the perv.”

  “He’s probably just drunk,” I say.

  Jacob shakes his head. “He’s not drinking.”

  “Yeah, and he’s Dad’s age, but he’s totally staring at you like some kind of stalker.”

  “Gross,” I say, a little worried.

  “Don’t pay him any mind, Bird. Let’s just get back out there,” my mom says, pointing to the clock and walking to the door.

  As we head to the stage, Dylan points the guy out. “If he comes up to you after the show, just grab me, okay?” His blue eyes are icy, and his jaw is set hard.

  I nod at him seriously but smile when I turn away. Dylan Barrett may hog the bathroom, drink from the milk jug, and think he’s always right, but he’s also the best big brother a girl could ask for.

  Back onstage, I catch the eye of the man at the bar. He’s older than my parents—maybe fifty—dressed in a sport coat, jeans, and expensive-looking cowboy boots. But he doesn’t seem to be ogling me so much as studying me. I wish my brothers hadn’t even mentioned him. Finally in a groove, I don’t need some weirdo throwing me off my game, so I shift in the stage lights to get him out of my line of sight. And then I give it everything I’ve got, finding creative places to incorporate the fiddle while I sing.

  The rest of the night goes even better than the first set. Everybody plays as well as they ever have, and by the end of the encore, I don’t want to leave the stage. I could live up here. I know my dad is the lead singer of the BFB, but I think he might have to fight me for it now. I feel alive, full of purpose, inspired! I want to sing more often, I want to write more songs, and I’m thinking that I could even show my dad some stuff I’ve been working on in my journal and take lead on a few if we include them in our act.

  But there’s not a lot of time to savor the moment. As soon as we’re offstage, it’s business as usual, putting our instruments away and clearing out the greenroom. I freshen up my gloss in the mirror and then head back toward the stage to pack up the mics. I’m eager to get out there and talk to Adam, while my parents make it clear that they’re eager to get back into Winnie and hit the sack.

  “You got Maybelle, right?” Dylan asks as he pushes the instrument cart past.

  “Yeah.” I nod, checking that she’s in her case right next to me.

  But Adam is nowhere to be found. I don’t get it. What is this guy’s deal? I mean, he changes his schedule to come see me sing lead for the first time but doesn’t look for me afterward? He’s not talking to Jacob; he’s not at the bar. It’s like he’s vanished into thin air. He’s, like, freaking Batman.

  As I accept compliments from a few lingering crowd members, I feel myself coming down from the performance high. Our shows are always exhausting, but it’s even tougher being the front man—or front woman. And to be honest, I’m totally and completely bummed that Adam seems to have disappeared again.

  Then the big guy who works the door approaches me. “You’re Bird, right?” he asks.

  “Um, yes,” I answer hesitantly.

  “Adam Dean had to get back on the road, but he told me to give these to you,” he says, holding out a tiny bouquet of flowers. “He told me to be careful with them, but they’re basically just a bunch of weeds.” He shrugs and shakes his head as he ambles back over to the door.

  Stunned, I look down at the fragile bouquet in my hands. There are tiny yellow dandelions and long white daisies. There is clover, Queen Anne’s lace, and a few pale pink coneflowers. It’s not something you’d get from 1-800-FLOWERS, but it’s the most breathtaking assortment I have ever seen in my life. I wonder where he got them.

  Wrapped around the stems is a bar napkin with the words Lady Bird scrawled across it in black ink. My heart races. When I unfold the napkin, I see that he’s left a note:

  Update your status to “Killed it.”

  I laugh out loud and jump off the stage, eager to get the flowers to Winnie and press a few into the pages of my journal. But my dad stops me at the back door.

  “Bird, sweetie, you did it,” he says hoarsely, slinging his big arm around my shoulder and leading me to the small bar. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say, beaming up at him. “I’m no Judd Barrett, but those are awfully big shoes to fill.”

  “Hey, are you saying I’ve got big feet?” He laughs. I roll my eyes. My dad’s so corny.

  I glance around the Station Inn and see the bare stage, the emptied room. It’s as if we were never even here. It’s disheartening how fleeting the truly spectacular moments in life are. But the first flowers I’ve ever gotten from a boy are in my hand, and that reminds me: I’ve got a Coca-Cola to try. Something tells me it will be the best fountain Coke in the whole world, no matter what it tastes like. I get the bartender’s attention and order one.

  “I can’t believe that was your first time singing lead,” a guy says behind us. “You were a pro.”

  My dad and I both swivel around. The guy who was staring at me from the bar earlier is standing there, grinning at me. He turns his gaze on my dad and sticks out his hand. “Mr. Barrett, I’m Randall Strong.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Strong,” my dad says, always polite, even when wary.

  “I was awfully impressed with your girl up there tonight,” the man continues, as if I’m not even sitting there. I don’t get a creepy vibe now that we’re face-to-face. He just seems a little flashy. Intense.

  “Well, I’ve always thought Bird was something else,” my dad agrees.

  “She sure is. Listen, are y’all signed with a label?”

  My dad cocks an eyebrow. “No,” he answers cautiously.

  “Well, I’d be interested in talking more with you,” Mr. Strong says, smiling widely. My dad stifles a cough as best he can, but Mr. Strong quickly adds, “When you’re feeling better, of course. Maybe tomorrow? I think there’s something special here, and I hope that maybe we can do business together.”

  He pulls a card from the pocket of his sport coat and hands it to my dad. I look over his shoulder and read:

  RANDALL STRONG

  PRESIDENT, A&R

  GREAT AMERICAN MUSIC, NASHVILLE

  There’s an address on Music Row, a phone number and e-mail address, and the GAM logo, a blue eighth note superimposed over two concentric circles that give the effect of an old vinyl record. I feel my jaw drop. GAM is one of the biggest labels in Music City.

  I look up at Mr. Strong and consider him with new eyes. This guy’s not a stalker; he’s a music-industry big shot!

  “Well, y’all have a good night now,” he says, excusing himself. “And Bird, it really was a pleasure. Great job.”

  “Thanks,” I say as he walks away. Once he’s gone, I slowly swirl back around on my stool to face the bar. My dad’s got his elbows propped up against it, studying the card in his hands.

  “What’s A and R stand for?” I ask.

  “Artists and repertoire,” he answers. He looks up at me, and my face must still look a little blank because he explains. “He’s a talent scout.”

  I blink hard. Then my Coke appears, and I lean toward the straw, taking a giant gulp. Mother Maybelle, have mercy, we’ve just been discovered.

  THERE IS AN odd sense of quiet in the RV today. Usually, I can’t get through my shower without one of my brothers banging on the door, but today I was even able to get dressed in the tiny bathroom without protest. Most mornings, my brothers and I argue over who does which chores, but today Jacob did the dishes without being asked, and Dylan made coffee while I wiped down the foldout kitchenette. And ordinarily, my mom has to ask us a million times to turn off the TV and get started on our homework, but today we all set up camp in our regular places and hunkered down. The Barrett Family Band in Winnie as usual… except that Winnie, who was supposed to be on her way
to Knoxville, hasn’t moved an inch… and except that the leader of our band is still at the Great American Music offices talking to a talent scout who is interested in us and could possibly change our lives. Other than that, it’s just your average Wednesday.

  “I can’t concentrate,” Jacob says, exasperated. He throws his pen up in the air and puffs out his cheeks. “I can’t! What the heck’s a derivative and who on God’s green earth cares?”

  “Seriously, Mom,” I complain, looking down at my calculus homework. “Have you ever needed to use a graphing calculator in your entire life?”

  “Just for homework—” my mom says over the clicking of her knitting needles.

  “Exactly,” I interrupt.

  “Which I did, as will you two,” she finishes.

  Jacob and I look at each other and roll our eyes. “It’s been two hours,” he says. “What in the world have they been talking about for two hours?”

  “I’m with them,” Dylan pipes up, closing his laptop and standing to stretch. “One minute, you’re sitting outside your RV eating English muffins. The next minute, your dad makes a phone call that could change your life. Kind of hard to care about homework.”

  “You’re right.” Mom sighs, setting down her needles. “You’re right. Y’all want to play Hold ’Em?”

  “Ha!” Dylan says, pointing at her and smiling. “You’re nervous, too!”

  My mom smiles mischievously. “Nah, I just like beating my kids at poker.”

  But before she gets that chance, Winnie’s door opens, and my dad appears in the stairwell. We all scramble out of the booth and charge him like a bull in a bad mood.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” my dad hollers, his arms up as we practically push him back out of Winnie.

  “What’d they say?” Dylan asks, stomping down the steps.

  “Did we get a deal?” Jacob asks, right behind him.

  I follow and Mom is on my heels.

  “Tell us everything,” I pant. “Don’t leave out a single detail.”

  Outside, our group has to move over for a trucker who’s getting into his big rig, and I realize that right here in the parking lot of the Travel Centers of America truck stop, our lives could change forever. I laugh out loud, so giddy at all of this possibility. Traffic rumbles past us on the highway and the smells of diesel and gasoline fill my nose, but the summer sun is shining down brightly and the sky is clear. It’s a beautiful day for good news.

  “Well,” my dad says, running his hands through his hair, looking down, and toeing a crack in the pavement. Then the semi driver fires up his engine, interrupting him. Dad can’t be heard over that, especially with his weak voice, so we watch as the dude situates himself behind the wheel, checks his mirrors, and slowly pulls out. I lean against Winnie, watching the annoyance on Dylan’s face, the frustration on Jacob’s, and the almost childlike anticipation on my mother’s. I can’t see my own expression, but I’m sure it’s one of joy. I don’t know why, but I have a feeling. Everything was so perfect last night, like it was destined, like everything we’ve gone through over the past seven years has led to this very moment right off I-24. I just have a feeling.

  “Okay, okay, what’d he say?” Dylan demands once the truck has moved on.

  “Well, Mr. Strong is certainly interested—”

  “Yeah, we know that,” Dylan interrupts. “But what’d he say? Did we get a deal?”

  “Let him talk,” Jacob says.

  “Well,” my dad responds, “they didn’t offer us a deal.”

  And then we all go silent. I hear a little girl at the gas pump begging her dad for a quarter for the gum-ball machine inside. I hear a flock of birds calling out to one another as they swoop by overhead in their perfect V. And I hear a car horn honking angrily at someone down the road. But from the Barrett family, there is nothing but silence as we let his words sink in.

  “We didn’t get a deal?” I finally ask quietly. I’m confused. Why did Randall Strong insist on the phone that my dad come to his office right away?

  “Not exactly,” my dad says, hands in his pockets. Finally he looks up at my mother. They exchange a look that says my dad has more to say but wants to run it by her first. She nods.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” Dylan says, blocking the door to Winnie as my parents move toward it. “You can’t leave us all morning and go into the offices of the biggest label in country music and then come back and say it was nothing. I want to know what happened.”

  “Yeah, Dad,” Jacob adds.

  “I need to talk to your mother,” my dad replies sternly.

  “Okay, look,” Dylan says, sighing heavily. “I get that you guys like to make family decisions in private. I understand that. And I respect that. But this isn’t really a family decision; it concerns the Barrett Family Band. And we may be your kids, but we’re also band members. And we deserve to know about anything concerning our group.”

  “He’s right,” Jacob says.

  I nod, too. We have a right to know.

  My dad sighs loudly, his face weary. I know he’s got a bad cold, and I know he’s tired. I’m sure he’d like nothing more than to go rest, but we want answers. What was so important that they brought him down to Music Row on such short notice if they weren’t going to offer us a deal?

  My dad opens the door to Winnie and sits on the bottom step. We all circle around him, trying not to hover but not willing to let him escape yet either. “That’s just it,” my dad says, looking up at us. “This isn’t about the group. They don’t want to sign the Barrett Family Band.” He pauses. “They want Bird.”

  I gasp and step back, feeling like maybe I didn’t hear him right.

  “Bird?” Dylan asks, confused. “What do you mean? Just Bird? Like, just her?”

  My dad nods, then looks up at me. “Strong said GAM is looking to add fresh young female talent to their roster. He loved her singing and, of course, her fiddle playing. And he said she has natural stage presence, even if she could use a little work leading a band.” My dad grins wryly.

  I feel my face and neck flush. I am floored. They only want me?

  “What does this mean for the Barrett Family Band?” Dylan asks, his voice a tad panicky. “I put off college for this.”

  I look over at Dylan and feel kind of sick to my stomach. If I were to sign with GAM solo, what would that mean for him? For Jacob? For my parents? We got into music as a family. We need it—as a family.

  When Caleb died, we all sank into a pit of grief. My mom quit her job and took to bed. I remember bringing her my Madeline books and snuggling in, but she didn’t read them with the same enthusiasm as before, and usually, I ended up reading to her. She was desperate with guilt, beating herself up for not having kept a closer eye on us that afternoon. We all carried guilt, even us kids who were still so young. Dylan felt like he should’ve been watching Caleb and me by the pond, Jacob felt like it was his fault for distracting Dylan with his new dirt bike, and I still feel like I should’ve screamed for help sooner. I didn’t understand that my little brother was drowning. I thought he would swim, or float, or splash around. By the time I hollered for anybody, it was too late.

  When we finally started family therapy with our pastor, it felt like a last-ditch effort to keep the family together. But Brother James was super friendly, and he kept reminding us that this accident was just that—an accident, nobody’s fault, and that always made me feel better. I liked being able to talk about Caleb. I liked talking to an adult whose hugs weren’t so tight and whose laugh wasn’t forced. And when he suggested that we get a hobby, find something that we could all do together, my dad mentioned his glory days playing in a string band in college, and Brother James jumped on it. He asked if playing music sounded like fun to the rest of us, and, well, it did.

  So the next day, my dad dragged his old banjo down from the attic and brought home a bunch of well-used instruments from a music store in town. Dylan chose a steel-stringed acoustic guitar. Jacob wanted to play drums, but my dad t
old him that the bass was the way bluegrass groups kept beat, so he chose that. My mom quietly picked up the mandolin and clutched it to her chest, which left the fiddle for me.

  That night, we said a prayer for Caleb and then strummed and plucked and basically abused our new toys. My dad picked out “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” over and over and over again, showing Dylan how to move his hands and place his fingers, but it was clear right away that we’d need real lessons. The neighbors probably wanted to call the cops, but somehow that awful sound unlocked something inside my mom. When I looked over at her, still hugging her new instrument and rocking from side to side, she smiled at me for the first time in months.

  We actually picked up music pretty fast, and after a few years, the Barrett Family Band was more than a back-porch way to pass the time. I won a fiddling competition, and Dylan brought the house down at our school talent show. My dad signed us up for a local festival and then another show, and before we knew it we were playing at least once a month.

  I never will forget the day we came home from school and my parents asked us how we would feel about taking our band on the road. Dylan wasn’t happy about quitting basketball or leaving his friends behind, but after a week of thinking about it, he agreed with the rest of us that it would certainly be a wild adventure. And the next thing you know, the house was traded in for an RV and the Barrett Family Band was on tour.

  I shake my head. It’s hard to believe we’ve been on the road for seven years—and that it’s been ten since Caleb’s death.

  Looking at my family now, outside this noisy truck stop and this mobile home of ours, I feel my heart lurch.

  “I won’t do it,” I say. “I want what’s best for the band. Really. I won’t do it.”

  “Oh, Bird,” my mom says, reaching over and squeezing my hand. “What’s good for one of us is good for all of us.”