Wildflower

by Alecia Whitaker

  “This really is no small thing,” my dad says. “I told Strong that we’d have to talk about this opportunity before diving right in, but we should all feel very excited for Bird. Just as we would for any of us if the situation were different.”

  Dylan looks over at me and then lets out a big breath, long and slow, almost as if he’s been holding it since Dad left this morning. He shakes his head, snapping out of something, and gives me a small smile. “No, they’re right. You should do it.”

  “Really?” I ask, hating the squeaky tone in my voice. My throat is tight, and I’m so tense that my fingernails are cutting into the palms of my hands. On the one hand, I would feel totally passed over if the roles were reversed and I can’t stand the disappointment on my brothers’ faces, but at the same time, I feel chosen, special, excited. This is my chance to make music of my own—on my own—but it feels wrong to leave my family behind.

  “Totally. You should do it, Bird,” Jacob echoes hollowly. “Congratulations.” He walks over to me and drapes a long skinny arm around my shoulders. “Just don’t forget the little people,” he says. I smile up at him, thankful to have brothers who love me and are happy for my success even if they’d rather be sharing it with me. And then I realize I’ve fallen right into his trap: He hooks his arm around my neck and gives me a freaking noogie.

  “Get off me, you moron!” I yell, wrestling free. Everybody laughs as I smooth my hair back into place, and although the noogie seemed maybe a tad aggressive, I guess it’s better than him hating me forever.

  “Well, nobody’s doing anything right away,” my dad says, slapping his legs and standing up. “The Barrett Family Band’s got a show to play in Knoxville tonight.”

  “Yeah, just try not to get discovered again, Bird,” Dylan teases as he walks past me.

  “Ha-ha,” I say dryly.

  But as my family files past me into the RV, I stay put. I look around, letting his words sink in. I think I might still be in a state of mild shock. Here, in the corner of this truck-stop parking lot, I got a break. Last night, I was discovered. Before I can stop myself, my mind flashes forward to sold-out concerts and music videos and CDs in Walmart with my picture on the front. I think about the money I’ll make and how I’ll be able to buy my parents a house and my brothers fancy cars. My body buzzes with the kind of energy that sends rockets into space, but in case my brothers are watching, I keep my feet on the ground and take a few deep breaths to calm myself. I heard everything my father said, but still, it doesn’t feel real.

  I see a shiny black stone near the cracked pavement my dad was kicking around, and without thinking, I pick it up. This really happened. Right here in this parking lot, I got a break. I slip the small stone into my jeans pocket, rubbing its one sharp edge with my thumb, almost like pinching myself. I never want to forget the way I feel right at this very moment, right in this very place.

  And then it’s back to reality. “Who’s ready for lunch?” my mom asks as I climb on board the Winnebago.

  “I am,” I say, as if my whole life hasn’t just taken a wild turn.

  I take shotgun, fighting like crazy not to ask my dad a thousand questions. I want to know everything—what the offices were like and what they talked about and when we’ll get started with GAM. But there’s no privacy on the road, and our wheels are already rolling. So, smiling like a lunatic, I kick back in the passenger seat and thumb the little black rock in my pocket as the highway opens up in front of us, full of possibility.

  “ARE YOU READY, kiddo?” my dad asks. He and I pulled into Nashville last night from a week of shows in Knoxville and Asheville, driving the car we borrowed from Gramma while she went on with my mom and brothers to a previously scheduled family vacation in North Carolina.

  It’s hard to miss the GAM offices—they’re in an impressive six-story building made of glass and steel that occupies more than its fair share of Music Row. We’re standing in front of it now, but I pause before we actually start down the walk. This is the building some of Nashville’s biggest superstars call home. I feel like I should bow or kneel or pray or offer up some sort of sacrifice before I dare set foot inside.

  “Let’s go, hon,” my dad prods, putting his arm around me and giving me the tiny nudge I need to get my boots going again.

  Right before opening the massive GAM front door, I catch my reflection in the dark glass and smooth the front of my new sleeveless yellow sundress. I didn’t have a clue what to wear today, so my mom and I hit the mall in search of the perfect sign-me-to-a-record-deal outfit. I knew I wanted to wear my cowboy boots, and when she suggested buying a new, celebratory pair, I adamantly refused. These are the boots I was discovered in, so in case they have good luck, I’m keeping them until they fall apart.

  “You must be the Barretts,” a sharply dressed guy in his twenties says when we approach the large front desk. His dark hair is soaked with gel, and the only thing skinnier than his jeans is his tie. He approaches us with a million-dollar smile, his hand out for a shake. “I’m Clem, Randall Strong’s assistant, and we’re all so very happy you’re here.”

  We shake and exchange pleasantries, but then we’re off, trying our best to keep up with the energetic Clem as he leads us through the offices. It’s not that Clem’s running or anything, it’s that he’s clearly no longer in awe of this magical place. How can he fly past all these gold and platinum records hanging on the walls as if they mean nothing? How can he not stop and gape at picture after picture of his boss posing with country music icons?

  “Bird,” my dad calls.

  At the end of the hallway, I see my dad and Clem waiting for me outside a pair of imposing doors. That must be Strong’s office. I gulp, then walk calmly yet briskly toward them.

  “Bird! Judd!” Randall Strong calls, swinging the double doors open wide. He reaches out and pumps our hands enthusiastically. As Mr. Strong leads us inside toward a small table covered in bagels, cheese, and fruit, I’d wager that he has had at least three cups of coffee in the last thirty minutes. Maybe he’s this friendly to everybody, but the whiteness of his large teeth is almost blinding.

  The entire back wall of the room is glass, offering a breathtaking view of downtown in the distance, and Mr. Strong’s office alone is much bigger than Winnie. In fact, it’s all a little intimidating. I’m walking toward the massive oak desk to take a seat at one of the two chairs facing it when Clem intercepts me.

  “No, you’ll be over here,” he says, leading me to a sitting area. Then he opens a minifridge, gets out two premium glass bottles of water, and hands them to my dad and me with a big smile before heading back to his place at the front desk.

  “I’m thrilled that we could meet up again,” Mr. Strong says enthusiastically, gesturing for us to take seats. Dad and I settle into two comfy leather chairs facing a beautiful antique-looking fireplace, and Strong sits on a love seat, propping one shiny black shoe on his knee and stretching his arm across the back of the sofa. His pinstriped suit and gold cuff links must have cost a small fortune.

  “Thank you for having us,” my dad answers politely.

  “Oh, your voice sounds much better, Judd,” Mr. Strong comments.

  They go on to talk about the recent weather and finally the upcoming football season. I can’t help but stare at all the pictures on the walls and in frames on the tables near us. I am floored by a picture on the end table next to me: It’s of a young Randall Strong with his arm around Johnny Cash at the Grammys. He’s, like, best friends with every country music star on earth.

  “Well, I was blown away at the Station Inn,” he says now.

  I check back into the conversation. “Thank you, Mr. Strong,” I say humbly.

  “Oh, Randall, Randall. Call me Randall,” he says boisterously.

  “Okay, Ran—”

  “So, as I was saying the last time we met,” he plows ahead, interrupting me and addressing my dad, “I’d like to discuss the possibility of a development deal with Bird. That was the first tim
e she’d sung lead for your family’s band?”

  My dad looks over at me quickly, but then answers, “Yes, that was the first time, but she’s been filling in this whole week while I recovered my voice.”

  “And how’d she do?” Randall asks, as if I’m not sitting right there.

  “She was great. I think most of the stage jitters she experienced that first night have been worked out of her system.”

  Oh, thanks for reminding him, Dad.

  “Good, good,” Randall says, glancing briefly at the shiny watch on his wrist before addressing my dad again. “But, Judd, we also like that she’s a little unpolished. She’s got a raw edge that reads as genuine and accessible. Does she play any other instruments?”

  I was so excited for this meeting. It was supposed to be about me and my potential career, but now I’m feeling a little left out. It’s like I’m watching a tennis match between these two. I’m not a child. I’m sixteen, and this is my life we’re talking about.

  “I can play guitar,” I say loudly. Randall looks over at me almost as if he’s surprised to see me sitting there. “And I write songs.”

  “Oh, you write?” Randall asks, putting his leg down and leaning forward. Now that I’ve gotten his full attention, I sink back a little in my chair. “What kinds of songs?”

  “Um, ballads mostly, I guess. Some of my stuff has a little bit of a rock feel.”

  “What are they about?” he asks.

  I blush, thinking about Adam and how a lot of my songs have to do with him. “They’re kind of personal,” I say, aware of my dad sitting right beside me.

  Randall claps his hands once, then rubs them together. “Good. Personal is good. They eat personal up.”

  They?

  “Can you sing one for me right now?”

  “Oh,” I say, shocked. I look over at my dad, and he nods for me to go ahead, but I really feel put on the spot. I wasn’t prepared to perform. “Well, I’d have to go grab my journal from the car,” I tell him. “And an instrument.”

  “Hmmm…” Randall says, frowning.

  “Bird wrote ‘Will She Ever Call,’ the number we usually do for our encore, and Barrett Family Band fans just love it,” my dad says, sensing as I do that we’re losing our hold on the meeting.

  “Oh, I think I remember that one maybe.”

  “We could sing it for you a cappella right now,” Dad presses.

  “Never mind, never mind,” Randall says, standing up abruptly. His forehead lines are deeply creased as he breezes by us and walks over to his desk.

  My heart sinks. Why didn’t I throw my journal into my purse? Why would I come to this meeting without it? And you’d think my dad would’ve known to bring his banjo or Dylan’s guitar, which my brother reluctantly agreed to part with while on vacation, or remind me to grab Maybelle.

  “Clem,” Randall says into the phone on his desk. “Get me Lorie Pierce.”

  I stand up and walk over, my dad right behind me. “Mr. Strong, if you just give me a minute,” I say, panicked. “I can run down to the car and be right back.”

  “It’s Randall,” he says, looking up from a calendar on his desk. He flashes his bright white smile at me again, and I feel better. “And there’s no need. You can sing them for me live tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “At the Bluebird.”

  “The Bluebird Cafe?” I ask, incredulous.

  “It’s a local spot where singers and songwriters, some new and some established, perform their work,” he explains.

  “Garth Brooks was discovered there,” my dad pipes up.

  Randall gives him a patronizing smile. “Garth Brooks and many more.”

  But I don’t need them to tell me about the Bluebird. Anyone who has anything to do with country music knows about the Bluebird. It’s a small venue, intimate, but a performance there carries prestige. Numerous careers and megahits got their starts there. From the audience, it’s magical. But me onstage? Tonight? Playing next to some of the best singers and songwriters in Nashville? That sounds terrifying.

  “But today is Wednesday,” I finally say. “I’ve never performed there. Open Mic nights are on Mondays. There’s no way—”

  “I’ll get you a spot,” Randall says, holding up a finger as he presses TALK on his desk phone. “You just bring your songs.” Then he lifts the receiver and turns away, looking down on Music Row as he pulls some strings.

  I look at my dad wide-eyed. “The Bluebird Cafe?” I whisper. Absentmindedly, I slip my hand into the pocket of my dress and thumb the lucky rock I found last week. It calms me, reminding me that I was good enough at the Station Inn, good enough to get Randall’s attention.

  My dad reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “You’ll do great.”

  I nod and he squeezes again. We stand there, on the other side of Strong’s desk, watching the pinstripes on his suit ripple as he gestures dramatically while getting everything set for tonight. From the sound of it, he has the power to get me behind a mic onstage at the Bluebird. Which means I have eight hours to turn the stories on the pages of my journal into songs worthy of a record deal.

  “I WROTE THIS number when I was living in Tulsa, going through my second divorce,” the man sitting next to me says into his mic. He’s probably in his fifties, and he sure doesn’t look like a country music singer. His graying dark hair is long and shaggy, and he wears red-framed glasses. Instead of cowboy boots, he sports old tennis shoes. You’d think he was hard up, but I saw him in the parking lot getting out of an expensive-looking sports car.

  I listen to Harley Duke sing a song I’ve heard a thousand times on the radio, but it sounds strange coming from him. I’m used to singing along with Kenny Chesney, but Harley is the guy who actually wrote it. I can’t help but think how weird it would be to pour your heart out onto the page and then let some famous singer take credit for all the emotion you put behind it.

  Harley and I are two of five musicians playing “in the round,” which means we share the stage and take turns playing, going around in a circle. Behind Shannon Crossley, a really talented songwriter seated directly across from me, I can see Randall Strong sitting at a table next to another GAM exec. The butterflies in my stomach go crazy.

  Shannon winks at me, and I turn my focus away from the crowd to smile back at her. She’s maybe a little younger than my mom, wears chunky rings made from natural stones, and has jet-black hair that drapes over one shoulder. When she performed the first time tonight, I was worried that her hair would get caught in the strings of her guitar it’s so long. She wrote the hit the most recent American Idol winner gets credit for, although when she sang it live a few minutes ago, it seemed like a different song entirely. It was devoid of that manufactured pop sound I’m used to. Shannon’s voice wasn’t auto-tuned or digitally altered. It cracked in places and emotion poured out. The lyrics were so much more powerful coming from her as she talked about where she came from and traveling and finding “home” outside of a traditional house. By the end, there was a huge lump in my throat and tears actually welled up in my eyes.

  I look back into the audience to catch my dad’s eye in the crowd. He gives me a thumbs-up and a big smile. I can’t help but wish my mom and brothers were here tonight, too. While they’re hanging out with Gramma in North Carolina, I’m debuting original songs at one of country music’s most iconic venues. As awesome as that is, I feel guilty that the entire BFB isn’t getting this same opportunity, especially since I’m borrowing Dylan’s guitar again and he would kill to play at the Bluebird.

  As Harley approaches the bridge in his song, I shake my head and clear my mind of all thoughts that don’t have to do with this very moment.

  It’s my turn next, and I look down at my journal on the music stand in front of me, trying to concentrate. I’m okay on guitar, but not as comfortable as I am with the fiddle. And the songs I’m singing tonight are super personal. I’ve played a few of them for my family in the past, but nobody’s ever heard the o
ne I’m going to sing next. It’s about Adam, how he pops in and out of my life, and how it sometimes seems like he might like me the way I like him, although I still wonder if he only thinks of me as Jacob’s kid sister. I just want him to see me, to really know me.

  It’s a little embarrassing singing this one in front of everybody, my dad especially, but Randall said “they like personal,” so I figure this will be the perfect song for a venue like the Bluebird. It’s an intimate space. Five songwriters sitting in folding chairs in the middle of a dimly lit room with the audience crowded close. It’s both comforting and terrifying at the same time, which is why, just like at the Station Inn, I started with a song that I know like the back of my hand.

  The crowd seemed to like “Will She Ever Call” and the little joke I opened with (“P.S. She won’t”) as I introduced it. That old BFB standard relaxed me and gave folks a peek into the music of Bird Barrett, but now it’s time to take a risk.

  Harley finishes up, and as the audience claps, I take a sip of water and double-check that my journal is secure on the music stand. I thumb my lucky rock, which is sitting there as well. My pulse is racing. As the applause dies down, I feel the roomful of eyes focus on me. My foot is tapping like wild, and it’s certainly not to the music since the place is now deathly quiet. There is a strict no-talking policy here. I swallow my nerves and lean into the mic.

  “Guess it’s my turn again,” I say nervously.

  “Yep, that’s how circles work, darlin’,” Harley cracks next to me.

  The crowd titters, and I grant him a tight-lipped smile. It’s clear he wasn’t crazy about a rookie like me worming my way into the round without earning my spot. I lean back and clear my throat. As much as this setup should feel like a regular jam session, I know the other songwriters aren’t going to join in and the crowd won’t sing along. I feel vulnerable, exposed.

  “You know, I still get nervous when I play here,” Shannon says into her own mic across from me. I look up at her, shocked. She gives me a warm, reassuring smile. “My songs, they’re mostly autobiographical. It’s nerve-racking to sing about your real life in front of a roomful of strangers.” She laughs lightly.