Wildflower

by Alecia Whitaker

  “I guess,” I say, pushing open the tinted-glass door.

  And then I get a wonderful surprise.

  “Bird!” my mom says, walking up the sidewalk with my brothers behind her. Her arms are open wide, and I let her envelop me in a big hug. When I smell her honeysuckle body lotion, I’m instantly happier.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, squeezing tightly. “Hey, guys,” I say to my brothers, who seem to have forgiven me. “I didn’t know y’all were coming.”

  “We want to see where all the magic happens,” Dylan says, smiling. Jacob nods and I am so glad they are here.

  “Well then, follow me,” I say, feeling a much-needed burst of energy.

  I lead my family inside and show them around. It’s pretty exciting, giving everybody a peek into what has somehow become my whole life in just a couple of weeks. I introduce them to Jack and the rest of the crew and point out the live room, where we record.

  “Speaking of,” Jack says, swiveling around halfway in his chair, “we should probably get back at it.”

  “Could we stay and watch a while?” Jacob asks.

  Jack shrugs. “Sure.”

  As my family squeezes onto the sofa behind the sound guys, I head back into the live room. I worry briefly that they’ll figure out that this song is about Adam, but then I realize they’re all going to hear it eventually, anyway. Everybody will. Adam will.

  As I lift my headphones from the hook on the mic stand, I glance up at my family, whose faces range from surprised to amused to see me in such a professional setting. And then, when the instrumental track plays and I start to sing, I think I can see them settle into another expression, one that makes my heart feel like it might burst. Pride. I sing like I would at a Barrett Family Band performance, as if we were live, with just one shot to nail it, and I forget about being perfect for a moment. I just sing.

  When I finish, I see my family clapping and smiling behind the glass before Jack presses the speaker button, and then I hear them woo-hooing loudly. “Your first fans,” he says, grinning.

  The door opens again, and Dan walks in with a sharply dressed woman I’ve never seen before. She’s wearing a loose fuchsia top with a tight black pencil skirt and super high stilettos. Her brown hair is slicked back in a sleek bun, and she is carrying an iPad in her hand.

  “You’ve got visitors,” Jack says into my headphones from the control room. “Let’s take five, everybody.”

  I take off my headphones as Dan motions through the glass for me to join them. Jack and the sound guys are milling about, and I see my dad introducing my family to Dan. By the time I try to push the control room door open, the room is crowded and pretty suffocating.

  “Come get us when you’re ready,” Jack says to Dan, leading his sound team down the hall to the lounge.

  “We’re going to get out of here, too,” my mom says graciously. “It was really our pleasure to finally meet you, Dan. And good job, Bird, honey. That song is just beautiful.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say, giving her another quick hug before they leave.

  And then it’s just my dad, Dan, and the mystery woman, who is staring at me as if I am a museum exhibit instead of a live human being.

  “Bird, Judd, I want you to meet Anita Handler,” Dan says, introducing the woman. Her heavily painted pink lips are stretched into a closed smile and even in her four-inch heels, she still only comes up to my shoulders. She pumps our hands once, strong and efficient, as Dan continues with his hearty introduction. “She’ll be your publicist and is the best in the biz. I had a heck of a time getting her down here from New York.”

  “I’m more of a rock and roller than a country girl,” she explains frankly in a thick New York accent. “But I figure, eh, a little fresh air won’t kill me.”

  I’m pretty sure my lower jaw hits the ground, especially if the expression on my face looks anything like the one on my dad’s, but Dan just laughs and shakes his head. “You’ve got to know her to love her, and you will when you do,” he assures us. “And she may not care for the music, but she cares for her musicians in a big way. She’s responsible for the images of a lot of major chart toppers, like—”

  “Oh, Dan, stop. You’ll make me blush,” she interrupts.

  Dan smiles. “Anyway, Anita was with Allied for the last five years, working out of our New York office, but she’s been in the business for almost twenty.”

  “Which means I got started at five years old,” she says quickly. My dad and Dan laugh because she’s probably more like forty-five. Still, the woman does look amazing. And when she grabs my forearm and turns the full power of her thickly made-up eyes on me, I admire the intensity there. “Bird, now that we’re working together, I need you to think of me as your new best friend, your BFF,” she says in total seriousness. “You will tell me everything. No surprises, no holding back. You don’t know what will connect with your fans, but I do.”

  I’ve never really had a best friend before, but this doesn’t sound like the way those things are supposed to go. It feels weird and, honestly, a little demanding for a stranger to expect you to just spill your guts to her.

  But I trust Dan. I don’t know what having a publicist entails, but if working with Anita will help me connect with my fans—or the fans I am supposedly going to have—then I’ll get on board.

  “I’ve never had a BFF,” I say, smiling down at her. “I hope we don’t have to get matching necklaces or something.”

  Anita rolls her eyes. “Oh God, I haven’t worn one of those since the eighties.”

  “So…” I say, doing the math in my head. “When you were three years old?”

  “Oh, Silver, she’s cheeky.” Anita looks at me appraisingly. “We’re going to get along just fine.”

  When I look at Dan, he’s beaming at the two of us, and I feel like I just passed some sort of test.

  “That’s a wrap,” Jack says.

  “Hallelujah.” I sigh, peeling the headphones off my ears. I stretch big, twisting and nearly touching the ceiling, before joining Jack, my dad, and the rest of the guys in the control room. “I thought ‘let’s take a break’ was the sweetest phrase in history, but I like the sound of ‘that’s a wrap’ even better.”

  “Me too,” one of the guys responds, yawning even though he’s on at least his sixth cup of coffee today.

  Without warning, the instrumental track starts again. Jack smiles and gestures to the sofa. I plop down next to my dad, who stretches his arm around the couch behind me, and then I hear myself. Or a version of myself about a bazillion times better than the real thing.

  “That’s me?”

  Jack smiles softly and leans back in his chair as the music plays. He closes his eyes. I do the same and realize instantly why he pushed me so hard. That’s my voice, but smoother, better. That’s my poetry, spun from the pages of my journal into song. The harmonies blend like honey in warm tea. And although I was worried about the drums and electric guitar, they actually give the song a fun, effervescent sound. I am most happy about the homage to my bluegrass roots: woven through it all is the fiddle.

  I open my eyes again and see that everybody in the room is smiling as widely as I am, their feet tapping along like mine. The song that I’ve sung into the ground today now sounds fresh as spring.

  “It’s still rough,” Jack warns as the last notes fade away. “It still needs more mixing, but I think—”

  “It’s perfect!” I shout, launching myself off the couch, nearly knocking him out of his swivel chair with a giant hug. I stand up and look around at all three guys behind the soundboard. “You did it. I love it. You made me sound like a real singer,” I gush. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “Bird,” Jack says, “you are a real singer. All we did was record what’s already there.”

  He pushes PLAY again, which I take as the best compliment of my life. Not his words, but his actions. Seems to me that a man who’s heard the same melodies over and over all week, who’s recorded the same song on
at least four different instruments and with at least three different harmonies, would be sick to death of this song, but he’s not. As “Notice Me” fills the room one more time, I shove my hands into the pockets of my Open Highway sweatshirt and let the realization of this dream sink in.

  “WOW, JACOB, YOUR handwriting’s actually legible,” I comment, looking over at the Spanish work sheet he turned in to my mom. “Yo puedo leerlo.”

  He smirks. “Y yo puedo kick your butt.”

  My mom waves her hands between us, ever the peacemaker. “Relájense, mijos,” she says, smiling. Her Spanish is better than either of ours now. She says teaching us is like a refresher course for the stuff she’s forgotten after all these years. I’ve made the case that if we’re just going to forget it, anyway, why learn it at all? My brothers totally had my back, but our logic didn’t fly with the folks.

  “Dinner’s in five,” Dad says, setting a stack of bowls down in front of us.

  A friend of my parents is on tour for the next few months and has offered to let us stay at his place in Nashville while he’s gone. He said it’d be sitting empty, and now he won’t have to worry about somebody feeding his cat. I have to say, having my own bedroom the past couple of weeks has been awesome.

  “Wow, son, your handwriting is a little better than I remembered,” Dad adds, reading over my mom’s shoulder.

  “Hey!” Jacob says defensively. “It’s a lot easier now that I don’t have to worry about you taking a hard right turn when I’m midsentence.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! It’s all smooth sailing when Captain Judd’s behind the wheel,” Dad says, brushing off his shoulders. So lame. We roll our eyes and shake our heads, much to his delight.

  I look back at my own work sheet and am scribbling in the future tenses of my vocab words when my dad’s cell phone rings. He looks first at the screen, then quickly up at me before walking over to the kitchen, where I can see the lid of the Crock-Pot dripping with steam. Mom put her famous vegetarian chili on this morning, and the smell has been tempting us the whole day. I’d forgotten what a good cook my mom is when she’s not confined to canned veggies and a minifridge in an RV galley.

  “Well, Dan, she can’t talk just now, actually,” I overhear my dad say. “She’s in the middle of a Spanish lesson with her brother.” My back stiffens.

  “Is that Dan?” I call, pushing back my chair. “Is that for me?”

  Dad holds his hand up and turns away. “Tomorrow at ten?” he asks. He looks over at my mom, who nods her approval. “That’ll be fine. We’ll see you then.”

  He hangs up the phone and walks to the fridge. I follow him.

  “Dad, was that Dan? What’d he want?”

  “He wants to see you in the morning,” my father answers, grabbing a gallon of milk and heading back over to the table. “Dinner’s almost ready, kids,” he says. “Let’s wrap it up.”

  I stack my books and papers into a messy pile and throw it all on the couch, eager to get back to my dad so I can ask him more about what Dan said. Then Jacob’s cell beeps.

  “Oh, cool,” he says offhandedly. “Adam might have a gig in Nashville.”

  I stop in my tracks, halfway between the dining room and kitchen. “What? When?” I ask, but Jacob’s in another world, already texting Adam back.

  “Bird, set the table, please,” my mom says, getting up to check the bread in the oven. “Jacob, go tell your brother that dinner’s ready.”

  “Ugh.” I sigh, my head spinning. In the kitchen, I grab a fistful of spoons and interrogate my father. “So what’d he want, Dad? Did he like the song? What’d he say?”

  “He said he wants to see you in the morning, Bird,” he repeats slowly.

  “You could’ve let me talk to him,” I say, following him back into the dining room.

  “Bird, he called me.”

  “Well, you didn’t have to tell him I had homework,” I complain, placing the spoons next to everybody’s bowls. “It makes me sound like a kid instead of a professional.”

  “Listen,” my dad says, looking me firmly in the eyes. “Record contract or no record contract, your schoolwork is still a priority.”

  My eyebrows arch in surprise at his hard tone. Annoyed, I take a seat at the table as my mom sets the big pot of chili on a hot pad in front of me. I know I’m only sixteen, and honestly, my dad’s been a great manager so far, but you’d think I could at least take my own phone calls. It’s like he and Dan and now Anita are deciding everything about my life, and I’m lucky I don’t have to ask permission to go to the bathroom.

  Just as my mom comes back to the table with the bread and my brothers plop into their seats, I hear my own cell phone beep down the hall. I perk up, springing to my feet.

  “No phones during dinner,” my dad orders, stopping me in my tracks.

  “But—”

  “No phones,” he repeats and points to the seat of my chair.

  “Oh my gosh, Dad,” I grumble, sitting back down. “You know it could be important. Shannon might want to reschedule tomorrow or—”

  “Then you can call her back,” my dad says, folding his hands. “Bird, why don’t you say grace tonight?”

  I roll my eyes. That is so my dad. “Dear Lord,” I begin, bowing my head.

  And then a thought slips into my mind: What if it’s Adam? But that’s stupid because he doesn’t even have my number. I shake the thought and continue, keeping it short and sweet. “Amen,” we all chime, and my brothers are digging in before I’ve even unclasped my hands.

  “You guys want to have a family jam after supper?” my dad asks during dinner. He’s unaware of his dripping milk mustache.

  “Oh, that sounds fun,” Mom says, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “We can go out on the patio. It’s a nice night.”

  Dylan nods.

  “Definitely,” Jacob says. “I’d love that.”

  But when everybody looks at me, I shrug. As nice as it would be to play together like we used to, I’ve been playing all day, every day lately, and I’m exhausted… and still a little annoyed with my dad. “I’m actually pretty beat,” I say.

  Jacob looks up at me, a long lock of black hair hanging over his eye. “Seriously?” he asks, midbite.

  “What?”

  He just stares.

  “What?”

  “Whatever, Bird,” he says, shaking his head.

  I look at Dylan for support, but he avoids eye contact and turns back to his near-empty bowl. I look at my mom, who gives me a small smile, and then to my dad, who doesn’t seem to know what to say.

  “What?” I ask Jacob again, feeling a little defensive. “I’ve been playing all day! I’ve been at Shannon’s every morning this week, and now Dan wants to see me tomorrow for who knows what reason, probably because he hates my song. I just want to watch TV or read a magazine or something, okay?” Nobody says a word. In fact, everybody’s pretty intent on their dinner. “Rain check, okay, you guys?”

  “Okay,” Dylan says simply, looking at me straight on. He stands up and grabs his dirty dishes. He starts to walk into the kitchen but turns back toward me, a soft but sad look on his face. “Wait, you know what? Not okay. Bird, I get it. All you do is play music, and all we do is talk about when we used to play music. You’re tired. Fine. I really do get it. But as for me, I’d like my guitar back, and I’d like to play some music with my family tonight.”

  He doesn’t seem angry, just matter-of-fact.

  But his words sink in deep.

  “May I be excused?” I ask my dad.

  He nods, and I get up, joining my brother in the kitchen as we put our dishes in the dishwasher. I might be burned out and tired, but it would actually be nice to play some songs that aren’t my own—to play for fun, without Jack or Dan watching me and scrutinizing every note—to play Maybelle again instead of a guitar. “You’re right, Dylan,” I say. “Let’s play tonight, like we used to.”

  “Really?”

  “Your guitar’s by the front door,” I cal
l over my shoulder in response as I head down the hall to my room.

  I unplug my phone from its charger and flop onto the bed, but the message I see on my phone is not from Shannon. And not from Adam. It’s from a number I don’t recognize:

  Hey. Mom gave me ur #. Gonna check out the flea market at the fairgrounds on Sat. Wanna come? It’s Stella, btw.

  “Aw, that’s so nice,” I say to myself as I type back a reply:

  Yes, def.

  I stare at the phone, waiting for her response. It may not be the president of a Nashville music label, or the one boy on earth I wish would notice me, but I’m as pumped as if it were. Finally her reply comes through:

  Cool. Call u.

  With a smile on my face, I hop up and go to my closet, swatting a pile of dirty clothes off my fiddle case. I bring dear Maybelle out to the patio, where Dylan is setting folding chairs into a circle. The others join us, and we all sit together as the sun settles low on the horizon, tuning and prepping our instruments, just like the old days, the Barrett Family Band back together again.

  “I BET HE hates it,” I tell my dad as we walk up the sidewalk to the Open Highway offices. I toss my lucky rock back and forth between my hands nervously. My stomach has been in knots all morning.

  “I doubt that,” Dad answers.

  “Why’d he call us in, then?” I ask for the billionth time.

  “Could be for anything, Bird,” he says patiently. He presses the doorbell and smiles at me confidently. “I’ve heard the song. Lots of times.” He rubs his jaw comically and continues. “Lots and lots and lots and lots of times.” I make a face at him. “And it’s great, sweetie. It really is.”

  “You’re my dad,” I say as the door opens. “You have to say that.”

  A brown-haired girl in her twenties greets us and introduces herself as Steph, the new receptionist. I was kind of hoping the position would still be available in case my singing career tanked during this meeting. “Dan’s been waiting for you,” she says. “Y’all can go on back.”