Wildflower

by Alecia Whitaker

  Stella’s eyes bug out of her head. “More rugged? Than Josh Turner?” she asks. “So then he must be, like, totally hot.” I close the book and put it down, überaware that the vendor is listening to our entire conversation. “Oh my gosh, you’re blushing,” Stella teases, hip-checking me.

  I hide my furious blushing by walking toward another booth. Her eyes are twinkling as she catches up.

  “Yes, he’s hot,” I confirm, grinning back at her. I shoulder one of her two heavy bags, and we continue our stroll through the flea market. “But it’s more than that. My family has gotten to know him pretty well—he’s on the same bluegrass circuit—and he’s sweet and funny and basically just a really great guy. He’s also super talented. Like, the songs he writes, they’re just deep, you know? He’s poetic.”

  Stella looks amused. “You’ve got it bad.”

  I sigh. “Yeah.”

  “Bad enough to write a song about him.”

  I crinkle my nose. “Pretty bad.” We both laugh.

  We set our bags down at a jewelry stand and start looking through the rings. “These are like the ones your mom wears,” I comment, looking at the chunky stones of opal, amethyst, and turquoise. “I love her jewelry.”

  “We actually make it ourselves,” Stella says. “Like these earrings?” She pulls on one dangling from her ear. “I made them with my best friend, Liss.” She bites her lip. “She’s a year older and just went away to college, so we made matching pairs before she left.”

  I look at her earrings more closely as she sweeps her dark hair off her shoulder. There are two stones of tigereye dangling from her lobe, secured in place with delicate gold wire. “They’re really pretty,” I remark.

  “Thanks.”

  “I bet you really miss her.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “It sucks.”

  We settle into a comfortable silence as we look through rings, bracelets, and necklaces. I like that Stella isn’t one of those people who have to fill every space with conversation. But when she does speak again, she takes me off guard.

  “Let’s text him,” she says.

  I look up at her, stunned. “Adam?”

  “No, Josh Turner,” she says sarcastically. “Yes, Adam.”

  “I—I can’t,” I stammer.

  “You don’t have his number?”

  “I mean, I actually do have his number because I stole it out of Jacob’s phone once,” I admit, embarrassed. “But I’ve never used it.”

  “So what?” she says, leaning an elbow against the table. “You said you guys are like family friends, so it wouldn’t be weird. Just something simple and quick, like, ‘Hey, how’s life on the road?’ ”

  Reluctantly, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket, along with my lucky rock. My thumbs type as if they have a mind of their own. Stella’s boldness must be rubbing off on me already. “You don’t think he’ll think it’s weird?” I ask again.

  “It’s not weird. Send it.”

  And without overthinking it, I do:

  Hey, how’s life on the road? It’s Bird, btw.

  I press SEND, then stare at the words on the screen.

  “I can’t believe I just did that,” I murmur, my hands shaking a little.

  The next five minutes are excruciating. I tuck my phone away and try to keep shopping. I rub my lucky rock until it feels like the sharp edge could cut right through one of the calluses I have on my fingertips from playing so much guitar lately. Twice I make sure the ringer’s on, and I hear phantom beeps a few times as well. Finally, a reply comes through:

  Bird who?

  “Oh no, he totally doesn’t know who I am.” I groan, showing the text to Stella.

  She rolls her eyes ever so slightly. “Yeah, ’cause the guy knows a ton of people named Bird.”

  Oh.

  “He’s flirting,” she says, smiling. “That’s a good thing. Now write—”

  But then my phone beeps again:

  Just kidding, Lady Bird. How’s the rising star? Been thinking about you.

  My heart nearly leaps out of my chest. Stella, who read it over my shoulder, drapes her arm around me. “See? Flirting.”

  We spend the next hour walking down the aisles, shopping and sending texts back and forth with Adam. I don’t buy a thing all day, but I help carry Stella’s stuff, and I feel like I’ve downed a hundred energy drinks. Every time my phone beeps, another surge of adrenaline races through my veins and Stella helps me craft the perfect reply. She’s funny, quick on her feet, and is the perfect wingwoman.

  She encourages me to ask Adam when he’s coming back through Nashville. I’m bummed that he says not until after New Year’s because a gig he was working on fell through.

  “That’s, like, forever from now,” I groan.

  “Then it’s a good thing you texted him,” she says. “Y’all are talking at least. And every good relationship needs a solid foundation of texting.”

  I smirk. “Says Dr. Phil?”

  “No, says Dr. Stel.” I laugh out loud as my phone beeps again. She reads the screen along with me. “Oh! Now say…”

  I don’t know what I’m going to do if Adam texts me when she’s not around.

  “THIS LIGHT. Your hair. These flowers,” Tammy gushes, securing a crown of woven daisies to my head. “It’s divine.”

  “Thank you,” I say with a huge smile. “I’m so excited, I think I’m going to bust!”

  “It is exciting,” she says in her signature drawl. “This is a big deal. You’re going to be a huge star, Bird Barrett, and I’ll get to say I knew you when.”

  I laugh, thinking about that. I mean, what if Tammy were fixing my hair right now for the Grammys? I’d walk the red carpet, wear crazy-expensive jewelry, and be so nervous sitting in the crowd as somebody like Jay Z opened the envelope for Best New Artist and announced the winner and it was me!

  “Is the talent ready?” the assistant director calls. Tammy hurriedly sticks another bobby pin in my hair.

  We’re almost set for the very first take of my music video for “Notice Me,” and I feel like I ought to pinch myself. I’m wearing a gorgeous pale pink dress, and I love the way the chiffon moves and catches in the breeze. The director told me he wants a “dreamlike, natural mood,” and as the golden rays from the morning sun peek through the treetops and wash down over Maybelle and me, it looks like he’s going to get just what he wants. I’m standing in a field of wildflowers, white and gold and purple and blue, and every time the autumn breeze blows, it ripples over the field as if God himself were brushing His mighty hand over it all. It’s breathtaking.

  “Now, one more quick spritz,” Tammy says, more to herself than to me. She raises that can of hair spray, and I close my eyes quickly. I try not to cough.… I try not to yawn.

  It was another early call. At six AM, my dad and I met Dan, Anita, my styling team, and about a dozen crew members at Open Highway, where we joined the caravan out to this sprawling “farm” in Franklin, Tennessee. Dad told me this used to be horse country, but these days it’s just well-to-do people who like their homes big. One of them let Dan rent out an acre on their back lot, and that’s where we are now.

  The juxtaposition of the calm where I’m standing, and all the lights, generators, people, and trailers behind the cameras is almost comical. All the times I’ve watched music videos, I never thought about the view from this side of the lens.

  “You play your fiddle on this shoulder?” Tammy asks.

  I nod. She sweeps my hair back and to my other side before giving it all one last fluff.

  “Okay, people,” the director calls, clapping his hands. “Let’s roll.”

  “Break a leg,” Tammy whispers, winking.

  I grin and watch her walk away, holding her arms out like a tightrope walker, precariously picking her way through the field. We were all given strict instructions to walk in each other’s footsteps so as not to mash the flowers and “ruin the visual appeal” of the set. Watching her hips twist in her painted-on je
ans as she walks off set makes me laugh, which is good because I’m wound up tight right now.

  It’s overwhelming, all the people standing around watching me, the cameras angled my way, the constant scrutiny. I try to find as much to think about besides this video as I can. I’m not even really singing today, just lip-synching, but the thought of mouthing the words makes me even more nervous.

  “Quiet on the set!” someone yells.

  I raise Maybelle to my shoulder and take a deep breath to calm my nerves. “Here we go, girl,” I whisper, drawing my bow across the strings to warm up.

  “Hang on!” I hear Anita call. I look up and see her picking her way through the field looking almost as comical as Tammy. Why would she wear high heels to an outdoor shoot? Although to be fair, it’s the middle of October, and I’m wiggling my bare toes in cold, dewy grass, so I guess I don’t have much room to talk when it comes to appropriate footwear.

  “Bird,” she says, getting closer. “You are a vision.”

  “Thank you,” I say, savoring any compliment I get from Anita. If she thinks I look good, then I can relax about that part of the video, anyway.

  “Listen,” she says, “Dan and I wanted to run something by you.” I look over her shoulder and see Dan making his way out to us, an exquisite koa guitar in hand. The three-toned wood gleams in the sunlight, and as he gets closer, I see an intricate vine inlay climbing up the neck. “We thought we’d have you play the guitar instead of the fiddle in the video.”

  I grip Maybelle tighter. “But I thought these shots were for the fiddling pass.”

  Dan stands in two foot-holes behind Anita and leans around her. “We’re switching a few things around,” he explains. “And I want you to have this, Bird. An exceptional artist needs an instrument of equal caliber.”

  The guitar he holds out to me is gorgeous. Dylan would kill for it, and I’m sure he’s tired of me borrowing his all the time.

  “Seriously? Thank you, Dan,” I say. But I can’t help think that, although I use the guitar to pick out melodies for songwriting, the fiddle is my instrument. I feel more relaxed with Maybelle, and today, of all days, I need her. Anita told me that this music video will be my introduction to the world and, more important, my first impression on potential fans. I’m already crazy nervous—I really need my fiddle.

  Anita can obviously sense my reluctance. “Listen, Bird, you are a true talent. Your fiddling is perfection. But Dan and I just feel that the guitar will be more accessible to your fans. More people play the guitar. It makes you one of them.” She squeezes my arm. “And besides that, the fiddle tends to cover up that beautiful face of yours, which is the last thing we want when the label is forking over big bucks to make a music video.”

  Although I’m not happy about abandoning Maybelle, I look at Dan and think about how much he’s already put into my career, about how much industry gold he’s made, about how everything I know about the country music scene could fit into the palm of his hand. I chose to work with Open Highway because I trusted them to help me make it as a recording artist. As much as I hate to change instruments, I know I need to trust them now.

  “Can you ask my dad to bring me my case?” I finally ask.

  Anita takes the guitar from Dan, and he backtracks through the field for my dad. I might trust them with my career, but I don’t trust anybody in the world with Maybelle.

  My song plays loudly from the speakers for the gazillionth time, and it all feels so weird. I don’t like lip-synching and tried to sing for real at first, but that got old fast. And as Dan reminded me on a quick break, I still have to have a voice for recording more songs.

  Maybe you like me, or do you like me not, I mouth along with the track, swaying from a tire swing under a gigantic bendy old tree.

  “Loosen up, Bird!” the director calls, watching his monitor. “Tuck your elbows in. You look like you’re trying to fly away.”

  Embarrassed, I grasp the rope a little tighter and pull my arms in, which forces me to lean back some.

  “Oh, love that,” he calls. “Yes, toss your hair back as you swing. Look up at the sky. No, don’t squint, Bird, keep your eyes open. Keep singing.” The director is nice, but I can feel his patience wearing thin with me. He’s great at coaching me through the shots, but it seems like all my natural instincts are wrong. And to tell you the truth, it feels corny walking back and forth through a patch of flowers, swinging from a swing, and singing longingly into a blank, lifeless lens with twenty people standing around staring. “Cut!” he calls. “Moving on.”

  “Halle-freakin’-lujah,” I whisper to myself, jumping out of the swing before the crew guy can help me. “Sorry,” I mumble, passing him quickly and making a beeline for my trailer.

  As I open the door, Amanda turns away from a white dress she’s steaming. “From what I saw earlier, it looks like things are going well,” she says with a smile. Yes, a smile. Chilly, perfectionist Amanda actually smiled at me.

  I must be blowing it.

  She unzips me from the pink dress, and I slip into a robe. Then as I take the seat behind a big, brightly lit mirror, she taps twice on the trailer door, and before she can back away, Sam and Tammy are bounding up the stairs, nearly knocking her over.

  “You’re a natural!” Tammy squeals enthusiastically.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Sam says bluntly. “But you’re getting better, Bird, and you look fabulous.”

  As Tammy chastises Sam for his tactlessness, which Sam defends as honesty, I grab my cell phone and text Adam.

  My shoot’s in a field of wildflowers. The original Lady Bird would be proud

  I set my phone in my lap and close my eyes so my stylists can work. I zone out as Tammy removes the daisies from my hair and Sam brushes powder over my face. Instead of brooding over my performance so far, I think about that little bouquet of flowers Adam gave me at the Station Inn and try to relax. Ever since the day at the flea market with Stella, Adam and I have been texting back and forth, mainly about his tour and my deal, but at least we’re texting. I wouldn’t say we’re really flirting hard-core or anything, but I finally feel confident in our friendship separate from his with Jacob. That’s a big step in my book.

  My phone buzzes in my lap, and I sneak a peek while Sam grabs more gloss:

  We’re all proud, Lady Bird. Send a pic!

  The door of the tiny trailer swings open. “Knock, knock!” Anita calls in an unusually cheery voice. She steps in looking flustered, which actually worries me a little but then makes perfect sense a moment later when a tall, gorgeous guy walks up the stairs behind her. He looks like he could be a Hollister model. Unconsciously, I sit up straighter. So do Sam and Tammy.

  “Bird,” Anita says breathlessly. “I want you to meet McKay Evans. He’ll be playing the guy you want to notice you in the video.”

  McKay holds his hand out, and I can’t help but notice the bulging muscles in his strong, tanned arms. I know I’m beet red, but I shake his hand as indifferently as possible and smile. “It’s nice to meet you, McKay.”

  “Glad to be here,” he responds sincerely, giving me a small grin that exposes a deep dimple.

  Dimples, too? Seriously?

  “McKay, some powder,” Sam commands, turning McKay’s chin from my direction and brushing over his face.

  “And just one little flyaway,” Tammy says, dabbing her pinkie finger into some pomade.

  I glance at Amanda, who rolls her eyes, and then over at Anita, who is almost drooling, and try to suppress a laugh. I may need noticing, but that’s certainly not McKay’s problem.

  “I need to change her for her next look,” Amanda announces, ever the party pooper. Although, in her defense, it is starting to feel a little claustrophobic in here, and everybody’s waiting on me.

  “Yes, yes, we’re going,” Anita replies, turning away. “Just wanted to introduce you quickly before you’re thrown together on set.”

  McKay briefly touches my shoulder and looks at me in the mirror. �
��See you out there.”

  I can only nod.

  As he walks toward the door, Amanda stops him briefly and rolls a lint brush over a pristine spot on his white V-neck. Sam smirks at Tammy behind me.

  “Couldn’t keep your hands off, could you?” he teases Amanda as McKay exits.

  She shoots him a murderous look, but I also notice that her face flames red.

  “Can I have her in ten?” a production assistant calls from the doorway.

  “You can have her in five,” Amanda answers, unzipping my dress from its hanger. “But you can have these two right now.” She turns toward Sam and Tammy and points to the door. “Out.”

  Before getting up to change, I think about another person I know who would die over McKay: Stella. I pick up my cell phone again. The shooting script calls for a fantasy scene where I walk around the love interest, look at him with yearning, and even “caress” his arms and blow in his ear. I was nervous about it before, but after meeting McKay, I’m terrified. I need backup, so I fire off a quick text to my new bestie.

  U still coming?

  And the true wingwoman that she is, her reply is immediate:

  On our way.

  “Imagine he’s the guy you wrote the song about!” the director calls over the music.

  As if I weren’t tense enough already.

  I glance down nervously at male model McKay, who’s gazing up at me from where he’s perched on a bale of hay. His face is uncomfortably close, since I’m bent over with my arms wrapped around his neck. He smells like bronzing lotion.

  “Okay, you don’t have to sing now, Bird,” the director calls, completely throwing me off. “Just interact with your guy.” I blush.

  “You wrote this?” McKay asks quietly.

  “Um, yeah,” I say, trying to stay in character while we talk. Tentatively, I run my fingers over his shoulders. They’re, like, rock hard.