“Yes, good, Bird!” the director calls.
“Wow,” McKay says. “I’m impressed.”
“Pretend he just said something funny!” the director calls.
I throw my head back and laugh, releasing the giddy feeling inside. McKay’s not really my type (while they adjusted the lighting for these shots, he gave me a detailed rundown of his favorite protein shakes), but that doesn’t mean that when he smiles up at me with perfect teeth and big brown eyes, I don’t swoon a little.
“It’s still not there,” I overhear the director say. He twists around in his chair and beckons to Dan and Anita. “We need to feel like she’s really into him.”
Dan frowns and strokes his jowls, but Anita, as always, doesn’t hesitate to express herself. “Look at her,” my publicist responds, gesturing emphatically at the monitor with her red fingernails. “She’s about to throw up, she’s so nervous around this boy. That’s how girls feel around guys they’re into.”
I cringe and walk behind McKay again, keeping beat with the song and trying to ignore them. It’s totally quiet on set, except for my song, and if I can hear them talking, then so can McKay, and this is hard enough already.
“It just feels a little… awkward,” the director says, crossing his arms.
“Awkward,” Anita repeats, hands on hips. “Like girls are around boys they like. I think this is wonderful. It feels much more real this way than some overly flirty take on it; otherwise, she wouldn’t have to beg to be noticed.” I take stock of myself, trying to figure out what they’re seeing.
Dan mumbles something that I can’t make out, and the director considers it. Then he calls, “Bird! Can we try you sitting with your head on his shoulder?”
I glance over at McKay’s face quickly and then look away again. He scoots over a tiny bit on the hay, and I squeeze next to him, doing what the director asks. My hair cascades down McKay’s chest, and with my head cocked, I stare into the camera lens as my voice on the track pleads with him to “notice me” already.
“Oh, I love that,” the director calls, leaning forward. “Now look at each other.” We are so close that our noses nearly touch. I gulp hard. “That’s great, guys. McKay, could you gently push her hair back from her cheek?”
When I feel his fingers on my face, I close my eyes involuntarily and get an enormous cold chill.
“Oh. There’s your moment,” Anita says softly.
“Cut it!” the director calls. “That was beautiful, you two.”
“Moving on!” his assistant calls, and the entire set comes to life again.
I politely extricate myself from McKay and find my dad grazing at the craft services area. “Is Stella here yet?” I ask, swiping an apple slice from his plate.
He shakes his head and pulls my cell phone from his shirt pocket. No messages. No missed calls. “Oh,” he says, pointing behind me. “Speak of the devil.”
Spinning around, I see Stella and Shannon walking around my trailer, and can’t be more relieved. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I say, throwing my arms around Stella. I pull back and grab her shoulders, looking at her seriously. “We have an emergency.”
“Oh no,” she says worriedly. “What’s wrong?”
With one arm still around her, I turn and point toward the set, where Amanda has taken off McKay’s shirt and is rubbing baby oil on his very chiseled chest. “That’s the emergency.”
Her eyes pop as her face registers what I already knew. “Whoa.”
“Exactly,” I say, grinning. “How am I supposed to concentrate like a professional when I have that going on?”
My dad glances at us, obviously flustered by our ogling, and shakes his head as he engages Shannon in conversation. He hasn’t been crazy about these “fantasy” scenes, either.
Stella lifts her enormous sunglasses from her eyes. “Are they giving him a pitchfork?” she asks, confused.
“Yes. The script says he’s supposed to wipe sweat from his brow while I circle around him longingly.”
“You’re blushing.” She smirks, clearly enjoying this.
“I’m dying,” I say.
“Well, okay,” Stella says, eyeing McKay boldly. “Pretend like he’s one of your brothers.”
I screw up my face. “How am I supposed to act romantic with one of my brothers?”
“Well…” she starts. But she can’t take her eyes off McKay as he flexes so that Amanda can examine her work. Finally Stella sighs dramatically, completely at a loss. “Yeah, I don’t know, Bird.” Then she wiggles her eyebrows. “But it’s not a bad problem to have.”
“Ha!”
“At least he doesn’t look anything like Adam. You don’t have to worry about revealing the identity of your muse.”
“True,” I say, appreciating that new insight.
McKay looks up at that moment and flashes us his million-dollar dimpled smile.
“Hey, ladies,” Stella says, imitating a deep guy voice. I laugh out loud. “Who’s your friend? She’s hot.” She’s talking out the side of her mouth like a ventriloquist, which makes me laugh even harder. “Think she’d care for a roll in the hay?” She turns to me, her eyes full of mischief. “Because Bird,” she says in her normal voice, hilariously intense, gripping my arm like it’s life or death. “I would. If he asked, I totally would.”
“Stop,” I say, laughing so hard that my eyes are watering. And now she’s dropped the bit and joins in. We’re falling against each other, laughing like hyenas and gasping for air. The crew is starting to take notice, but I don’t care.
“Is the talent ready?” an assistant producer calls.
“Oh, fancy,” Stella teases.
I shake my head and grab a mint from the food table, still giggling as I walk toward my mark. I dab under my eyes, knowing that Sam is going to murder me if I’ve smudged my makeup, but as I walk toward him and McKay on set, I also know that the last five minutes were worth the scolding I’ll get. I feel better than I’ve felt all day.
With Stella in the wings, I finally relax. As the music plays and the cameras roll, I circle McKay playfully, still a little self-conscious, but at least no one is cringing at the monitor anymore. I glance over at Stella when he seductively wipes “sweat” from his brow and barely keep my composure when she dramatically fans herself. Before I know it, I’m having the time of my life.
“That’s a wrap!” the director calls as I kill yet another daisy, plucking it bare and hoping that he loves me.
“Phew,” I say, stretching before I stand up from where I was sitting cross-legged in the field of wildflowers. “What a day.”
The crew member helping me up smiles, and everyone claps. I see lighting guys shaking hands with props people and assistants helping themselves to snack food. It seems like everybody relaxes just a touch before getting to the hard work of packing up.
As I walk past the monitors and lighting equipment toward my trailer, the director calls out to me. “Hey, Bird. Take a look.”
He has the director of photography rewind some of the footage to the scenes where I’m interacting with McKay. Stella is at my side right away, and then my dad steps up, too. “There,” the director says. “Play back.”
I’m a little anxious about what I might see, but when the film rolls, my chin nearly hits the ground. “It looks like a real music video,” Stella comments, taking the words right out of my mouth. Anita, Dan, and Shannon join us, and I can feel the crowd ever so slightly pressing in behind me as the footage rolls.
The whole thing is surreal. I’m looking at my real-life story playing out on the small screen. I mean, it’s a little more polished than me pining over Adam in the Winnebago, but even with all the wardrobe changes and the hair and makeup and McKay’s oiled-up chest, the scenes feel easy and light and not overworked. I watch breathlessly, amazed that I somehow come across as confident and sure instead of awkward and uncertain.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, watching as our two figures pass each other by, the sun setting
behind us, the gold and purple flowers grazing our thighs. “It’s just perfect.”
I fell asleep in the car ride home from Franklin and basically sleepwalked to my room. I did not pass Go; I did not collect two hundred dollars. I didn’t brush my teeth or wash my face or brush my hair. I didn’t even change clothes.
And yet, for the past ten minutes, I have tossed and turned, tugging my blankets this way and that. I have counted the stars outside my window, spotted both Dippers and Orion’s belt, and wondered at the man in the moon. I even prayed, thanking the Big Man for today.
But I have been completely unable to turn off my brain and just sleep. Something is nagging at me, but I can’t figure out what.
And then I turn my head away from the window and it hits me: Maybelle. I feel a pang of guilt.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her case on my dresser, thinking how excited I was last night as I practiced for the shoot. “I won’t forget you. I promise.”
But when I close my eyes, sleep still won’t come. It’s not until I pull the covers back and set my feet on the cool hardwood floor, not until I take Maybelle out of her case and tuck her under my chin, not until I play the fiddling pass from “Notice Me,” quietly so I don’t wake anybody up, that I finally settle, finally feel whole. It’s not until then that my day is complete.
When I finish the song, I bow to the imaginary audience in my vanity mirror. Smiling, I tuck Maybelle back into her bed and then crawl into my own. And before I know it, I’m out cold, dreaming about Adam standing in the tall flowers, his hazel eyes twinkling and his deep voice sexy as he whispers in my ear, pushing me on a tire swing as if there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
“SO YOU PLAYED a honky-tonk waitress today?” my mom asks, chopping vegetables for a stir-fry while I set the table.
“Yeah, in some hole-in-the-wall on Lower Broadway,” I reply, grabbing silverware for five out of the drawer.
“Was it like yesterday’s shoot?”
“Not really,” I answer. We had our second day of shooting for my video today, and my mom wants the full play-by-play. “Actually, the owner’s name is Dylan, and I told him I have a brother with the same name.” I pause and look over at my brother, who’s staring at his computer screen, in a world of his own. “Except this guy had a really great personality,” I say. Grinning, I wait for him to react. He just ignores me.
But Jacob looks up from his homework and smiles. “Burn.”
I nod, and we bump fists. “Anyway, the director thought it would be an interesting role reversal if the guy I want to notice me is the singer and I’m just a fan in the crowd.”
“Hmmm,” my mom murmurs as she checks the rice cooker.
“And the extras were all really nice,” I say, coming back into the kitchen for the plates and bowls. “This one guy—” I begin, but Dylan startles me by clearing his throat so loudly I’m worried he might’ve hurt himself.
Mom and I look over at him, but he keeps his eyes glued to his computer as if it was nothing. I glance at my mom, who shrugs her shoulders, and then at Jacob, but he’s got his head down finishing up his homework. Wonder if he’ll let me copy his later, I think as I take the dishes into the dining room.
“So anyway,” I start again when I come back to the kitchen for a pitcher of water. Then Dylan starts tapping his pen against the counter, something he knows I absolutely abhor. It doesn’t seem to be on purpose, since he’s totally absorbed in his work, so I try to ignore it.
“This one guy actually said he’s seen the Barrett Family Band play before,” I tell her, but Dylan starts tapping louder. “I think it was a few years ago before I’d hit my growth spurt, because he said I was only ‘yay big,’ which, what does that even—” I can’t take it. “Dylan! Do you mind?”
“What?” he asks, looking up innocently as his pen tap, tap, taps against the countertop.
I make a face, gesturing toward his pen.
“Oh, this?” he asks, tapping away.
“Yes, you know I hate that,” I say. “I can hardly keep my thoughts straight.”
“Imagine trying to do your homework while your kid sister babbles on and on about her music video starring the boyfriend she’s never had,” he says, closing his laptop.
I’m taken aback. “If my talking is bothering you, you can ask me to stop,” I say.
“Okay. Stop.”
“Hey, hey,” my mom says, trying to diffuse the situation. “Dinner’s ready.”
She hands Dylan some hot pads and Jacob the napkins, and I follow them into the dining room, setting down the pitcher a little more firmly than usual. My dad walks in, kisses my mom on the cheek, and as everybody sits, I fill our glasses. I can’t help but think about the video shoot again… and about how much more fun waiting tables at a honky-tonk is than doing it at home.
“Dylan, will you say grace tonight?” my dad asks as I take my seat. I think he has some kind of sixth sense, always picking whichever one of us is in the worst mood.
We all fold our hands, and Dylan says his usual prayer for football season. When he ends with, “And, Lord, if you’re watching football…” we all know to join in with, “Please take the Titans to the Super Bowl. Amen.”
That usually makes me smile, but I’m still pretty ticked off about what he said in the kitchen.
“Did Bird tell you all about the shoot today?” my dad asks before shoveling a forkful of veggies into his mouth.
“Yep,” Dylan says, nodding emphatically. “Oh yeah. We heard all about it.”
I bristle.
My dad seems mildly confused by his antagonistic response. “It was a fun day. We—”
“When are we going back on tour?” Dylan cuts in, putting his fork down midbite. “Seriously, it’s been a month and a half of sitting around this apartment doing jack squat. I want to get back on the road.”
My parents glance at each other, exchanging one of those looks that say they’ve discussed the issue but were putting off talking to the rest of us about it. “Well,” my dad begins.
“We can’t just leave Bird,” my mom explains.
“And we can’t tour without her,” my dad continues. “I’d say we’ll be here for a couple more months at least. We’ll wait and see how her record goes and then make plans from there.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” Dylan asks impatiently, gesturing toward himself and Jacob. “Just sit around Nashville watching the world revolve around Bird?”
Nobody says anything.
“Seriously,” he continues. “What about the Barrett Family Band? What about our careers? Our music?”
“Maybe Adam knows somebody who needs musicians,” I offer.
“Our own sister doesn’t want us as her backup,” Jacob pipes up, not unkindly, but matter-of-fact. “Why would somebody else?”
I suck in air, feeling punched in the gut. “That’s not—”
“I’m not hungry,” Dylan says, throwing his napkin down in frustration. He picks up his plate and stands. “It was good, Mom, but I’m not hungry. May I be excused?”
My mother looks slightly pained but nods, and he carries his plate to the kitchen, slamming it down a little louder than necessary. Jacob stands and follows suit. I sit, stunned by how quickly a perfectly wonderful day turned sour.
“Bird,” my mom says, reaching her hand out to cover mine. But I pull away, feeling a lump in my throat.
“I’m not hungry, either,” I say, and before she can stop me, I get up and go to my room.
“So do you like it?” Stella asks on our video call, aiming her laptop toward the mirror she picked up at the flea market the other day.
“I wouldn’t even know it was the same mirror,” I say, once again in awe of her artistic eye. “It was so dirty and cracked before.”
She turns the computer back to herself and grins. “I got this frosted spray paint and treated the entire glass with it. And I found these twigs out in the field while I was at your music-video shoot. I’m going to give it to
my mom for Christmas.”
“That’s so cool,” I say. My phone beeps. “Oh my gosh, Adam just texted me.”
“Ooh, tell me.”
“Okay,” I say, opening the message. “ ‘Late night, no crowd. Miss the BFB.’ ” I look up at her and pout. “Aw, poor Adam.”
“You going to write that?”
“No way,” I say, but then a knock at my door turns my attention from the video call. “One sec,” I tell her, getting up from my bed and opening the door. I’m surprised to see Dylan standing there.
“Can I come in?” he asks quietly. He holds up both hands. “I come in peace.”
I shrug and open the door all the way before heading back to my computer where Stella waits.
“I’ll call you back,” I tell her, reaching for my laptop.
“Cool.”
I close the computer and take a seat at my desk. Dylan sits on the bed and looks down at his sneakers, obviously thinking about what he wants to say and how he wants to say it. I’m still hurt from his outburst at dinner, but I give him a minute to gather his thoughts. He doesn’t seem to want a fight.
Finally, he sighs heavily. “Bird, I guess first off, I need to say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you earlier.”
I nod. “Thank you. And I’m sorry I was distracting you and Jacob while you were doing your homework. That was rude.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, we’ve worked through a lot more distractions than that in the RV.” He runs his hand through his strawberry-blond hair and then pats it back down again absentmindedly. “The truth is… I guess I’m jealous. I mean, I’m happy for you. I really am. You’re a talented musician, and if all this were happening to me, I’d be just as excited as you are.” He looks at me and smiles sadly. “But it’s not. It’s not happening for me, and now we’re here and I feel stuck. Now nothing’s happening for me.”
I sigh heavily. I know he wouldn’t want me to, but I feel guilty. I wish this were happening for him, for the entire Barrett Family Band. As happy as I am that I’m getting all these opportunities, it’s moments like these that make it bittersweet.
Wildflower Page 11
