Wildflower

by Alecia Whitaker

  “I love music,” he says quietly. “You know I love making music. I passed on college to keep touring with you all. I loved picking out songs together and playing dive bars and honky-tonks. I loved it, Bird. And I want to be there for you, and I really am happy for you. But I’m unhappy for me. And I hate it. But I am. And I’m a little angry, I guess. And it’s not fair. And…” He stops and gulps back a frog in his throat, which breaks my heart. “I don’t know what to do about it. I just…” He exhales loudly. “Yeah, I feel stuck.”

  I nod, feeling awful for my big brother. It’s so strange to hear him say that he’d want to trade places with me. I’ve always been the one who wanted whatever he wanted, had to do whatever he did. I’ve always looked up to him: Dylan the charismatic one, the confident one, the charming one. Dylan, for whom all things seem to come easy.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

  “No, Bird,” he says, scooting over so that he’s closer to me. “That’s not what I want. You shouldn’t have to apologize. I just have to grow up and realize that your success doesn’t cancel out the possibility of my own.” He sets his mouth into a firm line and nods his head decisively. “I just have to work harder.”

  I grin. “You been talking to Dad?”

  He looks up at me sheepishly. “He’s old, but wise.”

  I laugh softly. “Dylan, you know you’re really talented, too, right? I mean, you have an incredible ear, and you pick up songs and harmonies faster than anyone I know.”

  “No, I know,” he says, nodding. “I guess I just feel a little left behind.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s so stupid. It’s actually kind of embarrassing.”

  I sigh. This stinks.

  As we sit, I try to think about ways I can make this up to him—to everybody. I can hear the whir of the ceiling fan, a car horn outside, the TV on low in the living room. And then I hear the hum of a small white lie forming in my brain. Words that may not be true tumble out of my mouth, but I can’t stop them.

  “You know, I played our song ‘Before Music’ for Dan, and he really likes it.”

  Dylan looks up at me, surprised.

  I forge ahead, knowing I shouldn’t. “Since the song is pretty personal, you know, being about Caleb and all, I think maybe Dan might want the whole family on that one.”

  “Really?” Dylan asks, brightening a bit.

  I nod, wringing my hands and hoping to God that I can make this happen.

  “Oh, Bird, that’s awesome!” he says, pumping his arm in the air. “Aw, man, why didn’t you tell me?”

  I bite my lip. “Um, I don’t know for sure that we’re recording it for this album, and I didn’t want to get everybody’s hopes up,” I say, realizing the magnitude of what I’m promising when I see how excited he is. If I can’t make this happen, he will be completely devastated. “So don’t tell the others,” I add quickly. “But yeah. I think it’ll be pretty cool.”

  “It’ll be amazing,” he says, his smile wide and relaxed.

  His blue eyes sparkle and he looks like my big brother again—the one who led impromptu jam sessions at RV parks when he was thirteen. The one who convinced our parents to let him drive Winnie over the Golden Gate Bridge when he was sixteen and had just gotten his license. The one who has my back at all times, who loves his family, who loves his music.

  When he leaves my room, I turn around to my desk and open my laptop. Stella is still online, so I video call her again. On the third ring, she answers, her friendly face filling my screen.

  “Oh no,” she says, immediately seeing the worry on my own. “What’s wrong?”

  “Have you ever made a promise you’re not sure you can keep?”

  She sighs. “Tell me everything.”

  “LONG NIGHT, HUH, baby?” my mom says, running her hands through my hair.

  “Uh-huh,” I mumble. I’m lying sideways on our little couch in the RV with my head on my mom’s lap as we drive the two hours down to Jackson for Christmas at my granddad’s. I’m exhausted from the release party last night for my single, and the rocking of the Winnebago along with my mom’s fingers in my hair has me on the border of unconsciousness. And yet the perma-grin that attached itself to my lips last night is still stuck on my face.

  “I know you’re tired,” Mom says softly. “Dan was yanking you around that party like a rag doll.” She makes a tsking sound. “Somebody ought to remind that man that you’re sixteen years old and a party ’til two in the morning is unacceptable.”

  I would roll my eyes at her, but seeing as they’re closed it would be a wasted gesture.

  “It was only one party,” Jacob says from the kitchenette. “And it was in her honor.”

  “That’s true, Aileen,” my dad pipes up from the driver’s seat. “It was for work. And it was fun.”

  My mother harrumphs, but I love it. Yes, it’s been a long four months—I practically lived in the studio or at the Crossleys’ all of November and a lot of December, even missing Thanksgiving at Gramma’s to record over the long weekend—but last night’s big party for my single made the crazy hours worth it.

  The whole celebration was an out-of-body experience. I wore an honest-to-God designer gown and my mom let me wear the teardrop diamond necklace my dad got her for their twentieth wedding anniversary. We were picked up in a black stretch limo, and when we got to the club, Dan greeted me on a red carpet. Inside, photographers were waiting and the entire place was decked out with giant pictures from my promo shoot.

  I finally got to sing “Notice Me” live, and it was ah-mazing. The minute I walked onstage and slipped my guitar over my head, I looked out at the crowd and felt that old familiar sensation of both delight and fear. Singing live again after all those months was like dropping down that first big plummet on a roller coaster, thrilling and exhilarating, and even though I did feel a slight pang of guilt having a fiddler in the band play all of Maybelle’s parts, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

  After the performance, I wove my way through the crowd toward my family. My mom had her arms out to hug me, but as I walked toward her, Anita expertly cut me off. “Bird,” she said, steering me toward Dan, where he stood talking with a couple of guys in suits. “Come with me. You should be working the room.”

  “But—”

  “Bird!” Dan called as he motioned me over.

  “Charm them,” Anita instructed, her huge smile never wavering as she ushered me over to the group. My own smile, however, flipped upside down the minute I saw a familiar GAM exec with ice in his eyes. I froze.

  “Bird,” Dan said, as if this weren’t going to be totally awkward, “I’d like you to meet a few people. This is Robby Ellis and Jesse Goldman, from Sony and Universal respectively.” I pasted on a smile and shook their hands. “And I believe you know Randall Strong, from GAM.”

  I nodded. “Hi, Randall.”

  “Hello again, Bird,” he replied, sipping a whiskey as if amused. “I enjoyed your song. It’s come a long way since the last time I heard it.”

  His big teeth gleamed in a fake smile that made me feel incredibly uneasy.

  “Little-known fact,” Randall said, turning toward the other two execs, “I actually discovered Bird Barrett before Dan here swept in and stole her away.” He chuckled, but it was obviously forced humor.

  “Really?” Robby remarked.

  “Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way,” Dan replied. “Although if I remember correctly, Bird was still a free agent when I signed her. Perhaps your offer just wasn’t appealing enough.”

  “Perhaps.” Randall smirked. “I think I came out on top, though. I just signed a new talent. I think she’ll give your little Birdie here a run on the charts.” Then he turned his intense gaze on me. “As soon as we release her album, you can expect a little friendly competition, Miss Barrett.”

  Dan actually laughed out loud. For me, though, it was all I could do not to cry. What if Randall was right? What if he had dodged a bullet by signing somebody else?

  “Well, I cer
tainly look forward to hearing her stuff,” Dan said, clapping Randall strongly on the back. “Y’all have a good night and thanks for coming out.”

  Dan grabbed my hand and led me away, rescuing me from the cold and calculating Randall, and making me 100 percent certain that I had made the right choice a few months ago, even if Randall had been the one who got me the opportunity at the Bluebird.

  “Breathe,” Dan said when we were out of earshot. “He’s still a little sore, and I’m sure watching you perform what will obviously be a giant hit was like salt in the wound.”

  I nodded and inhaled deeply, wanting to believe him—wanting more than ever before to make it in this business, to prove myself, to be the star everyone told me I would be—desperately hoping that I wouldn’t let Dan down.

  “Did you see the look on his face when you walked up to us?” Dan said with glee in his eyes. “Priceless.”

  I couldn’t help but return his smile. The president of my label had every confidence in me, so I wasn’t going to sweat Randall Strong or his “competition” for even one more minute. It was my night.

  I sigh contentedly now. “Last night was so awesome,” I murmur, happy nevertheless to be spending today in my flannel pajamas as we cruise down the highway.

  “How many views does your video have?” Jacob asks me. I refresh YouTube on my phone.

  “Two thousand forty-three,” I answer, “and forty-one ‘likes.’ ”

  “And it hasn’t even been twelve hours,” Jacob says, stretching.

  As brutal as my alarm clock was this morning, I wouldn’t want to miss Christmas in Jackson. Even if I am a walking zombie, I’m excited to see my granddad, cousins, aunts, and uncles again. This will be the only thing in the past few months that hasn’t changed, that bears some resemblance to my life before the Station Inn.

  “I’m looking forward to—” I begin, but my words are swallowed by a giant yawn.

  “Why don’t you try to get a little sleep in your bunk?” my mom suggests.

  “Hmph,” I grunt as she rubs my back. “With Dylan snoring like a bear?”

  Suddenly Jacob shouts, making an unintelligible noise before crying, “Turn that up!” He slides his skinny frame out from behind the table and lurches toward the front of the RV. “Dad!” he shouts again. “Turn it up!”

  My eyes widen like saucers as my normally quiet brother spazzes out. Jacob slips down into the passenger seat, immediately cranking up the volume on the radio, and then I bolt upright, cold chills all over my body.

  “That’s my song,” I whisper.

  “That’s my song!” I shout.

  “Woo-hoo!” my mom yells, clapping. She stands up and clasps my hands, and we start to jump up and down, nearly toppling over as we rock the RV.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” my dad calls, trying to keep control of the swaying vehicle as we speed down the highway.

  “If I’m a wildflower, then you’re the blowin’ breeze,” Dylan sings, hopping down from the top bunk, his eyes still sleepy and his face lined from the pillow. “I could get swept away, don’t know where you’d take me.” He grabs my hands and sings loudly, “And maybe we could shine so bright in the sunlight.” I laugh hysterically as he dances me through the small space and dips me down so that my head is between my dad and Jacob.

  “Is it real? Do you see? Say—you notice me!” they shout, looking down at me dangling there.

  Dylan pulls me back up and then grabs my mom’s hands, dancing along to my song on the radio and acting like a total fool. I can’t stop laughing.

  Just then, my phone rings on the couch. I figure it’s Stella, or maybe Dan calling to congratulate me. Excitedly, I grab it and flop down on the cushions, trying to catch my breath as I check the phone. But it’s not Stella. And it’s not Dan.

  It’s Adam.

  Quickly, I stand up and make my way to the back of the RV, staring at his name on the screen, my pulse off the charts. As soon as I’m alone, sliding the small accordion-like door firmly into place behind me, I plop down onto my parents’ bed and answer.

  “Hello?” I wait. “Hello?”

  But it’s too late. The line is dead. I lie back against the pillows and listen to my family singing along wildly to my song on the radio. I stare at the screen of my cell phone, willing a voice-mail alert to appear. When it does, my heart nearly stops.

  I wonder if he’s just heard my song.

  Well, our song.

  The song about him.

  Nervously, I press PLAY and hold the phone up to my ear:

  “Hey there, Lady Bird,” Adam says. “I’m standing in the middle of the Comfort Inn continental-breakfast area when your song comes over the speakers, and I just about spit my coffee across the room, everybody looking at me like I’m a crazy person. I was like, ‘I know that voice! I know that girl!’ ”

  I hear him laugh to himself.

  “You should see the looks I’m getting. Anyway, just wanted to say congratulations. That’s awesome. Merry Christmas and give my best to your family. Hope to see y’all again real soon. Bye.”

  I can’t wait to tell Stella. My thumbs move across the screen, texting at supersonic speed:

  My song’s on the radio! Adam called!

  And it’s as if her phone is in her hands, she responds so quickly:

  OMG! Call him back!!!

  But I can’t, not in the middle of all this cramped chaos. I’ll have to wait until we get to Jackson.

  Grinning like a fool, I hold the cell phone to my chest and take a huge breath. I hear the fiddle pass blaring from Winnie’s speakers and open the door, rejoining my family and playing air fiddle while Dylan rocks the air guitar. We all sing the last chorus together in the tiny cabin, and then the music fades and my song comes to an end. Dylan picks me up and spins me around, knocking Mom onto the couch in the process.

  “That’s my little sister!” he shouts.

  I laugh as he spins me, even though I nearly whack my head against the cabinets.

  “Shh! Shh! Shh!” Jacob hushes us frantically. Dylan sets me on my feet again.

  “And that there was Bird Barrett with her new single, ‘Notice Me,’ ” the DJ says. “Bird is only sixteen years old, and she actually wrote that song, so I’d say she’s an act to watch. We look forward to hearing more from that gal. Next up this hour, we have—”

  “ ‘An act to watch,’ ” Jacob repeats, turning the volume down and twisting around in his seat. “Bird, you’re ‘an act to watch.’ That’s crazy.”

  “It is crazy,” I agree, nodding slowly.

  And everybody goes from wildly excited to quietly reflective. Dylan sits down next to my mom and Jacob faces forward again, each with a smile and a look of wonder on his face. I look out the windshield, and my dad winks at me in the rearview mirror.

  As the highway opens up in front of us, the yellow lines lead the Barretts back to Jackson, to what used to be, to life before I had a song on the radio. What’s good for one of us is good for all of us, my mom had said when Randall Strong first approached my dad. Looking around at my former bandmates and my forever family, I think how lucky I am that that is so true. I really hope this single does well, for all of us.

  “SO IT’S NOT a nickname?” asks Richard, the blogger sitting across the table from me.

  “Nope, just Bird,” I answer. “On my birth certificate and everything.”

  “Huh,” he muses. “That’s charming. I hate nicknames. It’s, like, name your kid what you’re going to call your kid, you know?”

  I scrunch up my nose. “I don’t know. Seems a little harsh.”

  “Maybe,” he says, clearly not caring what I think, anyway. “So how does it feel being on the cusp of country music stardom?”

  “Well, if you’d asked me a year ago where I’d be right now, I’d have said touring the country in an RV with my family, being homeschooled by day and playing music by night. The—”

  “But that’s what’s so incredible, isn’t it?” he interrupts with a
big smile. “I wouldn’t have asked you anything a year ago. Nobody knew you then, but now you’re the next big thing. Now you’re on your way. How does that feel?”

  I squint my eyes, slightly offended. I’ve been sitting at a table at a diner called Noshville with this guy for the past ten minutes, but I’m still not comfortable and we definitely don’t gel. Richard looks like he’s in his thirties or forties. He has a bushy hipster ’stache and acts like he knew every hot band before they were hot. He smiles and nods at everything I say as if we are the best of friends, but his enthusiasm all feels immensely fake to me. I’m supposed to be at a local radio station in half an hour, but Anita owed this music blogger a favor so here I am, whether I want to be or not.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say nobody knew me,” I reply with a tight-lipped smile.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” he rushes in. “I didn’t mean—well, you know what I meant, right?”

  “Did I expect to have a song on the Billboard charts, climbing up there pretty quickly? No, Rich, I did not.”

  “Richard,” he corrects, dropping his fake smile.

  “Oh yeah, my bad,” I say, hiding a grin as I squeeze lemon into my hot tea with honey.

  Anita and Dan keep telling me that “Notice Me” is bound for the top twenty, that I’m going to be huge this time next year, but although Dan acts confident, what if they’re wrong? What if I put everything on hold, especially my family, all for nothing? I’ve never wanted anything in my life as much as I want this single to do well—as much as I want to make it—and what if I don’t?

  Instinctively, I put my hand in my pocket, but the emptiness there reminds me that I lost my lucky rock over Christmas vacation, which only makes me more worried.

  “You know,” I say, focusing on the task at hand and trying to be pleasant, “I’m glad you chose this restaurant. My family and I used to stop here when we played Nashville.”

  He nods absentmindedly, turning to a fresh page on his yellow legal pad. Guess that tidbit wasn’t article worthy. I wrap my hands around my mug, warming them as I lift my tea for another sip.