“Speaking of your family,” Richard says, tapping his pen on his pad, “you had a brother who died, right?”
I’m so shocked that I nearly spill my drink. I set the mug down on the table quickly. Blink hard. Blink again. “I’m sorry?”
“You had a brother who died,” he repeats, looking at me as if I don’t know who he’s talking about. He thumbs back through a couple of pages. “Caleb, that’s it. Caleb died when you were little, is that right?”
When he makes eye contact again, he must see the astonishment on my face, because he plasters a sympathetic smile on his own, an obvious afterthought.
“Yes,” I answer. “He did.”
The man has no tact, no thoughtfulness, almost seems inspired by the fact that my hands are shaking just the teeniest bit now and that my breath is caught at the back of my throat.
“That must have been sad,” Richard states, his pen poised over the fresh page.
What do you think?
I look out the restaurant window, studying the parked cars and icy windshields while I collect myself. I know Anita included my family’s history in the official bio in my press packet—“a tragic story with a fairy-tale ending” is how I think she spun it. In fact, allowing her to share the fact that I had a brother who passed away, which is what ultimately got me into music, was how I was able to get my family on my album and make good on my promise to Dylan.
Both Anita and Dan loved “Before Music,” a song Dylan and I wrote about life before we lost Caleb, which is bittersweet because it was also our life before music. They wanted it on the album, but when Anita went on and on about the “hook,” she wasn’t talking about the chorus; she was talking about the press angle. It was Anita who convinced Dan to let Dylan play on that track and sing backup vocals as well. She said it was “sweet and sorrowful,” which was nice of her, but then I also heard her say, “The fans will love her even more.” And although Dan had been adamant about using session veterans, her powers of persuasion worked again because he let my entire family play on our song “Yellow Lines,” a number we wrote together after Christmas. It’s about our life on the road, but Anita had said, “It’s a terrific marketing angle.” I didn’t really care how she spun it as long as my family got some recognition on the album.
But sitting here now, across from a man who is either callous or clueless, I don’t know if trusting Anita with my past was the right decision. “Yes, it is sad,” I answer simply.
“And how does that affect your music?” he asks. “If at all.”
“It affects my music in every way,” I answer hotly. I don’t know how this interview got so off course. I was prepared to talk about what it was like to record my first album, who my musical influences are, even what or who inspired “Notice Me.” But I was not prepared to talk about the drowning of my five-year-old brother. I write what’s in my heart and I want to be known for my emotional honesty, but this stuff about Caleb is so personal, so painful, so big.
I take a deep breath, remind myself to stay professional. “Caleb is the reason we first turned to music,” I share. Richard scribbles furiously, practically salivating. I really don’t care for this creep, but I continue. “After everything that happened—”
At that moment, Richard’s iPhone beeps next to him. “I’m so sorry, Bird,” he says, deeply conflicted as he looks back and forth between his phone and his legal pad. “You were saying?”
I open my mouth to speak, but then his phone beeps again, and this time he holds up a finger and checks the screen, literally putting me on hold after asking me about the death of a family member. I’ve had it.
“I think I have to go now,” I say, standing up and grabbing my coat. “Thanks for the interview, Richie.”
“It’s Richard,” he corrects again, narrowing his eyes as he pockets his cell phone and gets up to follow me. “And I have a couple more questions—”
But what he wasn’t banking on was my dad sitting at the table behind us. His lean frame looks bigger in his tan Carhartt jacket, and he towers above Richard, blocking his path. “Thanks again for the interview,” my dad says, his eyes hard, his smile tight. He clutches the blogger’s hand in what appears to be quite a firm handshake. “We hope you’ll like the album.”
Once we step outside, I feel like I can breathe again. “Thanks, Dad,” I say quietly as I duck my face into my scarf and we walk to the car.
He nods and puts his arm around me. “This will get easier,” he promises me. “With time, we’ve learned that everything gets a little easier.”
I hope he’s right.
“What a jerk,” Stella agrees later. “He’s lucky you even gave him an interview. Does he know your video has, like, a hundred thousand views?”
“Three hundred thousand,” I correct.
“Oh, ho-ho!” she says. “Pardon moi.”
I blush. “Sorry, I’ve been a little addicted to the ‘refresh’ button on YouTube.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me off her couch. “Come on, don’t let a stupid blogger get in your head. At least it went better at the radio station.”
“True,” I say, following her up the winding staircase to her loft.
Stella pauses at one of her new little shelves bracketed on the wall. It’s made from the copy of Gone With the Wind that I picked out at the flea market. A photo of the two of us sits on top. “You think Margaret Mitchell is rolling in her grave?”
“Just don’t have any librarians over,” I say.
She laughs and hurries up the steps, taking them by twos as she winds around. “Okay, so forget the song and forget the video or anything to do with work, and get ready for presents!”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t exchange earlier,” I say again, climbing onto her bed. My life in the weeks leading up to the release of “Notice Me” was chaotic, so Stella and I are only now exchanging Christmas presents.
I pull a box from my bag and hand it to her. She raises her eyebrows inquisitively. “Oh, such fancy wrapping,” she jokes about the newspaper I used.
“Ha-ha,” I say, but I feel a little self-conscious. I pull my knees into my chest and cross my arms around them as she peels off the paper and peeks inside the box.
“Oh my God, when did you get these?” she squeals, carefully pulling out three ceramic bowls. They are very delicate, oval and shallow, the inside of each a hand-painted abstract fish.
“Remember when we left that gallery and then when we got to your car I said I had to run back in to pee?” I ask, grinning. She nods. “Well, I actually went back to put these on reserve.”
“You little sneak,” she says, setting them carefully back into the tissue paper before throwing her arms around me. “I can’t believe you did that. Seriously, Bird, thank you. These bowls are one of a kind, you know.”
“Yeah, I know, I know,” I say, returning her hug. “But so are you.”
She makes a face. “Wah-wah,” she says drolly.
“Oh my gosh, that was so cheesy, right?”
Stella tosses her head back and laughs. “Totally,” she admits. “But that’s the songwriter in you. Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”
She opens the top drawer of her dresser and hands me a small box, beautifully wrapped in shimmery cream-colored paper with a thick wire-rimmed red ribbon. “Okay, now yours,” Stella says.
I pull at the ribbon slowly, and as it falls away from the paper, she reaches over and starts tearing. “Hey!” I shout, shielding my gift.
“Well, hurry up,” she complains. “The suspense is killing me.”
“You know what it is!” I laugh. “And the wrapping is so pretty, I don’t want to ruin it.”
“Oh man,” she says, rolling her eyes as I carefully lift the ends so the tape doesn’t tear the paper. “I’m wrapping your birthday present in a grocery sack, then.”
I make a face. Finally, I expose a green box and set it on my lap. When I lift the lid, I gasp. “My lucky rock!”
I look up at her, and she beams
back at me. “Do you like it?”
I lift it out of the box carefully, speechless. The black rock flecked with tiny silver slivers is now encased in brushed-silver wire and attached to a delicate silver chain. “It’s incredible.”
“You’re always touching it, pulling it in and out of your pockets, and I was afraid you were going to lose it,” she explains. “So I texted Dylan while you were in Jackson and told him to swipe it from your jeans when you weren’t around.”
“Dylan was in on this? I’m going to kill him! He helped me turn the RV upside down looking for it.”
“Yeah, he told me.”
I look at her inquisitively. “How did you have his number?”
She shrugs. “We exchanged them at your release party.”
“Oh,” I say slowly. The release party was such a blur, but now that I think about it, I did see them talking pretty intently at one point. “Wait, are you guys, like, talking or something?”
“No!” Stella says quickly. “I mean, yeah, we’ve texted a few times but not like that. We’re just friends. That’s okay, right?”
“What do I care if you’re friends with my brother?” I ask, fastening my new lucky necklace behind my neck. “You’ve only known him since the release party. You’ll realize how annoying he is soon enough.”
We both laugh.
“But seriously,” I say, “if you guys do, I don’t know, like each other, you don’t need to hide it from me or anything, okay? Just tell me.”
Really, though, I’m relieved that she doesn’t like Dylan as more than a friend. If they ever got together and it didn’t work out, my relationship with at least one of them would suffer. And I know I have a huge crush on Jacob’s best friend, so maybe I don’t have room to talk, but somehow that seems different.
“I would”—she nods—“but really, there’s nothing to tell. Dylan is nice and everything, but he seems so… I don’t know… normal.”
I laugh out loud. “Right, ’cause growing up in an RV is totally normal.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, shrugging. “If you had to go after one of my brothers, I’d say Jacob’s probably more your type. The rebel-without-a-cause kind.”
She rolls her eyes. “My type hasn’t really worked out for me so far. The last guy I dated was a skater in my art class and a complete flake.”
“Well, maybe it’s good if you’re friends with Dylan. You can get some insider information on Adam for me.”
She arches her eyebrows. “Aren’t you guys texting a lot now?”
“Yeah,” I say, fingering the rock at my sternum, running the pendant back and forth across the delicate chain. “But it’s nothing deep. I’ve told him about recording and work stuff, but I mean, when we first started texting, I was pumped that maybe we’d start flirting more and maybe talk on the phone some nights. But the one time he called, I missed it, and by the time I could call him back, it felt weird, so I didn’t. And we haven’t even seen each other since, like, the end of the summer, when he left me those flowers at the Station Inn.” I throw myself back on Stella’s bed and look up at the ceiling. “At this point, I don’t know what he’s thinking. For all I know, he’s met someone else.”
“And is still texting you?” Stella asks skeptically.
“I guess it feels like we’ve sort of plateaued. Just ‘Hey, how’s Birmingham?’ or whatever city he’s in, and ‘Great, how’s the record?’ Stuff like that.”
“Well, that’s more than before.”
“True,” I say, standing up. I gaze at my new necklace in her full-length mirror. Then I slip the pendant under my shirt. “I like that I can still tuck it away.”
She nods. “I put it on a long chain on purpose.”
“I can’t believe you turned a piece of pavement into something this beautiful, Stella.”
“It’s beautiful because you treat it that way,” she replies.
“ ‘It’s beautiful because you treat it that way,’ ” I repeat quietly, thoughtfully. I turn around and grab my bag, rummaging around in it until I find my journal and a pen.
“What are you doing?” Stella asks.
I grin. “Songwriting.”
I open the book to a fresh page and scribble Treat Me Beautiful across the top. I frown, bite my lip, cross out treat, and scrawl see in its place. “See Me Beautiful,” I mumble. That still doesn’t really work, but I’ll come back to it. I think there’s something to the idea at least. If I’ve learned anything from Shannon, it’s that there’s lots of time to polish. The most important thing to do when inspiration strikes is to get the main idea on paper. I jot down a few phrases, just so I don’t forget later:
“Look at this stick-straight frame,
For that I’ve got Momma to blame.
My mouth is small,
I’m way too tall,
But through your eyes I became,
Beautiful.”
“Hmmm,” I muse, chewing on the pen cap. The melody I hear in my head is slow and almost melancholy, but reading back over it now, it sounds like a limerick. Still, I know that once I have my guitar, I can alter the melody or rhyme scheme to find what feels best. I look over at Stella. “It’s the little imperfections that make us beautiful, don’t you think? Like—oh!” I start writing again, my hair falling onto the page.
“I’ll go get one of my mom’s guitars.” Stella sighs, heading toward the spiral staircase.
“No,” I say, snapping out of my trance. I close my journal, feeling guilty. This isn’t supposed to be a work night. I’m over here as a friend, not as a collaborator with her mom. Walking over to the rail of her loft, I call down after her, “You don’t have to, Stella. I’m done. I’ll just—”
“My mom’s a songwriter, Bird,” she calls back, already halfway down the steps. “I know how these things work. You’ve got to write the song when it wants to be written.”
“PIZZA,” I SAY to my mom, loading up our grocery cart with frozen four-cheese pies, “should be one of the major food groups.”
She snorts, riffling through the pile I’ve already contributed to the cart. “Along with bite-size Snickers and ice cream?”
“Hey! The pizza’s whole wheat and the ice cream’s organic.”
My mom shoots me a look. “This is why I still do the shopping for our family.”
My phone rings just then, and I dig for it in my purse. Anita’s name flashes on the screen, and I start to wander away, but not before I catch my mom putting my pizzas back in the freezer.
“Hello?”
“Bird, I have Billboard news,” she says, getting right to the point. “Your debut single is number three on the Hot Country chart, and you’ve broken the top twenty on the Hot 100.”
“Really?” I ask breathlessly. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe it.”
“We’re all very excited,” she says, her nasal accent and deep voice making her sound anything but, which makes me laugh out loud.
“Oh, Anita, that’s the best news,” I say, nearly skipping down the aisle to help a short lady who can’t reach a can of soup on a high shelf. She smiles her thanks, and does a double take as if she recognizes me, but I wander over to the next aisle before I know for sure.
“And that gorgeous music video we shot?” she continues, pausing for effect. “It just hit one million views on YouTube.”
“Shut the front door!” I shout into the phone.
But then the screen goes black, and a message appears: Call Failed.
“Grrr…” I try calling her back right away but get a busy signal. She’s obviously trying to call me back, too.
“What’s all the fuss?” my mom calls, pushing the cart toward me.
“Mom, it’s crazy! My video just broke one million views, and my song—”
The phone rings again, and Mom waves her hand, telling me to go ahead. “Anita, I’m so sorry,” I say excitedly.
“Um…” A low voice comes over the line. One I know, but one I’m shock
ed to hear. “It’s Adam.”
My mouth falls open, and I turn away. I feel my stomach flip over like a flapjack. I walk quickly down the aisle and out of Mom’s earshot.
“Hello?” he asks.
“Adam,” I finally say, ducking into the cereal aisle. “Hi. I thought you were my publicist. Anyway, hi.”
“Hi,” he says. I can tell he’s smiling, which makes me smile even bigger. “It’s good to hear your voice live. Lately I’ve only been hearing it on the radio.”
“Oh my gosh, I know,” I say with a shiver. He is so sweet. “I’ve been crazy busy.”
“Well, I think the work’s paying off,” he says. “I hear your song everywhere.”
I feel myself blush as I trace the letters F-R-O-S-T-E-D F-L-A-K-E-S over and over again nervously. “Yeah, Anita was actually just telling me that my single made it into the top twenty on the charts.” I pause, moving on to the Froot Loops and tracing those letters. “I can’t believe it.”
“Wow,” he says. “Well then, we’ve got to celebrate.”
OMG! OMG! I am screaming in my head.
“That’d be awesome,” I say calmly instead.
“I’m playing Nashville next week but coming up today to spend some time with friends. Would you want to grab a bite to eat tonight? I mean, if you don’t already have plans or anything.”
I chew on my lip, frowning. I’m pretty sure Adam Dean just asked me on a date, and now I have to freaking say no. “I can’t. We’re behind on my album and working around the clock. I have to go to the studio in an hour and every day and night ’til it’s done.”
“Well then, how about breakfast? Can you let me take you out for the best pancakes east of the Mississippi?” he asks.
“My mom’s?”
He chuckles. “Okay, the second-best pancakes, then. Can you meet tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah, that’d be awesome,” I say. “But, Adam, it’d have to be crazy early.”
“Well, I’m not a morning person,” he admits, “but I’d like to think I’ve always been a Bird person. And for you, I will set an alarm.”
Wildflower Page 13
