Wildflower

by Alecia Whitaker

  “No, no, no,” Shannon says, barely audible. She shuffles through the pages again and pulls out what looks like a set list. Then she flips her long black hair over one shoulder and pinches the bridge of her nose. “She was our opener, Kevin.” A pause. Then a curt reply. “Yes, I understand it’s just a high school showcase, but I happen to have a daughter who attends said high school.”

  “Can I help?” I ask quietly. I hate to see her so stressed out.

  “No, Bird,” she says, waving me off. Then she looks up at me, locks her eyes on mine, almost as if she’s just registered what I said. “Kevin, let me call you back.”

  She ends the call and takes a deep breath. “Bird, I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now. And I know this is a lot to ask. But yes. You actually can help. But only if you really want to.”

  “Anything,” I say.

  “It’s two thirty now,” Shannon starts, checking her phone. I’ve never seen her so worked up. “I am putting on a big fund-raiser at Stella’s school tonight to raise money for the arts program, since the state cut the budget—again.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” I say.

  “Yes.” She nods. “It is. That’s why we’re throwing the fund-raiser. This is Nashville, Tennessee. You would think that Music City of all places would get it. Anyway, the show starts at seven thirty tonight, and I’ve just lost my opener to the flu. I can make some calls, but…”

  I volunteer readily. “No, I’ll do it,” I say. “Let me help. I can do ‘Notice Me.’ ”

  Shannon exhales loudly, her shoulders relaxing. “Oh, Bird, you’re a lifesaver,” she says, putting her hand to her heart. “Let me just call Dan.”

  “No!” I say, reaching out a hand. I think about the advice Jason gave me, about finding balance, about differentiating Me Time from Work Time. “I want to do this for you, Shannon, because you’ve done so much for me. But I don’t want Amanda to send over an outfit or Anita to put out a press release. I don’t want it to be a ‘work thing.’ It’s my song and I want to sing it at my best friend’s school.” I frown. “I don’t know why you guys didn’t mention it to me in the first place.”

  “You’ve been so busy in the studio,” Shannon says. “I know firsthand what it’s like to put out an album on a normal schedule, and Open Highway has you on the express track. I honestly don’t know how you haven’t had a nervous breakdown—I would be fried. I just didn’t want to add anything else to your plate.”

  “Oh, no, I miss live performances. I used to be onstage every night with my family, but now I only sing in the studio.” I feel myself getting preshow jitters already, feel the old adrenaline kicking in. I smile. “I’m even going to bring Maybelle. This will be fun!”

  “What will be fun?” Stella asks as she walks in the door.

  Shannon looks up at her daughter. “Bird is going to open at the fund-raiser tonight.”

  Stella looks up at me, surprised. “Seriously?”

  I nod.

  “OMG, that’s so exciting!” she says, stomping her foot. “Let’s go pick out something to wear. You can borrow that cute purple dress I just got. My friends are going to love you.” She grabs my hand and drags me out of the kitchen.

  “I have to stop by my house on the way to grab my fiddle,” I tell her.

  Stella stops dead in her tracks. “Wait, what about Adam’s show? It’s tonight, right?”

  My mouth falls open. I’d totally forgotten. “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” She shrugs. “No biggie. Just tell my mom you have plans already. We can still get ready together, and I can drop you at the 5 Spot on my way to the school and then meet up with you later.”

  I contemplate the situation, wondering if I can possibly do both things. I promised Adam that I’d be there tonight, but I also really want to help Shannon. Without her, I wouldn’t have had the courage to sing from my heart at the Bluebird, and I definitely wouldn’t have been able to turn the songs in my journal into singles for the radio. And if I’d never met Shannon, then I’d never have met Stella.

  “No,” I say, not wanting to let them down. “I’ll open for your show and book it out right after. I can make both, even if I show up a little late at the 5 Spot. Adam will totally understand.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks.

  “One hundred percent,” I say.

  And even though I’ll be cutting it close, when she throws her arms around my neck and gives me a big hug, I know that it’s the right thing to do.

  THE GYMNASIUM IS pretty full. The bleachers are packed, as are the folding chairs lined up on the floor. And a bunch of kids have crashed right in front of the stage, their jackets and purses in piles around them as they sit in clumps waiting for the show to begin.

  Shannon finally walks toward a mic stand set up in the center of a small stage. Black curtains are draped on either side of the risers, and I wait behind them with the band that Shannon hired to accompany all the solo acts like myself. The makeshift stage takes me back to life on the road, relieving some of my anxiety about this intimidating audience. It’s not like I’m playing a sold-out arena or anything, but I’ve never performed for this many people my own age.

  “It is very encouraging to see so many parents and students here to help raise money for the Warren McNeal High School arts program,” Shannon says into the microphone. “Thank you for attending, for recognizing the importance of the arts just by being here, and for your generous donations tonight.” As she introduces herself and talks about the silent auction and other ways that people can donate to keep the arts program thriving, I take in the smell of the gym, hear the occasional sneaker squeak as people move around in the back, and worry about the acoustics.

  “Well, I am thrilled to introduce our first act tonight,” Shannon says, indicating that it’s almost my cue.

  I shake out my arms, bend my knees, and stretch my neck. I clutch Maybelle in one hand and my lucky rock pendant in the other. I close my eyes and whisper a quick preshow prayer.

  “I’m sad to say that our original opener came down with a bad case of the flu and had to cancel at the last minute,” Shannon announces. “We all hope she feels better real soon, but in the meantime, a good friend of mine offered to step in. Have any of you out there heard the song ‘Notice Me’?” The gym gets a jolt as people in the crowd murmur to each other excitedly.

  “This young new artist is as sweet as she is talented, and I feel very honored to call her both a colleague and a friend. Without further ado, allow me to introduce Bird Barrett!”

  She leads the applause as she exits, and I race up the small stairs, walking purposefully across the stage, excited and intimidated, eager and scared. I take a deep breath and smile out at the audience.

  “Everybody doing all right tonight?” I ask. The response is surprisingly raucous: applause from the bleachers, hooting from the students. “This is a song I wrote last year about, well, a boy.” I grin, feeling myself blush. “I doubt any of you out there can relate.” The crowd laughs. “If you’ve heard this song, then sing along. If you haven’t, I hope you enjoy it. It’s called ‘Notice Me.’ ”

  A few people woo-hoo, and I spot Stella in the front row smiling encouragingly. I turn back toward the band, take a deep breath, and count us in. The only other time I’ve sung this number live was at the release party for my single, and I played guitar then. As the drummer picks up the beat and the guitarist comes in with the melody, I feel my whole body melt into the sound, like a long burning wick falling into warm wax:

  “Maybe you like me, or do you like me not?

  May be wishful thinking, but wishin’s all I got.”

  I know this song like the back of my hand, but when I look out into the crowd, especially at the kids standing and swaying next to Stella, it startles me that they do, too. We sing through the first verse, and when I get to the chorus, I smile as the entire female population of Stella’s high school pleads with their crushes to just notice them already.

  After the cho
rus, I step away from the standing mic and set to work on Maybelle for a quick eight measures. I wonder if any of the people out there knew I actually played the fiddle or if they thought it was somebody else on the recording. I grin to myself, relishing the experience of letting everybody see the real me.

  The second verse comes around quick, and I settle in once more behind the mic, singing like I never want to stop. As I draw out the last word of the verse, I lift my arms out to my sides. Then the chorus starts and I jump up and down, singing as if my life depends on it. Heads are bobbing up and down in the crowd; the students are on their feet.

  And as I belt out those two words, those beseeching two words that gave this song its name, I stomp the custom cowboy boots Amanda let me keep from my first photo shoot, and the crowd knows something is coming.

  I toss my long red tresses over my shoulder and bring Maybelle up to my neck again for the big fiddling pass. As I play, my hair falls in waves around my right shoulder, and my elbow knocks it back as I saw across my fiddle with fervor. I play for the past four months in the studio, for the tour dates the BFB had to cancel, for the nightly jam sessions I didn’t even realize I missed.

  The crowd goes bananas. I see cell phones in the air and hear someone shout, “I love you, Bird!” They feed me. They push me.

  “Sing with me!” I call into the mic.

  And together, the students and parents of Warren McNeal High School sing along to my original song at the top of their lungs. I hadn’t thought anything could top hearing my song on the radio, but hearing other people sing it? That takes my breath away.

  “Yip!” I call, indicating to the band that we’re wrapping up. I throw my bow across the fiddle and cut the song, tossing my head back and actually laughing out loud.

  “Thank you!” I call to the crowd, waving. “Thank you,” I repeat, bowing to the band. I look over at Shannon, who is smiling proudly at me from the wings. “Support the arts!” I call into the mic, but when I start to exit, she hustles across the stage and stops me. Linking an arm through mine, she steps up to the microphone.

  “What do you think, everybody?” Shannon says mischievously. “Should Miss Bird give us another couple of songs?”

  The crowd erupts with encouraging applause, and I look wide-eyed at Shannon. “What should I sing?” I ask quietly.

  “Anything,” she says. “You’ve got everybody on their feet already. Keep ’em there.”

  She waves as she exits again, and I turn around to the band leader. I give him a key and together we play a couple of bluegrass standards that I haven’t played since my days in Winnie. Then on a whim, I call Shannon back onstage and put her on the spot the same way she did to me, asking if the crowd wants us to play her famous American Idol song. The response is deafening.

  When I finally take my bow, I feel like I’m under a magic spell. Backstage, I immediately put Maybelle in her case and grab a bottle of water, downing half of it all at once. My body is still buzzing from the thrill of playing a live venue. Before making my way out to the crowd to join Stella, I take a minute—just a minute—and lean against the padding on the gym wall to let the moment sink in. I want to remember this feeling, this energy, this connection to the music. I feel like I’ve come home.

  “Excuse me,” I say, making my way through the crowd.

  “OMG, you were amazing,” a girl gushes.

  “Thanks,” I say, smiling and squeezing by.

  “I love your song,” another girl says. She holds up her cell phone. “I just put it as my ring tone.”

  “That’s awesome,” I say, flashing her a big smile, too. “Thank you.”

  I look for pockets of space in the crowd and try to get to Stella quickly, but it’s hard to keep a low profile when you’re six feet tall.

  “Will you sign my program?” another girl asks shyly. Her friends roll their eyes, but she thanks me profusely as I scrawl my name across the front.

  “Bird! You were so good!” Stella calls, holding her arms out as I get close. Her friends scoot over so she can bring me in, hugging me tight. “You guys, this is Bird.”

  “She’s told us all about you,” a pretty girl says.

  “Yeah, ‘Bird this, Bird that,’ but we thought you were her imaginary friend,” a short guy next to her adds. “Nice to see she hasn’t completely gone crazy.”

  Stella swats him. “This is Erie, and this dork is Ty.”

  “Hi,” I say, giving a small wave.

  “Seriously, Bird,” Stella gushes, her hands clasping both of my shoulders. “You killed it,” she says. “Murdered it. Destroyed it!” She hugs me again, clearly excited by musical homicide. I laugh, hugging her back.

  “I liked your song when I heard it on the radio,” Erie says, “but you are really good live.”

  Before I can thank her, Ty jumps in. “Dudes, check out Clay. His fake boob just fell down to his belly button.”

  We all crack up as the guys onstage dance shamelessly in leotards and black high heels, flipping their palms back and forth with intense attitude, working the famous Beyoncé dance from her hit “Single Ladies.” I have to admit, it’s pretty entertaining. When they finish, the crowd goes berserk. Sweaty and muscle-bound Clay of the wandering fake breast hollers into the mic, “My girlfriend is doing a monologue next. She’s going to be so famous one day. Support the arts!”

  Stella rolls her eyes. “Now you know why the jocks are here.”

  I smile. “I think it’s sweet.”

  “Bird! Bird, honey, that was terrific!” my dad calls. “Bird!” I turn and see my dad waving at me as he weaves through the crowd in his big tan Carhartt jacket, a huge smile on his face. When he reaches me, he grips my shoulders with both hands. “That is the best I’ve ever heard you on the fiddle, sweetie, and your voice! Wow. You just… that was a remarkable performance. Could you feel the crowd?”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say, keenly aware of the looks some of Stella’s classmates are giving us. I pull away slightly, as if interested in the next act.

  “Shoo-wee!” He smiles and shakes his shaggy blond head. “Made me miss it, I’ll tell ya that. But oh, honey, that was something else. Your mother is going to be so upset that she missed this,” he says. He looks down at his wristwatch. “Speaking of, I need to swing by the store and get her some more cold medicine after I drop you off at Adam’s show. Remind me, okay?”

  Adam’s show.

  I can’t believe I forgot about that… again. I pull my phone out of my jeans pocket and light up the screen. I’ve got two texts from Jacob. One from Anita, and one from Adam. I get really anxious when I see that his show started over half an hour ago. “Um, I’ve really got to go,” I tell Stella.

  “Oh my God, yes,” she says, grabbing her big purse off the ground.

  “You don’t have to leave, Stella,” my dad says, throwing his arm around me. I don’t mean to, but I cringe. “I’ll take her.”

  Stella looks at me, not sure how to respond.

  “Um, Dad?” I ask. “I’d really like to ride over with Stella if that’s okay.” He looks slightly taken aback, but I wriggle out from under his arm and continue. “I mean, Mom sounded pretty sick on the phone earlier, and Stella is going to Adam’s show, anyway, so you go ahead and get the medicine, and we’ll just ride over on our own.”

  “It’s no problem, Mr. Barrett,” Stella adds.

  “Oh,” Dad says, nodding slowly. “Okay, if that’s what you want to do.”

  “It is,” I say, smiling up at him. “Thank you so much for coming, Dad. I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Sure, hon,” he says. He squeezes my hand. “You made me one proud papa tonight.”

  I blush. “Thanks.”

  “Guys, I’ll catch up with you later,” Stella tells her friends. She leads us through the crowd, much better at navigating the bodies than I was. Plus, the act onstage now is a fifty-year-old harmonica player, so things have calmed considerably.

  As we make it to the back of the gym, I read the tex
t from Adam:

  Can’t wait to see you.

  There are now three messages from Jacob, asking where I am. But it’s two voice mails from Dan I just noticed and the text from Anita that stop me in my tracks:

  I’m at the school with Dan. Where are you? We need to talk ASAP.

  I swallow hard.

  “Bird,” Stella says, doubling back when she realizes I’ve stopped following. “What’s wrong? You’re white as a ghost.”

  I never do push PLAY to listen to Dan’s voice mails, but his voice suddenly booms in my ear all the same. “Bird! What the hell was that?” I turn around and see him stomping toward me, a murderous look on his face and Anita right on his heels. “Did you seriously just give your first public performance as a solo artist without consulting, oh, I don’t know, the president of your label?” he roars, his face redder than usual.

  “Dan, not here,” Anita snaps, flashing a fake smile at the few people in the lobby whose heads have turned at his shouting. She makes a beeline for me, her high heels like bullets across the tile floor. “Bird,” she says when she reaches me. “A word?”

  I glance over at Stella. “You mind waiting?”

  “Not at all,” she says. “I’ll be by the doors.”

  Anita links her arm through mine as if we’re the best of pals and forcefully leads me to a bench beside the school’s trophy case. Only when we’re out of earshot of the people getting popcorn or going to the bathroom does she speak.

  “Bird, would you care to explain this little stunt?”

  I blink. “Stunt?”

  “Well, what would you call sneaking around and giving your first performance at a high school gym on a Thursday night to a couple hundred people without any sort of publicity plan whatsoever?” she asks, furious.

  “I wasn’t sneaking around,” I say defensively. “Shannon’s opening act got the flu and canceled at the last minute, and I was over at their house songwriting when it all went down and… I don’t know. I offered to sing my song. It’s no big deal.”