“It is most certainly a big deal!” Dan yells, his hands on his head as he stares at me in disbelief.
“Dan,” Anita says in a warning voice.
He fumes but takes a deep breath before continuing. “You didn’t even think about the two people who are trying to build your career and turn you into a household name. No phone call. No heads-up. You did whatever you wanted and probably just jeopardized everything.”
“And did you fiddle?” Anita asks, incredulous.
“I—” I stammer, clutching Maybelle’s case to my chest. Before I can stop it, there are tears in my eyes. “I just wanted to help Shannon,” I explain. “And I really miss performing live.”
“That’s what a tour is for!” Dan explodes.
I flinch. “I’m sorry,” I say truthfully. “I thought that since the song was on the radio and I’d already had my release party, it would be okay.”
Anita sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as if she’s got a headache. “Open Highway is a small company, and we had a small release party just to introduce you and ourselves to some industry people. What we were planning for your first performance was much bigger.”
I look over at the doors to the gym and catch Stella’s eye. Her face is full of concern. She gives me a thumbs-up, her eyebrows raised. I nod and she turns back around as another act takes the stage.
At this point, I really don’t know what to say. Dan is pacing in front of us, and Anita is glued to her phone. My own buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t dare check it.
“Excuse me.” A timid voice comes from behind Dan. He nearly jumps out of his skin, but when he turns around, there are two little girls standing there with pens and programs in hand. “Could we please have your autograph?” they ask me.
I sniffle and dab my fingers under my eyes fast before pasting a quick smile on my face. “Sure,” I say, scooting off the bench and bending down to their level. “What are your names?”
“I’m Mira, and she’s Isla,” one of the girls says. “She’s shy.”
This causes me to smile for real. “Well, you want to know a secret?” The girls nod, so I lean in close and whisper, “The first time I sang lead for my family band, I got a little shy onstage.”
Isla’s eyes widen. “You did?” she asks softly.
“Oh yes,” I say. “My fiddle got me through, though.”
The two girls look at each other in wonderment. “I want to play the fiddle,” Mira says.
“No, I do,” Isla says as if it’s a competition. Then she surprises me by giving me a hug, and Mira does the same when it’s her turn.
“Okay, girls,” their mother says. I hadn’t even seen her; she was hanging back. “Let’s go.”
“Mommy, take our picture!” Mira shouts.
Their mother opens her flip phone. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” I say, still kneeling. I drape an arm around the shoulders of each girl and smile when they shout, “Cheeeeeeese!”
When they walk away, I notice that a small gathering has formed, and more people are waiting for an autograph or picture. As a person who has always learned her lessons quickly, I stand up and address Anita quietly. “So can I talk to these fans, or should we go?”
Dan glances over at the crowd, still seething.
“What’s done is done,” Anita says, waving me off. “Damage control dictates that you milk it now for all it’s worth.”
I wait to roll my eyes until after I’ve turned away, then I step toward the group with a big fake smile.
Over the next hour, it seems like I meet everyone that Stella goes to school with and their parents and their younger siblings. My cheeks are sore from smiling, and my signature has turned into two large Bs followed by squiggly lines. Anita and Dan sit together on the bench behind me, strategizing and frequently checking their phones, and I hope to God that they’ve cooled down a little. Finally, Vince Gill takes the stage with his wife, Amy Grant, and everybody runs to the gym, completely forgetting about me.
“What are they doing here?” Dan ponders aloud.
I shrug, searching in my bag for the rest of my water. “Shannon’s friends.”
“Maybe we can use this,” he suggests to Anita. “Say it was Nashville’s big artists coming together for community—oh, I don’t know. Can you spin this?”
Anita looks at her phone, almost as if unable to believe her eyes. “Maybe I won’t have to.”
As the two country music legends sing from the gym, Anita says, “You’re all over Twitter.”
Bird Barrett rocked the house tonight at WMHS! #noticeme
BB surprise performance. Am DYING. #bucketlist #notevenjoking
Bird Barrett is my new fave singer y’all. #noticeme
She scrolls, her eyes skimming as if she’s picking and choosing what to read. “And there are all kinds of hash tags: HelloBirdie, BB4Real, NoticeMe.”
They both look up at me, wide-eyed. I am just as shocked.
“I knew you were here because a few kids were tagging you,” she explains, “but now…” She pauses, disbelieving. “Bird, you’re trending.”
I grab her phone and scroll down the screen. What started as a great night turned into a bit of a nightmare and now seems to have spun around again, as a news reporter approaches me.
“Hello, Bird? I’m Yvonne Moore with NewsChannel5,” an attractive woman says, offering me a well-manicured hand to shake. “Do you think I could ask you a few questions?”
And although I still haven’t left the school, it feels like I’ve finally arrived.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE you’re a freaking online trending topic!” Stella shouts as we race through the parking lot. “Can you even comprehend that?”
“No,” I reply truthfully. It feels like I’m running through fog.
“Nobody trends,” she calls, her arms out to her sides. “I mean, natural disasters or politics or super famous people—those are trending topics. And now, you!”
When we reach Stella’s car, she blasts the radio and the heaters, and I try to grasp the magnitude of tonight’s performance. Anita spun it as “grassroots” and “a way to reach target fans.” I think back to my mom and the flyers she made me pass out after every BFB show. I was so stoked each time our band got one new online follower. Now, as I check to see if I have any new texts, my screen is covered with alert banners showing that the number of my Twitter followers has gone from sixty thousand to almost half a million tonight alone.
“Stella, I’m shaking,” I say, holding up my hand as she pulls out of the parking lot. “Listen to this. Top Web searches are WHERE IS BIRD BARRETT FROM?, HOW OLD IS BIRD BARRETT?, and WHERE WAS JASON SAMUELS?, which is ridiculous.”
“Can you imagine if he came and I had to give him a ride, too?” Stella asks, starry-eyed.
I roll my eyes.
“Anything from Adam?” she asks as we pull up to a red light. I started texting my brothers and Adam like crazy the minute my Open Highway parents decided not to ground me after all.
“No.” I sigh, my leg bouncing up and down nervously. “Dylan and Jacob already left, but Adam hasn’t texted me back.”
“Maybe he’s still there,” she says as the light turns green. She punches the gas. “Just explain what happened. He’s a musician. He’ll get it.”
I nod.
“It’s not your fault you missed it,” she adds.
“I know,” I agree, nodding again. “You’re right.”
I just wish that made me feel better.
“Text me when you find him, and I’ll come in,” she says, pulling up in front of the bar.
I get out of the car, and she drives off to look for parking. There is a small line, but I am desperate to see Adam, so I walk right to the front and address the guy with the list. “Hi, I’m Bird Barrett. I’m here to see Adam Dean. I should be on the list.”
“His set is over,” the guy answers gruffly. “You got ID?”
I stifle a groan and open my purse, knowing that every se
cond counts. Obviously, this bar is twenty-one and over and I don’t look anything close to that, but I know how these places work: There’s a list and my name should be on it. Now, whether he has to let me in if I’m late is another question.
“Oh my gosh, that’s Bird Barrett,” a girl in line squeals. “I love your song!”
I smile and wave. “Thank you!”
“What song?” the guy with her asks.
Clearly a little drunk already, she starts to sing “Notice Me” while holding up an air mic and closing her eyes.
“OMG, you sing that?” another girl asks. “I freakin’ love that song.”
“Go on in,” the bouncer says, his attitude changing as he holds the door open for me. If I see those girls later, I totally owe them a hug.
Inside, another band is playing an original alt-country piece that makes my head hurt. I look around the dark bar, scanning the crowd for Adam’s lean figure, but I don’t see him anywhere.
My phone beeps, and I look at the screen hopefully, but it’s just Stella:
????
I respond in kind:
Still nothing from Adam.
“Excuse me,” I say, leaning up to the bar. I wave at the bartender, who nods my way as he finishes mixing a drink.
“What’ll it be?” he asks.
“Um, well, I was wondering if you know if Adam Dean is still here,” I say. “He played earlier. About my height, kind of low voice—”
“He left a few minutes ago,” the guy says. “Are you ‘Lady Bird’?”
Shocked, I blink a couple of times before answering. “Um, yes. How’d you—”
“Adam ordered a drink for you before the show,” he says, walking toward the end of the bar closest to the stage and motioning for me to follow. “Let me know if you want a fresh one.”
There, sitting on the stool closest to the wall, is a small sign that says: RESERVED: LADY BIRD.
Next to it is a tall glass of Coke, watered down to an almost see-through consistency, the glass dripping onto the seat and drenching the little beverage napkin.
“No,” I manage to say, swallowing an enormous lump in my throat. “This is perfect.”
“Hello?” I call out as I enter our house late that night. Everything is dark and quiet. “Anybody home?”
“Bird, honey, we’re in the living room,” my mom calls, her voice scratchy.
I kick off my boots and hang my coat up in the front closet, exhausted from a day that felt like it would never end. The tabloids, work, the performance, the scolding from my label, and missing Adam. I shake my head. It’s a miracle I haven’t spontaneously combusted.
“How was the show?” my mom asks, meeting me in the kitchen. Her nose is red, her eyes are puffy, her auburn hair is in a messy ponytail, and she’s got a large patchwork quilt around her shoulders.
“Aw, Mom,” I say, pouting a little. “Are you okay?”
She holds out her arms to me. “I will be once I get a hug from my star.”
Even though she’s got a cold, I don’t hesitate to fall into her arms. I close my eyes and let my mom embrace me, inhaling her honeysuckle-and-VapoRub scent. “I was about to make some more Theraflu,” she says. “Do you want some hot cocoa?”
“You read my mind,” I say, pulling out a bar stool and patting it. “But you sit. I’ll make it.”
She smiles at me gratefully and shuffles over. “So how was your show?” she asks again.
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I answer.
“I already told you, Aileen,” my dad says, entering the kitchen. “She was dynamite. But listen, Bird, honey, Dan called asking me about the performance. Did you forget to tell him?”
I shake my head, annoyed. “I already handled it, Dad,” I snap.
“Okay, okay. Just checking,” he says, holding his hands up defensively.
“Sorry,” I say, sighing. “I’m just tired.”
“I bet you are,” my mom sympathizes. “You’ve been working around the clock this month. You almost done with the album?”
“Yeah,” I say, grabbing two mugs from above the stove. “Just have to get Dan’s approval. And Jack always seems to want to tweak something here or there, but at least we’ve finally recorded eleven songs and only have to do the one more that I worked on today with Shannon.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” my dad says.
I pour a package of hot chocolate powder into my mug, medicine powder into my mom’s, add water from the tap, and pop them in the microwave. I lose myself in thought as the mugs spin, watch them circle, think about my day, about how the good and bad danced around each other.
“Bird?” my mother asks softly. “Are you okay?”
I inhale deeply, then turn around to face my parents on the loud exhale, leaning against the counter and crossing my arms.
“I’m just exhausted, Mom,” I answer truthfully. “It’s, like, I always thought to lay down an album you showed up and sang the songs and that was that. But it’s all the publicity stuff on top of that, and the interviews, and singing every song until you hate it, and then hearing it back in a whole different way from what you expected, but loving it again, too.” Without warning, I’ve got a lump in my throat.
“And I feel like I mess up when I try to do something nice.” I swallow. “And I feel like I have to ask permission to even breathe.” I look up, wiping my lower lashes with my knuckle. I turn toward the microwave.
“And then this stuff with Jason…” I say, trailing off. And Adam, I think.
My mom walks over, shooing my obviously uncomfortable father out of the room, and grabs a fresh tissue from the wad she has tucked in her robe pocket.
“Sorry,” I say, dabbing at the corners of my now-wet eyes. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m not sad. I’m happy. I’m just—”
The microwave beeps, and my mom grabs a bag of mini marshmallows from the cabinet as I bring our mugs over to the bar. The steam rises up and licks at my cheeks.
“You’re just plum worn out,” she says, placing her hand on mine and squeezing before taking that same hand and brushing the hair off my forehead. We each take a stool and blow on our hot drinks. My mom runs her fingers through my hair, lulling me into a wide-awake sleep.
“You know who I think about when I get so tired or frustrated that I just want to quit?” I ask, staring into my chocolate drink. “Caleb.”
I glance up at her, and she smiles back sadly. “Me too.”
“I keep thinking about what Brother James always said about the music—”
“Let it bring you together,” we say simultaneously.
I nod. “But these days it feels like it’s tearing me away from all of you.” My voice cracks and a tiny tear escapes, sliding down my cheek and plopping right smack into my hot chocolate.
My mom rubs my back. We sit together, in silence, letting the night settle in around us. It’s almost as if time stands still, as if we’re both gripped by a profound need to do nothing more than exist in this moment. She rubs my back, around and around, and I sink into myself, feel the hot cocoa coat my throat and heat my chest, finally able to just stop—to just be.
“Honey, we’re home!” Dylan calls from the entryway.
And like that, the spell is broken. I give my mother a small smile, and she lifts her hand from my back, turning toward the door and the sounds of my brothers. I hear them wiping off their boots on the mat and laughing about a well-endowed lady snowman someone built out front.
“Hey, fellas,” my dad says, coming back in. I wonder if he’s been hovering. I look over at him and smile. My dad has no clue what to do in emotional situations, but he never entirely checks out, either. “How was the show?”
The little kitchen feels even smaller when the guys walk in, but it also feels nice. As soon as they see my hot chocolate, they help themselves to some as well, my dad getting in on the action this time. I smile, watching their clumsy dance around each other. As one grabs a pack of cocoa, the other reac
hes across someone’s shoulder for a mug, then somebody’s filling up a cup with water. This is a typical scene from my childhood, except the kitchen would be rolling down the highway.
“The show was awesome,” Dylan answers enthusiastically. “Adam’s got some really good new stuff. He was supposed to eat with us afterward, but he ended up getting approached by this guy from ASCAP, so he stayed and talked to him. Hopefully that’ll go somewhere.” He looks over at me, and smiles. “We missed you, though, Bird. You should’ve told us about your show. Stella texted that you signed, like, a million autographs. You must have been a rock star.”
Jacob snorts. “I’ll say. Have you guys been online?” He holds up his phone.
“Let me see that,” my mom says, holding out her hand. My dad leans over her shoulder as she scrolls through Jacob’s Twitter feed. “Bird, honey, this is unbelievable.”
“It really is,” I say. I get up and put my mug in the sink before excusing myself. “I think I’m going to call it a night, y’all.”
My mom gives me one more hug, and we all filter out of the kitchen, Jacob on my heels as I walk down the hall to my room.
“Good night, Bird,” he says, passing me.
I can’t help myself. “So does Adam hate me now?”
The question seems to take him off guard. “Hate you?” he hedges, turning slightly toward me. “No. No way. I think he was just a little disappointed, you know?”
“Yeah,” I say glumly, leaning against my bedroom door frame. “I knew I’d be late, but I definitely thought I would make it at least for a few songs. But then Dan and Anita showed up at the school and they were pretty mad and—” I sigh. “The time just got away from me.”
“Yeah, we figured,” he says, nodding. I can tell he really wants to get to his own room. “He sounded great, though. His new stuff is really good. And when the show was over, he just seemed bummed that you weren’t there. That’s it.”
Wildflower Page 19
