“I love you, Bird Barrett!” a young girl screams at the top of her lungs.
It’s just the jolt I need.
“How you doing, O-ma-haaaaa?!” I shout into the mic, lifting it off the stand and walking to the front of the stage with one hand at my ear. The crowd swells. “Hello, up there at the top!” I call to the nosebleed section. “Can you see me?” I wave. “Do y’all… Notice Me?”
I hear a few squeals as I turn around to cue Monty. He’s smiling, and it feels like we’re off to a good start. As the music flows through my earpiece, I connect to the rhythm and give my fans everything I’ve got.
My set is a fantastic blur. I have always loved performing live, but singing in an arena this size is a whole new level of wonder. Rather than being paralyzed by my nerves, I am energized by the venue and crowd. I sing, clap, and dance. I laugh out loud when the wave takes off all around me and soak up my fans’ excitement like a sponge. I tell them about writing “Tennessee Girl” last winter when my family put down roots again for the first time in seven years. I briefly mention Caleb when I bring things down a notch and share the inspiration for the ballad I cowrote with Dylan called “Before Music.” And for the last song, when the stadium is finally good and full, I hold the mic out during the chorus of “Sing Anyway.” They sing along to every word, and it takes my breath away.
By the time I take my final bow, I am exhilarated… and exhausted. My heartbeat is strong and thumps in my chest like a huge tom-tom. The baby hairs at my temples are drenched in sweat, and if my water bottle is any indication, I’m sure my lipstick has completely worn off. I wave to the fans as I exit, beaming at my mom, who waits for me offstage. I close my eyes, for just a second, to mentally record this moment as the greatest of my entire life.
Then I nearly fall.
“Oh!” I cry, grasping for the handrail by the steps.
“You okay?” a roadie asks, holding out a hand as he lunges from behind a big light.
I grip the handrail and glance over at him. His open palm is smudged in scribbles from a ballpoint pen, his black T-shirt fits snug to his lean, muscular body, and his chiseled face looks adorably worried. Whoa. I feel my cheeks flame. “Yeah, I’m good,” I say, hustling down the rest of the stairs. “Thanks.”
“Bird, sweetie, you were incredible!” my mom calls, her arms open wide. As we hug, I spin her around to get another look at the cute roadie. He looks about Dylan’s age, a little taller than me, with smooth olive skin. The kind of guy Stella would call Category 4.
“Nice job,” Monty says, grasping my shoulder as he walks past.
I let myself get swept up in the crowd of people filing offstage. “That was crazy. Wild. Ah—amazing!” The guys in the band give me fist bumps and head nods, and the backup singers offer big smiles and high fives. I feel like I’m floating.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
Mom sighs as she links her arm through mine. “Had to take another phone call so he texted me to come back and meet you. I think this manager stuff is a lot more work than he expected.” She clutches me tighter and gives me a death stare. “But don’t you dare repeat that.”
I laugh. “He’s doing great. And there’s nobody else I’d trust to take care of me.”
“Well, he’s been doing it all his life, so I’d say he’s the most qualified.”
“True,” I say, nodding. “Very true.”
We’re almost to my dressing room when my mom stops short and points in the least discreet way imaginable. “Oh, Bird, there’s Jolene Taylor!”
“Mom!” I whisper urgently, pulling her hand down.
“Well, I’ve been hoping to get her autograph, and now she’s right there in her dressing room with only a couple of people around. I could just run in real quick—”
“I wouldn’t,” a woman’s voice warns from behind us. We turn around, and my mom gasps, totally starstruck. We are face-to-face with Bonnie McLain, a country singer who was super famous in the late nineties and is one of my mom’s all-time favorites. She looks over our shoulders in Jolene’s direction and chuckles. “Jo’s not what you’d call friendly on even the best of days, so talking to her right before she takes the stage would kind of be like poking a hornets’ nest with a stick. Bad idea.”
“Bonnie, my name is Aileen, and I am a huge fan. Huge.” Bonnie graciously offers a hand to shake; my mom takes it in both of hers and keeps laying on the praise. “I have every one of your albums. I even saw you in concert when you came through Houston in ’77. In fact, I always sing your song ‘Stop and Take a Minute’ at karaoke.”
I am mortified that my mom is going on like this, but Bonnie’s bright blue eyes are gleaming and the crow’s-feet beside them are crinkled up in amusement. Even with her graying blond hair and dated feathered bangs (another thing she and my mom can bond over), I am struck by how pretty she is. Her smile is infectious, and she emanates this genuine warmth, like she would give great hugs.
“What are you doing here?” my mom asks. “A surprise performance? Maybe a duet with your old buddy Jolene?”
Bonnie shakes her head emphatically. “Oh no, no, no. When I left the industry, I left it for good. I’m just here to see Jolene perform and spend time with my husband’s grandkids. They live right here in town.”
“Bonnie, while we’ve got you, would you mind signing my CD?” my mom asks, fishing in her bag.
“You’ve got one of my CDs with you?” Bonnie asks, incredulous.
“Well, no,” Mom admits, blushing. “It’s Bird’s, but these are like a dime a dozen around my house.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom,” I deadpan.
Bonnie laughs out loud and takes the marker my mom offers. “This is a first,” she says, chuckling as she scrawls across the Wildflower cover. “I haven’t signed an autograph in half a lifetime, and I’ve never signed another artist’s merchandise.”
“Oh, ‘half a lifetime’—please,” Mom says. “You haven’t aged a bit.”
“Well, that’s kind of you to say, but I’m chubby and old and happier than I’ve ever been. I just celebrated my forty-tenth birthday last weekend.”
“Happy birthday,” my mom and I say at the same time.
Jordan comes through the hall, knocking on dressing rooms and giving a call for Jolene’s set. Musicians grab bottles of water, a few stretch or finish cell phone calls, and roadies hustle to complete the changeover from my show to Jolene’s.
“Isn’t it amazing how much work goes into getting a single show up?” I marvel, watching a man frantically try to find the end to a big roll of tape. “Without these guys, concerts would be a disaster.”
Bonnie nods her head and looks at me with appreciation. “You know, Bird, I like your music, but it’s good to know that you’ve got a heart that’s likable, too.”
I smile, warmed by such a nice compliment.
“Do you think I could take your picture together?” Mom asks, pulling out her cell phone.
I cringe, but Bonnie says, “Love to.”
The former country music icon puts her arm around me as my mom fumbles with her pass code. “Thanks for doing this,” I say quietly as we wait for Mom to pull up the camera app. “You know she’s going to want one with you next, right?”
“This ain’t my first rodeo, kid,” Bonnie says, smiling. “But, listen,” she adds, getting serious. “This life—it’s wild. Trust me, I know. Everybody loves you, but nobody knows you.”
“Say cheese!” my mom yells, waving her hand over her head.
“Cheese,” we say simultaneously.
My mom takes the picture, then pulls her reading glasses down from where they were perched on top of her auburn hair. “Let me just check it.”
Bonnie relaxes her hold and turns toward me, continuing her sage counsel. “I don’t mean to get too deep on you or anything,” she says. She pokes my sternum with her finger. “It’s just very important that through it all, you remember who you really are.”
I nod, not knowing how to respond
.
“My turn!” Mom says, shooing me away and handing me her phone. “We’ve got to hurry. I just saw Jolene’s entourage whisk her away.”
I take a few pics, and then we say our good-byes. As Bonnie walks down the hall, I can’t help but wonder why she gave everything up. She used to have all that fame, had lots of big hits, and is clearly a charismatic woman. How can someone like Jolene Taylor still be at the top of her game while a person like Bonnie McLain is on the sidelines?
My mom babbles on and on about the celebrity run-in as we hustle to my dressing room. I heard a little of Jolene’s set during sound check, and I’m actually excited to get out of wardrobe and watch her show from the wings. I pull up one of Bonnie’s old songs on my iPhone, and while I change, my mom crashes on the couch, singing along happily and uploading the pics to her Facebook page.
“Why’d Bonnie quit singing, Mom?” I ask as I lay all my show jewelry on the velvet roll Amanda left out for me. “She was pretty great, right? And she obviously had a following.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Bird,” Mom says, sighing heavily and looking off to the side. “I think she just got mixed up in some bad decisions.”
I consider probing deeper but don’t want to be a buzzkill. Instead, I text Stella and invite her to watch Jolene’s set with me backstage. “Come on,” I say to my mom as I pull her up from the couch. Jolene’s voice is blaring down the hall.
As she sings “Two Men Too Many,” my mom and I sneak into the wings. Jolene is a firecracker onstage, and her fans are going ballistic. She’s twenty years older than me but still smoking hot in a rhinestone tank top and skinny leather pants. I daydream, thinking about headlining my own tour one day and taking home Grammys like Jolene.
My mom closes her eyes and starts to sing along. I take the opportunity to glance behind us for another peek at the cute roadie who helped me earlier. He is manning a big light, and I find myself admiring the cut of his strong arms. He glances over, and I look away quickly, mortified that I was caught staring and then even more so when I realize that my mom is swaying with her arms in the air as if she just found Jesus.
“Mom!” I say, grabbing her arms.
“Bird!” Stella squeals, hugging me from behind. “You were so good!”
I hug her back, and then she pulls up a crazy pic on her phone: me in midair, jumping at some point in my set.
“I jumped?” I ask loudly in her ear to be heard above the music.
“You were wild!” she screams back. “You were amazing!”
She hugs me again, swinging me from side to side, and I laugh out loud.
I pull my phone out to show her the pics with Bonnie McLain but am thoroughly surprised to see a text from Adam:
Break a leg, Lady Bird.
A grin slides onto my lips. And the night just keeps getting better.
5
“THANK YOU, CONNOR,” I say to the head of craft services the next day. The food on this tour is no joke. I mean, this man is serving Top Chef–style fare. “I can’t get over how delicious these green beans are.”
“Thank you, Miss Barrett,” Connor says, but his attention is quickly diverted to one of the road crew using his hands to pick out a pork chop. “The tongs! Use the tongs!”
I laugh—as does the cute roadie who saw me trip after my show last night. The minute he got in line behind me, I tensed up. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just smiled and grabbed a plate. Now, he nods toward the green beans and says, “It’s the bacon, by the way. If you want veggies to taste good, just add bacon.”
“Ah,” I say. Play it cool. Stay cool. “I always thought butter did the trick.”
“Well, you’re definitely onto something there,” he answers in all seriousness. “I’d say you could cover your bases by piling on both.”
“Now you’re speaking my language,” I say, grinning as I grab a roll. “You know, my great-grandpa used to sit at the table with a tub of butter right next to him, and for every single bite, he would knife a dollop out and smear it on.”
“Wow,” the boy says, his expression a mixture of impressed and grossed out.
“He lived until he was ninety-four, so if anything, I’d say a case can be made for butter.”
He laughs as we make our way over to the drink station, and I linger while he grabs a bottle of water from the cooler. I look out over the crew, huddled around tables for the preshow dinner, and wonder where he’s going to sit… wonder if it’d be weird to sit with him.
We are both walking slowly as we inch away from the buffet, trying to look casual and therefore appearing anything but. He lays his plate on an empty table, looking hesitant as to whether he should sit down. I get the feeling that he wants to sit with me, too—that he wants to keep talking as much as I do—but feels just as awkward. So I set my plate down next to his and say, “So, where are you from?”
He pulls out his chair, looking adorably relieved, and I join him, feeling the same way. “Los Angeles, born and raised.”
“Oh, really?” I say. “My brother Jacob’s going to school at UCLA in the fall. He took a campus tour, but all he could talk about when he got back was In-N-Out Burger.”
I roll my eyes, but he chuckles. “I get that,” he says. “It’s addictive. But tell him the Mexican food out there is top-notch—the most authentic he’ll find anywhere.”
“Well,” I say, cocking my head as he takes a drink, “except maybe in Mexico.”
He nearly chokes. “Touché,” he says, his dark eyes twinkling as he laughs. “Touché.”
I laugh along, and we start to eat, listening to the conversations like white noise around us. I get goose bumps when he cuts his pork chop and his arm brushes against mine.
His cell phone buzzes, and he tilts a little away from me to pull it out of his jeans pocket. I glance over and catch a glimpse of what is, at the bare minimum, a six-pack under that T-shirt. “Sorry,” he says as he texts a reply. “My mom’s always checking up on me.”
I nod and think, I’m just happy it’s not a girlfriend. “So you’re a momma’s boy, huh?” I ask with a grin.
“Actually, it was just the two of us for a long time, so yeah,” he admits with a slight blush, “I’m a major momma’s boy.”
His candor surprises me. “Oh,” I say.
“But when I was a freshman my mom met Matt, my stepdad, who’s a good dude. He legally adopted me when they got married, even though I was already, like, seventeen. He makes her really happy.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin and grins at me sheepishly. “And now, Bird Barrett, you know my life story.”
“But I don’t have a name to go with it,” I point out.
He pauses and then frowns. “Well, that’s disappointing,” he says in a hushed voice. “Jolene Taylor went out of her way to learn all our names when the tour started. She had us submit snapshots and short bios so she could really give the Sweet Home Tour a family vibe.”
I pale. “She did?”
“I mean”—he gestures to the crew—“do you know anybody’s name?”
I look around. “Jordan. Monty. I think the fiddler is Jeff… or Eric?”
He shakes his head. “It’s already been more than twenty-four hours, and that’s all you got? Wow.”
He stares at me intently as I process what he’s just said. I feel awful. Here I’ve been judging Jolene for snubbing me and judging the crew for kissing up to her when in reality, I’ve been the jerk. I really liked this guy, and now he probably thinks I’m a snob.
“I—I don’t—” I stammer.
“Yeah right,” he finally says, busting out laughing. “Come on, you believed that?” He’s laughing so hard that he has to set his fork down, and I feel blood rush to my face and down my neck. He got me. He got me good. “There are, like, a hundred of us, and it’s only your second night with the tour. Come on, Bird, really?”
He takes the cap off his bottle of water and collects himself before taking a drink. I don’t know whether to be mad or embarrassed
, but I smile at him, sure of one thing: “Revenge is sweet, boy. Now I owe you one.”
“Boy?” he asks, clearly flirting. “Now it’s just ‘boy’?”
“Well, I don’t know your name!” I say, exasperated.
“I’ll give you three guesses,” he says.
I shake my head. “You want me to guess your name. There are, like, a million names, and I’m supposed to just guess.”
“Hey, I’m giving you three tries,” he says, dark eyes gleaming.
I take another bite and chew thoughtfully, accepting his challenge but playing with him. “Hmmm… you kind of look like a Fred.”
He nearly chokes on a bite of pork chop. “Fred?”
“Okay, okay, not Fred. But you’re from LA, so your mom probably liked the Lakers,” I muse. I know I’ll never really guess his name, so I toy with him. “Is your name Shaquille?”
He looks at me straight-faced and shakes his head. “I am not even going to dignify that with a response. And besides,” he adds, clearly enjoying himself, too, “I’m a Clippers fan.”
“Okay, okay, okay.” He’s a cutie with a sense of humor. I can’t wait to text Stella. I pretend to think hard, going along with his game.
“Bird,” he says, startling me by putting his hand on my forearm. I look down at it, charged. He has a worker’s hands, the calluses on his palm just barely scratching my skin, sexy. “This is your last guess. Look at me.” I do. His eyes are so dark that I can barely see the difference between his irises and his pupils. “I am sending you a telepathic message, repeating my name over and over.” He furrows his brow; I do the same.
“Ah, yes,” I say, nodding. “It’s coming to me now.”
“You can hear me?”
“Loud and clear. You’re on the Sweet Home Tour, so you must love country music,” I say, closing my eyes as if receiving his message. “I’m going to go with Garth. Final answer.”
The Road to You Page 3
