The Way Back Home

by Alecia Whitaker

  “We’re back!” my mom shouts.

  “You have to get in here and see this,” he says, taking the contact sheet into the living room portion of the suite. “Bird just got her Rolling Stone pictures. She’s going to be on the cover!”

  “You are going to be on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine?” Stella screams, racing into our bedroom. She jumps on the bed and tackles me with a giant hug. “Oh my God, that’s so freaking crazy awesome amazing, I can’t!”

  I’m laughing and also fighting back tears. The shock, the honor, it’s just overwhelming. I’ve been on covers before, but to be on the front of Rolling Stone? I can hardly breathe.

  “Let me see those pictures,” my mom says, snatching the stack off the bed before I’ve even gotten a good look.

  “I just texted Dylan,” Stella says. “They’re on their way over. This is so exciting!”

  As my mom goes through the pictures, she passes them to my dad, who passes them to me. Stella is right over my shoulder, checking out each image with narrowed eyes. When the guys come in, she passes them on to Dylan and then Adam.

  “Who is that?” Dylan asks. He’s not being mean. If I hadn’t been at the shoot myself, I wouldn’t recognize me right away, either. I’ve never seen myself look so editorial. They used extremely dramatic makeup, dark intense eyes, and metallic glitter powder over my face. My normally flowing red waves were pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and the way the light caught my face, it’s as if there are curves and contours I’ve never seen before. And I knew the wardrobe was edgy—I mean, I wore it after all—but somehow in the photographs I look fierce, sexy even, in a way that I couldn’t see in the mirror.

  Stella mumbles as she studies the images, already talking to herself about which is her favorite, which styling choices she likes—and which she doesn’t—as well as what each picture says.

  “I’ll tell you what they say.” My mom takes off her glasses and looks up at me, disappointment all over her face. “They say, ‘I am a pretty girl who looks ten years older in these pictures than she ought to.’”

  “Mom!”

  “I mean it, Bird,” she says. She picks up the cover image. “People are going to be walking through the grocery aisles and seeing this. You think they’re going to buy it for their daughters?”

  “I doubt Rolling Stone is sold in the express lane of the Piggly Wiggly, Mom,” Dylan says. “What do you think, Adam?”

  He shrugs. “She got the cover. I think it’s cool.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t cool,” my mom says, clearly flustered. “I just think they could’ve made her look a little more like herself. She’s a beautiful girl. Why slather all this makeup on her?”

  “And would it have killed them to put some clothes on you?” My dad finally speaks up, standing and unable to meet my gaze.

  “Dad, it’s a bandage dress,” I say. “I’m wearing clothes.”

  “A black-and-gray dress, leather or something a biker would wear, and so tight it looks like you were sewn into it.” He gestures around his chest, and while his dramatics are pretty embarrassing, even I have to admit I am surprised to see cleavage. “I knew better than to miss that shoot,” he grumbles. “I knew it.”

  “Dad, the stylists had a specific vision,” I say, defending the images. They don’t look at all how I’d expected, either, but I do like them. I think I do really like them.

  I pick one up, looking closely at my stare, at how defiant it feels. I see the Bird my mom can’t, the one who’s headlining a national tour and who’s in charge of her own career at eighteen, the one who is tired of everyone else telling her who she is.

  A small smile settles onto my lips. It’s surreal to hold these images in my hands, pictures that represent an enormous accomplishment in any musician’s career. I still don’t know what Jase will write, and I’m a little uneasy about the kind of story that will accompany photos like these, but I made the cover of Rolling Stone magazine.

  My dad shakes his head. “I need to play a stronger role here,” he says to himself.

  I roll my eyes at Dylan, who makes a face that lets me know he has my back.

  “Congratulations on the cover, Bird. You deserve it,” my mom finally says, walking around the bed. “I just don’t like seeing my baby this grown-up.” She kisses me on the forehead and says, “Judd? Take a walk?”

  He nods. None of us say a word as we hear them grab their stuff and leave, but the minute the door closes, I get real reactions.

  Stella grabs her favorite and holds it up to my face. “Are you kidding me? You are a ten! Suh-mokin’ hot! I hope they use this one as a spread.”

  “It’s weird to say this about my sister, but this is kind of like looking at a model,” Dylan says. “And it’s strange to see you not smiling.”

  Adam has remained pretty quiet throughout the whole exchange, which makes me nervous. “What do you think?” I ask.

  He sits on the bed and rubs his hand across his jaw, the stubble making a scratchy noise. “They’re pretty,” he says simply. “They look like a fantasy version of you, I guess. Like you’re in a futuristic space movie or something, but then I still see the real you there, too. Like in this one.” He points to a close-up of me playing Maybelle, my fiddle, a traditionally bluegrass instrument in such a stark juxtaposition to the crazy hair and makeup. “That’s my favorite.”

  I beam at him. “I like that one, too.”

  “I feel like I can really hear you playing,” he says. Then he looks up at me and says, “I miss that.”

  I frown. “I fiddle almost every night.”

  “For the show,” he says. “But we never just jam out anymore, you know?” He looks up at Dylan. “We need to play for fun sometime.”

  “Definitely.”

  I stay quiet. When I dream of such a thing as free time, playing music is the last thing on my mind. Sleep, yes. Netflix, yes. Playing music after playing music nonstop? Not exactly at the top of the list.

  “But the cover,” Adam says, staring at the mock-up again. Then he looks up at me with his lopsided grin and says, “Now, that is something to celebrate.”

  20

  “WE JUST WANT a ride!” the emcee of the Stockyards Championship Rodeo calls over the mic. “Just a ride. Come on, folks, let’s cheer him on. Local boy, real Texan spitfire from right here in Fort Worth, and he’s going to do it! He’s going to do it! Come on!”

  We are on a double date, Stella and Dylan, Adam and I, and on our feet. This kid seems like some sort of crowd favorite. He went the full eight seconds on quite an angry bull earlier, and now I’m watching him lay on a bareback, broncing horse, his head getting banged by the horse’s rear on every jump.

  “How is he not dead?” I ask Stella over the applause.

  “He did it!” the announcer calls. “He did it, he did it again!”

  Adam puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles, and then he turns to me with both hands up. I give him a double high five, loving the excitement on his face. “Now that’s a real cowboy!” He leans over me and Stella to get Dylan’s attention. “You see that, man? No helmet! Just his cowboy hat!”

  “He’s a warrior!” Dylan calls back.

  I sit down and laugh, loving everything about this impromptu adventure. When Adam showed up at our hotel room this morning with his crazy idea to spend our day off at the rodeo, it took a little convincing. It’s been a really busy month, and I’m dog tired. It’s Halloween and I was hoping we’d spend the day snuggled up together watching scary movies and eating popcorn, but after his time in Austin, Adam is a big rodeo fan and he begged us to come out with him.

  “Adam,” I had protested, although his enthusiasm was catching, “what if we get recognized? People know I’m in town. We just did two shows, and it’s been all over the radio and TV. We’ll be mobbed.”

  “No!” he said, his eyes lighting up even more. “We can go as cowboys and cowgirls for Halloween! Nobody’ll recognize you.”

  “Am I going as a r
odeo clown?” I asked skeptically.

  He laughed. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  I still wasn’t entirely on board. My Texas interviews and shows have been okay, but my throat is really sore and I’ve been blowing my nose a lot. My mom thinks it’s from the change in climate, but I’m worried I might be getting sick.

  But here we are, our fun-lovin’ foursome, and surprisingly I am having more fun than I’ve had in a long time. I bought a big cowboy hat and kept my head low through the parking lot, worried I’d be mobbed right away, but so far so good. As the night goes on, I relax more and more to the point of asking my bodyguard to give me a little space. The events are super fun, and although not everybody here is in costume, even in my fringed suede vest and flouncy skirt, I still don’t feel like I stand out in public like I normally do.

  “Woo-hoo!” I holler as the fan favorite exits the arena.

  “Guys, confession,” Stella says as everybody sits. “This is my first rodeo. And it is more gloriously redneck than anything I could’ve ever imagined.”

  “Yeah, Adam,” Dylan says, nodding. “Good call.”

  “Oh! The clowns are coming back out!” Stella shouts, standing up and clapping.

  Dylan smiles, and it is evident from his face that watching her watch the rodeo is more fun than any of the events we’ve seen so far. I take off my cowboy hat and lean my head on Adam’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” he asks.

  “For giving me a night off,” I answer truthfully. I look up at him, our faces close. “For giving me a chance to go on a normal double date. For, you know, just being the greatest boyfriend a girl could ever ask for.”

  The rodeo clowns bring out a yellow car-slash-airplane contraption and try to ride it, failing hilariously. We laugh, the crowd cheers, and as Adam tilts my chin up to kiss me, it’s like they’re voicing the sound my heart makes every time his lips are on mine. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

  “Folks, folks, folks, you aren’t going to believe it,” the announcer calls. “You just aren’t going to believe it, I’m telling you.” We stop kissing and stand up to see what the fuss is all about. “You’ll see everything from rodeo queens to steer wrestling tonight, but I just got wind of something that’s going to take the cake. Going to blow the whole night out of the water.”

  The crowd is attentive. The clowns dramatically gesture to one another, trying to figure out what all the fuss is about.

  “I just heard that we’ve got a special guest in the audience tonight!” the announcer continues. He holds for applause, and as people start to look around, I feel my stomach drop. “A young lady that has fans all over the world, but especially here in cowboy country, is sitting out in the stands tonight, and I think we ought to give her a big warm Fort Worth welcome. Everybody, put your hands together for Miss Bird Barrett!”

  I hear a couple of screams but mainly the din of voices asking one another where to look. I shove my cowboy hat back on my head and duck down to grab my purse, pretending to look for something. “Oh, we see you, Miss Barrett,” the announcer calls. “Let’s say, we ‘notice’ you!”

  The audience is buzzing now, and I feel like a trapped animal, frantic as I consider what to do. I don’t want this. I want a night off. I want to enjoy the rodeo like everybody else in this stadium. I want to have fun for once!

  I see a couple of people down in front of us turn around to snap pictures. Adam raises his other arm and waves, playing along, but I don’t want to. I love my fans—I really do—but aren’t I entitled to one freaking night off? Ever?

  “Bird, they see you,” Adam says, his voice low. “You probably ought to wave or something.”

  I take a breath and look up. Right when I do, a teenager a couple of rows down from us leans over and screams, “OMG, they are dating!”

  “I saw that in Us Weekly,” her friend says.

  “But it wasn’t confirmed. This is incredible.” And the minute she holds up her phone, I realize that this is not how Anita wants to “control the narrative.”

  I turn around to Big Dave and say, “Let’s go.” My bodyguard immediately jumps down to my row and makes a path as he leads me from the crowd. I force a smile and wave as I squeeze past Stella. “Y’all ready? I want to get out of here.”

  “Bird, are you okay?” Dylan asks. He lets Dave get by him. It seems like every single person we pass has a phone in my face.

  “Where you going, Miss Barrett?” the announcer calls. “Don’t run off just yet. Come on down here and give us a song. What do you say?”

  As we make our way down the stands, I wave and smile but shake my head. Fans call to me as we descend, a couple reaching out to touch me, and I’m in a near-panic. I don’t feel like singing. My throat hurts and I’m playing huge shows all week, so the last thing I want to do is sing.

  “Bird,” Adam says, pushing his way down the stairs to grab my arm. “Hey, stop.”

  “Adam, please. I really want to get out of here. Can we just go?”

  “Come on, Fort Worth, let her hear you,” the emcee persists. Now the rodeo clowns are into it, one running toward me as our group gets near the ring. I suddenly feel closed in—caught—as he climbs up on the rail and holds a mic out to me, the fringe of his sleeve waving back and forth as he gestures for me to join him in the ring.

  “I really don’t want to sing tonight,” I say with a smile.

  “Hey crowd, let’s ‘Shine Our Light,’” the announcer continues, really riling them up now.

  “‘Shine Our Light,’” the crowd repeats, chanting. “‘Shine Our Light’! ‘Shine Our Light’!”

  “This is crazy,” Stella says, grabbing my hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to just go sing real quick?”

  “No,” I say firmly. “What I wanted was to have fun with my friends without it turning into a publicity stunt for once.”

  “Bird,” Adam says, close and low. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “It is a big deal,” I say, a little frustrated now. “People just take from me all the time, and I’m tired.”

  “They’re your fans,” he says. “They love you.”

  “I love them, too,” I say. “I love them so much I’m hauling my butt all over the country to sing to them. Don’t I deserve a night off?”

  “Just give them a song,” he persists, standing close. “Any song. I know Anita would tell you to do it, and I’m sure my publicist will kill me if we just bail. Come on. I’ll sing with you if you want.”

  “God, Adam!” I say, pulling away. The crowd is still chanting, and I feel my throat tighten as hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “If you want to sing so bad, go sing. Here,” I say, grabbing the mic out of the clown’s hand and shoving it in Adam’s chest. “Sing your heart out.”

  Then I turn around and clutch Dave’s elbow, incensed as he leads me to the exit. I’m crazy about Adam, but I wish he’d care about his girlfriend a little more than his image. As I stomp off, I feel the anger build. I’m mad at the crowd for being so selfish and at myself for thinking I could have a piece of that old anonymity back. That week in Nashville was a terrible tease.

  Then I hear booing. I stop in my tracks and look back to see people throwing trash over the rails. “Are they for real?” I say, shocked. “What if that stuff actually hit me?”

  All because I didn’t give them what they wanted. All because I wanted one freaking night of me time.

  I wipe tears from under my sunglasses and follow Dave to the parking lot. Part of me thinks it would be easier to just go back, to give them what they want, but isn’t there any merit in being true to myself?

  I glance over as Stella and Dylan catch up to me, looking completely dumbfounded by the whole turn of events, but I don’t see Adam. I don’t see him, but then the crowd roars and I hear him. “Hey there, Fort Worth,” his voice booms through the speakers. “Everybody having as good a time as I am tonight?”

  The audience cheers, and now I am in shock, stopping stil
l as a statue. Is he serious? Did he really just show me up like that?

  “My name is Adam Dean, and I’m on the Bird Barrett Shine Our Light Tour right now—” He is interrupted by booing, and I feel my chest constrict. “Come on now, Fort Worth. Come on. She just gave y’all two amazing shows over at the American Airlines Center in Dallas, and she’s feeling a little under the weather tonight or she would’ve been over those rails in a heartbeat. She lives for her fans.”

  “That’s nice,” Stella says quietly. The crowd boos again.

  “Yeah, real nice.”

  I march off, my vision blurry as I weave through the parking lot.

  “Over here, Ms. Barrett,” Big Dave calls, leading me to the car.

  In the distance, I hear Adam telling the crowd that he’d love to sing a song for them, “if they’ll have him,” and of course they go ballistic. Prince Charming, saving the day. What a guy.

  I assume he’s going to sing “Make Her Mine,” and all I can think as I climb into the car, angry and hurt and now crying so hard that the sobs are embarrassing, is how I may not be his much longer.

  21

  “BIRD, WHAT HAPPENED at the rodeo?” Anita says over FaceTime the next day. She looks like she could strangle me. Troy and I are on my tour bus, and the minute he told me she wanted a conference call, I knew there was trouble.

  “Nothing,” I say hoarsely as I grab another tissue. All that crying last night did nothing to help ward off the cold I knew was on the way. I feel like I’m in a tunnel, her words sound far away, and it’s painful to look at the bright screen. “Somebody spotted me and they wanted me to sing, but I didn’t feel like it. I wanted a night off.”

  “Why did Adam sing instead?”

  I feel my jaw tighten. “We haven’t really spoken much since last night,” I say, thinking about the awkward and very tense ride back to the hotel after his performance. “He said he was ‘trying to help,’” I say, making exaggerated air quotes.

  “Adam’s a good guy, Bird,” Dylan says, exasperated as he walks back to the bathroom.