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The Complete Lyrics and Sheet Music for Bird’s Hit Single, “Notice Me”
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This one’s for Mamaw and Papaw
“BIRD!” JACOB WHISPERS urgently over the music.
I snap out of my trance and turn toward my older brother, wondering why he’s standing so close, with his upright bass practically leaning on my shoulder. All five of us are squished onto a tiny platform in some hole-in-the-wall, no-name honky-tonk, so I’d appreciate it if he could give me a little room to work. I shoot him an annoyed look.
“Take us home, Bird,” my dad calls into the mic. He always says that at the end of our encore number. It’s kind of our thing, but when our eyes meet, I see what he’s really trying to tell me: I missed my cue.
Whoops.
My family loops back around for my entrance, and this time I’m ready. I tuck my fiddle up under my chin and raise my bow. We’re playing “Will She Ever Call,” a Barrett Family Band favorite. When we took to the road seven years ago, playing festivals, fairs, and honky-tonks, and joining jam sessions wherever we could, nobody had heard of the Barretts. We certainly didn’t have a following. Now, it never ceases to amaze me when the crowd starts singing along.
I send my bow flying as I focus on my solo. In country music, or any kind really, the vocalist takes the melody and everyone is there to round out the sound and play accompaniment. But during a bluegrass song, every musician gets a crack at the melody—to improvise and make it his or her own. On a lightning-fast song like this one, we throw the melody back and forth between us, like playing Hot Potato.
“Yah!” my dad yells into the mic. “Yip!”
The stage shakes with our collective foot stomping. This isn’t the first time I’ve missed a cue, and I’ll probably catch flack for it later. I could blame the repetition of a musician’s life on the road—when you know the set by rote, it’s easy to go into autopilot. For example, this song, “Will She Ever Call”: I wrote it, and could play it in my sleep.
But my real problem is people watching. Maybe a couple is having an argument in a corner booth, or maybe the bartender gets fancy and juggles bottles as he pours drinks. Or in this case, maybe a super hot and really talented boy walks into the honky-tonk, and maybe he perches himself on a stool and hangs his cowboy hat on his knee, which just happens to start pumping up and down in rhythm to a song that I wrote, and maybe he grins this little lopsided smile and throws us a short wave and then runs his long fingers through his dark brown hair that isn’t necessarily long but could certainly use a trim, and then maybe, maybe, he starts to sing along even.… Well then, seriously! How’s a girl supposed to focus?
I’ll never admit it to my family, but I missed my cue today because Adam Dean is here. I’ve had a crush on him ever since we first saw him play a couple of years ago, and every time our paths cross, my pulse beats double time.
Meeting super talented musicians like Adam is one of the best parts about life on the road. The Barrett Family Band may never have First Family of Country Music status like the Carters, but we do okay traveling from show to show in Winnie, our RV.
My life is anything but normal, but honestly, I couldn’t imagine it any other way. I’m homeschooled, so I don’t have to deal with difficult teachers or mean girls, and I somehow got ahead and will “graduate” a year early. I’ve been to most of the continental United States, and that’s not half bad, considering that I just turned sixteen. But what I love most is that this on-the-road lifestyle means my family is extra close. You have to be when you share two hundred square feet of RV living space—and when you depend on one another to keep a song on track.
“Yah!” my dad shouts, picking at his banjo as if his thumbs are on fire. I angle myself toward him on the small stage and we duel, the room ablaze. My mom is nearly laughing as she strums her mandolin, and my brothers are obviously enjoying it, too.
I love this. I love playing. I love music. I love these magical moments during a show that set my whole body on tilt. I may miss my cue from time to time, but my music means everything to me.
I stomp out the beat, shooting the bow over the strings like a maniac, the adrenaline racing through my veins as I play. Adam is here. I close my eyes and feel fused to my fiddle, breathing hard, breathing the music. I want to talk to him after the show, but I know my parents are going to want to break down and head right out. We play Nashville next, which is a pretty long drive from Kansas City, and my dad doesn’t like to cut gigs too close. If I’d known Adam was going to be here, I wouldn’t have been lazy on the third number and I certainly wouldn’t have pulled my hair back into a sloppy bun in the greenroom while we waited to come back onstage for the encore.
“Haw!” my dad yells.
Play harder; play faster; play, Bird, play.
Ah, yeah! I fling the bow across the strings, let the fiddle fall to my side, and throw my head back. I’m exhausted. I’m exhilarated. I’m alive.
The small crowd applauds as we hit our last note, leaving everybody to wonder if, in fact, the girl will ever call, and I line up with my family for our final bow. Dylan gives me a strong pat on the back, and my dad reaches over and squeezes my shoulder.
“Thank you, everybody!” he calls into the mic. “We’re the Barrett Family Band, and it’s always great to play here. Y’all get home safe now.” He waves as he leads us offstage, and I grin. My dad treats every show as if we were playing to a sold-out arena.
“You see Adam?” Jacob asks behind me as we file offstage.
“Uh-huh,” I say, eager to get back to the greenroom. I want to put my fiddle away, put on lip gloss and a spray of body mist, and head back out to the bar ASAP. I don’t want him to leave before I get a chance to say hi.
“He said there’s a field party tonight,” Jacob continues.
“You talked to him?” I ask, as nonchalantly as possible. The last thing I need is for either of my brothers to know about my crush on Adam.
“No, he e-mailed me earlier,” he answers. Adam and Dylan are both nineteen. But Adam and Jacob, who’s two years younger, are better friends.
In the greenroom, I plop down on the lumpy red sofa, feeling like I could pass out. The fact that the couch is about a hundred years old and patched together with duct tape doesn’t make me feel good about its cleanliness, but at this point, I’m exhausted and what’s one more butt? Jacob, on the other hand, is a tad OCD. He avoids touching anything in any of the “dressing rooms” that these dives provide their performers. He grabs a cloth from his gig bag and stands next to me, polishing his bass before putting it away.
I lean down, drag my own case over, and pop it open, eager to get my fiddle, Maybelle, safely back in her home. I named her after Mother Maybelle Carter, a country music legend, and even though I may not shine her up the second a show is over, I love my fiddle just as much as Jacob loves his bass. She’s the most precious thing I own. About once a month, I have this recurring nightmare where I forget to put Maybelle away after a show and my dad steps on her, snapping her neck right off. I shudder just thinking about it.
“Scoot,” Dylan commands, flopping down onto the couch next to me.
“Hey!” I holler, ducking. The neck of his guitar misses my head by an inch. He carelessly lays it on the carpet. Jacob
shakes his head but, as usual, says nothing.
Dylan’s one of those guys who can get away with anything. He’s got that clean-cut, all-American-boy thing going. He has blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair, just like me. He’s not quite as tall as I am—few people are—but I can objectively say that he’s handsome. He can flash his big smile and get whatever he wants. And where I’m a little reserved when I first meet people, he’s never known a stranger. It’s hard having a perfect older brother. I mean, at least Jacob dyes his blond hair black and wants a tattoo as soon as he turns eighteen (which, for the record, drives my parents crazy). But it seems like Dylan never takes a wrong step (which, we might as well add to the record, drives Jacob and me crazy).
“A couple of guys up front were staring at you, Bird,” Dylan says uneasily. “Don’t make eye contact when we’re breaking down, okay? And holler if you need me.”
I nod, which seems to satisfy him, and then he leans back against the couch and closes his eyes. I look at Jacob and roll my own. The thing about Mr. Perfect is that he’s overprotective to the point where I sometimes want to pull my hair out.
“Let’s get to it, kids. Your father’s going to settle with the booker, and we’ve got to get packed up.” My mom rolls a cart over to Jacob, who arranges his bass on it first and then loads up Dad’s banjo and Mom’s mandolin. He even puts Dylan’s guitar in its case before adding it to the stack. He knows better than to ask for Maybelle, though—I always put her away myself. Another fear I have is her falling off the cart or getting left behind. Not on my watch.
Jacob throws his backpack over one shoulder and rolls the instrument cart toward the door. He pauses at the mirror, examining his choppy new haircut and sweeping over the top section that’s a little too long in my opinion, before leaving. Normally, I would give him a hard time for checking himself out, but I know I’m going to see Adam in a minute and want to assess my own appearance. I grab my purse and walk over to the mirror, thankful that my skin looks pretty good. I’m only breaking out in one tiny spot, but it’s up at my hairline and as soon as I take down the god-awful bun—voilà! Bye-bye, zit. I search for a tube of pink, vanilla-flavored lip gloss and swipe some on. There. Better already.
“Who are you getting dolled up for?” Dylan asks, smirking.
I make a face at him in the mirror. “My lips are chapped. I needed some gloss… if that’s okay with you.” If Dylan discovered my crush on Adam, he’d never let me live it down. I toss the gloss back into my purse and grab a fresh tank top from my bag. “Close your eyes.”
“Gladly.”
I do a lightning-quick change, throwing my sweaty T-shirt into my purse, but before I tell Dylan he can open his eyes again, I spritz myself with body spray and hightail it out of the room. I’m not in the mood for any postshow interrogation.
I walk down the dimly lit hallway and pass through the thin curtain that lines the back of the small, low stage, purposefully keeping my eyes on my feet. My heart is racing. It’s torture trying to play it cool. I grab the mic case and pop it open center stage before finally looking up to smile at Adam.
And then my heart stops. His stool is empty. He’s gone.
I stand up and put my hand over my eyes, frantically scanning the room. So much for playing it cool.
It’s dark and hard for my eyes to adjust, but as the shadows give way to shapes, I see couples cuddling, a few guys at the pool table, and the regulars at the bar. The neon Budweiser and Pabst Blue Ribbon signs glare red and blue over the dartboards, and a waitress lifts a tray of greasy bar food above her head. Still, no sign of Adam. I spot my dad up front being paid by Rex, the Santa-bearded booker, and I know from the size of the rubber-banded envelope that our cut for the night will only cover us until our next stop. I see Jacob’s lanky figure weaving through the bar, but he’s alone, and then I feel the stage creak as Dylan joins me.
“Who are you looking for?” he asks, squinting in the direction I’m looking.
“Jacob,” I lie, bending over the speakers and unplugging the mic cords.
I can’t believe Adam left. Maybe he had to do something. Or maybe he just went to the bathroom. And then my heart really sinks: Maybe he left to meet up with a girl at that party.
Incredibly disappointed, I go through my nightly routine: unplugging mics, coiling their cords, and packing them safely into the cases. Dylan hefts a speaker onto one shoulder, and Jacob follows behind him with another heavy load on the cart.
I look up just as a woman old enough to be my grandmother shuffles to the edge of the stage. “You really are something special, girl,” she says in a scratchy voice. Her glassy eyes suggest she’s had one too many beers tonight, but it still cheers me up.
I smile. “Thank you.”
“I mean it,” she continues, reaching out for my forearm. I tell myself she’s squeezing me in a maternal, assuring way, but more likely she’s just steadying herself. “Lordy, you make that bow fly! Just fly!”
“That’s why they call her Bird,” a low voice says to my right.
And from out of nowhere, a long arm falls across my shoulders and the most beautiful smile in the world is inches from my cheek. I look over at Adam and my breath catches in my throat. Here’s one advantage to my being so tall: We’re the same height and our faces are close enough that I can see his tiny widow’s peak and the stubble on his jaw. He smells amazing, like fresh laundry.
“Our Bird just flies on the fiddle,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.
My cheeks burn.
“That she does,” the old woman agrees, letting go of her grip on me, her eyes twinkling. “That she does. I really enjoyed it, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” I say again. She nods and shuffles away, her compliment and Adam’s the best I’ve gotten in a long time.
“Need some help?” he asks, dropping his arm and nodding toward the stage. I already miss the warmth of his touch, but at least I feel like I can breathe again. That boy shakes me upside down and inside out.
“Yes!” I say, recovering, a little louder than I’d meant.
“Oh-kay!” Adam shouts, teasing me. I can’t help but smile.
My brothers come back, and Dylan greets Adam warmly. “What’s up, dude? Thanks for coming.”
“Definitely,” Adam says. “Nice set tonight.”
“Hey, man,” Jacob says enthusiastically, leaning in for a bro hug. “Sorry we can’t make it to that party with you. Next time.”
“For sure,” Adam says.
Once the stage is clear, my brothers push the cart out toward Winnie again. Usually this is the time when Mom and I work the crowd, passing out cheesy postcards with our website, pictures, and upcoming tour information, but tonight, with Adam standing right next to me, I think I’m going to “forget.”
“You still passionate about fountain Coke?” Adam asks me mock-seriously.
I faux frown. “Does Bon Jovi live on a prayer?”
He laughs out loud. “Absolutely!”
I grin, feeling pretty proud of myself. I’ve been saving that one up.
Adam claps his hands and says, “Let’s do this.” He’s talking about our ongoing pursuit of the best fountain Coke in America.
He steps off the stage, and I notice that there’s a little dried mud caked on the side of his cowboy boots. I love that. Adam doesn’t sing about country life while wearing designer jeans and a rhinestone-encrusted belt buckle. He’s legit, actually from the country, a Southern boy with heartland written all over him.
He surprises me by turning back to offer his hand, and I’m almost caught staring. I can’t look him in the eye as I reach out and take it. His palm is rough but warm. My arm turns to jelly. Of course he drops my hand as soon as I step down, so it was more of a gentlemanly gesture than a romantic one. Still, as I follow him to the bar a gigantic smile works its way across my face.
“Don,” Adam shouts, beating out a little rhythm with his hands on the bar. The skinny, middle-aged bartender turns his attention to us.
“Two Coca-Cola Classics, please. Lots of ice.”
“You got it.”
Adam fishes out a folded piece of white paper from his wallet, along with a five-dollar bill. He slaps the money on the bar. I don’t even try to pay anymore.
“So anything beat Cookeville?” I ask, peering over his arm.
Adam unfolds the tiny piece of paper with the logo from a Red Roof Inn in Decatur, Georgia, at the top and scans it. I always like to glance over his list, just to see the places he’s been. “Nope. Cookeville’s still the champ.”
In our opinion, Coke is great from a can, still good from a bottle, yet hard to get just right from the fountain. But oh, when they do get it right, it tastes good enough to be an eighth wonder of the world. My brothers think our quest is totally lame, but I love it. It means that when we’re not together, Adam thinks of me, or at least of our game, and then when we are together, he always remembers.
“Where’s your list?” he asks.
I tap my temple. “All up here.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “So anything top Cookeville for you?”
I want to tell him that the Coke was better in Shreveport and then even better in Chattanooga and still better in Cincinnati. I want to tell him that it was pretty great in Des Moines, which was the last time our paths crossed, and that here, in Kansas City, it will surely be the best I’ve ever had. Because as Don sets our ice-cold Coca-Colas on napkins in front of us, Adam looks amazing in his frayed-at-the-collar red-plaid button-down, and because every time I see him, everything around me is just a bazillion times better.
Instead, I shake my head and bite my tongue. I hold up my Coke, and Adam’s hazel eyes meet mine as our glasses clink. “Here’s to Kansas City,” I say.
“Here’s hoping.”
We stare at each other in earnest, treating this moment as if it were a matter of national security, and take big swigs.
It’s awful. No fizz, totally flat, watered down—basically what I’d expected from a bar soda. Adam obviously agrees with me since his face is twisted up as if he’s consumed rat poison. “That,” he says, pointing down at his glass, “is the worst Coke I’ve ever tasted.”
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