“I’m guessing that Cookeville can breathe easy at number one, then?” I ask, grinning.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, pushing his glass away. He looks over his list. “This is even worse than Allentown.”
“No,” I argue. “Allentown was pretty bad.”
“Bird, this is pretty bad.” Then, as if to prove it, he takes another swig. He immediately spits it back out. “Oh my God, why’d you let me do that again?”
I laugh until my eyes water. Who says a guy can’t be smokin’ hot, musically inspiring, and funny?
“So,” Adam says, smiling at me as he leans on his forearms. “Have you written any new songs lately?”
The answer is yes, but I fib. “Nothing special,” I say, shrugging. The truth is, I’ve written lots of songs Adam’s never heard and never will because they’re almost all about him.
“Bird!” Jacob hollers, coming back into the bar. Adam and I jerk away from each other instinctively. “Dad’s already got Winnie fired up. He’s itching to get out of here, so let’s go.” Then to Adam, he offers his fist and says, “Later, man.”
“Later,” Adam responds, bumping it with his own. “Y’all drive safe. Kentucky next?”
“Nashville.”
“Sweet, sweet. I’m headed to Topeka, but I’m sure I’ll catch y’all at some point,” Adam says. And then he looks at me. “So can we both agree? Cookeville?”
I smile. “Cookeville.”
“Oh, God,” Jacob says, shaking his head. “Not the Coke thing again.”
Bristling, I flick him in the biceps.
“Ow!” He grabs his arm, then looks up at Adam. “Be glad you’re an only child. Little sisters are a pain.”
Adam chuckles and follows us through the bar toward the front. I was on such a high only moments ago, but now, thanks to Jacob, I’m embarrassed. Every time I think Adam might like me the way I like him, I start to wonder whether he’s just humoring me. Or whether he only thinks of me as a friend, or, even worse, an adopted little sister. But I can’t let that be how we part ways, so once Jacob walks out the door, I take a breath and turn around to face Adam, feeling almost brave.
“That’s not why they call me Bird, you know,” I say, determined to give the art of flirting my best shot.
“What?”
“Earlier. With that woman. She said I fly on the fiddle, and you said that’s why they call me Bird, but that’s not why.”
Adam grins and leans one arm against the door frame. “Okay, then. I’ve honestly always wanted to know. Why do they call you Bird?”
“It’s after Lady Bird Johnson.”
“Who?” Adam asks.
I’ve come to expect that question.
“President Lyndon B. Johnson’s wife,” I explain. “First Lady Lady Bird.”
“That’s a lot of ‘ladies,’ ” he says, grinning. “And that’s kind of random.”
I laugh. “Well, my mom and dad met in college in Texas, and Lady Bird was from there,” I say, trying not to shift awkwardly in place under Adam’s gaze. “She loved wildflowers, had them planted all along the country’s highways. There’s even some big wildflower center named after her. It’s where my dad proposed to my mom since she loves flowers. So they named me Bird.”
“Huh,” Adam says, nodding. “I always figured you were named after that Lynyrd Skynyrd song.”
I realize that would probably be a cooler story, and I feel pretty nerdy for being named after a dead president’s wife, but I like my name. Always have. So I decide to own it. I am who I am.
“Nope,” I say. “Not because I’m a fast fiddler. Not because of a legendary rock song. Because of Lady Bird Johnson.”
He looks wounded. “Tell me that Dylan at least is named after Bob,” he teases. “I have to be able to look your dad in the eye next time I see him.”
“Ha-ha,” I say dryly.
A guy bumps into me, and I realize I’m blocking the door, so I step closer to Adam, letting the guy pass. “Well, name or nickname,” he says, “I’ve always thought it was perfect for you. I mean, that old lady was right, Bird. You fly.”
I blush.
“Seriously,” he continues, “you kill it onstage, and your solos are the best part of every Barrett Family song.” I smile broadly, feeling warm from head to toe. Then he touches my arm and leans in conspiratorially. “Don’t tell your brothers I said that.”
His green-flecked brown eyes twinkle, and we laugh together, easy and light. He opens the door for me, and I say good-bye, practically floating over to where my family waits in our Winnebago. And I can’t tell you if my feet actually touch the ground, because at this very moment, this Bird, well, she flies.
CLICK.
Everything goes dark.
Annoyed with Jacob, who keeps clicking off my bed light, I sigh mightily and turn it back on. The minute we got back into the RV, I propped myself up with pillows on the bottom bunk and pulled my journal out from my pillowcase. I had to add Kansas City to my list of Best and Worst Fountain Cokes in America before I forgot a single detail. It may have tasted terrible, but Adam was there to drink it with me, which moves it straight to the top, in my opinion. Once that was done, I had to scribble out this song that’s been rattling around in my head about all the sweet things I love to eat and how a boy’s first kiss is even sweeter. At least, I assume that’s what it’s like. And after that, I grabbed my laptop to update the Barrett Family Band’s Twitter feed:
Awesome show tonight. Thanks KC & all who came out 2 Buckle Bar! Good to see @adamdean! BFB in Nashville next. #bluegrassbarretts
Now I’m organizing my music library, searching for “Free Bird” and completely baffled that my music collection has zero Lynyrd Skynyrd. As a music buff, I pride myself on having a little bit of everything. Old bluegrass stuff: Earl Scruggs, the Stanley Brothers. Classic country: Patsy Cline, Waylon Jennings. New country: George Strait, the Dixie Chicks. Current country: Lady Antebellum, Carrie Underwood. Recently I’ve gotten into alt-country: Ryan Adams and the Drive-By Truckers. And, of course, I love my singer-songwriters like Alison Krauss and Emmylou Harris. Then there’s my guilty-pleasure music, the pop stuff they play on the radio that Dylan, and especially Jacob, can’t stand.
But no Lynyrd Skynyrd. And you call yourself a music lover, I chide myself, shaking my head as I download their Complete Collection album. It’s twenty freaking bucks, but my library obviously needs it. I click BUY, thankful once again for that iTunes gift card Gramma got me for my birthday.
“Bird, you’re killing me. Turn it off,” Jacob grumbles from the top bunk, reaching his arm down to switch off my light again. It’s after midnight and if my folks hear him, I’ll definitely have to pack it up, so I relent.
“Fine,” I say, exasperated. I scoot out of bed and carry my computer over to the sleeper sofa, banging into the wall as Dad hits a pothole. Dylan is still awake, the glow from his phone lighting his face in the otherwise dark RV. “Jacob’s being a jerk,” I whisper. “Can I sit here?”
He shrugs and moves his legs over to give me a little room. He doesn’t even look up, his thumbs racing across the screen and his brow deeply creased.
“Who are you texting?” I ask nosily.
He sets his jaw as he finishes his text, tosses the phone down, and puts his hands over his face, letting out an enormous sigh.
“Whitney,” he finally says, running his hands through his hair. He collapses back against the pillows and looks up at me. “She broke up with me last month, right?”
“Right,” I say guardedly. That was not a good time to be trapped in a small space with my brother.
“And now she’s sending me these random texts about the last town her family visited and where they’re going next and asking if we’re going to be in Nashville the same time they are.”
“Are we?”
I liked Whitney and everything, but she did break my brother’s heart, so she’ll have to forgive me if I’m not exactly eager for the two of them to reunite.
“Maybe she wants to still be friends?” I answer, although it comes out more like a question.
“I don’t need a friend!”
I throw my hands up defensively.
“Kids,” my dad calls sternly from the driver’s seat. I look up and meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. He points to the green digital-clock numbers on the radio, which clearly read 12:23 AM. “Lights out.”
“Sorry, Bird,” Dylan says as I close my computer and start to get up. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. This girl just drives me crazy.”
“I know,” I say. “But you guys used to be such good friends.”
He sighs heavily. “Yeah, that’s what sucks the most about all of this.” He stops and looks away, so angry and sad at the same time. “I don’t know. I want her back. But I don’t.”
I nod. I don’t have much (any) relationship experience, so I know I’m probably not the best resource for my brother in the love department, but life on the road means he doesn’t have many other options. And as far as that goes, neither do I. I could use some advice on the whole Adam situation. I mean, I think he might like me, but how can I know for sure? And then what if we do get together and it doesn’t work out and we ruin our friendship? My brothers could give me the male perspective, but then Dylan would tease me endlessly or, even worse, Jacob could forbid it on the grounds that Adam’s his best friend. But it’s hard to make girlfriends on the road, so all I’m left with is my brothers.
“Do you ever wish you’d just stayed friends?” I ask him delicately.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe. But then, when we were together, she made me really happy, you know?”
“So you don’t regret it, then.”
“I guess not.”
“And you guys were friends for years,” I prod further. “So what changed?” He looks at me questioningly. “I mean, what made you finally ask her out?”
“It was after that bonfire at Tybee Island,” he answers. “She kept looking at me with this big smile, and she kept touching my arm or back or whatever and—” He sighs. “I don’t know, Bird. She was throwing out all these signals, so I went for it. A lot of good it did me,” he grumbles, picking his phone up again.
“So it was something she did,” I say.
“I guess.” He squints, looking up at me closely. “Why?”
I make big innocent eyes. “No reason,” I say, gathering my things and standing up. “Just talking. Better get back to bed before Dad loses it. ’Night.”
“ ’Night,” he says as his phone buzzes again.
I creep back to my bed and roll in. I’m not sleepy, but it’s better than being around Dylan when he’s in a bad mood. I get out my headphones and plug them into my cell phone, listening to my On the Road Again playlist and thinking about my life—how strange it is. I’ve been living in an RV since I was nine years old. Everything I own has to fit in my allotted space on said recreational vehicle, which isn’t much. Clothes, jewelry, shoes, toiletries—ugh, toiletries is a word you use when you pack for vacation, not for real life.
But crazy as it sounds, this is my real life. As Winnie trundles toward Nashville, I watch the trees blur together in the darkness and wonder where I’d be right now if my younger brother, Caleb, hadn’t died. Would we still be living in that two-story house in Jackson? Would my dad still be a real estate agent? Would my mom still be a health nut, obsessed with us taking our vitamins and worrying every time we got a cold? Would Jacob be the rebel? Would Dylan try so hard to be the perfect son, and would he still be Secret Service–level protective of me? Would I ever have started playing the fiddle or writing songs?
I turn up the volume on a Dolly Parton song and follow the red lights of the cars and trucks that rumble past until they fade into the night. It’s often at times like these that song ideas come to me, when I’m so tired I can’t tell if I’m thinking or dreaming. I start to wonder what instrument Caleb would play if he were here, whether he’d have a good voice, or what kind of gigs he’d like best.
I sigh, though, and shake my head. Sliding back the window, I let the night air whip my face and remember that, if Caleb were here, there wouldn’t be a band at all. He brought us to the music, and this may not be a conventional life, but it’s ours.
“Bird, you coming?” Jacob asks from the stairwell of the RV. He’s holding a gigantic bag of dirty laundry while I grab both my backpack and his. Mom’s halfway across the parking lot with another bag of laundry, and knowing Dylan, he’s already taking his second trip around the breakfast buffet inside.
“Yeah, I just need to get my computer.”
“Hurry up,” he barks. “I’m starving.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re always starving.”
Dad parked us at the Travel Centers of America truck stop in the middle of the night, and now we’re taking advantage of their facilities: laundry, food, supplies, gas… you name it, they’ve got it.
“Dad, we’re going!” I call back to the bedroom.
My dad coughs before answering hoarsely, “Okay, sweetie. I’ll see you in there.”
I look at Jacob, but he just shrugs. “Dad didn’t sound too good, did he?” I ask as we walk toward the rest stop.
“No,” Jacob admits, “but he drove pretty late, so maybe he’s just sleepy.”
“Maybe.”
A little bell chimes as we open the door, and Jacob walks straight ahead, past the wall of Saint Louis souvenirs, to the back, where the laundry room is. To my left is a fast-food court with Pizza Hut, Popeyes, and Taco Bell, but I take a right and walk into the Country Pride Restaurant.
As expected, Dylan is standing at the buffet with his plate loaded up like an edible mountain. He nods toward a back booth, so I walk over and put our bags with his. I’m not looking forward to doing homework, but it will be nice to write my Spanish composition on a table that doesn’t move around.
I actually caught up to Jacob in “school,” so we only have one more year to get through before we graduate. My mom oversees our “classes,” which I never minded before, but she’s been overenthusiastic about it ever since Dylan took his ACT last year and surprised us all by scoring really (annoyingly) high. He talked about college, but decided to stay with the Barrett Family Band instead of ditching us for dormitories and frat parties. He’s enrolled in an online college now because my parents insisted he continue his education, but since the course work is so easy for him, he basically watches videos on YouTube all day.
“The bacon is crazy good,” he says now, placing his food on the table and glancing around the place before sitting down. Obviously he’s looking for Whitney—he does that every time we stop—but I know better than to call him out on it. Steam rises from his plate, and I swipe a slice of bacon before hitting the buffet myself.
A girl about my age smiles at me when we reach the stack of hot plates at the same time. She has a round face with red cheeks, and she’s wearing a necklace with her initials: VMC.
Letting her go first, I nonchalantly look around and try to guess who she’s here with. Does she travel with her family singing bluegrass at small honky-tonks all over America? Doubtful. But maybe she is an RVer on family vacation. Or maybe her dad’s a trucker and she’s tagging along for the week. Or maybe she lives in this town and just comes here for the breakfast. Then a gaggle of loud ponytailed girls wearing big bows and short-shorts joins us in line, and I realize that Vanessa or Veronica or Valerie is not like me at all. She’s like my cousin Daisy, in Jackson—cute and popular and on her way to cheer for something.
I frown, embarrassed by the knee-length jean skirt and Gettin’ Lucky in Kentucky T-shirt I’m wearing. Jacob walks up to me in his ripped jeans, Converse, and a skull-co
vered hoodie over his messy black hair, and I want to crawl under a table.
“Mom said to hurry up,” he says, totally unaware of the giggles behind him as he builds the leaning tower of pancakes on his plate. “You were right. Dad’s sick. Mom thinks it might be laryngitis.”
I forget everything else and nearly drop my plate. “Jacob, we play the Station Inn tomorrow night.”
“Yeah, sucks, huh?” he says, flipping his black hair off his forehead. “You’ll probably have to sing lead if he’s not better.”
“What?” I nearly shout. Two girls laugh at the french toast tray but look away when my eyes meet theirs. I blush and move down the food line feeling totally self-conscious, but when I look back, I realize that they’re checking out my brother, not laughing at me. Jacob smothers his pancakes in syrup, totally oblivious.
“Jacob, I can’t sing lead,” I protest quietly.
“Well, Dylan screwed it up last time, and nobody wants to hear me sing.”
“What about Mom?”
He shrugs noncommittally, grabbing a small plate for biscuits and gravy.
As good as the food looked a few minutes ago, I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. I sing, but I’ve never sung, you know? Center stage. Definitely not at the legendary Station Inn. My plate shakes a little in my hands. If I’m this nervous already, I can’t imagine tomorrow night.
Jacob walks over to the table where Dylan is sitting, and I realize that the girl I first saw at the buffet is watching him as well. When she looks up and realizes that I’ve caught her staring, she blushes and carries her plate over to where her friends are sitting. As she goes, I can’t help but wonder how my life would be different if my hair were sprayed back in a high, tight ponytail like hers. Maybe I’d be laughing my butt off in the round corner booth with all my friends. Maybe I’d be all over the high school yearbook or dating the quarterback or voted Most Popular. But then I shake my head and snap out of it. I’m not a Vanessa or a Veronica or a Valerie; I’m a Bird.
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