The crowd murmurs a soft response, and I nod at her. “Exactly,” I say into my mic. “That’s how I feel about this next one. It’s about, um—” I glance over at my dad.
“A boy?” Shannon asks, her eyes twinkling.
“Yes,” I answer, blushing ferociously.
“Aren’t they all?”
Muffled laughter fills the space. I smile, and my shoulders relax. I strum a little stronger and say, “I want this boy to know me better, to see the real me. That’s what this song is all about.”
And within the next four-count, I close my eyes, picture Adam there on a bar stool sipping a cold Coca-Cola, and sing.
“Not bad, kid,” Harley says, snapping his guitar case shut. People are milling about, talking at normal level and rearranging themselves for the next show. It suddenly feels like a regular bar, instead of the intense listening room of only moments ago.
“Thank you,” I say, shocked. He nods and makes his farewells to the other songwriters, and I let it sink in that I just proved myself to Harley Duke.
“Oh, Bird, you were fantastic!” My dad envelops me in a bear hug. “Outstanding. Just outstanding. Your songs were so honest and the melodies so simple and pure and—” He blinks fast and takes a deep breath. My mouth hangs open. Is my dad about to cry? “I just couldn’t be prouder,” he finally says, pulling a beverage napkin out of his pocket and blowing his nose.
“Allergies?” I ask, grinning.
He chuckles, then leans in conspiratorially. “Don’t tell your brothers about my ‘allergies’ or you’re grounded for a year.”
We laugh and hug again.
“Bird!” Randall says, coming up to congratulate me. “You did it. That was magnificent.” He slaps my dad on the back. “You’ve got to be proud of this one, right, Judd?”
“Oh, I am,” my dad says, stepping closer to me. “I’m proud of all my kids.”
“What’d I tell you?” Randall asks the other GAM exec. “She’s something special, right?”
“She certainly is,” the guy says, eyeing me. Something about him seems antsy, and he looks terribly uncomfortable in his heavily starched denim shirt and creased jeans. In fact, this guy looks like he’s wearing a costume, just playing the part of someone who frequents country music establishments. Maybe he’s the GAM accountant or something.
“Thank you, Randall, for this sweet opportunity,” I say.
“ ‘Sweet,’ ” Randall repeats, chuckling. “See? Bird Barrett is fresh and young and full of talent. I think she’s a perfect fit for the GAM family, don’t you, Alan?” He beams at me, and his sidekick nods enthusiastically.
I gasp. “You do?”
“I do,” Randall confirms. “So, what do you say, Judd?” he asks, gesturing to a now-empty table behind him. “Think you could share a piece of your family with ours? A songwriter like Bird who also has magnetic stage presence doesn’t come along every day. We know that from experience.” He nods at Alan, who puts his briefcase on the table and pops it open. “That’s why we went ahead and brought along the papers for you to read over and sign.… That is, if working with Great American Music is what you both want. We’d like to offer Bird a deal. Tonight.”
I clap my hands and squeal. My heart feels ready to burst. I can’t believe this is happening to me. A development deal with the biggest label in country music? I must be dreaming.
“Wow,” my dad says, running his hand through his hair. “Well, thank you. But, uh, we’d like to take the papers, talk it over, call my wife, you know, just think about it overnight, if you don’t mind.”
“What?” I ask, mortified.
“Just want to make sure this is what you really want, hon.”
“It is, Dad,” I reply urgently. And when I say it, I know it’s true. I never thought I’d be a famous singer or anything, but now that I’ve performed my own songs, my way, for a roomful of people who genuinely seemed to like them, well, now I know it’s true, and I don’t want to let this chance slip through my fingers. “I want this.”
“Terrific!” Randall says, beaming at me.
Alan takes out a pen, but my dad ignores him, folding the papers and stuffing them in the back pocket of his jeans. “I’d still like to sleep on it,” he says again. “Thank you, Randall, for setting all of this up for us. We’ll call you in the morning.”
“You do that,” Randall says, looking slightly perturbed. His smile hardens, but as he and Alan make their farewells, I pump their hands extra hard, trying to give them every confidence that we really do want this deal. If my dad costs me this opportunity, I’ll never forgive him.
“Great set,” Shannon Crossley says, catching up to us as we weave through the crowd toward the front door.
“Thanks,” I say. “You too.”
I follow my dad out to the parking lot, itching to get him alone so we can really talk about this. I wish I were eighteen so I could just sign the papers myself.
“What if they change their minds by the morning?” I ask the minute we walk out the front door.
“They won’t.”
“What if Randall discovers somebody else tonight and doesn’t want me anymore?”
“He won’t.”
“He might.”
“Bird,” my dad says, stopping. He grabs both of my shoulders and looks me straight in the eye. “You were wonderful tonight. I could see the same thing they saw, an exceptionally talented and magnetic performer. Except you know what else I saw? My little girl. We didn’t start playing music until the whole family agreed. We didn’t sell our house and start touring the country until the whole family agreed. And I’m not about to sign my daughter to a record deal without talking to the rest of our family about it. This will put all Barrett Family Band performances on hold. We’ll have to stop touring for who knows how long. Don’t we owe it to our family to let them weigh in?”
His words hit me hard, and I feel my feet settle back solidly on the ground. He’s right. He’s absolutely right.
“And if Randall Strong is the kind of guy who would pull his offer off the table just because he couldn’t bully us into signing papers in a low-lit bar, then maybe he’s not the guy we think he is.”
“You’re right,” I admit, walking along the white lines of a parking space.
“But like I said,” my dad says, draping his arm around my shoulders, “I saw what he saw, and there’s no way on earth he’s changing his mind. You really are something special, sweetheart.”
“I’d have to agree,” a man says, walking over to us from a few cars away. He’s not a tall guy, but he’s stout with a ruddy complexion and a receding hairline. He approaches us with a sincere smile, and although his dark eyes are intense, they are also warm. “I really enjoyed what you played in there, Miss Barrett.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
“You were talking to Randall Strong,” he states.
My dad’s grip around my shoulders tightens just the tiniest bit. “Yes,” he responds warily.
“If I can just give you some advice,” the man says, “you don’t want to sign those papers. Contracts like the one I’m sure he’s offering can be a raw deal for the musician. I’m sure that as a new artist, it sounds appealing to you—and don’t get me wrong, Great American Music is a powerful label—but ultimately, you’d be signing away too much.”
“Well, my—my music—” I stammer.
“Will be theirs. But they won’t just own the music,” he continues frankly. “With a deal like that, they’ll own you. Read the contract.”
“And why do you care so much about my daughter’s record deal?” my dad questions.
“Because I can offer her a better one,” he replies bluntly, fishing in the pocket of his black button-down. He pulls out two business cards, one for my dad and one for me. “I’m Dan Silver.”
I take the card and look down at it:
DAN SILVER
PRESIDENT
OPEN HIGHWAY RECORDS, NASHVILLE
&
nbsp; “I was with Allied Music for twenty-two years, but it’s deals like the one I’m sure Strong gave you that made me walk away in favor of starting my own label,” Mr. Silver says, stuffing both hands into the pockets of his dark jeans.
“Allied’s one of the biggest record companies in the country,” I say.
“Yep. And Open Highway’s one of the smallest,” he admits with a wry smile. He takes a step back and gives me a broad, confident smile. “But you’ve had a long night and I’m sure you’d like to get home. Read the GAM contract, but before you sign it, do you think you could give me a chance to show you around Open Highway?”
I look up at my dad, waiting for him to respond, but instead, he looks at me expectantly. “The man’s talking to you, Bird. It’s your career. What do you think?”
He is talking to me. I look at Mr. Silver again and smile. I guess it is worth looking at all the options. “We’ll see you in the morning,” I say.
Mr. Silver nods and reaches out to shake our hands again. “Wonderful.”
“Should we call to make an appointment?” my dad asks.
“Come in any time tomorrow morning. We’ll be looking for you.”
He gives us a small wave, and we watch him walk across the parking lot toward his car. Then I look down at his card again. Last week I had no offers, and tonight I got two. My stomach flips. Now, which to take? What to do? I sigh, both giddy and confused. I have so much to think about.
“Tired, sweetie?” my dad asks, his arm still across my shoulders.
I nod. As we walk toward Gramma’s old car, I think about how wild life is and how it can all change in the blink of an eye. I look at the stars and send up a quick prayer for guidance. No matter what happens, I feel like I’m about to cash in a lotto ticket for the biggest jackpot of all time.
“Okay, let’s call ’em,” I say, tossing my cardboard food container into the trash and downing an entire bottle of water.
When we got back to the hotel, we ordered Chinese food and read over my GAM contract. Well, I skimmed it, actually. Too much legal talk made my head spin, but Dad was pretty diligent, even using the dictionary app on his phone to look up a few words.
Dad puts his phone on SPEAKER and lays it next to him on his bed as it rings.
“How was the Bluebird?” Dylan calls out in lieu of hello.
I grin. “Pretty awesome,” I say, which clearly isn’t enough because my dad launches into a play-by-play of the whole night. When he gets to the part about Dan Silver, my brothers hoot and holler in the background.
“Two offers!” Dylan shouts.
“That’s crazy!” Jacob reiterates.
“Okay, boys, settle down.” My dad chuckles. Then he sighs heavily, running his hand through his hair. “But seriously, Aileen. Strong set all this up for us tonight, and this Silver guy just popped out of the shadows. We told him we’d go into his office tomorrow morning, but how do we know he’s not some hustler?”
“Well, it’s hard to tell,” my mom says. “Do you—”
Dylan interrupts her. “ ‘Daniel (Dan) Elliott Silver,’ ” he calls from the background, “ ‘born December 12, 1961, in Memphis, Tennessee, is a country music producer and former president of Allied Music. Silver left Allied in July 2013 to start his own label, Open Highway Records. He lives with his wife and two daughters in Franklin, Tennessee.’ Wikipedia doesn’t lie!”
“So then he sounds like the real deal to me,” my mom says into the phone. “Have you read the GAM contract?”
“Oh, yes,” my dad says, smirking up at me. “Let me tell you, Aileen, that was a labor of love.” I give my dad a big smile, and he turns back to the phone, grinning as he gives my mom a recap of what he read in the contract. By the time he’s finished, he looks stressed. “I just want to do the right thing for Bird.”
I look at my dad, bent over the cell phone on his bed. His shirt is untucked, one of his brown socks has a small hole in the toe, and his reading glasses are perched on top of his messy blond hair. I’m sure my dad would love to be on vacation with the rest of my family, but he’s here with me, helping me start a music career. I hop off my bed and climb onto his, sitting cross-legged across from him as we make our good-byes to my mom and brothers.
When he pushes END on the call, he looks up at me, and I see deep creases in his forehead and worry lines at the corners of his eyes. “Bird,” he asks, “is this what you want?”
“What? To meet with Dan Silver?”
“No,” my dad says, waving his hand over the papers next to him on the bed. “This career. This life. I just want you to know what you’re getting into. This is a development deal: no promises, no guarantees. This is you starting a career at the age of sixteen when you have your whole life ahead of you. So I just want to make sure—before we talk to Silver or before we decide about Strong—is all of this what you really want?”
I nibble at a hangnail on my right pinkie finger and consider my dad’s concern. Is this what I really want? I mean, a record deal and singing career wasn’t really something I’d ever dreamed about, but that’s only because I never thought in a million years that it’d be a possibility. But now it is. A contract with a giant music label is literally within my reach, and although I always saw my music as being just one spoke in the wheel of the Barrett Family Band, I can’t help but think now that this is meant to be. I want people to hear my songs. I want to be onstage. In fact, I think I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my whole life.
“Yes,” I say, and once it’s out there, I know I mean it. “Yes, Dad. I want this. My music has always been the most important thing in my life besides my family. If I have the chance to turn it into a career, then I want to take it. So yes, yes, yes, I want this.”
My dad sighs and then looks at the time on his phone. He holds it up to me and grins. “Well then, sweetie, you’d better get some sleep. ’Cause tomorrow we’re getting you a record deal, one way or the other.”
I launch toward my dad and give him a giant hug. My mom always says Don’t wish your life away, but at this moment, I wish it were tomorrow already because there’s no way I’ll sleep a wink tonight.
“HMMM,” I SAY, squinting into the morning sun. As predicted, neither Dad nor I could sleep last night, so we didn’t waste any time getting ready this morning and making our way over to the address on Dan Silver’s business card. His office is on Music Row, too, but as we stand on the sidewalk facing a small bungalow, I can’t help but notice the stark difference between this place and the imposing GAM office building. “This isn’t at all what I expected.”
“Me neither,” my dad says, looking up at the one-and-a-half-story building. “But it’s kind of nice. Reminds me a little of our house on Adams Road.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. The sign on the front door is written in brightly colored lowercase letters, spaced out artistically: open highway records. We’ve been on the road nearly half my life, so the name feels right. I pull the lucky rock out of the front pocket of my jeans and roll it around in my hand. Yesterday I showed up at GAM full of nerves, but today, I feel more confident.
My dad leads me down the short walk and up the steps to the broad porch. He presses the doorbell, and while we wait, I picture myself writing a song in the large, whitewashed porch swing. I get chills. This almost feels like home.
“Welcome, welcome,” Mr. Silver says, opening the door himself and gesturing for us to come inside. The front room is open, and there is a big oak desk, but no one sits behind it. The place is oddly peaceful. “We don’t have a receptionist just yet,” he explains, “so feel free to tip your doorman.”
We all smile at his joke and then follow him toward the back.
“How long have you been open, Mr. Silver?” I ask, following him to his office.
“Please, call me Dan,” he says over his shoulder. “I left Allied last month and brought a few clients with me—smaller acts, but people I couldn’t just walk away from,” he explains, glancing back at me. �
��And we rep songwriters like Shannon Crossley, which is why I was at the Bluebird last night.”
He stops at the door of his office and ushers us inside.
“I know this place doesn’t look like much,” he says with a smile, “but Open Highway will be big one day; it just takes time. We want to make sure that the artists we scout, the new ones we sign, are the right ones to grow the label.”
My dad and I nod, listening to everything he says, but our eyes are absorbing his impressive office. It’s not nearly as large as Randall’s, but it’s filled with photos of just as many recognizable faces.
“I’m not a desperate man,” Dan continues. “I left Allied because I want to accomplish something special. I want to sign artists who are willing to take chances, who care more about their music than their image. In short: quality versus quantity.”
He directs us to a small sitting area. Everywhere I turn, I see Silver posing with the country music stars I grew up with. Framed pictures cover the walls and his desk: Silver with his arm around Tim McGraw, Silver squeezed between Miranda Lambert and Blake Shelton at their wedding, Silver with Jason Aldean holding up one of the many CMAs that line the mantel over the fireplace behind his desk, and on and on. The walls are covered with platinum and gold records. I marvel at how hard it must have been to walk away from all of this—to start over, to take such a big leap of faith.
Dad and I take our seats on a tan leather couch. Dan sits across from us in an old but very comfortable-looking armchair and pours everybody a glass of sweet tea. I realize then that Dan’s not wearing a suit. He’s in jeans and a light blue collared shirt, no jacket, no tie.
He leans back casually. “I’m not one to beat around the bush, guys,” he says. “I know you have a contract from GAM, and I hope you read the papers last night—” He pauses here, looking me straight in the eye until I nod. He nods back and continues. “They’re a big label and a good company. They have name recognition and represent a lot of famous artists. I’m not naive. I know that has to be appealing to you, and it may feel safe. I know because I was president of a company just as big.”
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