“The bus is nice. Don’t get me wrong,” my dad says. “But we did all right on Winnie. Hey, you guys want to—” His cell phone rings, cutting him off. He looks down at the screen and sighs heavily. “Sorry, let me just…” He trails off as he heads back into the bedroom. “This is Judd Barrett.”
“I can’t believe you guys are flying out today,” I lament to the others. We’ll be in LA in a couple of hours, which means I’ll get to perform again tomorrow. It also means that my entourage is flying home.
“Sucks,” Stella says.
“Can’t you push your flight back?” I ask, batting my eyes at her mom. “Shannon, don’t you want to see me play the Staples Center?”
Shannon smiles. “I’d love nothing more, Bird, but I’ve got a spot at the Bluebird tomorrow night.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I say, bummed for me but happy for her. Playing in the round at the Bluebird is a big deal, especially on a Friday night.
“Bird, don’t start missing us before we’re even gone,” Stella says, throwing her arm across my shoulders. “You didn’t even know we were coming! And at least I got to see what life on the road is like for big stars like you.” I chuckle and shake my head. “I feel like a freaking Rolling Stone.”
Dylan snorts and opens his eyes. “Yeah, you’re a regular Mick Jagger, Stella.” She rolls her eyes, and I laugh. As they start talking about their summers—she has an internship, he has a job—I stare out the window, thinking about how much I’ll miss my family and how crazy it’ll be to tour without them. Only my parents are sticking around.
Suddenly my phone pings with a new text message, and I can’t get to it fast enough. I didn’t get Kai’s number, so the ball has totally been in his court. Besides the fact that I like him and it’s been torture waiting for him to freaking text me already, it really would be nice to see LA from a local’s point of view.
I smile enormously when a text from a 323 number comes up:
Kai Chandler’s unofficial official LA tour, for VIPs only.
His message is a long list of his favorite underground spots: record stores, coffee shops, art galleries, and dive music venues. No wonder he didn’t text me right away; he really put some thought into it. I pass my phone to Stella under the table, and she reads the text. I take a big breath and fill my lungs with this energy, this feeling that I’m on the verge of something special, as the road leads me somewhere entirely new.
“How was it, Bird?” Dad asks when he meets Mom and me later for dinner. When our massive caravan pulled in this morning, the roadies sprang to life, unloading the trucks and beginning setup in a way that said, We’ve done this before. My dad, on the other hand, started running around like a chicken with his head cut off, and it was clear to me that if Mom and I hung around, we’d only be in the way. So we headed out for a day of sightseeing.
After a full day that included LA musts like the Hollywood Walk of Fame and Sunset Boulevard, we are now at Makana, a restaurant Kai suggested in his text. It’s Hawaiian, which is cool, something I’ve never had before. The place is stylish. The tables look like they’re made of reclaimed wood, and the dim lightbulbs are encased in old glass buoys. It’s rustic and romantic. I don’t know what made Kai suggest this place, but it’s a home run. And as much as I love my folks, I can’t help but wish I were here with him instead.
“We had a great day,” I say, taking another bite of the special: a spicy fish stew with something called poi. It’s divine. “We didn’t make it to the Hollywood sign, but we saw a lot of LA, Beverly Hills, and some of Santa Monica.”
“You wouldn’t believe how friendly the people are out here, Judd,” Mom says. “We stopped at a trendy little coffee place Bird’s friend recommended, and I actually left my wallet right on the counter—”
“Aileen,” my dad says, shaking his head.
“Well, now listen,” she continues. “This boy with those circle earrings that stretch out your earlobes came running up to me in the parking lot and gave it back. Then, he wouldn’t let me buy him a coffee or anything for thanks!” My dad looks impressed, but I’m annoyed. I want to ask why his earrings have anything to do with it, but I bite my tongue. “You should’ve seen his tattoos, Judd. All the way up and down both arms. Looked like a color-by-number type of thing. But he was nice. That just blew me away—how nice he was.”
“Wow, so you can’t tell a person’s character by the way they look?” I finally say. “That’s odd.”
“Bird,” my dad cautions.
My mom purses her lips. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Right,” I say. They exchange a look like I’m somehow the brat in this situation, but determined not to fight, I change the subject. “I wish you could’ve come with us today, Dad.”
He shrugs. “Me too. But my boss is pretty demanding.”
“Ha-ha,” I say dryly, and he laughs. I tell him about the rest of our day, Mom and I both effusive about our gorgeous drive up Highway 1 toward Malibu. It was enchanting, with the Pacific Ocean sparkling blue under the bright sunshine. I rolled down my window and took it all in, the surfers and paddleboarders, the gorgeous beaches, and the stunning houses perched on the hills and nestled in the valleys.
“Wow, I’m jealous,” he admits. As dinner progresses, his phone beeps so much that it gets obnoxious. He was never that guy before, and it’s pretty hypocritical since the Barretts have a “No Screens at the Table” policy, but again I bite my tongue knowing all the messages probably have to do with the tour and me.
“LA sure is something else,” my mom remarks. “Everybody dresses so casual and tries to act laid-back, but the cars all zoom down the freeway.” She’s right. The traffic is intense. “Nobody can slow down these days.”
I glance over at my dad and sigh. Here we are at an absolutely enchanting restaurant, and he can’t see beyond the texts and e-mails blowing up his phone. Judd Barrett is supposed to be a banjo player and father, but looking at him now, I see only my manager.
When my mom says California feels worlds away from Tennessee, I have to agree. But that’s also what I like about it. There’s an almost palpable vitality here. I thought LA would be so fake, all stretched, plastic faces and flashy snobs, but I had a blast today and loved every minute. As we went from tourist stops to local favorites, even getting stopped a couple of times for an autograph or picture, I couldn’t help but think about how many big dreams have come true along these busy boulevards.
8
“ANYBODY HOME?” ANITA calls from the front of Dolly. She wasn’t at all interested in a road trip from Omaha, but there’s no way she or Dan would miss my first show in Los Angeles tonight.
“In the bathroom!” I holler back.
I hear her making herself a cup of coffee as I spit out my toothpaste. Winnie got us where we needed to go and I love that RV, but life on Dolly is a whole new level of mobile living. This bathroom may be small, but it’s nicer even than the one we had in our old house in Jackson.
“How was your flight?” I ask, meeting Anita out in the lounge area.
She shrugs. “Terrible, as usual. How do you like California?” she asks.
“Oh man, I love it,” I gush, packing my bag for another day out. “My mom and I went down to the Chinese Theatre yesterday. I can’t believe I’ll actually be there for a movie premiere on Monday!”
Anita worked hard to get my song “Beautiful to You” on the soundtrack to the latest blockbuster starring Hollywood It Boy Jason Samuels. She even set us up on an awkward coffee date, which was infuriating at the time, but now that the movie is being released and I get to walk the red carpet, all is forgiven. Besides, Jason ended up being cool. A little pretentious about his “craft,” but a good guy.
“Are your parents here?” she asks suddenly, looking over my shoulder.
“They went into the arena to check out the stage,” I answer, unplugging my phone from its charger. “I’m supposed to meet my mom in a few minutes. She’s flying back to Nashville
on the red-eye tonight, so this is our last chance to see the Hollywood sign. I know you’re probably worried that I’ll be worn out before the show, but don’t be. We won’t be gone long.”
Anita smiles. “Oh, I’m not worried. That’s your manager’s job.”
“Well, my manager has a billion things to think about besides whether I go sightseeing, so I think I’ll just use my best judgment.”
“Wonderful,” she says, taking another sip of coffee. “Soak up all this California sunshine.”
“Right?” I say, remembering to grab my sunglasses. “My dad says he likes having all four seasons, but I say a girl could get used to having a tan all year-round.”
“You know, Bird,” Anita says, placing her cup in the little sink, “Open Highway is in the process of setting up a second office out here. A lot of country singers try to keep a foot in both Nashville and LA. You could always relocate, even if for only part of the year. It could really go a long way toward opening up crossover opportunities for you.”
I finally stop moving and consider her. “Relocate?”
“Just part-time. Something to think about,” she says, heading toward the front door of the bus. By the time her stilettos hit the pavement, she’s already on her phone and I’ve forgotten to ask why she stopped by in the first place. But living in LA? How would that work? Would my folks even let me? Definitely not on my own, but would they be willing to make the move?
I shake the thought from my head and get going. Home is this bus for the rest of the summer, and that’s about as far as I can think right now. I pull on my Beats and listen to the playlist I made from Kai’s flash drive as I walk across the parking lot, California dreamin’.
“Wow, you guys,” I say to Dan and Anita later as I join them in the nosebleed section of the Staples Center. “If you want, I can talk to my manager about getting you better seats.”
They both laugh. “Bird,” Dan says, pulling the seat down beside him, “have a seat. See what the fans see.”
When I settle into the last row of the uppermost deck of the arena and look out over the sea of empty seats, I feel so small. It’s kind of trippy since when I’m out on that stage, I feel like a giant, full of power, fearless. Suddenly, a lightbulb goes off in my head. “I ought to tape some signed CDs under these chairs and then announce it during the show. If I were a fan, I’d be stoked.”
Dan turns to Anita, who looks impressed. “I’ll get some up here by the time we’re through with this chat,” she says, and begins typing on her phone, presumably sending someone to meet us with CDs.
“You could just text my dad,” I offer. “He’s on the bus, I think.”
“Actually,” Dan says, propping his elbows on the armrests and steepling his fingers at his chin, “we really wanted to take a moment alone with you, Bird. Just to have a quick talk.”
“Oh,” I say. I pause. “My dad shouldn’t be here, then?”
“Probably not,” Dan says, crossing one leg over his knee. “This isn’t really a meeting. It’s more like a conversation.”
“Oh-kay.”
“First of all, I couldn’t be happier with the success of Wildflower,” he says with a genuine smile. “The tour is off to a great start as well. The crowd ate it up in Omaha, and I have no doubt that the LA audience will love you this weekend.”
“Adore you,” Anita says.
“This tour with Jolene,” he continues, “is going to launch you into a whole new stratosphere.”
“Everyone in America will know who you are by the end of the summer,” Anita says, pointing a manicured finger my way. “Mark my words.”
I believe her, but I sometimes still can’t believe it.
“Which brings me to something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” Dan says, readjusting himself in the seat once again. Something about this whole “conversation” has me filled with anxiety. Dan runs one hand over his bald spot and goes on. “It’s a delicate topic, I admit, but Anita and I have been talking a lot about your future, your next steps, where we see you in a year, five, ten, and so on.”
Wow. I barely think beyond tomorrow.
“And you’re only going to get bigger, Bird,” Anita says.
“With that in mind…” Dan says, clearly uncomfortable. My throat tightens. Something’s not right. “We strongly feel that it would be in your best interest—and this is just business, not personal—to hire a real manager… sooner rather than later.”
“Huh?” I say, stunned. They want to replace my dad?
“I love that your parents are so supportive, Bird. I do,” Dan says.
“They’re amazing people,” Anita adds.
“But you’re in the big leagues now, and your dad has…” Dan pauses. “Let’s just say he’s dropped the ball on a few things.”
“Well, he’s learning,” I say, caught off guard. “We’re new to all of this. I think he’s doing pretty well, really, for somebody who’s never been a manager before.”
“Listen, Bird, there’s no doubt he has your best interests at heart,” Anita says, leaning forward to look me in the eye. “But the facts are these: He’s had trouble staying on top of things, he’s coming to us with a lot of stuff that we don’t have time to sort out for him, and you’re only going to get bigger, so he’s only going to get busier. There’s just not time for a learning curve. I’m not being mean, just honest. Your dad’s great, but this is business.”
“You need a professional, Bird,” Dan says. “I’m telling you this as your friend, not as your boss. I actually have an excellent manager in mind, if you think this is something you want to at least consider, but he lives in California.”
“If he’s in California, then how’s he going to do a better job than my own father, who’ll be right on the bus with me?” I ask defensively. Probably not the best way to talk to the president of my music label, but this all feels wrong: hiding out at the top of the arena, talking about my dad behind his back.
“Well, that’s actually something else we wanted to talk to you about,” Dan continues. “We think you need to have a presence out here. A strong presence in LA will really help you cross over from the country scene into mainstream.”
“So, you want me to… ditch my dad… and move to California?” I ask slowly, my head spinning.
“That’s not exactly what we’re saying,” Dan says.
I think about my dad this morning, how it looked like he’d gotten hardly any sleep and how everything he does these days is for me. I think about what he’s sacrificed since that night last year at the Station Inn when I was first discovered. I think about music, what it means to him and to my family, how it saved us… how the Barrett Family Band stopped touring because of me, and how if I replace my dad as manager, I’m shutting him out of it all completely.
“No way,” I say, standing up. I could never hurt my dad like that. “Is that it? I need to get backstage.”
“Certainly,” Dan says, uncrossing his legs and standing up. “It was just something to consider. We didn’t mean for you to make any sudden changes. I’m sure Judd will figure things out and be a pro in no time.”
I nod as we walk to the escalators, but a twinge of doubt niggles at the back of my mind. Will he? Just this morning he was frustrated that it took him seven calls to get the right guy on the phone for a merchandising situation in San Diego. How many phone calls would a seasoned manager have had to make?
“And California isn’t something we’re suggesting happen right away, either,” Anita says. “But Dan and I are heading back to Nashville after the premiere Monday night, and we wanted to have a conversation before then about where you are and where we see you going.”
“I’m looking forward to the premiere and seeing Jason again, actually,” I say, changing the subject as we file onto the down escalator.
“It will be an incredible night,” Anita says. “Your first major red carpet, Jason and his Hollywood friends, and the clothes—oh, Bird—wait until you see the gowns I’m
having sent over.”
I smile, the tension from just moments ago already lightening as I think about it.
When we hit the first level again, we walk toward the doors to the backstage tunnel and one of Anita’s “people” meets me with the surprise upper-deck CDs to sign. After I scrawl my signature across the case, Anita smiles knowingly and hip-checks the doors wide open. “Get ready, Bird Barrett. You’re about to see how much fun LA can really be.”
9
“BIRD! OVER HERE!Bird, Bird, you’re gorgeous! Bird, here! Right here!”
“This is insane,” I say as I accept my dad’s hand and step out of the limousine. The cameras and paparazzi are a blur, everybody crowding around one another to get a good shot. I link my arm through my father’s and we look right, smile, look straight, smile, look left, and smile. Anita coached us on red-carpet tips like that, as well as a few poses I could use in front of the step-and-repeat—the wall of sponsor logos in front of which everyone gets their picture taken—but when it comes to the microphones jutting forward and TV cameras rolling, I haven’t got a clue. “There are so many people calling my name that I don’t even know where to look,” I say through clenched teeth.
My dad isn’t much help. He looks like a deer in headlights, and as we start to take a few steps down the red carpet, it is abundantly clear that he’s as lost about protocol as I am. Luckily, Anita hangs in my shadow, looking absolutely stunning in a sleek, black Marc Jacobs dress, her dark hair slicked back in an elegant bun. When we make eye contact, she knows instantly what I need and maneuvers down the carpet ahead of us to direct me toward the reporters she’d like me to talk to.
“Bird, who are you wearing?” an Entertainment Tonight reporter asks, holding her mic out to me. I smile and walk toward her, thinking to myself what a stupid question that is. I want to respond, I’m wearing someone? Dad, check my back. Do I have a stowaway? But I know Anita would kill me, so I look down at my gold-and-black dress and say demurely, “Calvin Klein.”
The Road to You Page 5