He pauses a second, looking back and forth at my eyes, before I finally see him decide to trust me. “Fine. I believe you. But will the fans? Will your fans’ parents?”
“I—” I don’t have words. I never considered how holding a glass of champagne at an after party could affect my image. I just went with it.
“You know, Bird, this is bad,” he says, running his hand through his longish blond hair. “Anita called me this morning because that Kayelee Ford girl is running with it, and Anita is furious. She gave me the chance to talk to you first, but she’s not happy, Bird, and neither is Dan. Although to tell you the truth, I’m not exactly happy with them. Where were they when all of this was happening?” he says more to himself than to me. “And your mother—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “I should’ve been there. I thought I could trust you to make smart decisions, Bird.”
“You can, Dad,” I say as hot tears sting my eyes. I’m upset that I disappointed him, but I’m also starting to get a little ticked off. “I did make the smart decision not to drink, and yeah, it looks bad and I’m sorry, Dad. I really am. But you can tell Dan and Anita and Mom and stupid Kayelee Ford and whoever else cares so much about my life that you know the truth. I didn’t get drunk last night. I didn’t.”
My dad presses the bottoms of his palms into his eyes and takes a deep breath. Then, calmer, he looks at me and says, “Bird, you have to remember that you’re a role model now. You’ve got a responsibility to—” Just then, his phone rings. He looks at the caller ID and his expression is that of sheer fury. “I have to take this,” he says as he walks down the stairs, “but this conversation isn’t over.”
“This is Judd Barrett,” I hear him say crisply into the phone as he stalks off.
I bring my own phone back up to my ear, my mood starkly different from when this call began. “I guess you heard all that, huh?” I ask Stella.
“I’m looking at the picture now,” she says somberly. “I didn’t even notice the drink when you tweeted it last night, but now it’s on TMZ, and—ooh,” she says, dropping her voice.
I’m afraid to ask. “What?”
“Kayelee Ford retweeted it to all her fans with the hashtags Oops and Goodgirlgonebad.”
My mouth hangs open. “What?” I ask again, this time heatedly. I climb back onto the bus and head straight for my iPad. I pull up the damaging pic and groan. “I bet Anita is livid. She’s always talking about my image, and it really doesn’t look good for my dad,” I say, thinking about our conversation in the upper deck of the Staples Center. I bite my pinkie nail. “Dan thinks I need to get a new manager—a real one.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah, I know. At first, I was, like, ‘No way. I’m not going to hurt my dad like that.’ ”
“Totally.”
“But now, especially after he just went berserk over this fake scandal, I can’t help but think that maybe it’s not the worst idea in the world.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I say. “I mean, do you think a professional manager would attack his star like that? Over one tiny sip of champagne?” I fall into the leather massage chair and close my eyes. “I mean, obviously people seeing me out drinking is not great, but I think my dad just went off on me more than a regular manager would. And that’s not his job.”
“Well, I mean, it sort of is…”
I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. “It’s not the job he gets paid for,” I amend.
“Right,” she says, “but how do you fire your dad?”
I exhale loudly. “Exactly.”
11
WHEN DAN AND Anita said Jolene’s Sweet Home Tour was going to be intense, they weren’t joking. Over the past two weeks, Dolly has wound her way across the country, stopping in Phoenix and Kansas City—which reminded me of Adam, since that’s the last place we both played before I was signed—and then on down to Little Rock. After that, we trucked all the way to Atlanta for a couple of shows before playing a double header in Washington, DC. I was hoping to get to do some sightseeing in our nation’s capital, but Anita squashed those plans when she flew up and jam-packed my schedule with interviews and appearances. It feels like I’ve talked to everybody who’s ever worked in country music… well, except for my tour partner. Jolene still seems hell-bent on pretending I don’t exist.
Now we’re in Philadelphia, a quick stop but one I’ve been looking forward to ever since meeting Bex in Baltimore the day before I joined the tour. I peek out through the curtains and see her sitting in her wheelchair surrounded by a posse of her girlfriends, all wearing bright pink Bex Friends Forever T-shirts. It’s really sweet.
“Break a leg, boss,” Kai says behind me.
I glance over my shoulder, smile, and then put my game face on. He matches my expression, and we segue into my favorite part of each night: our preshow routine at the stage steps right before I go on. He squeezes my shoulders, like a personal trainer for a boxer, while I shuffle my feet in place. When my band files past and the lights change, he whispers, “You got this. You got this!” right in my ear and I bolt onto the stage like shot from a cannon, charged from contact with that boy.
“How y’all doing tonight?” I call into the microphone. The crowd explodes, and it’s crazy how different the energy is on the tour now. The arena is pretty full, and while a lot of the fans are still from my mom’s (or Jolene’s) generation, it looks like everybody with a ticket is on their feet. They know me. They are here to see me, too. “Oh, Philly,” I call, waving them off playfully. “I bet you treat all the girls this way.”
They go nuts all over again. I laugh into the microphone, throwing my head back, totally in my element. This is where I belong. All that traveling my whole life only to discover that the stage is where I am most at home.
“Let’s start things off with one you ought to know!” I call.
I turn toward Monty and we’re off, the band picking up the first number with palpable enthusiasm. As I start to sing, everything feels special tonight. There are cell phones in the air and signs in the crowd that say things like, I HEART U BIRD and BB 4 EVA.
I love my fans.
My set is amazing. The band gels perfectly, and we float through each song with ease; it’s as if I’m just hanging out with thousands of my best friends. My time is almost up, so I step back and take off my guitar. Openers don’t get encores on Jolene’s tour, but Monty and I have worked it out so that at this point in my show, we take a deliberate break, almost as if we’re through. I step back and wave, leaving the fans a little frenzied. I grin my face off as they lose it, screaming maniacally, begging for one more song. They want “Sing Anyway.” I know they’re expecting it and it’s my favorite part of the show, too. I always love hearing the massive chorus sing along.
I walk to center stage and take the mic off its stand. “What’s that, Philadelphia? One more?” Their reply is deafening. I smile down at Bex and her friends, cupping my hands into a heart sign at my chest, pumping them in her direction. They return the gesture and that feels like as good a time as any to wrap this party up. I raise my mic and my band starts playing softly as the lights dim.
The dark arena flickers to life the way fireflies lit up my backyard right after sunset at our old house in Jackson. And we sing.
On the way to Buffalo I should sleep, but I can’t put down my iPad. My Twitter feed is blowing up with mentions by my fans of the behind-the-scenes videos that Bex and her friends just posted. They came backstage after my set, chilling with me in my dressing room before Jolene’s show and watching it from the wings with me. Then they hung out on Dolly for a while. They were a lot of fun, telling me how much they liked the concert and showing me pictures of guys they like or are dating at their school. We’re the same age, but our lives couldn’t be more different.
They asked me what inspired my songs, and I admitted that it’s almost always a boy. This led them to questions about my love life at present, and I was so caught up that I wanted to spill,
but honestly, I don’t know what Kai and I are. I’ve seen him every day since San Diego, and he’s hitched a ride on Dolly a couple of times, but with my dad on board it’s not like we’ve had a lot of alone time. I look for him at meals and love bumping into him in the back hallways of the venues we play. We text nonstop and talk on the phone for hours when we’re on the road, like we’ve known each other forever. Sometimes we laugh until we can’t breathe, and a couple of times, I’ve woken up to a dead cell phone on my pillow after we’ve both fallen asleep talking late into the night.
But what are we?
I lay my iPad on my lap and lean back on the couch cushions, staring at the dark window and thinking about chemistry and connections and having the conversation. The DTR. But how do I “define the relationship” when he hasn’t even kissed me yet? It’s been nothing but a series of quick touches: brushing a hair from my face backstage, squeezing my arm at dinner, leaning against me playfully when we pass in the arena corridors. What does it even mean?
As the bus rolls down the highway, I pull my lucky rock pendant from under my shirt and study it: just a black chunk of asphalt with tiny silver flecks, but Stella turned it into so much more. It reminds me of when I was beginning this life—of being on the cusp of something amazing. I feel like that again now with Kai, but I don’t know if he feels it, too.
I have no answers, so I call the one person who always does.
“Before you worry, nothing’s wrong,” Stella says by way of greeting. She sniffles. “I’m watching The Notebook.”
I chuckle. “Say no more.”
I hear the movie go mute and she asks, “What’s up, woman?”
I sigh. “I’m thinking about Kai, of course, and what we are to each other, if anything, and it’s frustrating, you know? He still hasn’t kissed me or made any kind of move. Is it possible I’m misreading it?”
“It doesn’t sound like it,” she says, “from what you’ve told me.”
“Yeah, he acts like he likes me, but how do I know for sure?” I ask. “And he’s supposed to make the first move, right?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Well, in this case, he is,” I say. I can’t imagine myself making the first move. If he didn’t reciprocate, I would maybe crumble into a pile of dust on the spot. I close my eyes and rock with the sway of the bus. “Dating is like an impossible riddle.”
“You ought to write about it,” Stella suggests. “You always seem to say things better with your music. And lots of girls feel the way you do in that in-between stage. Oh! Write a song and call it, ‘Do You Freaking Want My Body or Not?’ I would blast a jam like that.”
“You’re crazy,” I say, laughing. “But to be completely honest, that’s not much worse than the stuff I’ve come up with lately. I’ve had writer’s block so bad this summer, which really sucks since Dan wants to hear something new by the end of next week. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I was always inspired on the road growing up.”
“And there’s even a boy!” Stella says. “A really hot boy. You should have ten songs by now!”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not helping.”
“Sorry.”
I sigh heavily. “No, you’re right. I’m happy and busy and falling for a great guy, but everything I write is so forced.”
“Well, then, maybe the guy is the problem.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe you’re spending so much time texting or talking to Kai that you’re not allowing yourself the creative space you need to work.”
“Kai is not the problem.”
“Okay, sorry,” she says. “I just know my mom never writes hits when she’s happy.”
I chew on my lip and consider that.
But then I think it’s bull crap. I’ve got writer’s block because the label wants a pop sound and my roots are in bluegrass. I don’t know how to make my stuff fit their marketing strategy. And I’m on a breakneck tour schedule. And some days you just don’t have it. But it’s definitely not because of Kai.
I force a yawn, not mad at Stella but suddenly ready to get off the phone. “I’ll try this ‘who makes the first move’ idea.”
“Do it,” she says. “Do both. Write the song and make the move.” Then, “Oh no.”
“What?”
“Um, are you still online?”
“Why?” I ask, reaching for my iPad. But before she can answer, I gasp. “ ‘At BirdBarrett is so fake,’ ” I read out loud. “ ‘Pimping out cancer patients for press. At least at KayeleeFord keeps it real. Hashtag belikeme.’ What the—”
“It’s terrible,” Stella says. “And Kayelee is retweeting all kinds of stuff like that. What’s your show have to do with her? God, I hate that girl.”
I know it’s not helpful, but I read through Kayelee’s feed and feel sick. I know I burned a bridge with her label the minute I turned them down for a deal last year, and I know that the media is fanning the flames of a supposed rivalry, but to accuse me of exploiting a girl with a terminal illness, basically saying that the whole thing was staged for good press? I am fuming, my face hot and my pulse rapid. “I would never,” I say softly. “I’m not like that.”
“Obviously,” Stella says. “And your true fans will know.”
I scroll down the page, hoping that’s true and wishing it made me feel better.
12
“KNOCK, KNOCK,” KAI calls from the front of the bus.
I slap the strings of my guitar quiet and look up from where I’m writing on the couch, giddy just at the sound of his voice. When the tour pulled into Buffalo, we got the day off, and I played tourist with Kai and some of the crew before our show at the Niagara Falls Center the next day. Then it was back on the bus to play Cleveland before heading over to Chicago, where I had the most amazing time sightseeing with Kai. He took loads of pictures as we explored Millennium Park and the Riverwalk, and while he still hasn’t kissed me, he held my hand as we walked along Michigan Avenue. And tonight at the end of our preshow routine, he gave me a good-luck peck on the cheek before I bolted onto the stage. It’s been more than enough to make me feel better about the potential of us. Chicago is now one of my all-time favorite cities.
“Come in!” I call as he ascends the stairs.
He hesitates at the top. “Oh, you’re working?”
“No, it’s nothing,” I say, setting my guitar and journal on the end of the couch. My dad is off somewhere making calls before we head out for a special show for the troops at Fort Campbell. It’s crazy to me that I’ve only got Indianapolis and Tulsa after that before the final stop of the tour, three shows in Nashville… which means that Dan will be waiting for me, ready for new material. But I shake my head. That can wait. “What’s up?”
He holds out his laptop and sits next to me, the scent of the Moroccan oil he uses making me swoon a little. “Last night I edited some of the pics from Saturday, and I wanted to show you a few of my favorites. We don’t leave for another half hour, so—”
“Yes!” I say. “Totally. I’d love to see them.”
“Okay, so these first ones are from ‘the bean,’ ” he says. I move in closer as he clicks through the images, and am blown away. He captured the cityscape brilliantly, distorted by the curves of the enormous bean-shaped sculpture. He also took some amazing candid shots of couples laughing and children squatting at the base, mesmerized by their contorted reflections in the stainless steel.
I settle in against his side, and he puts his arm around me. He scans through the pictures quickly, only stopping on a few that he thinks are worthy. If I could get my hands on his computer, I’d take my time with each image so I could slip into his brain. His photography isn’t like any I’ve ever seen. Duck feet sticking out of the Chicago River, my hands strumming my guitar before lunch, my toes in the grass at the park, Maybelle nestled into my neck, only showing my chin and forearm. There are very few of my face, some only showing my profile, my eyes, my mouth, but not my whole face—this famous f
ace that I see online as much as in the mirror these days. These other parts of myself, or maybe the way he’s brought attention to them, feel much more intimate.
“I feel like you really see me,” I say quietly.
He turns his head and kisses my forehead, his lips lingering there. I gulp, hard. We are so close, my nose at his neck, and I don’t know if I should tilt my face up and bring my lips to his—if I should make the move.
He turns back to his computer, and I lay my head on his shoulder. Of course now my heart starts writing a song. I know I should grab my journal or my guitar, but that would require pulling away. Then I think about what Stella said, about Kai being more of a distraction than an inspiration, and I exhale loudly.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“What?” I look up at him. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about my next album.”
“How’s it going?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “It’s like—I’ve gone from bluegrass to country and now they’re pushing for pop, which isn’t really me. I mean, I play the fiddle!”
He shakes his head.
“And they’re not calling it pop, they’re calling it ‘crossover,’ ” I say with air quotes.
Kai cringes. I knew he would hate that.
“Exactly,” I say. I pick up my songwriting journal and frown. “I think I’m finally onto something, but I’m just not in love with this song yet. It was never this much work before!”
“Can I hear it?”
“Oh,” I say, glancing up at him in surprise. The song is about Kai—so clearly about Kai. I feel my neck redden just thinking about playing it for him. “I don’t know. I’ve only got the chorus, and it’s really rough.”
The Road to You Page 8