The Road to You

Book 2: Wildflower

by Alecia Whitaker

Genres: YA Romance

Synopsis

Bright lights...screaming fans...cute roadies...country music sensation Bird Barrett has officially arrived.

Next up on the road to stardom, Bird's heading out on tour. Between opening for one of the biggest acts in country music and meeting a passionate young photographer who's working as part of the backstage crew, the weeks pass by in an exciting blur. It might even be enough to distract Bird from the way things ended--or never quite started--with Adam Dean.

When the tour wraps, though, it's back to reality. The label is eager for a new hit song, but the sudden fame, complete with a media-fueled rivalry with another country music starlet, has Bird questioning her priorities. Before she can pour her heart into her music, she'll need to figure out where it truly lies.

Filled with sweet country music spirit, Wildflower is a series you just can't get out of your head.

Release date: January 1, 1777

Publisher: Poppy

Print pages: 352

Sample

“BIRD!” A GROUP of fans shout as my dad holds open the back door of a radio station in Baltimore, Maryland. Maybe two dozen people wait with Sharpies and posters, CDs, magazines, T-shirts, their own forearms, anything that I might be willing to autograph. Not too long ago, I would have been surprised at the crowd, might even have turned my head to see what the fuss was about, but in the past two months, since my album, Wildflower, has been out, I’ve come to expect this craziness as part of my new life. “Bird!” they cry, bodies pressed close as they angle for position behind a barricade and a bored police officer. “Bird, over here!”

“Go get ’em,” my dad says with a grin as we step out into the sunny parking lot. This is my favorite part—interacting with my fans. My fans!

The whirlwind publicity tour Anita Handler put together has had a sink-or-swim feel as she’s whisked me from TV interviews to public events, from benefits to radio stations like this one. It’s been exhausting but exhilarating—especially since the album is performing beyond anyone’s expectations. When Dan Silver, the president of my label, Open Highway Records, called to tell me that Wildflower had sold over thirty thousand copies on iTunes in the first week, I was so shocked that I dropped my phone and cracked the screen. He made sure to break the news about my second single, “Sing Anyway,” in person: It topped both the Hot Country and Hot 100 charts. Seeing my name on top of Billboard for “Notice Me” was amazing, but seeing it a second time was the most incredible feeling I’ve ever had. Like it wasn’t a fluke. Like I was meant to do this.

“Hi!” I call to the crowd, reaching out for a CD and a marker.

“I want you to know, it’s like you wrote ‘Yellow Lines’ just for me,” a young girl gushes as other people squish in close to her. “My dad’s in the military, and I’ve already been in, like, seven schools.”

“Yeah, moving around can be hard,” I reply.

“I am obsessed with ‘Sing Anyway,’” a girl next to her says.

“Oh, thanks so much,” I say. I move on, working my way down the line. I know that Anita will try to drag me off soon, saying that we are on a tight schedule and that I should “always leave them wanting more,” but it’s hard to pull away. I’m so motivated hearing that people connect with my music.

Speaking of my publicist, I kick it into high gear when I catch a glimpse of her approaching out of the corner of my eye. I grab for CDs and posters, smile in the direction of camera phones, and sign Bird Barrett as fast as I can, my signature a B with a loop to another B followed by a squiggly line as I scribble quickly, trying to get to everyone. I want to reach them all, and I hate that inevitable moment when Anita click-clacks over to me in her heels to lead me off.

“Thank you all for coming,” she says now, her harsh New York accent always a little jarring. She puts her arm around my waist, expertly positioning herself between my fans and me, beaming at them as we pass. “Be sure to follow Bird on Twitter while she opens for Jolene Taylor’s Sweet Home Tour this summer,” she calls. “Tickets are on sale now at BirdBarrett.com.”

I’m being wrangled toward a black Lincoln town car waiting for me at the corner, but a girl in a wheelchair desperately reaching over the barricade stops me in my tracks.

“Hi there,” I say.

“Bird, I love you! I’m your biggest fan, I swear!” she says in a raspy voice.

Anita tugs on my arm, but I don’t budge. I very rarely give her any pushback—after all she’s the pro, and to put it frankly, Anita’s pretty intimidating—but there’s something about the girl who’s calling out to me now. Her friends look to be about my age, so I’m guessing she is, too, but her eyes are too big for her sallow face and her cheeks are sunken. She fiddles self-consciously with her oxygen tubes as she speaks.

“I’m your biggest fan, Bird. Biggest. By, like, a million percent,” she declares. “I know every word to every song, and ‘Sing Anyway’ is my absolute all-time favorite. I bought the download and the CD, which—could you please sign?”

“Sure,” I say as she hands it to me.

“B-E-X,” she dictates as I scribble a note on the case. “When I started chemo, I made my dad find me this wig,” she says proudly. “I call it my Bird Barrett look.”

“Oh, wow,” I say, noticing her long, golden-red tresses. “That’s a wig? Dang. My hair looks better on you than me.”

She beams. “My dad’s driving me and all my friends up to Philadelphia when you come through on Jolene Taylor’s tour. It’s pretty much the greatest present I’ve ever gotten.”

I frown. “Hmmm. Better than backstage passes?”

Bex blinks. One of her friends grips her forearm, and their smiles vanish in shock. “Backstage? Are you serious?”

I grin. “By about a million percent.”

Anita links her arm through mine again, and I know it’s time. I can read her mind: Plane to catch. But for once, I stop still and stare a hole through her, giving her the opportunity to read mine: Do something.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Anita finally says in a huff. She shakes her head as she pulls a business card from her purse, then she turns toward the girls with an obviously forced smile that nearly makes me laugh out loud. “How about this?” she asks Bex. “You e-mail me at this address, and I’ll send you all-access backstage passes for Philly. You can even tour Bird’s bus. She helps out her biggest fan, and you become the talk of your high school for something other than your cancer.”

I cringe at her bluntness, but Bex doesn’t even blink.

“That’s amazing,” she says, clutching Anita’s business card to her chest. She falls back in her chair as if she’s just fought twenty rounds of boxing and won. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“See you later this summer,” I say as we end our exchange. I wave at the crowd as we walk toward the car, hating the disappointment I see on the faces of the people whose stuff I didn’t get to sign. My dad holds open the door, and I duck inside, Anita right behind me.

I buckle up and look out the tinted window at the fans, my focus falling on Bex and her friends. I can’t believe my publicist actually said for something other than your cancer. I shake my head.

“What’s wrong, Bird?” Anita asks as if she can read my mind.

“Nothing really,” I say. I turn toward her and try to choose my words carefully. “It’s just that—Anita, you know I love you. But you’re so… direct. Like, I know you meant well with that girl, but—”

“But I made her dream come true?” Anita interrupts. She wears a look of satisfaction as the car starts moving. Then she holds up her phone. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

On her screen is a text from Dan:

Billboard in. “Sing Anyway” holds #1 for 4th week!

And although I may question Anita’s methods, she doesn’t leave room for anybody to question her results.



“I don’t think I’ll ever get over the unlimited cookie selection,” I say as I grab a snickerdoodle from the flight attendant’s tray. The label has rented a private plane for us a couple of times to get me between appearances, and I still can’t get used to it. “To think some people would kill for a bag of peanuts on a flight.”

“Oh, Bird, not again with the guilt,” Anita says, sliding her window shade closed and squeezing a lime into her gin and tonic. I’ve finally discovered the kryptonite of my tough-as-nails publicist: flying. “I’ve told you over and over that we are developing your image. Your aura. Regular people fly coach, and you are no longer a regular person. You’d be mobbed if you flew commercial.”

“Did you text your mother?” my dad asks, settling into the seat across from me.

“Yep. They should be here any minute.”

“There’s your silver lining, Bird,” Anita comments. “Think of the gas we’re conserving by letting your mother and brothers hitch a ride today.”

I roll my eyes, and she smirks.

“Back on the Internet again, huh?” my dad comments, indicating the iPad Anita got me. He grabs his book of Sudoku puzzles from his bag. “I swear, if you’re not writing or performing, you spend every other waking moment online. Do they have a sleep app?” he teases.

“Oh, that’s genius,” Anita pipes up. “I’d pay big bucks for an app like that.” I look up at her and laugh even though she’s not joking. Anita’s entire life consists of work and running my life, and I’ll tell you one thing: I’m glad she’s in my corner.

I pull up Twitter and scroll through the mentions, retweeting and favoriting some as I go. “I know you guys think I’m crazy, but this is the best part.”

Anita leans across the tiny aisle and reads over my shoulder. “‘Hashtag whythehype for at BirdBSings? She should lead summer camp sing-alongs, not open for legend Jolene Taylor. Hashtag overrated.’” Anita smirks. “That’s the best part?”

My chest burns from the insult. Those comments hurt—they really do—but they’re the minority. For every negative comment, there are fifty positive ones. “Well, not that exact tweet,” I say, “but interacting with my fans.” Then I reply to the mean tweet aloud as I type. “I love summer camp!”

Anita rolls her eyes. “Waste of time,” she mutters, taking a sip.

“Maybe I want my aura to be friendly,” I say.

Anita harrumphs just as the rest of my family walks onto the plane.

“Let’s get this party started!” my oldest brother, Dylan, yells by way of greeting. He, my mom, and my other brother, Jacob, are boarding the private jet for the first time, and their faces say it all: This is the way to fly.

I stretch and have to admit that while I sometimes feel guilty flying private, it has been nice to be on a plane that can actually accommodate long legs like mine. And the comfort of the small cabin takes me back to the days when my family and I traveled the country in an RV playing bluegrass music at honky-tonks and festivals. Plus, it’s pretty sweet getting both a window and an aisle, the leather seats and the little TVs are awesome, and I can’t complain about skipping all the lines at the airport.

But as much as I have come to enjoy these flights, tonight it all feels different. That last tweet reminded me of our destination: the CenturyLink Center in Omaha, where I will be the new opening act for country music goddess Jolene Taylor and her Sweet Home Tour. Ever since Dan called me with the news that I’d be joining the last leg of her tour, my emotions have gone back and forth from excited to anxious, pumped to be onstage again and terrified that I won’t be good enough. Jolene is a Nashville fixture and a member of the Grand Ole Opry. To open for her is a life-changing opportunity, and I’m worried I won’t live up to the high expectations. What if I screw it all up? What if the fans don’t like me live? I mean, they’re mostly going to be Jolene’s fans: middle-aged women with car pools and careers. What if they hate my stuff?

I pull up the Billboard website. It’s both mind-blowing and comforting to see my name at the top, to see “Sing Anyway” right there above Justin Timberlake, to realize, as my best friend, Stella, pointed out, that that means J.T. knows who I am. That guy brought sexy back, and he knows who I am.

And although this Thursday is a good one with my single still on top of the charts, I can’t help but feel my stomach flip when I see a Billboard story about new country artist Kayelee Ford. I click on the article and read about her album; her label, Great American Music, and its president, Randall Strong, who originally tried to sign me; and how her first single, “Be Like Me,” is already climbing the Hot 100, inching its way closer to mine. I know I shouldn’t, but I do a Web search of my competition and gasp audibly when it takes me to a tabloid’s side-by-side comparison of the two of us. There is a picture of me singing in the studio in my Open Highway sweatshirt right beside a picture of her singing to a crowd of spring breakers in a bikini, with the headline FORD FLIES AFTER BIRD, BUT WILL SHE CATCH HER?

I gulp hard and scan the article as the plane taxis to the runway. Then I close the browser window and immediately go to my fan forum. As we prepare for takeoff, I upload a selfie from my radio interview today and promise my fans a major autographed-swag giveaway if I get one hundred thousand “likes” by the time I land in Omaha. It doesn’t take long for the post to gain momentum, and when the comments start to pile up, I take a deep breath and feel better. I look out the window as we race down the runway, gaining speed until the landscape is a blur. Once we’re in the air, once the plane has taken a couple of dips as we gain altitude, once we’re steady and above the clouds, I allow myself to refresh the page. I smile when I see that I’m already halfway there.

Catch me if you can.

“RIGHT THIS WAY, Miss Barrett,” Jordan, the stage manager, says as she directs me through the back halls of the CenturyLink Center Omaha. Our footsteps echo on the polished concrete floors as I follow her past huge speakers and instrument cases, past roadies in black jeans and black T-shirts, and into the bright, cold stadium. My heart is racing. My pulse is pounding. My grip is tight on my fiddle and bow. I step over taped-down wires and think how different everything feels in the arena, how massive it all is, how many greats have come before me, how important it is that I live up to this gig.

The band waits for me onstage, and I follow Jordan up a set of narrow steps, eager to join them. It feels slightly reckless that we’re meeting for the first time this morning and performing together for the first time tonight, but when Dan Silver wants something, he makes it happen.

When Jolene’s tour started at the end of May, the opening act was another band on her label. According to Anita, though, Jolene was pressured into replacing those guys because her people felt she needed “a young artist to attract a younger fan base.” Dan worked his magic, booked me for the remainder of her tour, and lined up these backing musicians. In an ideal world, I’d have a few days to rehearse and get to know the band, but with the timing of my publicity tour, we don’t have that luxury. It’s go time.

Jordan walks to the middle of the stage, motioning my band leader over as she announces, “Hey, everybody, this is our new opener, your lead singer, Bird Barrett.”

I follow her to the center microphone stand, where I meet Monty, the lead guitarist, an older rocker who reminds me of a not-so-anorexic-looking Steven Tyler. “We’ve been rehearsing around the clock, Miss Barrett,” he says, offering his hand for a shake. “I think you’ll like what you hear.”

“It’s Bird,” I say. I smile and shake his hand enthusiastically. “And I’m sure I will.”

“Let’s get to it, then,” Jordan says, checking her sporty black wristwatch. “You have the stage until five, then Jolene will come in for sound check. And she doesn’t like it when her openers run over.”

I nod and take my place behind the mic. I’m a bundle of nerves even though I’ve performed live music for over half my life. The first song on the set list is “Yellow Lines,” and as I look out over the empty arena, following the aisles into the upper decks above, I can’t help but feel a tad overwhelmed.

“How many people will be here?” I ask, pulling my lucky rock pendant out from under my shirt and clutching it tightly.

Jordan adjusts her headset. “It’s a sell-out crowd, so I’d say eighteen thousand three hundred.” She winks. “Approximately.”

“Oh,” I reply, not wanting to make a bad first impression. I gulp down the panic in my voice and plaster on a smile. “That’s a relief. Nineteen thousand would’ve been a little daunting for my first arena performance, but a measly eighteen thousand three hundred? Child’s play.”

Both Jordan and Monty chuckle, and we all settle into our places. Thank God I have Maybelle, my fiddle, the one thing that is tangibly familiar in this surreal moment. As Monty counts us in, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then, right on cue, I attack the fiddling pass, completely thrown off when a fiddler in the band starts in at the same time. My eyes fly open, and I spin around, the other guy grinning broadly as if I’m supposed to like the fact that his style is totally different from mine and that two fiddles before the first verse packs way more introductory punch than the song calls for. But I just grin at him and turn back to my mic, determined to finish the entire song before I start ruffling feathers. Surely Monty hears it, too.

When the first verse comes around, I relax my arms and let the other fiddler take over the easy stuff, knowing I really do need to focus on my vocals. I smile out at the empty arena as I start to sing, trying to project energy all the way to that fan who will be in the upper decks:

“The wheels are rolling down the highway.

The county lines are all a blur.”

This is what I love about rehearsals. Even though the stage is bigger and the stakes are higher than during my days in the Barrett Family Band, rehearsals are the same. They’re the grace period, the creative space, the free zone to play around with the show and figure out what will work when the seats are full. This song is fast paced and fun, so I snatch the mic off the stand and walk toward the front of the stage, bolstered by the music blaring from the speakers and filtering into my earpiece. I remember the way I felt the first time I publicly performed “Notice Me” last year at Stella’s school and try to recapture that high. I was a wild woman that night.

As I sing now, I get pumped up imagining her friends filling the seats right here in Omaha. I run from one side of the stage to the other, giving it all I’ve got during the chorus:

“Another school, another town,

Another round of good-byes.

Adventures wait and life unfolds along these yellow lines.”

And then, before the bridge, I holster the mic and bring Maybelle to my chin. If the other fiddler joins me, I don’t even notice because I play that pass like it’s my territory, my moment, my time.

After the first song, the nerves are gone. I am alive with anticipation. Tonight, this whole place will be filled with people who love Jolene Taylor’s classic country sound, but I’m going to do everything I can to leave them wanting to hear more of my sound: new country with a bluegrass twist. When Monty counts us in on “Notice Me,” I raise the mic and do it all over again, gearing up to give a performance worthy of a headliner I’ve idolized for years. I only get forty minutes tonight, and I’m determined to make them count.

“Bird,” Monty says, abruptly cutting the song. “Your enthusiasm is catching, but you’ve got to have a voice tonight.”

“Oh,” I say, blinking.

“You don’t have to prove anything to us,” he says with a grin. “Save something for the ticket holders, okay?”

I nod, feeling both scolded and flattered at the same time.

For the next couple of hours, I sing with discipline, strong but smart, stopping when Monty directs us to rework instrumental breaks and add in moments for vocal riffs. We decide to strip “Before Music” down to bare bones, going completely acoustic, and we also switch up the set list so that we open with fan favorite “Notice Me.”

By the time I end the last song, I feel like I’ve . . .