The Way Back Home (10 page)

J
ASE HAS BEEN
with us for a full forty-eight hours now, and Stella was right; she's pretty cool. She has a dry wit, to the point that we have to double-check sometimes to see if she's kidding. She hasn't actually delved too deeply into my family's past, which has been refreshing, and she's left me alone about the stuff I usually see about myself in the tabloids. Actually, she just seems to be soaking up the tour, watching my interaction with the band and crew, asking about the direction of my third album and when I expect to record it. She's been chill, professional, and somebody we all agree we could hang out with in real life sometime.

But I miss Adam.

I had gotten used to hanging out before the show, eating together, and then walking back to the bus after our postperformance Cokes. But with Jase here, I've been avoiding him. Anita is right. Even if we were to try dating again, I'm not sure I want it to be the headline of my first-ever
Rolling Stone
feature. I want that to be about my music.

“Bird, are you in here?” Stella calls from outside my door.

“Yeah,” I holler, finishing a quick text to Adam. He wants me to hear the latest version of his food fight song, but I've been putting him off:

Slammed today. How about Mon. or Tues.?

Stella slides my door open and walks immediately to my closet. “Jase wants to take some pictures of the handbag I made you out of my mom's scratched-up vinyl records. That cool?”

“Awesome,” I say.

My phone beeps again:

I never thought I'd say this, but I hate Rolling Stone
.

I laugh and write back:

Aw, you miss us?

Stella plops onto my bed and whispers, “I can tell from the look on your face who you're texting.”

I sit up and look behind her to make sure Jase isn't within earshot. “We're just friends!” I hiss.

“Then why can't he hang out with us?” she asks with a knowing smile. “You afraid Jase is going to pick up on your ‘friendship'?”

I know my face gives me away as she starts to laugh.

“Bird! You are killing yourself!” she says. “Just tell him how you feel. Write him a song—
something
. Dylan told me Adam's still totally into you, and I know you feel the same way, so why are you torturing yourself?”

“Because I don't want my feelings for Adam, or whatever, to be the center of my first
Rolling Stone
feature.”

She nods. “I get that.”

“But it sucks.” I groan. “He brought me
flowers
, Stella. We text and hang out all the time and, yeah, it's awesome. And I feel the spark. And I'm ready. But now, because of work stuff, it looks like I'm too busy to hang out with him, which is exactly what drove him away last time.”

“Is that what you told him?” she asks. “‘We can't hang out because I like you too much'?”

I blush. “No. I told him that as bad as it sounds, Anita really wanted to make sure the article stayed about me and not my opener so we needed to keep a little distance. He was totally cool about it and said he'd never want to steal my thunder, which made me feel even worse about lying to him.”

“Eh, white lie.”

Then my phone beeps again and I whip it back out, laughing when I read Adam's message:

You and Stella are ok, but I really miss Dylan. Can't believe I'm grounded from the bus. #RollOnRollingStone

Stella reads over my shoulders and says, “I never knew he was so dramatic.” I laugh. “Come on, let's go.”

I follow her up to the living room, where Dylan is playing video games and Jase is typing on her Mac. “Ready?” she asks when we sit down with her.

“Yeah,” Stella says. “Hey, Dylan, Adam wants you to come over. Or you can stay for girl talk.”

Dylan doesn't even reply. He just turns off the TV and bounds down the stairs toward guy time and freedom.

“Okay, so here's the bag,” Stella says, passing her my Christmas present from last year.

“Ooooh, this is unreal,” Jase says. “I can't believe you made this by hand.”

“She has jewelry and hair accessories in her Etsy store, too. I don't know how she has the time,” I say.

“Well, I don't now that I'm on tour,” Stella says.

“Bird, how do
you
juggle it all?”

“My publicist helps a lot,” I say with a shrug. “And I would die without my manager.”

Jase shakes her head and says, “That's not exactly what I mean. I'm not talking about juggling a busy schedule.” I frown, trying to understand.

“For example, Stella is your best friend and Dylan is your brother, but they're also your employees. And this new opener, Adam Dean, he's an old friend, too, right?”

I nod.

“You can't exactly fire them.” She turns to Stella. “Not that she'd want to. I'm just saying it's a serious conflict of interest if any of you flake or overstep or whatever.”

“We wouldn't do that,” Stella says, a little defensively.

“I'm sure,” Jase goes on, “but hypothetically. I'm just asking how you draw boundaries. How do you stay Bird the Boss and Bird the Friend?”

I look out the window and think about her question. “It's not always easy, I guess,” I say. “Like the other day when Amanda was mad because Stella takes care of most of my quick changes even though she's not the senior stylist and has no prior experience.”

“Exactly!” Jase says. “
That
was uncomfortable.”

I glance at Stella, but her smile has vanished.

“I'm sure you don't need the extra drama,” Jase plows on, “and you definitely don't want a reputation for unfair treatment or favoritism.”

I shift in my seat awkwardly. “Honestly, it just comes down to the fact that I feel more comfortable with Stella. Knowing each other so well is a big plus. And if you think about it, Amanda actually has a lot more responsibility because she's dressing everyone else in the show.”

“Ah, so in reality, you trust Amanda more,” Jase says, nodding as if in understanding when I didn't say that at all.

“Speak of the devil,” Stella says as she pulls out her phone. “Amanda just texted, and she's willing to give me the opportunity to steam a few of the band members' shirts for tonight, so I better hop to it.”

I cringe, wishing I could stop her but knowing she'll kill me if I make a scene. She grabs her headphones and a bottle of water out of the fridge and exits the bus, Jase and I perfectly quiet until she's gone.

“See? Conflict of interest,” Jase says.

I sigh. “Sometimes.”

“Do you think any of your people have a clue how much pressure you're under? You're running a major tour and balancing a burgeoning career while they're all along for the ride.”

I think about it. “Well, I guess there have been a few times with Dylan and Stella where I've been like, ‘Um, guys? This is not a real problem. I've got real problems.'”

“Like when your opener quit.”

“Exactly.” I start to say more but pause to weigh my words carefully. Jase is right: If my guitarist weren't my brother, my stylist weren't my best friend, and my opener weren't my crush, then work stuff like this interview wouldn't be nearly as tricky. “It's like everyone expects me to be what they need. I'm the boss when you need a job. I'm your friend when you need to talk. I think I've blurred the line a few times, but I try to keep business and personal as separate as possible.”

“Is that why there's nothing going on with you and Adam Dean?”

I look back at Jase and feel my eyes bulge. “What?”

She laughs and wiggles her eyebrows. “He's a hot piece, and he looks at you all moon-eyed every time he sees you.”

“Jase!” I feel my cheeks redden as she laughs. “We're just friends. We tried dating once a couple of years ago, but we're better as friends.”

“Maybe he wants another go?” she presses.

“Maybe you've lost your mind,” I say, trying to regroup. I can hear Anita's voice in my head:
Everything's on the record
. I probably shouldn't have told her that Adam and I tried dating before, so I think fast and talk about something I've never told another reporter. “But you want to talk boundaries? My first boyfriend was this amazing guy I met on tour last year, but mixing work with dating totally drained us both. It's exactly like you said: conflict of interest. Impossible. You can't be equals in the relationship if you're not equals at work.”

She nods thoughtfully. “You were in love with this guy?”

I didn't want my article to be about Adam, and now it's somehow turning into a feature on Kai. I sigh. “It hurt when we broke up.”

“Did it have anything to do with your feud with Kayelee Ford?” she asks. “Did he cheat on you?”

Taken aback, I blurt out, “No! Are you kidding me? No and no.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, holding up her hands. “Just curious.”

“Why?” I ask, trying to turn this ship around. “Have you been cheated on?”

Bingo. I see the pain flash across her face before her expression resettles to neutral. “I have. And it sucks.”

“Are you dating anybody right now?” I ask, hating that I brought up a bad memory for her but happy to take the spotlight off me. “I bet you get to meet so many interesting people in New York. And there are probably models walking down the sidewalk all the time.”

“Yeah, and every one of them asks me out,” she says wryly. “It's exhausting.”

I laugh. Before she can ask me anything else, Marco knocks on my door, and I have never been so happy to go over a budget issue. He comes aboard and we work a little at the table while Jase types. Then I excuse myself from further one-on-ones with our resident reporter as I shower and prepare to give my Greensboro fans the best show I've got.

“I
CAN
'
T BELIEVE
I just played Madison Square Garden,” Dylan says. We're standing in the wings of New York City's most iconic venue, a landmark performance for any artist.

I glance over at him and smile, on that same high. “We're not done yet!”

“Bird! Bird! Bird! Bird! Bird!” the fans cheer in unison, a chant, a stadium full of happy fans hungry for just one more song. The big song. The one this tour is named after: “Shine Our Light.”

Jordan gives the band their cue, and when they take the stage for our encore, the crowd goes wild, the uproar deafening. I rush to the front of the stage and take it all in, arms spread wide. “Thank you, New York City!” I call into the standing microphone.

When the fans settle some, I go on. “This year was really incredible for me. I released an album I'm really proud of, I won a VMA, I'm headlining in the greatest city in the world—” The crowd roars. “And I couldn't have done any of it without you!” I shout. “So thank you! I love you! I have the greatest fans in the world!” They know it's true and they go nuts.

I grab my guitar and pull the strap over my head before stepping back up to the mic. “And on a serious note,” I say, bringing it down a little. I start to strum softly. “There were also some bumps along the way. There seem to be bumps on any path worth traveling. I learned the hard way that there are always going to be people who try to diminish the light within us. And it's easy to get caught up in
why
they would want to do that instead of simply not letting it happen. So I wrote this song about that.”

The band comes in with me, and I get ready to sing. “If you've got glow sticks or cell phones or anything that lights up or sparkles, hold 'em up in the air for me, okay?”

The music swells around me, and I try to block out anything external to this very moment:
Rolling Stone
, Adam, Stylan, any factor that would keep me from being present right here on this stage. And then I start to sing:

“You look at me like it's a natural rivalry,

Like there's just room for one to succeed.”

But this song always reminds me of Kayelee Ford. I wrote it about her. I get so confused every time I think about how much we despise each other, and I always come back to the question,
Why
? Why, really?

I give my audience every last bit of energy I've got as I finish the chorus and start the second verse. I think about the lyrics, how
“Nothing's wrong with being who you really are,”
and how brave Jase was to leave everything behind to move to this very city and cut her own path. When I get to the chorus again, I call out, “Come on, NYC!” and run up a bunch of stairs upstage, stepping onto a hidden platform. As I start the chorus, I am slowly lifted into the air:

“Just rise and fly.

Live your life out loud, yeah, live it outright.”

This is Jordan's big cue. As the band, audience, and I sing through the chorus together, my stage manager sends the small platform arcing over the crowd and sets me up front on a tiny stage nestled in the sea of floor seats. As I sing the third verse, our security team allows a few fans to climb onstage with me so that by the time the final chorus comes around, we join voices and sing a cappella:

“Just rise and fly.

Live your life out loud, yeah, live it outright.

Just ride and smile.

On this crazy roller coaster in a whirlwind storm,

We just gotta hold our own, be bold,

And shine our light.”

I step away a little and strum, two girls standing beside me with eyes as wide as saucers. I play the rest on my acoustic guitar, going back up to the mic to sing:

“We just gotta hold our own, be bold,

And shine our light.”

I smile out at the crowd as they sing along, holding up their glow sticks and cell phones. The tiny lights flicker all around me in the dark arena, lighting up little pockets of people in the floor seats as well as in the upper decks. It's beautiful.

“Shine your light.

Yeah, shine your light.”

And I softly strum the last chord as the stage lights fade and at least ten thousand people shine their own light.

“You're going to meet up with us later?” Stella asks the next morning as she wraps a light scarf around her neck.

“Yes, definitely,” I say. “This is the last interview with Jase, and then it's adios,
Rolling Stone
.”

Stella blows air through her bangs, annoyed. “Thank God.”

Dylan arches his eyebrows behind her, but I give my head a slight shake, letting him know not to say anything. Stella is clearly still not happy with Jase after the uncomfortable bus moment the other day, and the last thing I want to do is bring it all up again before our big day on the town. I shot all my promos yesterday, so today is free time with my friends to do all the New York things I've never gotten to do, like see the Statue of Liberty, walk the West Village, and eat my weight in pizza.

There is a knock at the door, and I walk over to answer it. Adam stands in the hallway, looking adorable in his black fleece zip-up. “Another amazing performance. Another missed fountain Coke,” he says, shaking his head disappointedly.

“I know! I know, I'm sorry,” I say, stepping back so he can walk in. “But after this interview I'm free again. And I promise you we will give New York Coke a chance after our show tonight.”

“I'm going to hold you to that, Bird Barrett,” he says with a very serious expression on his face.

“Okay, y'all, let's go,” Dylan says. “I read that you have to get in line early for the Empire State Building.”

Stella claps her hands excitedly. “I can't wait!”

“Yay,” I say halfheartedly. Then I plop down on the desk chair and pout.

“Aw, Bird,” she says, walking over and massaging my shoulders. “Just answer every question yes or no and then send her packing. I promise to keep any fun we have to a bare minimum until you can meet us.”

I grin up at her. “You're the best.”

“I don't think the Empire State Building is that far from our hotel actually,” Dylan says, looking at a map on his phone. “If the line is as long as they say, you might be able to find us and cut.”

“Oh yeah, that'd be great for my image,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Listen, if you want my opinion,” Adam says, leaning on the desk, “you've already been more than generous with your time. Tell that woman this is the last interview, and you have to be somewhere in an hour. You don't have to say where even.”

I perk up. He's right.

“Just be the boss.”

And then I cringe.

Because I'm tired of being the boss. I want to be more than the boss, especially with him and especially today.

My phone beeps and I read a text from Jase. “She's on her way up,” I tell them. “I'll see y'all soon.”

I hold open the door and watch my friends walk down the hall toward the elevator, giddy at the big day we have planned, and I decide Adam is right. I deserve a day off, and this interview doesn't have to take forever. Surely Jase has gotten all she needs and more by now.

I set my coat and purse by the front door so that Jase can see when she walks in that I've got somewhere else to be. I pull on my sneakers—tour guide Dylan warned us about the blisters rookie tourists get from wearing the wrong shoes—and I have them tied just as she knocks on the door.

“Hi!” I say, getting up and swinging it open.

“Hi,” Adam says, surprising me. He takes a step inside and grabs a hotel room key card off the desk. “Forgot my key.”

“Oh,” is all I manage because he is standing close, really close, right in front of me, with a look on his face like he has more to say.

“Meet us in an hour, okay?” he says, more serious about seeing the Empire State Building than seems normal. “We'll grab food and just walk around until you can meet us there. You'll meet us soon, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I'll make it quick.”

“Well, well, well! Good morning to the two of you,” Jase says suggestively, popping up in the doorway behind him. My mouth falls open as I realize what this must look like.

“Um, I was just leaving,” Adam says quickly. He smiles at her as he squeezes by and slips the room key card into his back jeans pocket as he heads down the hall.

“Now
that
is not the worst a girl can do when she wakes up in the morning, am I right?” Jase asks with a mischievous smile.

“Oh, he just popped by,” I explain worriedly.

“Sure,” she says, breezing in and looking around my suite. She eyes the place admiringly. “You definitely travel in style, Bird. I'll give you that.”

“It's nice to sleep in a stationary bed every once in a while,” I say, closing the door.

“Hey!” she shouts, turning around to face me. “Incredible show last night. I think you saved the best for last.”

I beam at her, relaxing some. “Thank you.”

“Your energy is intoxicating,” she goes on. “Seriously.”

She takes a seat on the couch and pulls out her notebook. I sit in the chair next to her, happy that she seems as eager as me to wrap up this story.

“So, I feel like I know the Bird you want me to know,” Jase begins, looking up at me intently, “but I don't feel like I know the
real
Bird.”

“Really?” I say, surprised. “Jase, this is me. What you see is what you get. And trust me, I've let my guard down a lot more around you than I ever have with any other reporter.”

“And I appreciate that,” she says, “but I think it's time to ask some real questions, you know?”

“Real?” I ask. “Has all this other stuff been fake?”

“Not fake, just surface stuff,” she says. “But now I want to get down to it. And speaking of fake,” she says, glancing up at me, looking the teensiest bit apologetic. I brace myself. “A lot of people say that about you. So what do you say to those people who think you're too sugary sweet to be true?”

I'm surprised by such a direct and negative question right off the bat, and it takes me a second to answer. “Haters gonna hate,” I say simply.

“Right, but there are
a lot
of haters,” she continues.

“Well, I have
a lot
of fans, too,” I say, a tad defensive. “Every celebrity has people trying to knock them down, and sometimes we do it to each other. That's the message behind ‘Shine Our Light.' If we could just focus on being our best selves instead of trying to bring out the worst in somebody else, we'd all shine brighter.”

Jase looks at me like,
Oh, please.

“I just try to block out the negative stuff and focus on the positive.”

“Okay,” she says, pulling an iPad from her bag. She loads something and passes it to me. “Then how do you feel when you see sites like these?”

I look down at a Twitter account called NotBirdBarrett and am stunned by what I see. This person has uploaded a profile picture of me, but all the tweets are stuff I would never post or say or do:

Just biding my time until I can go Pop.

Hey birdies, go crap on somebody today. It's good luck.

Does this chastity belt make me look fat?

“This is terrible!” I say as I scroll down. I read one out loud that cuts especially deep. “‘Is it bad if your album makes your own ears bleed? Hashtag sorrynotsorry.' That's so mean,” I whisper. “I worked really hard on those songs.”

Jase doesn't reply, but she reaches over and swipes the screen to Instagram. “Check out the hashtag ‘birdface,'” she says.

I gasp. I scroll down the page, attacked by images of person after person making wide-eyed expressions or overexaggerated duck lips, a few pretending to hold a gun to their head. I feel tears spring to my eyes, and I set the iPad down on the coffee table in front of me.