The Way Back Home (15 page)

He nods. None of us say a word as we hear them grab their stuff and leave, but the minute the door closes, I get real reactions.

Stella grabs her favorite and holds it up to my face. “Are you kidding me? You are a ten! Suh-mokin' hot! I hope they use this one as a spread.”

“It's weird to say this about my sister, but this is kind of like looking at a model,” Dylan says. “And it's strange to see you not smiling.”

Adam has remained pretty quiet throughout the whole exchange, which makes me nervous. “What do you think?” I ask.

He sits on the bed and rubs his hand across his jaw, the stubble making a scratchy noise. “They're pretty,” he says simply. “They look like a fantasy version of you, I guess. Like you're in a futuristic space movie or something, but then I still see the real you there, too. Like in this one.” He points to a close-up of me playing Maybelle, my fiddle, a traditionally bluegrass instrument in such a stark juxtaposition to the crazy hair and makeup. “That's my favorite.”

I beam at him. “I like that one, too.”

“I feel like I can really hear you playing,” he says. Then he looks up at me and says, “I miss that.”

I frown. “I fiddle almost every night.”

“For the show,” he says. “But we never just jam out anymore, you know?” He looks up at Dylan. “We need to play for fun sometime.”

“Definitely.”

I stay quiet. When I dream of such a thing as free time, playing music is the last thing on my mind. Sleep, yes. Netflix, yes. Playing music after playing music nonstop? Not exactly at the top of the list.

“But the cover,” Adam says, staring at the mock-up again. Then he looks up at me with his lopsided grin and says, “Now, that is something to celebrate.”

“W
E JUST WANT
a ride!” the emcee of the Stockyards Championship Rodeo calls over the mic. “Just a ride. Come on, folks, let's cheer him on. Local boy, real Texan spitfire from right here in Fort Worth, and he's going to do it! He's going to do it! Come on!”

We are on a double date, Stella and Dylan, Adam and I, and on our feet. This kid seems like some sort of crowd favorite. He went the full eight seconds on quite an angry bull earlier, and now I'm watching him lay on a bareback, broncing horse, his head getting banged by the horse's rear on every jump.

“How is he not dead?” I ask Stella over the applause.

“He did it!” the announcer calls. “He did it, he did it again!”

Adam puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles, and then he turns to me with both hands up. I give him a double high five, loving the excitement on his face. “Now that's a real cowboy!” He leans over me and Stella to get Dylan's attention. “You see that, man? No helmet! Just his cowboy hat!”

“He's a warrior!” Dylan calls back.

I sit down and laugh, loving everything about this impromptu adventure. When Adam showed up at our hotel room this morning with his crazy idea to spend our day off at the rodeo, it took a little convincing. It's been a really busy month, and I'm dog tired. It's Halloween and I was hoping we'd spend the day snuggled up together watching scary movies and eating popcorn, but after his time in Austin, Adam is a big rodeo fan and he begged us to come out with him.

“Adam,” I had protested, although his enthusiasm was catching, “what if we get recognized? People know I'm in town. We just did two shows, and it's been all over the radio and TV. We'll be mobbed.”

“No!” he said, his eyes lighting up even more. “We can go as cowboys and cowgirls for Halloween! Nobody'll recognize you.”

“Am I going as a rodeo clown?” I asked skeptically.

He laughed. “Come on. It'll be fun.”

I still wasn't entirely on board. My Texas interviews and shows have been okay, but my throat is really sore and I've been blowing my nose a lot. My mom thinks it's from the change in climate, but I'm worried I might be getting sick.

But here we are, our fun-lovin' foursome, and surprisingly I am having more fun than I've had in a long time. I bought a big cowboy hat and kept my head low through the parking lot, worried I'd be mobbed right away, but so far so good. As the night goes on, I relax more and more to the point of asking my bodyguard to give me a little space. The events are super fun, and although not everybody here is in costume, even in my fringed suede vest and flouncy skirt, I still don't feel like I stand out in public like I normally do.

“Woo-hoo!” I holler as the fan favorite exits the arena.

“Guys, confession,” Stella says as everybody sits. “This is my first rodeo. And it is more gloriously redneck than anything I could've ever imagined.”

“Yeah, Adam,” Dylan says, nodding. “Good call.”

“Oh! The clowns are coming back out!” Stella shouts, standing up and clapping.

Dylan smiles, and it is evident from his face that watching her watch the rodeo is more fun than any of the events we've seen so far. I take off my cowboy hat and lean my head on Adam's shoulder. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asks.

“For giving me a night off,” I answer truthfully. I look up at him, our faces close. “For giving me a chance to go on a normal double date. For, you know, just being the greatest boyfriend a girl could ever ask for.”

The rodeo clowns bring out a yellow car-slash-airplane contraption and try to ride it, failing hilariously. We laugh, the crowd cheers, and as Adam tilts my chin up to kiss me, it's like they're voicing the sound my heart makes every time his lips are on mine. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

“Folks, folks, folks, you aren't going to believe it,” the announcer calls. “You just aren't going to believe it, I'm telling you.” We stop kissing and stand up to see what the fuss is all about. “You'll see everything from rodeo queens to steer wrestling tonight, but I just got wind of something that's going to take the cake. Going to blow the whole night out of the water.”

The crowd is attentive. The clowns dramatically gesture to one another, trying to figure out what all the fuss is about.

“I just heard that we've got a special guest in the audience tonight!” the announcer continues. He holds for applause, and as people start to look around, I feel my stomach drop. “A young lady that has fans all over the world, but especially here in cowboy country, is sitting out in the stands tonight, and I think we ought to give her a big warm Fort Worth welcome. Everybody, put your hands together for Miss Bird Barrett!”

I hear a couple of screams but mainly the din of voices asking one another where to look. I shove my cowboy hat back on my head and duck down to grab my purse, pretending to look for something. “Oh, we see you, Miss Barrett,” the announcer calls. “Let's say, we ‘notice' you!”

The audience is buzzing now, and I feel like a trapped animal, frantic as I consider what to do. I don't want this. I want a night off. I want to enjoy the rodeo like everybody else in this stadium. I want to have fun for once!

I see a couple of people down in front of us turn around to snap pictures. Adam raises his other arm and waves, playing along, but I don't want to. I love my fans—I really do—but aren't I entitled to one freaking night off? Ever?

“Bird, they see you,” Adam says, his voice low. “You probably ought to wave or something.”

I take a breath and look up. Right when I do, a teenager a couple of rows down from us leans over and screams, “OMG, they
are
dating!”

“I saw that in
Us Weekly
,” her friend says.

“But it wasn't confirmed. This is incredible.” And the minute she holds up her phone, I realize that this is not how Anita wants to “control the narrative.”

I turn around to Big Dave and say, “Let's go.” My bodyguard immediately jumps down to my row and makes a path as he leads me from the crowd. I force a smile and wave as I squeeze past Stella. “Y'all ready? I want to get out of here.”

“Bird, are you okay?” Dylan asks. He lets Dave get by him. It seems like every single person we pass has a phone in my face.

“Where you going, Miss Barrett?” the announcer calls. “Don't run off just yet. Come on down here and give us a song. What do you say?”

As we make our way down the stands, I wave and smile but shake my head. Fans call to me as we descend, a couple reaching out to touch me, and I'm in a near-panic. I don't feel like singing. My throat hurts and I'm playing huge shows all week, so the last thing I want to do is sing.

“Bird,” Adam says, pushing his way down the stairs to grab my arm. “Hey, stop.”

“Adam, please. I really want to get out of here. Can we just go?”

“Come on, Fort Worth, let her hear you,” the emcee persists. Now the rodeo clowns are into it, one running toward me as our group gets near the ring. I suddenly feel closed in—caught—as he climbs up on the rail and holds a mic out to me, the fringe of his sleeve waving back and forth as he gestures for me to join him in the ring.

“I really don't want to sing tonight,” I say with a smile.

“Hey crowd, let's ‘Shine Our Light,'” the announcer continues, really riling them up now.

“‘Shine Our Light,'” the crowd repeats, chanting. “‘Shine Our Light'! ‘Shine Our Light'!”

“This is crazy,” Stella says, grabbing my hand. “Are you sure you don't want to just go sing real quick?”

“No,” I say firmly. “What I
wanted
was to have fun with my friends without it turning into a publicity stunt for once.”

“Bird,” Adam says, close and low. “It's not a big deal.”

“It
is
a big deal,” I say, a little frustrated now. “People just take from me all the time, and I'm tired.”

“They're your fans,” he says. “They love you.”

“I love them, too,” I say. “I love them so much I'm hauling my butt all over the country to sing to them. Don't I deserve a night off?”

“Just give them a song,” he persists, standing close. “Any song. I know Anita would tell you to do it, and I'm sure my publicist will kill me if we just bail. Come on. I'll sing with you if you want.”

“God, Adam!” I say, pulling away. The crowd is still chanting, and I feel my throat tighten as hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “If you want to sing so bad, go sing. Here,” I say, grabbing the mic out of the clown's hand and shoving it in Adam's chest. “Sing your heart out.”

Then I turn around and clutch Dave's elbow, incensed as he leads me to the exit. I'm crazy about Adam, but I wish he'd care about his girlfriend a little more than his image. As I stomp off, I feel the anger build. I'm mad at the crowd for being so selfish and at myself for thinking I could have a piece of that old anonymity back. That week in Nashville was a terrible tease.

Then I hear booing. I stop in my tracks and look back to see people throwing trash over the rails. “Are they for real?” I say, shocked. “What if that stuff actually hit me?”

All because I didn't give them what they wanted. All because I wanted one freaking night of me time.

I wipe tears from under my sunglasses and follow Dave to the parking lot. Part of me thinks it would be easier to just go back, to give them what they want, but isn't there any merit in being true to myself?

I glance over as Stella and Dylan catch up to me, looking completely dumbfounded by the whole turn of events, but I don't see Adam. I don't see him, but then the crowd roars and I
hear
him. “Hey there, Fort Worth,” his voice booms through the speakers. “Everybody having as good a time as I am tonight?”

The audience cheers, and now I am in shock, stopping still as a statue.
Is he serious? Did he really just show me up like that?

“My name is Adam Dean, and I'm on the Bird Barrett Shine Our Light Tour right now—” He is interrupted by booing, and I feel my chest constrict. “Come on now, Fort Worth. Come on. She just gave y'all two amazing shows over at the American Airlines Center in Dallas, and she's feeling a little under the weather tonight or she would've been over those rails in a heartbeat. She lives for her fans.”

“That's nice,” Stella says quietly. The crowd boos again.

“Yeah, real nice.”

I march off, my vision blurry as I weave through the parking lot.

“Over here, Ms. Barrett,” Big Dave calls, leading me to the car.

In the distance, I hear Adam telling the crowd that he'd love to sing a song for them, “if they'll have him,” and of course they go ballistic.
Prince Charming, saving the day. What a guy.

I assume he's going to sing “Make Her Mine,” and all I can think as I climb into the car, angry and hurt and now crying so hard that the sobs are embarrassing, is how I may not be his much longer.

“B
IRD, WHAT HAPPENED
at the rodeo?” Anita says over FaceTime the next day. She looks like she could strangle me. Troy and I are on my tour bus, and the minute he told me she wanted a conference call, I knew there was trouble.

“Nothing,” I say hoarsely as I grab another tissue. All that crying last night did nothing to help ward off the cold I knew was on the way. I feel like I'm in a tunnel, her words sound far away, and it's painful to look at the bright screen. “Somebody spotted me and they wanted me to sing, but I didn't feel like it. I wanted a night off.”

“Why did Adam sing instead?”

I feel my jaw tighten. “We haven't really spoken much since last night,” I say, thinking about the awkward and very tense ride back to the hotel after his performance. “He said he was ‘trying to help,'” I say, making exaggerated air quotes.

“Adam's a good guy, Bird,” Dylan says, exasperated as he walks back to the bathroom.

“Yeah, he's a great guy, Dylan,” I call. “But I doubt he's in trouble with his publicist today.”

My brother slams the door, and I roll my eyes. Just another example of someone who has no idea what it's like to answer to a million people.

Anita purses her lips. “Well, I won't sugarcoat it. Your decision to have a night out on the town did a few things. One, there are now rumors about you and Adam turning the Shine Our Light Tour into a hook-up tour.”

“What?”

“Two, he's getting amazing press,” Anita says pointedly.

“Okay, okay,” I say, my head pounding. “Is that all?”

“I wish,” she says, her fingers at her temples now. “The worst thing is that the local news interviewed some kids and their parents after the event last night, and frankly, it doesn't look good.”

I blow my nose and sniffle. “What do you mean?”

“I'll show her the links, Anita,” Troy says. “We'll talk it over after she sees the local segment—”

“Local?” Anita asks loudly. “We should be so lucky. Troy, this thing has gone national. I just saw Kathie Lee yapping about it on the
Today Show
. You two talk, then call me back. We need to get a grip on this thing.”

“Got it.”

“Bird, take a NyQuil and a nap,” she says. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks, Anita,” I say, rolling my eyes again.

“And make sure you're perfection for the Houston crowd tonight,” she says.

“Perfection. Got it.”

“We'll talk soon. Ciao.”

Anita hangs up and I stare at my iPad, amazed that one innocent night out could turn into this much drama. “Show me,” I tell Troy quietly.

My hands tremble as he pulls up a video from the Fort Worth local news last night. The reporter asks a group of kids if they were excited to be at the rodeo with me. “We were,” one kid answers, “but not after she didn't want to be there with us.” Then they ask a mother about it, and she says she was shocked by my actions and would never buy another one of my albums. “I'm not even going to listen to her on the radio,” she goes on. “I'll change the station before I support Bird Barrett again. Look, my little girl is still crying.”

“Oh no,” I whisper as they zoom in on the girl's swollen face.

The reporter continues, “Barrett was attending the rodeo tonight with her brother, her best friend, and her tour partner, Adam Dean, when she was spotted in the stands and asked to give an impromptu performance. The general thought around here is that Barrett most definitely did not want to ‘Sing Anyway.' Back to you.”

The clip stops, and I drop my head into my hands.

“Bird, she's right,” Troy says delicately as he searches the Internet. “It's gone national.”

I take my iPad from him and pull up my Twitter account. For once, it does not feel good to be trending. “Hashtag rodeorunner?” I ask hotly. “Seriously, that's the best they could do?”

Troy's phone rings. “Bird, don't go too deep down the rabbit hole,” he warns as he stands up and walks toward the door. “The mob is angry, but we're making a plan.”

While he's on the phone, I check all my social media sites, and the more I read, the worse I feel:

Bird Barrett won't be roped into singing for free.

Bird performs for ticket holders, not rodeo clowns.

No time for the little people. Bird Barrett is full of bull.

But the worst thing I read is an article already picked up by
The Huffington Post
, by a blogger who talks about how desperately her daughter wants to see my show—how she's a young fiddler like I once was and how it's her life's mission to meet me—but how that dream will never come true because my concerts all sell out in two minutes, are too expensive, and single-income families should just be lucky they get to catch clips on YouTube. The entire premise of the post is that wealthy entertainers are willing to entertain only their fellow wealthy Americans, and if they do ever pander to their poor fans, they want to make sure there's a camera there to promote it.

“That's not true,” I whisper to the screen.

And there is a lot about Adam and me:

Is Bird Barrett shacking up with Adam Dean?

Adam Dean > Bird Barrett. #forthefans

Is Bird Barrett sporting a baby bump?

“What?” I shout when I read the last one. “I hate this! I
hate
this!”

And before I can stop myself, I fling my iPad across the room, knowing before it even hits the back wall of the bus that the screen will shatter. I start crying again, just like I did all night long, pulling tissues out of the box and shaking.

But when Troy boards the bus immediately after hearing me scream, the only thing I give him by way of explanation is, “I'm going to need a new iPad. And more tissues.”

Then I run back to my room, desperate for some alone time and a power nap before the show… which, of course, must go on.

“Fantastic performance,” Troy says a couple of nights later as I breeze into my Tulsa dressing room. I always feel this insane mixture of alive and dead tired after a show, my body completely at odds with itself. Makes me think about that traveling Pilates studio Jolene Taylor had on tour and how maybe that wasn't such a diva move after all.

“Thanks, Troy,” I say, crashing on the little couch. Usually I head right for the chair at my vanity mirror and start taking off my jewelry, but tonight I'm just too tired. “Did I sound nasally?” I ask with my arm thrown over my eyes. I was hoping to beat this cold by now, but I was sweating like a beast through the entire performance, and even Sam commented on how pale I was when he did my makeup earlier. I really hope it's not the flu.

“I think you sounded great,” he says.

“Mmmm. The fans were all in. I'm hoping some other celebrity scandal will overshadow the stupid rodeo thing, but at least my real fans are out there every night holding up sweet signs and singing along.” I yawn, so sleepy. “It makes me forget the haters for just a little while, you know?”

He clears his throat. “Yes, that's… wonderful. Truly.”

I pause. “What's going on, Troy?” I ask, looking up at him.

His face falls. “Oh, Bird, Anita always tells me to give it to you straight, but I have a hard time seeing you upset.”

With great effort, I pull myself to a seated position. “Why would I be upset?”

“Well,” he says, pulling at his shirt collar, “with all the brouhaha surrounding this rodeo fiasco,
Rolling Stone
rushed their cover story.” He holds up an open envelope, and I know before looking that it's bad. “They FedExed our copies. It'll be on stands everywhere tomorrow.”

“She provoked me,” I say softly, knowing Jase used our final interview in her article. He reluctantly hands me a copy, and I sit back against the couch cushions, staring at the cover in my lap as my pulse starts to pound in my ears.

The picture is provocative. My parents were right. I see it now. Especially since the headline reads:

BIRD BARRETT: AMERICA'S TOO-SWEET HEART?

Inside, it's not any better. Jase paints me as a judgmental and hypocritical Goody Two-shoes who plays the part of the wholesome all-American girl but parties behind the scenes. And even though Adam and I barely even saw each other while she was with the tour, she must've climbed aboard the rodeo romance bandwagon, because she strongly insinuates that the real me—the one she “got to know” on tour—might secretly be dating my opener, who spends long hours on my bus and in my hotel room.

“She can't say that,” I say to Troy. I am so angry that I'm shaking, but my voice comes out strained.

“Bird—” Troy starts.

“No, she can't do this,” I say, so over all the crying but fighting tears yet again. “Call Dan. I want to talk to Dan.”

Troy never pushes me, never tries to talk me down, always guides me by letting me express what I need. In this case, I need to talk to the president of my label. In this case, I need to know how screwed I am. He immediately makes the call.

“Dan, it's me,” I choke out. The tears are flowing freely. My stage makeup is streaming down my cheeks.

“It's bad,” he says. “I know.”

“My first
Rolling Stone
cover,” I say in gasps, “is this load of bs?”

“Bird,” he says after a mighty exhale. “I'm sorry. I know it's hard to read. It certainly took me off guard. Anita is spitting nails. We never should have let her on your bus. One of us should have been there.”

“No,” I say. “Don't take any blame. This is all from the twisted soul of that jaded, miserable reporter who had a crappy life and is only happy if the rest of us do, too.” He doesn't say anything. Troy brings me a box of tissues from the vanity and squeezes my shoulder. We sit there in silence for almost a full minute as I get myself together, blowing my nose and dabbing at my eyes. “Dan,” I finally say, my throat raw. “What can I do? How can I make this right?”

“Well, if songs like the one you just wrote with Adam come out of these tough times, then I'd say it can't all be bad, right?”

“You liked ‘Broken People'?”

“We loved it. Makes me very optimistic about your third album, Bird.”

“Oh, but it was his song,” I say.

“So why did you send it to me?”

“I don't know,” I say with a sniffle. “Just thought you'd want to hear it. I guess I should check and see if Adam's going to use it.”

“
Oh
-kay,” Dan replies, sounding annoyed.

“But don't we have more important things to worry about than credit for a song?” I ask as I hold up the magazine, clutching it tightly in my fist. “What about this stupid article? And the rodeo thing?”

Dan sighs heavily on his end. “Well, Bird, it's tricky. Anita is trying to manage the
Rolling Stone
press, and I really wish you'd just sung at that rodeo—”

“I know!” I say, closing my eyes and leaning back against the couch. “You and everybody else in the world.”

“But what's done is done.” Dan sounds defeated, which doesn't give me a lot of confidence. Actually, his condescending attitude makes me mad. I think back to that night a couple of years ago when I gave a free, impromptu performance at Stella's high school fund-raiser. I thought he and Anita were going to murder me. Yet now I'm supposed to sing whenever someone asks me to, like a doll with a pull string.

I sneeze, lean forward, and wipe my nose for the millionth time today. “Maybe I should take a little break,” I suggest. “I'm not feeling well at all. What if we reschedule the next few shows and give the media a chance to feed off someone else's mistakes? Let it all die down a little, you know?”

“Reschedule?” Dan practically shouts through the phone. I hold it away from my ear, shocked. “You must be out of your mind. If anything, I'll be speaking to Marco about extending the tour, adding more cities, maybe going abroad.”