The Way Back Home (9 page)

“—with no pressure.”

“Right,” he says. Then he considers it and adds, “Well, there was pressure to make money. If I didn't play, I didn't eat.”

“Oh.” I look out the back of the SUV, remembering once again how different our backgrounds are. We met on the road as teenagers, but I was playing music with my family while Adam was on his own already. We didn't eat at fancy restaurants growing up, or have expensive clothes, but we were always okay, my folks made sure of it. “Did that ever happen?”

“Yeah, occasionally.” He picks the strings of his guitar absentmindedly, staring straight ahead. “Not as often as when I was a kid.”

“That's crazy,” I say at a near whisper. I picture Adam ten years ago. I imagine a skinny kid, lanky limbs, a middle schooler with an empty stomach and big dreams. I know his dad was never in the picture and that his mom wasn't dependable—I think she may have had some problems with alcohol abuse—but I never realized it was to the point that he ever went hungry. “I'm sorry.”

He shrugs. “I'm writing a song about this really fun moment, but then it's like I can't believe I was throwing food all around that kitchen when I have literally stolen food from my friends' refrigerators…” He trails off. “Sort of takes the ‘fun' out of it.”

I glance over. His eyes are faraway and focused not on the horizon but on the past, and it takes everything I've got not to pull him in for a hug. I feel like somebody somewhere needs to hold this boy close and tell him how talented he is and how bighearted and how
worthwhile
. But just then Dylan opens the door of our tour bus carrying an oversized beach bag, and Stella is right behind him with blankets.

“Maybe this song isn't your fun one,” I tell Adam as I hop out of the SUV. I face him and say, “Maybe this song is about what really sustains us. Maybe it's a song about how our souls need to be fed, too, or how we need more than food to live—how we need love, too.”

Adam slowly lets his hazel eyes drift over to mine.

He locks onto my gaze.

We stay put, staring at each other for what feels like hours but is actually just the fifty paces or so that it takes Stella and Dylan to join us. They throw their stuff in the back, Stella rearranging everything after Adam finally breaks eye contact and gets out of her way.

We stand to the side as they pack the car, and Adam leans over. “You're a special girl, Lady Bird,” he says softly.

I turn my head and face him straight on, wanting him to believe me when I say, “You're pretty special, too, you know.”

Dylan slams the back door and calls, “Everybody ready?”

Stella walks around to the passenger side and opens the back door instead of taking shotgun, letting everybody know that they haven't quite worked it out yet. I'm sure she'll want to vent later, and then Dylan will give me his side of things in short, explosive snippets, and I'll stay neutral and pretend to sympathize with them both.

But today is my day off. And Adam is here. I just want a peaceful beach day.

“I think I'm going to grab my guitar, too,” I say, backtracking quickly toward the bus.

Adam may have writer's block, but after the way he just opened up to me, I am suddenly inspired.

“T
HE
R
OLLING
S
TONE
reporter just texted that she is waiting in Atlanta and will board the bus when you roll in,” Anita says from my iPad screen. “How long until you're at the arena?”

“Not long,” I say, looking out the bus window. “I can see it in the distance, so we have to be close.”

“Good.” She picks up a pen, looks down at her desk, and without even being there in person, I know that she's got a list of dos and don'ts she wants to go over. “Let's run through a few quick things before you get there.”

I grin, glancing up at Dylan, who's sitting in the kitchenette with me. “That woman is relentless,” he whispers.

“Who's that?” Anita says, leaning in closer to her screen. “Dylan? Good. Get Stella, too. These are things that you'll all have to remember while she tours with you. Reporters dig, they want dirt, they want their exclusive to stand out from all the other interviews you've given, and no one on the tour is off-limits.”

“Then you better tell her about Adam,” Dylan says as I move the iPad back so that we're both in the shot.

“What about Adam?” Anita says. “Bird, is that a thing? You know you have to tell me this stuff!”

“It's not a thing!” I defend myself, punching my brother in the arm. “There's no thing. We're just friends.”

“The four of us watched a movie on the bus last night, and I'm telling you, you could cut the sexual tension with a knife,” Dylan says, all prim and proper. “I was uncomfortable.”

“
You
were uncomfortable?” I echo. “Try crying your eyes out to
The Fault in Our Stars
while two other people on the couch are playing tonsil hockey.”

“We weren't making out,” he says. “We were cuddling.”

“And I was gagging.”

“Kids,” Anita cuts in.

“Like you and Stella aren't constantly talking about what would happen if you and Adam got back together,” Dylan goes on.

I feel my jaw nearly hit the table. “Are you kidding me right now?” Then I turn to my supposed best friend as she sits down next to me. “Do you tell him everything we talk about?”

“Bird, the walls aren't soundproof,” Dylan says.

“Yeah, neither is the curtain over your bunk, FYI,” I fire back, fuming.

“Kids,” Anita says again.

“Truce, truce,” Stella says, shifting the iPad to fit us all on-screen. “First of all, I would never break your confidence,” she says to me. “I feel like you ought to trust me a little more than that by now. And second of all,” she says, turning to Dylan, “you don't know how all that went down the first time. I was there, and you're not being cool.”

My brother's eyes widen. “Sorry.”

“Anita, there's nothing happening there,” Stella says to my publicist. “Believe me.”

Anita sighs dramatically. “Fine, but this is exactly the kind of thing that cannot—absolutely, positively
cannot
—happen in front of this reporter.”

“I was just joking around,” Dylan says.

“Joking around right now, but you won't around the reporter, right?” Anita asks. “Certainly not the first day. You'll all be on your best behavior. ‘Touring with my best friend is so great,' and ‘I love the quality time I'm spending with my little sister.' You think the reporter wants to hear that junk? You think that's newsworthy? No. By day three you'll all be quite chummy, and it's jokes like this that could hijack Bird's whole story.”

We all just sit there, thoroughly scolded.

Anita takes a big breath. “Bird,” she says, softer. “
Rolling Stone
magazine is major, and they want to do an exclusive feature on you: a day-in-the-life sort of peek into your world. I've seen these go well, and I've seen these go down in flames. Should I fly out tomorrow? Should I see if one of your parents can join the tour for a few days?”

“No, I'll be fine,” I say.

“I just want you to be happy with the way the world sees you.”

I nod. “Right, but I like the idea that the three of us are touring on my bus and doing just fine without a constant chaperone. I've made it to all my shows, the media coverage has been great, and I've still kept up with all the side stuff Troy books. This reporter's going to be like, ‘Wow. This girl's got her act together.'”

Anita frowns. “That's our hope.”

“Anita, we'll be fine,” an exasperated Dylan says.

“All right, all right,” she says, holding up her manicured hands. “So a few things: First, a note to all of you, if you don't want your relationships to be public knowledge, then you have to keep some distance while
Rolling Stone
is on board. Stella and Dylan, I ask you for Bird's sake to keep everything rated G.”

“Excuse me, ma'am, but I am a gentleman,” Dylan says with a hand over his heart. Stella giggles.

Ignoring him, Anita plows ahead. “And, Bird, I have no problem with you dating Adam. I want to be clear about that, okay? I think he's a nice boy, and he also fits perfectly with your image.”

I roll my eyes. “We're not dating.”

“Hey, I was young once, too. If anything
does
happen,” she goes on, “a late-night hang out where sparks fly—”

Dylan has to turn his head away to hide his laughter, and I kick him under the table for starting all of this.

“—or a kiss in the back hallways that you think nobody knows about, then you call me. Going public with your first celebrity boyfriend is a big deal. I would much prefer that
we
control the way that information is revealed.”

I put my head in my hands and exhale. I'm actually happy when Anita gets to her list, reminding me to let the reporter see me studying so that people will know I'm actively trying to get my GED. She also says that our family history will definitely come up, especially Caleb, and that Dylan and I should figure out what we want to say about that before the grenade is dropped. She reminds me that this woman will be my shadow: She'll be in the wings of the show, in the dressing room, and on the bus, sleeping in the bunk below Dylan's. When someone's constantly in your space, filling up even the moments that are usually private, Anita reminds me, it can be difficult to keep a sunny disposition, so remember my friendly aura.

My publicist goes on and on with tips on how to “control the story,” but all I'm thinking about now is the “sexual tension” Dylan supposedly senses between Adam and me. It's messing with my head. Now that Stella spends so much time with Dylan, I've been hanging out a lot with Adam. When he first joined the tour a few weeks ago, I was worried about two things: personally, that my heart would be broken again, and professionally, that I could possibly lose a fantastic tour opener. But now the stakes are even higher. Adam has become one of the closest friends I've ever had. I don't want to lose that.

“We're here, y'all,” Dylan announces as the bus slows and we pull into Philips Arena parking lot.

“Okay, good luck, gang,” Anita says with a tight-lipped smile. “I know you'll be terrific. Call me if you need absolutely anything at all.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Dylan says sarcastically. We all wave and I shut down the iPad, feeling like we just went through PR boot camp. “Anita is great at her job, don't get me wrong,” Dylan says, rubbing his ear, “but that woman can talk!”

Stella gets up and peers out the window as we roll through the parking lot. “I think that's the reporter. Black skinny jeans and a denim button-down trimmed with plaid.” She shrugs. “Total hipster. Cute but cliché.” Stella turns toward Dylan and grabs his face. “One final kiss, or are we ready for the world to know about us?”

“I don't know, Stel. The paparazzi will hound us for weeks,” he jokes.

“‘Stylan spotted at the movies!'” I say, playing along as I run my hand through the air like I'm reading an imaginary headline. Then they kiss and I look away, my standard knee-jerk reaction even though it was just a quick peck. I stand up, stretch, and check my hair and makeup in the bathroom mirror. I'm ready to meet this woman and get on with the interview. A feature in
Rolling Stone
magazine is intimidating, sure, but it's also really exciting. “Let's do this,” I say, my adrenaline pumping as I race down the stairs and open the bus door.

I've got my guard up, as Anita instructed, but as Adam's bus pulls in next to mine, I can't help but wonder what would happen if I just let go.

“S
O THESE ARE
the digs, huh?” the reporter remarks as she follows me back onto the bus a few minutes later.

“Home sweet home,” I reply. “This is my brother Dylan. He plays guitar in the band.”

“Hi, Dylan,” she says, reaching a tattooed arm out for a handshake. “I'm Jase.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says with a bright smile, and I remember that my brother can be quite charming when he turns it on.

“And this is Stella, my best friend and more important, Master of the Quick Change,” I say. “She's working on the tour as a wardrobe assistant.”

“Hi,” Jase says. “I love your bangs. They never looked good on me.”

Stella reaches out her hand for a shake, scrutinizing the reporter intensely. Jase is probably in her late twenties, a petite woman, skinny as a rail, wearing heavy black eyeliner and fresh Converse sneakers. Her jet-black hair is shaved on one side, the rest falling over one eye in an asymmetrical bob, but while her look may be severe, her smile is warm.

“You can put your stuff over here,” I say, leading her toward the back of the bus. “The bottom bunk is yours for the next few days.”

“Good thing I'm little,” she says, tossing her stuff down onto her bed.

“Yeah, try being six foot and squeezing in there,” I say. “When my folks are on tour with us, I'm the low man on the totem pole.”

Jase grins. “The perks of being a star.”

I laugh. “Exactly. So, what do you want to do first? Need a little time to unpack?”

“No, I'm good,” she says. “I napped on the plane from New York, and I'm ready to roar. Want to give me the
MTV Cribs
tour?”

“Sure.” I turn around in the tight space. “Ought to be a quick tour, but okay… Actually, this is pretty cool. I never know when I'm going to be inspired, so I keep my instruments on board rather than locked under the bus. So, like, if Dylan or I want to play or write a new song or something, our instruments are right here in this hidden pop-out closet.”

“You wrote ‘Before Music' together, right?” Jase asks Dylan. “About your brother who passed away?”

“Yes, Caleb,” he answers.

“I don't know how you put that much emotion into a record and then replicate it for thousands of people every night.”

“Well, I don't think you can let yourself go that deep every time,” Dylan answers truthfully. “When we wrote it, the emotion was pretty raw. But now, well, I don't want to speak for you, Bird, but I sing it more as a tribute than as the therapy it was for me at the time.”

“Definitely,” I concur.

Jase pulls out a small Moleskine notebook and smiles, almost apologetically. “Nerd alert,” she says, eyes twinkling. “Hope you don't mind if I take notes.” She starts scribbling as I give her a tour of the bus: living room, kitchenette, bathroom, triple bunks.

“Stella up top, Dylan in the middle, and the bottom is our storage-closet-slash-guest-bed-slash-my-bed when my parents are on board,” I say.

“Pretty intimate quarters,” she comments, and I see Dylan and Stella exchange a look behind her.

“That's life on the road,” I say with a shrug. Then I gesture to my room. “And this is the master.”

“You do yoga on the road?” Jase asks when she sees a yoga mat that I'd forgotten to roll up earlier. “Impressive. I'm awkward when I'm on solid ground, so you must be good.”

“If I lose my balance, I fall on the bed, and if that happens, the session is usually over,” I admit. “I'm always tired.”

“I bet. What's more exhausting?” she asks earnestly. “The touring or the show itself?”

“Hmmm, I'd say the show itself. It's a workout, and we go hard every night. I want to give my fans the best show I can, so by the time I take my final bow, I'm just spent. The touring part I'm kind of used to.” I walk back up to the living room and crash next to Dylan and Stella on the couch. “This is the way Dylan and I grew up, so it's comforting being out on the road. And it's a lot less crowded these days.”

“Where are your parents?” she asks. “I was under the impression one of them always toured with you.”

I shrug. “They meet us a lot, for a few days at a time, but they also stay busy back home. I'm eighteen now so—”

“So you
got
this,” Jase says with spunk, holding out a fist for me to bump.

We pound it out, and I smile. “I got this.”

We talk more about the tour and the show, about Dylan and Stella putting school off for a while, and about how well my second album is doing. It doesn't feel like an interview at all, especially since Jase is hardly writing anything down. It's more like a bunch of friends hanging out.

When Stella asks Jase what her story is, the reporter's candor surprises me. She tells us what it was like leaving Iowa for New York, how she never really fit in back home and always had big dreams and big ideas, like dressing according to
Vogue
when everybody else swore by
Seventeen
. Stella nods in solidarity when Jase opens up about dropping out of state university to move to New York for an unpaid editorial internship.

“Nobody's journey is the same,” Jase says, “but I feel sorry for the people who always take the straight and narrow and never venture out. I could've stayed in Iowa and married my high school boyfriend, made my parents happy, probably be a mom of three by now. But I never felt like that was my path. I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to hear live music every night, I wanted to follow fashion trends and date a person I connect with regardless of their gender. I wanted something different. Moving away from my family so young was the hardest thing I've ever done, but I feel like I can be me now, without apology. And that's freeing.”

We all sit in stillness after that, not really knowing what to say. Jase's words strike a deep chord within all three of us: I can see it in Stella's thoughtful frown and Dylan's unfocused gaze. None of us has taken a traditional path to get where we are or where we're going.

When a production assistant knocks on the door and says catering is set up, we snap out of it and grab our stuff, each of us contemplating the depths of our own bravery as we file off the bus and follow our artistic dreams.

“So, Jase is pretty cool,” Stella says backstage. We are in the wings, changing into the “Tennessee Girl” shorts and boots, and this has been the first reporter-free minute we've had for the past six hours. “At first, I thought she was trying too hard—I mean, I still think that blue streak in her hair is a clip-on—but it's cool that she's passionate about her work. That's something everybody on this tour has in common.”

“So true,” I say.
Who would do this otherwise?

“For our Tennessee Girl,” Adam says from out of nowhere, handing me a handpicked bouquet of purple flowers.

I am stunned as I take the flowers from him, blown away, immediately thinking back to the night I was discovered at the Station Inn. Adam was there, and he left a little bouquet of wildflowers for me, the first time I ever got flowers from a boy. My heart skips a beat.

“Where did you get these?” I say with wonder as Stella ties up the front of my shirt. He looks so cute right now, with his happy lopsided smile and his hair still a little wild from his show.

“I saw them growing in this field over—”

“Thirty seconds, Bird,” Jordan interrupts as she holds out my mic.

Stella stands up and examines me, taking the flowers and passing me my microphone.

“Well, thanks,” I say, looking at them glumly in another girl's hands.

Adam looks at them, too, a little embarrassed. “Have to work on my timing,” he says.

“You made my day,” I say honestly. I don't want him to feel bad, so I lean over for a nice, friendly side hug, but he wraps both of his arms around me, tight like always. I get a massive shiver when my cheek presses against his neck, but then I remember that Jase is lurking around and I push away, hard.

Adam stumbles back, stunned. “Hey, what's wrong?”

“The
Rolling Stone
reporter's here,” Stella explains, strategically stepping between us as she fixes my collar. “So we all have to cool it for a few days, got it?”

“Cool what?” he asks, sincerely dumbfounded.

I feel the heat rise in my chest. This is so not happening. “Ha-ha, ha-ha!” I fake laugh. “Stella, you're so funny.”

As the first notes of my next song start to play, I rush back to the spotlight and beam at my fans, waving at the crowd as my brain tries to process everything that just happened.

Adam got me flowers.

Again!

And then I freaked out over nothing.

Again?

I start to sing this fan favorite, clapping my hands and getting the crowd on their feet, as I think about whether there really is a future for Adam and me and what I'm willing to risk if there is. I glance over at the wings and see a very confused Adam standing beside a very observant Jase. With a Miss America Pageant smile, I face forward and dive into the show. Who'd have ever thought that singing in front of twenty-one thousand people was the one place a girl could hide?