“BIRD, YOU HAVE seriously got to get your own guitar,” Dylan complains as he tears through the RV looking for his new strings.

“I didn’t snap your stupid string!” I protest.

My dad made us practice our set twice on the drive down to prepare me for leading the band tonight, and although his heart was in the right place, three hours of rehearsing put us all on edge. Even though Dad hardly has a voice, he got on Jacob for slapping the bass too much, me for singing with my eyes closed, my mom for being flat on backup harmonies, and Dylan for “lack of enthusiasm.” By the time we got to the Station Inn, everyone was tense. We set up the equipment in near silence, all of us knowing our roles, but when Dylan snapped a string while tuning before sound check, his lack of enthusiasm turned into an abundance of irritation.

“If you’d tune it right when I let you borrow it to write your dumb songs from your diary, then the strings wouldn’t snap!” He rips an afghan off the sofa and jams his hands down in between the cushions. No luck.

“I’ll have you know that one of my ‘dumb songs’ is a Barrett Family Band favorite!” I shout back, looking through our backpacks. “And it’s not a ‘diary,’ it’s a songwriting journal.”

I look through the cabinets, slamming them shut when I find only crackers and soup and the gross good-for-you granola my mom likes. I really have no clue where in the heck Dylan put his extra strings, but I didn’t lose them.

He plops down on the couch and hangs his head in his hands. “First Dad gets sick, and now I don’t have strings. This night is jinxed,” he says.

“Oh great,” I say. “That’s just what I need to hear before I have to sing lead vocals at the Station Inn, Dylan.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m not the one crying into my hands.”

“I’m not crying, you idiot!” he yells up at me.

I smirk and wave his pack of strings. “Yeah, I’m the idiot. You put your strings on top of the microwave, but I’m the idiot.”

He stands up and grabs for them, but I pull them away too quickly. “Uh-uh-uh. What do you say?”

“I say give me those strings or I’m going to kill you.”

I turn and flee down the stairs with his strings to join the rest of the gang for sound check.

“Okay, okay,” he says, chasing me across the gravel parking lot to the squat stone building that is the famous Station Inn. “Give me those strings or I’m going to kill you, please.”

“That’s better,” I say, handing them over. He doesn’t want to, but he grins just the tiniest bit. Maybe the night’s not jinxed after all.

The Station Inn is always packed, even on a Tuesday night. This venue is iconic, and as I pass the Wall of Fame, I can’t help but feel intimidated. The owner, J. T. Gray, told me that last week Dierks Bentley stopped by, just got up onstage and sang with the Dusty Mountain Pickers. If that were to happen to me tonight, I’d be relieved on one hand because I could let him sing, but on the other hand, I’d be even more nervous because, let’s be honest, he’s pretty cute.

“People are already lining up,” I announce to my family as I climb the stairs of the RV. Sound check went well. Now all there is to do is wait.

“Remember when I used to be worried about parking Winnie out back?” my mom muses as I join her at the mirror. She curls her auburn locks while I smooth my strawberry-blond hair, a perfect blend of my parents’ hair colors. “I bet those developers are itching to plow it down and put up a spa or something,” she worries as she feathers her bangs. I really wish she could snap out of the early nineties, but it’s a lost cause. She reaches for her organic hair spray—her one guilty pleasure in her otherwise epic quest to minimize her carbon footprint—and that’s my cue to step away. I’ve been shot in the eye with Chi Enviro Flex Hold one too many times.

“Bird,” my dad calls hoarsely. He squeezes a lemon into the cup of hot tea on the end table next to him and pats the couch. I give myself one last look—I’m wearing a cute lacy tank top and a flirty white skirt with my favorite cowboy boots—before I join my dad, although it’s nearly impossible to sit still. He puts his arm around the back of the couch, considerate not to mess up my hair, and gives me a warm smile. “You’re going to be great up there tonight.”

I nod. Half an hour ’til nine. Gulp.

“This is just like any show,” he croaks. “Heck, you practically sing them all at every show anyway.”

“Yeah, but backup vocals…” I start to say, but my words trail off as someone knocks on the door and a shaggy brown head bobs up the stairwell.

It’s Adam.

“Oh, Judd, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Adam jokes. “Folks love hearing you sing, but Bird is a little easier on the eyes.”

My dad laughs good-naturedly and stands up to shake his hand.

“Adam!” my mom coos.

“I thought you were going to Topeka!” I blurt out, once again the very picture of playing it cool.

“They canceled the show,” he explains. “I was headed to a festival in Bristol after that gig anyway, so I thought I’d stop by. Jacob told me that Judd was sick and you were filling in behind the mic and, well, I couldn’t miss it.” He winks, then leans in and acts like he’s confessing something. “Also, I saw the BFB Facebook updates.”

“All fifteen?” Dylan quips.

I feel my cheeks flame as everyone laughs. Maybe I have been a tad vocal online about singing lead tonight, but that’s only because I’m so nervous. And yet, in the few minutes that Adam has been here, my jitters have cooled off somehow.

I steal a look at Adam—take him in. He’s so handsome tonight, casual as usual in his dark jeans and a soft green T-shirt that brings out the green in his hazel eyes. He obviously hasn’t shaved in a couple of days and he could most certainly use a haircut, and yet it totally works for him in a way that is super hot. Which is probably what I find most attractive about him: how comfortable he is in his own skin. His self-assuredness puts me at ease, too. It’s fifteen minutes until showtime and, surprisingly, the boy who usually makes my heart beat double time has actually calmed me.

As the laughter dies down, my dad gestures with his arms for us all to circle up. “Let’s have a good show tonight, gang,” he manages, his normally smooth voice like sandpaper. He grabs my hand and then Mom’s, who takes Dylan’s, who takes Jacob’s.

“Oh, I should go,” Adam says, turning for the door.

“No, it’s fine, sweetie,” my mom says, smiling. “You’re like one of the family.”

Adam smiles warmly at her, almost as if in thanks, before taking Jacob’s hand and then linking his fingers through my own. I hope God doesn’t strike me down, but I can’t concentrate on anything other than Adam’s skin against mine, even if it is just our palms. We bow our heads and close our eyes as Dad croaks out our usual prayer, asking the Big Guy Upstairs for an extra blessing on me tonight, which I second.

And then, ending it in the same way he always does, he says, “Father, let us be thankful for the few years we had with Caleb, for the sweet hugs he gave his momma and daddy and for the sweet smiles he gave his brothers and sister. The loss is great but keeps us mindful to treasure each day we have with one another.”

We don’t talk about Caleb a whole lot, but we still pray for him before every gig. And we each keep him with us in different ways.

“Take good care of our boy,” we all pray in unison. Adam squeezes my hand. “Amen.”

When I open my eyes, I look immediately up at the clock.

“Break a leg, y’all,” Adam says, giving me a wink on his way out the door.

It’s showtime.

“Folks, thanks for coming out tonight,” Dylan says into the microphone. “Usually it’s my dad, Judd Barrett, that up-to-no-good-lookin’ fella over there with the banjo on his knee, who sings lead for our group. But tonight, dear ol’ Dad isn’t feeling so well, so my little sister, Bird, will be filling in for him. Not sure if any of y’all follow us online”—he looks over at me and winks. I roll my eyes involuntarily, which surprisingly gets a few laughs—“but if you do, you’ll know that this is a Barrett Family Band first. So won’t you all give her a big, welcoming round of applause? Bird Barrett, everybody!”

The crowd applauds and one guy in the back whistles. I glance over to the side of the stage, where Adam is sitting in a folding chair, smiling broadly. I take a deep breath and step up to the center mic, flinching at the brightness of the lights and fighting the urge to cover my eyes. Everybody’s faces look dark and blurry, but that might be a good thing.

“Thanks, Dylan,” I say, sweat already beading at my brow even though I haven’t played a lick. This is usually where my dad talks about our band and helps Dylan introduce us all. I’ve got his spiel down pat since he never changes it up, but at this moment, I’m frozen in place. All I see is an ocean of dark heads, waiting to bob along to the music, waiting to feel something, to be inspired. People don’t come to the Station Inn for the nachos. They come to hear good music.

“Um,” I say into the mic. “How’s everybody doing tonight?” But my voice sounds flimsy, timid as it bounces all over the room. My pep sounds forced. The place is so still and silent, I cringe. Take a deep breath. Start over.

Dylan and my dad are the showmen in our family, not me. I am who I am: a regular girl who’s filling in tonight. I have to just embrace that. And being me means changing things up. I know we agreed to start off with “Wildwood Flower,” but I can’t help but think how my version would pale next to the Carter Family’s… which makes me think of Maybelle and how she would just hang limp in my hand through most of that song… which makes me glance over at Adam and remember how he told that lady the other night that I fly on the fiddle… which makes me think of…

The perfect song.

“Let’s start off with one a few of you might already know,” I say, my voice quavering just a bit. If I don’t go ahead and get at least one song out of my system, I might bolt off the stage. I’m gripping Maybelle so tightly in my left hand that there are sure to be lines in my palm. I need to get out of my head and into that place where the music just flows, and the only way to do that is to play. “This is a Barrett Family Band original, one I actually wrote a long time ago, called ‘Will She Ever Call.’ ”

I glance back at Jacob, who stands next to his upright bass, confused. I don’t know what we’re going to do for an encore now, but the deed is done, the words have been spoken, and my family’s got to get on board. I know this song like the back of my hand, and it’s the perfect way for me to fiddle just as often as I have to sing. It’s always a big crowd-pleaser, and I’m hoping that once this audience gets their heads to nodding and their feet to stomping, I might relax a little.

Jacob looks over at my dad, although I don’t dare, and he must nod because Jacob reluctantly counts us in. “One, two, three, four!”

I know that I panicked under pressure and that my dad might be a little peeved, but I don’t really have time to contemplate my nerves besting me because this is a song that doesn’t give a fiddler a minute to think. Before you can say yip, I’m playing Maybelle like a girl on fire, my chin down and my mind on autopilot. I feel myself relax just the teensiest bit during those fifteen glorious seconds of doing what I do best, and then, feeling better already, I sing:

“I close my eyes, and the movie starts to play,

I see you standing there not knowing what to say,

You barge on in like there ain’t no other way—”

Dylan and my mom come in with backup vocals, and I am flooded with feelings of relief and solidarity. I make it through the first verse and actually sound okay. I start to get a little confidence, find myself enjoying it up here even, but then I jumble the words and flush bright red. I doubt the audience even noticed the flub since the song is an original, but I clam up. Instinctively, I raise my fiddle, but before I really get going, I realize that it’s my dad’s solo. I play some soft accompaniment to keep loose, to keep the nerves at bay. Then, when I lower Maybelle to come in on the next verse, my cue passes right by me.

I gulp hard, swallowing back the stage fright. Come on, Bird.

“Yip!” Dylan calls into his mic, picking up the melody. I glance over at him, and his eyes are right on me, intense, as he strums, his smile kinder than I’ve ever seen, and as he finishes up his little impromptu lick and my cue comes back around again, he winks at me. It’s not a grand gesture, but it’s just what I need: a big-brother way to say, Hey. I’ve got your back. You’ve got this.

It works. Smiling, I turn back to the crowd and pick up where I left off, singing my heart out about a boy I met in the crowd at an outdoor music festival a few years ago. He held my hand during a slow song, and I just knew he would be the first great love of my life. He asked for my e-mail address, and I was over the moon, glued to my computer for days after that, but then he never reached out, never found me, in essence, never “called.”

I was destroyed… and I let my diary know.

So I took the poems he inspired and combined them, my first attempt at songwriting. I changed it from “Will He Ever E-mail” to “Will She Ever Call.” It had a nicer ring to it. When my dad overheard me picking it out on Dylan’s guitar one night, he loved it so much that he grabbed Mom’s mandolin and helped me round out the sound. He said it was catchy, and he was really excited about it. Before I knew it, he’d included it in our set, and just like that, I went from poet to songwriter, which totally blew my mind. It was insane the first time our family performed it onstage, my dad completely clueless as to what had inspired the song (he never would have approved), the crowd bobbing their heads as if it were a bluegrass standard. There is no greater feeling than hearing an original song live.

I sing it now with gusto:

“Sleep or awake, for goodness’ sake,

Racking your brain, your heart in pain,

Eyes on your phone, a dog begging for a bone,

Asking, will she ever call?”

“Who-ee!” Dylan shouts into his mic, stomping his feet. It’s obvious why this song is usually our closer, because the place is charged.

“Take us home, Bird,” my dad says on my other side, leaning into my mic, his voice near a whisper.

The crowd is forgotten as I focus on Maybelle, the fingers on my left hand itching at the fiddle’s neck and my right hand gripping the frog of my bow with the sort of anxious energy a Kentucky Derby–winning horse has at the starting gates. I count the beats into my cue, and I’m off, sawing across the strings like a demon child, pouring out every ounce of nerves bundled up inside. I close my eyes, pump my knees, and work my arm like a piston. I hear feet stomping in the crowd and smile. This is what I’m good at. This is what I live for.

When we end the number, we get raucous applause from the crowd. The audience is ours.

“Thank you!” Dylan yells, taking over the intro. “I’m Dylan Barrett, on rhythm guitar and dobro. That’s my little brother, Jacob, on the upright bass—”

“Who you calling ‘little’?” Jacob calls, his usual shtick. The crowd chuckles—Jacob’s got a good five inches on Dylan.

“That’s my dad, Judd, on banjo, and that beautiful woman over there on the mandolin is my momma,” Dylan continues.

I beam at him, finally feeling relaxed.

“That was fun, wasn’t it, folks?” He gets a few murmurs of agreement, and I see heads nod in the crowd. “Well, now that you know my little sister is a phenom on the fiddle, tell me what you thought about her on lead vocals.” He cups his ear, and the audience responds with a smattering of applause, although someone to my left whistles. I blush, pretty sure it’s Adam.

“Okay, Dylan,” I say into the mic, playing along. “What do you want this time?”

“Just another song, sweet sister,” he says.

“You got it. A lot of y’all might know this next one. ‘Sunny Side of the Mountain.’ Yip!”

Jacob counts us in, and I settle into the spotlight. I can do this. I can do this for my family, and I can do this because Adam is watching. I can do this because I am a good singer, and I can do this because I’ve gotten over the initial stage fright that crippled me five minutes ago. I can do this because my family loves me and the music has never let us down. And honestly, I can do this because, well, I have to.

“I mean, I started off terrified,” I babble to my family excitedly as we file into the back room for intermission. “But then, I don’t know, I just settled into our usual rhythm and found a groove.”

My mom smiles at me. “You were terrific, baby.”

“Thank God they didn’t kick us out after that first flub,” Dylan teases, ruffling my hair.

“Hands off, you jerk!” I yell, racing over to the mirror.

My dad stands next to me as I freshen up. “You did great, sweetie.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, smoothing my hair. “I thought you’d kill me after that first number.”

He nods. “Well, that wasn’t what we’d discussed—” He starts coughing, and my mom comes over with a bottle of water, which he accepts gratefully.

“Take it easy, Judd,” she says. “You aren’t even supposed to be playing.”

He makes a face, gulps down half the bottle, then turns back to me. “But we’ll end it with something else. Maybe ‘Blue Moon of Kentucky-hee-hee,’ ” he wheezes as he walks over to the couch to lie down.

My mom nudges me as she leans in to check her own hair, enveloping us both in a mist of her hair spray. Unfazed, I stare at myself, grinning widely. Once Dylan picked up my missed cue and winked at me, it felt like everything changed. I wasn’t just singing; I was storytelling. I was weaving a tale for the audience, and they were rapt, hanging on my every note. Even Adam was stomping his feet and singing along, putting both fingers in his mouth to whistle as we filed off the stage for intermission. I hate that he saw me fumble the first song, but at least I recovered, and honestly, I feel like a rock star now. A new woman, all my nerves have dissipated. Now I’m just anxious to get back out there.

“Did you guys see that creepy guy sitting at the bar?” Jacob asks, before pounding a grape-flavored Gatorade.

“Oh yeah,” Dylan says. “I saw him. He was practically drooling over Bird, the perv.”

“He’s probably just drunk,” I say.

Jacob shakes his head. “He’s not drinking.”

“Yeah, and he’s Dad’s age, but he’s totally staring at you like some kind of stalker.”

“Gross,” I say, a little worried.

“Don’t pay him any mind, Bird. Let’s just get back out there,” my mom says, pointing to the clock and walking to the door.

As we head to the stage, Dylan points the guy out. “If he comes up to you after the show, just grab me, okay?” His blue eyes are icy, and his jaw is set hard.

I nod at him seriously but smile when I turn away. Dylan Barrett may hog the bathroom, drink from the milk jug, and think he’s always right, but he’s also the best big brother a girl could ask for.

Back onstage, I catch the eye of the man at the bar. He’s older than my parents—maybe fifty—dressed in a sport coat, jeans, and expensive-looking cowboy boots. But he doesn’t seem to be ogling me so much as studying me. I wish my brothers hadn’t even mentioned him. Finally in a groove, I don’t need some weirdo throwing me off my game, so I shift in the stage lights to get him out of my line of sight. And then I give it everything I’ve got, finding creative places to incorporate the fiddle while I sing.

The rest of the night goes even better than the first set. Everybody plays as well as they ever have, and by the end of the encore, I don’t want to leave the stage. I could live up here. I know my dad is the lead singer of the BFB, but I think he might have to fight me for it now. I feel alive, full of purpose, inspired! I want to sing more often, I want to write more songs, and I’m thinking that I could even show my dad some stuff I’ve been working on in my journal and take lead on a few if we include them in our act.

But there’s not a lot of time to savor the moment. As soon as we’re offstage, it’s business as usual, putting our instruments away and clearing out the greenroom. I freshen up my gloss in the mirror and then head back toward the stage to pack up the mics. I’m eager to get out there and talk to Adam, while my parents make it clear that they’re eager to get back into Winnie and hit the sack.

“You got Maybelle, right?” Dylan asks as he pushes the instrument cart past.

“Yeah.” I nod, checking that she’s in her case right next to me.

But Adam is nowhere to be found. I don’t get it. What is this guy’s deal? I mean, he changes his schedule to come see me sing lead for the first time but doesn’t look for me afterward? He’s not talking to Jacob; he’s not at the bar. It’s like he’s vanished into thin air. He’s, like, freaking Batman.

As I accept compliments from a few lingering crowd members, I feel myself coming down from the performance high. Our shows are always exhausting, but it’s even tougher being the front man—or front woman. And to be honest, I’m totally and completely bummed that Adam seems to have disappeared again.

Then the big guy who works the door approaches me. “You’re Bird, right?” he asks.

“Um, yes,” I answer hesitantly.

“Adam Dean had to get back on the road, but he told me to give these to you,” he says, holding out a tiny bouquet of flowers. “He told me to be careful with them, but they’re basically just a bunch of weeds.” He shrugs and shakes his head as he ambles back over to the door.

Stunned, I look down at the fragile bouquet in my hands. There are tiny yellow dandelions and long white daisies. There is clover, Queen Anne’s lace, and a few pale pink coneflowers. It’s not something you’d get from 1-800-FLOWERS, but it’s the most breathtaking assortment I have ever seen in my life. I wonder where he got them.

Wrapped around the stems is a bar napkin with the words Lady Bird scrawled across it in black ink. My heart races. When I unfold the napkin, I see that he’s left a note:

Update your status to “Killed it.”

I laugh out loud and jump off the stage, eager to get the flowers to Winnie and press a few into the pages of my journal. But my dad stops me at the back door.

“Bird, sweetie, you did it,” he says hoarsely, slinging his big arm around my shoulder and leading me to the small bar. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, beaming up at him. “I’m no Judd Barrett, but those are awfully big shoes to fill.”

“Hey, are you saying I’ve got big feet?” He laughs. I roll my eyes. My dad’s so corny.

I glance around the Station Inn and see the bare stage, the emptied room. It’s as if we were never even here. It’s disheartening how fleeting the truly spectacular moments in life are. But the first flowers I’ve ever gotten from a boy are in my hand, and that reminds me: I’ve got a Coca-Cola to try. Something tells me it will be the best fountain Coke in the whole world, no matter what it tastes like. I get the bartender’s attention and order one.

“I can’t believe that was your first time singing lead,” a guy says behind us. “You were a pro.”

My dad and I both swivel around. The guy who was staring at me from the bar earlier is standing there, grinning at me. He turns his gaze on my dad and sticks out his hand. “Mr. Barrett, I’m Randall Strong.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Strong,” my dad says, always polite, even when wary.

“I was awfully impressed with your girl up there tonight,” the man continues, as if I’m not even sitting there. I don’t get a creepy vibe now that we’re face-to-face. He just seems a little flashy. Intense.

“Well, I’ve always thought Bird was something else,” my dad agrees.

“She sure is. Listen, are y’all signed with a label?”

My dad cocks an eyebrow. “No,” he answers cautiously.

“Well, I’d be interested in talking more with you,” Mr. Strong says, smiling widely. My dad stifles a cough as best he can, but Mr. Strong quickly adds, “When you’re feeling better, of course. Maybe tomorrow? I think there’s something special here, and I hope that maybe we can do business together.”

He pulls a card from the pocket of his sport coat and hands it to my dad. I look over his shoulder and read:

RANDALL STRONG

PRESIDENT, A&R

GREAT AMERICAN MUSIC, NASHVILLE

There’s an address on Music Row, a phone number and e-mail address, and the GAM logo, a blue eighth note superimposed over two concentric circles that give the effect of an old vinyl record. I feel my jaw drop. GAM is one of the biggest labels in Music City.

I look up at Mr. Strong and consider him with new eyes. This guy’s not a stalker; he’s a music-industry big shot!

“Well, y’all have a good night now,” he says, excusing himself. “And Bird, it really was a pleasure. Great job.”

“Thanks,” I say as he walks away. Once he’s gone, I slowly swirl back around on my stool to face the bar. My dad’s got his elbows propped up against it, studying the card in his hands.

“What’s A and R stand for?” I ask.

“Artists and repertoire,” he answers. He looks up at me, and my face must still look a little blank because he explains. “He’s a talent scout.”

I blink hard. Then my Coke appears, and I lean toward the straw, taking a giant gulp. Mother Maybelle, have mercy, we’ve just been discovered.