“ARE YOU READY, kiddo?” my dad asks. He and I pulled into Nashville last night from a week of shows in Knoxville and Asheville, driving the car we borrowed from Gramma while she went on with my mom and brothers to a previously scheduled family vacation in North Carolina.

It’s hard to miss the GAM offices—they’re in an impressive six-story building made of glass and steel that occupies more than its fair share of Music Row. We’re standing in front of it now, but I pause before we actually start down the walk. This is the building some of Nashville’s biggest superstars call home. I feel like I should bow or kneel or pray or offer up some sort of sacrifice before I dare set foot inside.

“Let’s go, hon,” my dad prods, putting his arm around me and giving me the tiny nudge I need to get my boots going again.

Right before opening the massive GAM front door, I catch my reflection in the dark glass and smooth the front of my new sleeveless yellow sundress. I didn’t have a clue what to wear today, so my mom and I hit the mall in search of the perfect sign-me-to-a-record-deal outfit. I knew I wanted to wear my cowboy boots, and when she suggested buying a new, celebratory pair, I adamantly refused. These are the boots I was discovered in, so in case they have good luck, I’m keeping them until they fall apart.

“You must be the Barretts,” a sharply dressed guy in his twenties says when we approach the large front desk. His dark hair is soaked with gel, and the only thing skinnier than his jeans is his tie. He approaches us with a million-dollar smile, his hand out for a shake. “I’m Clem, Randall Strong’s assistant, and we’re all so very happy you’re here.”

We shake and exchange pleasantries, but then we’re off, trying our best to keep up with the energetic Clem as he leads us through the offices. It’s not that Clem’s running or anything, it’s that he’s clearly no longer in awe of this magical place. How can he fly past all these gold and platinum records hanging on the walls as if they mean nothing? How can he not stop and gape at picture after picture of his boss posing with country music icons?

“Bird,” my dad calls.

At the end of the hallway, I see my dad and Clem waiting for me outside a pair of imposing doors. That must be Strong’s office. I gulp, then walk calmly yet briskly toward them.

“Bird! Judd!” Randall Strong calls, swinging the double doors open wide. He reaches out and pumps our hands enthusiastically. As Mr. Strong leads us inside toward a small table covered in bagels, cheese, and fruit, I’d wager that he has had at least three cups of coffee in the last thirty minutes. Maybe he’s this friendly to everybody, but the whiteness of his large teeth is almost blinding.

The entire back wall of the room is glass, offering a breathtaking view of downtown in the distance, and Mr. Strong’s office alone is much bigger than Winnie. In fact, it’s all a little intimidating. I’m walking toward the massive oak desk to take a seat at one of the two chairs facing it when Clem intercepts me.

“No, you’ll be over here,” he says, leading me to a sitting area. Then he opens a minifridge, gets out two premium glass bottles of water, and hands them to my dad and me with a big smile before heading back to his place at the front desk.

“I’m thrilled that we could meet up again,” Mr. Strong says enthusiastically, gesturing for us to take seats. Dad and I settle into two comfy leather chairs facing a beautiful antique-looking fireplace, and Strong sits on a love seat, propping one shiny black shoe on his knee and stretching his arm across the back of the sofa. His pinstriped suit and gold cuff links must have cost a small fortune.

“Thank you for having us,” my dad answers politely.

“Oh, your voice sounds much better, Judd,” Mr. Strong comments.

They go on to talk about the recent weather and finally the upcoming football season. I can’t help but stare at all the pictures on the walls and in frames on the tables near us. I am floored by a picture on the end table next to me: It’s of a young Randall Strong with his arm around Johnny Cash at the Grammys. He’s, like, best friends with every country music star on earth.

“Well, I was blown away at the Station Inn,” he says now.

I check back into the conversation. “Thank you, Mr. Strong,” I say humbly.

“Oh, Randall, Randall. Call me Randall,” he says boisterously.

“Okay, Ran—”

“So, as I was saying the last time we met,” he plows ahead, interrupting me and addressing my dad, “I’d like to discuss the possibility of a development deal with Bird. That was the first time she’d sung lead for your family’s band?”

My dad looks over at me quickly, but then answers, “Yes, that was the first time, but she’s been filling in this whole week while I recovered my voice.”

“And how’d she do?” Randall asks, as if I’m not sitting right there.

“She was great. I think most of the stage jitters she experienced that first night have been worked out of her system.”

Oh, thanks for reminding him, Dad.

“Good, good,” Randall says, glancing briefly at the shiny watch on his wrist before addressing my dad again. “But, Judd, we also like that she’s a little unpolished. She’s got a raw edge that reads as genuine and accessible. Does she play any other instruments?”

I was so excited for this meeting. It was supposed to be about me and my potential career, but now I’m feeling a little left out. It’s like I’m watching a tennis match between these two. I’m not a child. I’m sixteen, and this is my life we’re talking about.

“I can play guitar,” I say loudly. Randall looks over at me almost as if he’s surprised to see me sitting there. “And I write songs.”

“Oh, you write?” Randall asks, putting his leg down and leaning forward. Now that I’ve gotten his full attention, I sink back a little in my chair. “What kinds of songs?”

“Um, ballads mostly, I guess. Some of my stuff has a little bit of a rock feel.”

“What are they about?” he asks.

I blush, thinking about Adam and how a lot of my songs have to do with him. “They’re kind of personal,” I say, aware of my dad sitting right beside me.

Randall claps his hands once, then rubs them together. “Good. Personal is good. They eat personal up.”

They?

“Can you sing one for me right now?”

“Oh,” I say, shocked. I look over at my dad, and he nods for me to go ahead, but I really feel put on the spot. I wasn’t prepared to perform. “Well, I’d have to go grab my journal from the car,” I tell him. “And an instrument.”

“Hmmm…” Randall says, frowning.

“Bird wrote ‘Will She Ever Call,’ the number we usually do for our encore, and Barrett Family Band fans just love it,” my dad says, sensing as I do that we’re losing our hold on the meeting.

“Oh, I think I remember that one maybe.”

“We could sing it for you a cappella right now,” Dad presses.

“Never mind, never mind,” Randall says, standing up abruptly. His forehead lines are deeply creased as he breezes by us and walks over to his desk.

My heart sinks. Why didn’t I throw my journal into my purse? Why would I come to this meeting without it? And you’d think my dad would’ve known to bring his banjo or Dylan’s guitar, which my brother reluctantly agreed to part with while on vacation, or remind me to grab Maybelle.

“Clem,” Randall says into the phone on his desk. “Get me Lorie Pierce.”

I stand up and walk over, my dad right behind me. “Mr. Strong, if you just give me a minute,” I say, panicked. “I can run down to the car and be right back.”

“It’s Randall,” he says, looking up from a calendar on his desk. He flashes his bright white smile at me again, and I feel better. “And there’s no need. You can sing them for me live tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“At the Bluebird.”

“The Bluebird Cafe?” I ask, incredulous.

“It’s a local spot where singers and songwriters, some new and some established, perform their work,” he explains.

“Garth Brooks was discovered there,” my dad pipes up.

Randall gives him a patronizing smile. “Garth Brooks and many more.”

But I don’t need them to tell me about the Bluebird. Anyone who has anything to do with country music knows about the Bluebird. It’s a small venue, intimate, but a performance there carries prestige. Numerous careers and megahits got their starts there. From the audience, it’s magical. But me onstage? Tonight? Playing next to some of the best singers and songwriters in Nashville? That sounds terrifying.

“But today is Wednesday,” I finally say. “I’ve never performed there. Open Mic nights are on Mondays. There’s no way—”

“I’ll get you a spot,” Randall says, holding up a finger as he presses TALK on his desk phone. “You just bring your songs.” Then he lifts the receiver and turns away, looking down on Music Row as he pulls some strings.

I look at my dad wide-eyed. “The Bluebird Cafe?” I whisper. Absentmindedly, I slip my hand into the pocket of my dress and thumb the lucky rock I found last week. It calms me, reminding me that I was good enough at the Station Inn, good enough to get Randall’s attention.

My dad reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “You’ll do great.”

I nod and he squeezes again. We stand there, on the other side of Strong’s desk, watching the pinstripes on his suit ripple as he gestures dramatically while getting everything set for tonight. From the sound of it, he has the power to get me behind a mic onstage at the Bluebird. Which means I have eight hours to turn the stories on the pages of my journal into songs worthy of a record deal.