The Road to You Read online

  “I love the atmosphere,” I say to Devyn as she slips her Louis Vuitton sunglasses into a case and throws them into her Fendi bag.

  “Wait until you try the food,” she says. “They have a grilled-vegetable salad that’s to die for.”

  Devyn gives me a celebrity tour of the menu that could rival the Hollywood movie star tour. “Kendall Jenner loves the huevos rancheros, Lily Collins always gets the lime chicken, and Zac Efron told me the swordfish tacos are the best he’s ever had,” she says knowingly.

  I didn’t eat breakfast so I’m really hungry and everything on the menu looks good, although pretty pricey. “I heard someone compliment the fried chicken on her way out,” I remark.

  Devyn smirks devilishly. “The only people who eat fried chicken in LA are either behind the camera or have a lipo session scheduled in a few days.”

  My mouth hangs open in shock, which Devyn seems to enjoy. “Luckily, I’m naturally skinny,” she says. “I mean, I can eat whatever I want because I have this superhuman metabolism, so ribs, steak, chicken, bring it on. But I’m the minority.”

  From most people, a comment like that would be off-putting, but Devyn’s candor is kind of refreshing. I feel like she can give me the straight-up California low-down. When she tells me that my dress reminds her of one she just saw Bella Thorne wearing, and then adds that I “totally wear it best,” I actually laugh out loud. I can’t put my finger on what exactly it is about Devyn, but she’s magnetic, the kind of person who draws you into her orbit.

  “Oh, Bird, lean in,” she says, picking up her phone. “Let’s tweet a pic before the food gets here and the table’s a mess.”

  She holds out her phone and we touch heads over the flower arrangement. Once again, I don’t get to see the picture before she tweets it to her fans, so I’m hoping it’s a good one. I think of something my mom always says: Some people live life asking for forgiveness instead of permission. Devyn Delaney certainly seems to be that kind of person.

  Her thumbs fly across the screen and she mumbles as she types: “ ‘Hey, my little hashtag Devyls! I’m at hashtag Ivy with my girl at BirdBarrett, then shopping on Rodeo.’ ” She pauses and looks up at me. “You can, right? I need a dress for my Fallon appearance this week.”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “That’s cool.”

  She nods and resumes her tweet. “ ‘Follow her!! Hashtag HollywoodHotties.’ ” She looks up at me with a self-satisfied smile. “That’s, like, the exact amount of characters, even with the pic of us. I’m eerily good at Twitter.”

  “I always have to go back and edit mine,” I admit. “I type too—”

  “Here, retweet it real quick, okay?”

  “Oh,” I say, picking up my phone. “Sure. I guess I need to text my dad about shopping, too, right? How long do you think we’ll be out?”

  She shrugs and gets lost again on her phone, which already feels like the third person at our table. After I text my dad, I put my own on SILENT and slip it into my purse. I look around the cute little restaurant until the waiter comes by and takes our order. Once he’s gone, Devyn holds her phone up to me.

  “Did you see TMZ today?” she asks, fuming.

  I shake my head, leaning forward to see her screen.

  “Jason supposedly went out with Emma Watson last night,” she says, handing it over.

  I sit back in my chair and click on the link, knowing firsthand what it’s like to be caught on TMZ with Jason Samuels. “Maybe it was a work dinner,” I suggest.

  Devyn shakes her head. “I mean, that’s totally what he’d say,” she says. “But look—the pap caught them kissing outside the limo.”

  “Hmmm,” I say noncommittally when a grainy pic pops up on-screen and the supposed proof is right in front of me. Emma is on tiptoes, her face right next to Jason’s. “It doesn’t look too scandalous,” I say. “Maybe it was a quick peck on the cheek. You know, the whole ‘Hollywood hello’ thing everybody does.”

  Devyn frowns and holds out her hand for the phone. “I mean, we broke up so it’s whatevs. I just think he can do better.”

  I pass her the phone and take a drink of water. Better than Emma Watson?

  She looks at the pic again and dramatically rolls her eyes before closing the window and setting her phone on the table. “He’s doing a period romance this year, so I’m sure he’s just going out with her to learn her British accent, but it’s pretty pathetic. I mean, Harry Potter’s girlfriend? Get a life.”

  I nod, assuming it’s a bad time to point out that Hermione was actually into Ron.

  “I should be used to it. Girls are always throwing themselves at him,” she says, scrunching up her nose. “Oh, but don’t worry. We died laughing when all that gossip about you guys came out last year.”

  “I’m glad y’all were laughing because it sucked for me,” I say. “There was this guy I was just starting to see, and when all of that came out, I think it made him reconsider us.”

  “OMG, that sucks,” Devyn says, pouting dramatically.

  “Yeah, I mean, it was a bunch of stuff,” I admit. “I was super busy with my music. And he’s a musician, too.”

  “Sexy,” Devyn coos.

  I sigh involuntarily. “He really is a great guy,” I say, the thought of Adam surprisingly depressing right now. “He was trying to do his own music, and I wanted him to be on my record, but my label didn’t want him, so then he played a gig with Kayelee Ford—”

  “Kayelee Ford. What a fake,” Devyn says, rolling her eyes again.

  My ears perk up. “Huh?”

  Devyn gestures for me to lean in close and she lowers her voice conspiratorially. “You know Kayelee Ford is as phony as my fingernails, right?”

  “What do you mean?” I whisper.

  “Her family is, like, filthy rich. She completely bought her way into the music scene.”

  “Bought her way in?”

  “Big donations to music execs’ nonprofits, paid for her own development, probably bought all of her own CDs, blah blah blah. Did you know her last name isn’t even really Ford?” I gasp, and her eyes gleam. “It’s actually Butts or Roach or something like that. The label made her change it so the rednecks would like it. Can you even?”

  We both sit back as the food comes, and I let all this gossip sink in. “I’m not even surprised,” I say once the waiter is gone. “I ran into her in Nashville and—you’ve heard how everybody keeps comparing us? Saying we’re rivals?”

  Devyn nods furiously, her eyes never leaving mine as she takes a bite.

  “So I was at this coffee shop and was like, ‘I’m going to be the bigger person’ and, you know—”

  “Squash the beef,” Devyn cuts in.

  “Exactly. So I stop her and, Devyn, she acts like she doesn’t even know who I am.”

  “No.”

  “Yes!” I say, eyes wide. “She actually asked me if I wanted an autograph.”

  “Shut your face.”

  “And get this,” I go on, happy to have someone I can talk to about all of this and who gets how messed up it is. Kai and Stella were shocked at Kayelee’s rudeness, but they shrugged it off like I was above it. I am, but still. I’ve only known Devyn a short time, but I can already tell that she totally understands mean girls like Kayelee. “The girl actually flirted with my boyfriend,” I say. “Right in front of me!”

  “Oh, hell no,” Devyn says, pursing her lips.

  “I don’t really want this rivalry, or whatever it is—and I’m sure country music fans don’t either—but this girl is something else.”

  “Oh no, fans love that stuff,” Devyn says, correcting me. “You might not like what they’re saying, but this thing with that trumped-up Bird-wannabe keeps people talking about you.” She smiles. “And p.s., it’s obvious that you’re the classy one.”

  I sit up straighter and smile broadly. “Thank you, Devyn. I really appreciate that.”

  “Of course. You know I’ve got your back,” she says. “Now show me a picture of this boy
friend. Is he the musician?”

  I pull my cell phone out of my purse and look up a picture. “No, that ended,” I say. “Before it even really got going, actually. But this is Kai. We met on my tour this summer and—”

  “ZOMG,” Devyn says, taking my phone out of my hands. “He looks like a Hollister model. Nice snag, BB.”

  We talk nonstop through the rest of our lunch. At first I was worried that we wouldn’t have much in common. In truth, I guess, we don’t. But she’s only two years older than me, and she’s practically a walking, talking Hollywood handbook. As I devour the absolutely delicious fish tacos, I get all kinds of insider information and she discreetly points out people in the restaurant who are big executives or agents.

  When the waiter shows up with a dessert menu, Devyn doesn’t even humor him. “You can go ahead and take this,” she says as she slides an American Express Black Card out of her billfold.

  “Wait,” I say, reaching for my purse. The waiter has already walked away. “Devyn, I didn’t realize. Here, let me give you some cash.”

  She waves me off as she digs through her bag. “Buy me a fro yo later.”

  She pulls out a lip gloss and smacks her full lips, then she gets her sunglasses out but doesn’t put them on yet. Her signals couldn’t be clearer—she is ready to get out of here—so I grab my phone and pull up the camera app, checking my teeth.

  “Bird, that’s genius,” Devyn says, appraising me with an enormous smile. She picks up her own phone and checks her teeth and eye makeup, then she smooths down her already sleek hair. “I don’t know how I never thought to use this as a mirror.”

  I shrug. “Years on the road with a very small bathroom shared with four other people. You get creative.”

  Devyn signs the bill with a flourish, and by the time we step out of the restaurant, the paparazzi have quadrupled in number. “Are you ready?” she asks, linking her arm through mine as she leads the way through the patio.

  On the street, she beams at the cameras and waves flirtatiously as they shout, “Bird! Devyn! Over here! Bird, are you living in LA now? Devyn, what do you think about Jason and Emma?”

  She manages to smile at them, giggle as if sharing a joke with me, and power us through the crowd toward her convertible waiting at the valet stand. I might manage a smile or two, but mainly, I keep my head down.

  Behind the wheel, she looks over at me, still smiling like a beauty queen. “You’ll get used to them,” she says as they keep snapping photos. “It’s like this everywhere in LA.”

  “I get a little nervous when they’re right up in my face like that,” I admit. There is one guy practically lying on the car hood as he angles for a shot, and it’s not until Devyn expertly pulls away from the curb that I feel the anxiety subside.

  “They can be annoying, sure,” she says, stopping at a red light. “But I just know to always be ‘on.’ Oh my God, your song!”

  She blasts the radio and slams on the gas pedal as the light turns green. “Sing Anyway” blares through the speakers. My hair flies everywhere, whipping my face until I slip a ponytail holder off my wrist and pull it back. I look over at Devyn, singing along and looking every bit as put together as when she first showed up for lunch. It seems to me that always being ‘on’ would take a lot of work, but somehow Devyn Delaney makes it look effortless.

  Over the next couple of hours, Devyn gives her fancy credit card a workout. She has appointments at several shops on North Rodeo Drive, everyone happy to see us. I didn’t even know we were going shopping, but the designer boutiques have dressing rooms already stocked with clothes in my size. I’m eager to join in the fun—hey, why not?—until I see the price tags. Some of this stuff costs four times as much as we’d make for a Barrett Family Band gig… and that had to feed five people!

  So I resist the urge to shop for myself and try to be a good audience for Devyn without admitting to her that my parents would go nuts if I dropped this kind of change on my wardrobe. At Gucci, she gets a white, iridescent, draped jumpsuit that looks stunning against her deep brown skin. She begs me to try on a shift dress from the same collection, but when I see that it costs $3,500, I politely decline. At Fendi, it’s the same story, although it’s much easier for me to try out and turn down purses than clothing. We stop at Cartier and Ferragamo before, finally, she stops me on the sidewalk outside Chanel.

  “Bird, are you even having fun?” she says, with a touch of annoyance.

  “Yeah,” I say, surprised.

  “Well, I made all these appointments and these people were expecting us. They already pulled items for us and everything, but you’re, like, not even into it.”

  “Oh,” I say, a little embarrassed. “I didn’t know we were going shopping today. But no, Devyn, seriously, I’m having a great time. I just thought I was here to help you find something for The Tonight Show. I don’t really need anything for myself.”

  Devyn laughs. “It’s not about needing anything, Bird. It’s about celebrating your success.” She puts her hands on my shoulders, the designer bags sliding down to the crooks in her arms. She shakes her perfect waves from her face and aims the full brilliance of her wide smile at me. “Bird Barrett, my new friend, you are crushing the charts. Crushing them. And this week, there’s a whole article about your move to LA in People. You are gorgeous and fun and talented and maybe you haven’t realized it, but you’re kind of a big deal.”

  I blush.

  “You went on a national tour with Jolene Taylor!” she shouts, shaking my shoulders playfully. “I guarantee that diva’s out shopping right now and not thinking twice about it.”

  “No, I’m sure,” I say, biting my lip. The stuff Devyn’s bought today is unquestionably gorgeous, but it was just so expensive. “My parents would kill me,” I finally say, albeit halfheartedly.

  “You’re the one making the money,” she counters. “And you’re working your butt off for it, too.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Come on,” she says. “It’s no fun having a shopping buddy who doesn’t shop.”

  She holds open the door to the next designer store, and I feel the cool air-conditioning on my face.

  “Miss Barrett. Miss Delaney,” a very well-put-together woman greets us. Another girl is immediately at her side with two bottles of VOSS water. I smile at her and walk in, reasoning that I could use a couple pairs of shoes for nights out with Kai. And after all, I am paying for my brothers’ college tuition and I bought my folks the house in Nashville. It’s about time I spend some of my money on me.

  “Whoa, that’s an awful big load you’ve got there,” my dad comments when I get home later. I was hoping to hurry back to my room, but as luck would have it, he was walking out of the kitchen right as I walked in the front door.

  “Yeah, I picked up a few things.”

  “A few?” he remarks, following me into the living room. My mom looks up from the magazine she’s reading, and I can tell from the look on her face that she, too, has an opinion about all the shopping bags I’m holding. “Looks like you picked up more than a few things to me.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, so I bought a bunch of stuff. So what?”

  “So what?” my dad repeats. “So I don’t like your attitude is what.”

  I exhale mightily and walk back to my bedroom. I lay the bags on my bed, but as expected, my parents follow me.

  “Jimmy Choo and Prada?” my mom asks, sitting on the bed and nosing through my purchases. She holds up a gray military-inspired coat and audibly gasps.

  “Gorgeous, right?” I ask.

  “I was going to say obscene,” she answers. “Bird, how did you pay for all of this?”

  “With the credit card,” I say, shrugging.

  “Do you know how many mouths you could feed with the price of this coat?” she asks.

  I walk over to the bed and take the coat from her, folding it and putting it back in the bag. “I didn’t buy that much,” I say. “You should’ve seen the damage Devyn did tod
ay.”

  “I don’t care what Devyn Delaney spent,” she says, her face turning red. I haven’t seen my mom get really angry in a long time, and I was actually more prepared for my dad to blow up. “That credit card is for emergencies. You shouldn’t be spending that kind of money on clothes and shoes.”

  “Why not?” I ask. “I make the money.”

  “Bird Barrett, you will not take that tone—”

  “Aileen,” my dad says, cutting her off. He walks calmly over to the bags and empties them onto my bed: A dress, two pairs of shoes, a handbag, a metal cuff, the gray coat, and a pair of dark jeans. “Bird, look at these things. Seven things. Only seven things and you seem to have spent almost…” He checks the tags and does the math in his head. I can tell from the expression on his face that it’s much worse than he’d expected. “Nine thousand dollars,” he nearly whispers. “Nine thousand?” he asks much louder, looking up at me. “And you call that not buying much?”

  I feel heat flaming up my neck and over my cheeks, so I sit down and focus on taking off my sandals. I had the best afternoon with an awesome new friend and they’re ruining it by pinching pennies. My pennies.

  “I don’t see the big deal,” I say. “I mean, yeah, if it were before my album was doing so well then it would totally be a lot of money.”

  “Nine thousand dollars is a lot of money no matter how your album does,” my dad says sternly. He shakes his head. “This isn’t like you, Bird.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask hotly. “And why can’t I spend the money I’m making?”

  “Because you’re seventeen!” he responds, finally at the anger level I had originally been expecting.

  “Well, you’re not my manager anymore, so I’ll call Troy and see what he thinks,” I say.

  My dad is in my face faster than a bullet out of its casing. “Troy Becker is in charge of deciding where you sing,” he spits. “I’m still your father and I’ll decide what’s best for your future, and I hate to break it to you, but a nine-thousand-dollar shopping spree ain’t it.”