Page 4 of Song Bird Hearts

The door behind me bursts open, no knocking to make sure I’m decent. The man that pokes his head in has eyes that tell me he’s disappointed to find me dressed and ready. Fucking creep.

“You’re on in five minutes, Ms. Decatur,” he says before ducking back out and closing the door.

I sigh. “Guess I should go, Kevin.” He grunts in annoyance. “Don’t worry. I doubt I’m going to win. You heard the songs I’m up against. Ain’t no one voting for me over the next summer anthem.”

Kevin will be fine in the room. He’s well-behaved and long passed his destructive phase. So I leave him in the room to nap on his bed and head to my spot. The two other artists I’m up against are already there, a young seventeen-year-old girl who wrote a song about summer nights and an older man who’s long past his prime, but still fighting the good fight. I smile at both of them as I step up between them.

“Good luck,” I tell both of them. “You two are amazing no matter what happens.”

Personally, I’m rooting for the older man. He’s talented and should have already been famous. Me and the seventeen-year-old have got time to make it still. My instincts tell me it’ll be the seventeen-year-old, though. If they don’t call my name, I won’t be performing. Still, we’re all expected to perform if we do, so I have my White Stag Way song ready. It’s the only song I wrote personally that I’m allowed to sing. The rest of my set list is made up of songs my record label insisted on and didn’t let me write. I hate it. I hate it all. No privacy. No realness. Everyone wants something from me, but don’t want to listen to what I want. It’s not what I expected. It’s not what I wanted. And I’m damn close to startin’ to make a big deal outta that.

“And the winner of the Best New Country Artist goes to. . .” That’s Brad fucking Paisely opening the envelope. Jesus. That should be hyping me up like nothing else. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, waiting to hear one of the other two people’s names. They won’t pick me over these two. That would be silly. “Valerie Decatur!”

My eyes flick open in surprise. What the hell? The summer anthem got higher in the charts on release than mine ever did. Sure, I went viral, but that’s hardly the only thing anyone should look for. And the man’s song is sure to be a classic one day. He’s the next Toby Keith. It shouldn’t be my name they’re calling.

“That’s you, kid,” the man says. “Congratulations.”

I blink. “It shoulda been you.”

His expression softens. “My time is comin’, don’t you worry. Now go on out there and claim that award for all your hard work.”

I stumble out on stage, approach Brad fucking Paisley, and take the envelope he hands me. I open it and look down at it in surprise, doublechecking it’s my name written there. Sure enough, Valerie Decatur is typed there. Someone else comes out and hands me a heavy ass trophy that I immediately worry I’m going to drop and break. My eyes flick up to the large crowd filling the theater, all of them clapping and cheering for me as my song plays in the background.

I lean into the mic. “I really didn’t think I was gonna win,” I tell them, and they laugh as if it’s the funniest joke they’ve ever heard. “Lucky for you, I kept my quick speech short since I didn’t think I’d be giving it.” More laughs, like a laugh track is running. I glance around just to see if there are lights that tell them to laugh. Nothing. “Anyways, I owe everything I am to my hometown back in Steele, Wyoming. Specifically, I’d like to thank Hank, Wayne, and Diane. And above all, I’d like to thank my mama for believing in me even when I was a scrawny kid getting’ into trouble. Mama, I hope you’re watchin’ and I hope you’re proud.” I hold the trophy up. “Green River, this one’s for you.”

The crowd cheers, clearly loving my shoutout to my hometown. The cheers all blend together, forming this static that hurts my ears as badly as the bright lights hurt my eyes. I keep my smile plastered in place even as someone comes out and swaps my trophy for a guitar during the commercial break. The stage is set around me as I stand awkwardly. Someone moves me over like I’m just another prop. Someone else adjusts my mic for me and hands me the earpiece. I let them do whatever they want. God, when did I become so complacent. This ain’t the same girl who stole a tractor and drove down Main Street singing at the top of her lungs. This ain’t the same woman who stood in the Boot Skoot and sang along with her friends. Who am I these days?

Still, I launch into the song when they give me the go ahead. I sing like I’m supposed to. I do every cue, smile at every spot my manager told me to. Someone set the trophy on the stage in front of me to remind everyone that I won, a trophy I’ll get to take home with me.

It doesn’t feel good.

Why doesn’t it feel good?

God, I should feel on top of the world. Instead, the weight of the world feels crushing. I’m no better than Atlas.

I smile when the crowd cheers. My mask stays firmly in place.

Chapter2

Valerie

I’m back in the dressing room, sitting on the floor with Kevin on my lap. I don’t care that the pants I’m wearing cost five hundred dollars. I don’t care that someone clearly didn’t sweep the floor before I set up in here. I just need a good hug from my pig. It helps. A little.

The trophy for best new artist sits on the dressing room table, glittering in the shitty lighting. It feels like it’s mocking me. Shouldn’t it feel better?

The door bursts open and my manager walks in. Kelly is the kind of person you’d expect to work for a record label. She’s thin and pretty, perfectly manicured. She always wears five-inch heels no matter if we play in a field or a stadium. Her voice is high and nasally, a habit she tried to kick to be a singer herself. When she didn’t make it, I guess she decided being a manager was the next best thing. That resentment coats most of our interactions despite me having nothing to do with her failure. We’re not friends. I don’t think we ever could be. Our working relationship depends only on my ability to ignore her snide remarks and sniffs of annoyance at Kevin.

“Congratulations,” she says when she sweeps inside. “Our investment in you paid off.”

My face tightens. “Gee Golly, Kelly. That almost felt genuine. Did you practice that in the mirror before coming in here?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah. I did actually.” She pulls out her phone. “It’s good for business. The label wants you to go on tour. The new album is gonna focus on the theme of heartbreak. They really like the soul you added in there. Also, we need to find a man with his own following willing to pretend you guys are dating for PR. The public break ups always do well for heartbreak albums.”

I scowl. “I’m not pretending to date someone for PR.”

“Then actually date someone. I don’t care. At this point, even a regular Joe Schmoe will be good for marketing. Any guys back home you’d like to call up?”

I grimace. No. I’m not calling any of my old boyfriends. Especially because most of them would jump at the chance. These days, no one seems genuine. I can count the people I trust on one hand.

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