Open Road Summer(2)

I stay back, crossing my arms again, as Dee hugs her dad—a long, clinging hug that reminds me that leaving isn’t so easy for her. Mrs. Montgomery is hugging Dee’s aunt Peach, who is our summer chaperone. After Peach boards the tour bus, Mrs. Montgomery waves me over, and I uncross my arms. The casted one aches, of course, but I don’t let myself linger on that anymore.

“You girls are going to have such a fun summer.” She clasps her hands against my shoulders. “I can’t wait to hear about it.”

To her credit, Dee’s mom doesn’t admonish me to behave or warn me not to get Dee in trouble. No, Mrs. Montgomery has never been like that, even though I probably deserve it. She hugs me as she always does, like I’m her own daughter.

“You call if you need anything, okay?” Dee’s mom whispers as she releases me. This is such a mom thing to say when leaving a daughter at summer camp or at college or, I suppose, on a concert tour. It’s nice to have someone say it to me.

Beside me, Dee crouches down, pulling both of her little brothers into one big hug. She whispers something to both of them, and they nod obediently in response. When she stands back, her eyes are glistening with tears.

“None of that,” her mom says. “We’ll see you opening night. You won’t even miss us.”

That’s not true. Dee would love to have her family on tour, but her parents think it’s important for her brothers to stay grounded in reality. They’re in elementary school, and they should have summers of cannonballs into the pool and makeshift lemonade stands. They should have a childhood that’s based on more than their sister’s fame—a childhood like Dee’s.

Now Dee’s mom holds her close and says something in her ear. Advice, I suppose, or an affirmation of how proud she is. Mrs. Montgomery is a songwriter for a big label on Music Row, but she’s never been a performer. She filled their house with Emmylou Harris and Johnny Cash, and she showed Dee by example that she could make her very own music. Dee’s parents never pushed her toward this career, but her DNA twists into bars of music instead of double helixes.

With one last squeeze, Dee untangles her arms from her mom’s neck. She exhales deeply, linking her pinkie with mine. “Let’s do it.”

So, with Dee glancing behind us one last time, we step into our home for the next three months. My laptop and camera bag are already on board, and my one massive suitcase is packed in the undercarriage of the bus. Dee designed the interior of the bus herself. Both sides are lined with long leather couches—cushy and deep like the one in her parents’ living room. One couch sidles up to a retro dining nook while the other ends near the compact kitchen area, which is complete with a sink and a well-stocked refrigerator.

I plop down on the right-side couch, cozying against the throw pillows. Dee had them made with a floral fabric to look like the wildflowers on her album cover. There’s a full-size bed in the back, where Peach is already lying down, and two bunks tucked into the bus’s side wall.

Dee nestles into the couch across from mine, turning so she can look out the tall windows at her family. They can’t see her, but she presses her palm against the glass. Her other hand rests on the couch, lingering near her two ever-present cell phones: one for personal contacts and one for work calls. The personal phone holds only a few numbers.

Everyone in the crowd waves as the bus lurches forward. Dee waves back even though no one can see her but me. The bus driver honks the horn a few times, and just like that, we’re on our way to everywhere. Dee keeps looking out the window, watching as the scenes of downtown slide into images of our small town on the east side of Nashville. The snapshots of home pass us by—the wide trees and fields of crops and little houses, each with its own American flag. Outside, the sky is darkening, and so is Dee’s mood. She’s wringing her hands absentmindedly, smoothing a fingertip over her polished nails.

Real-life Dee doesn’t have shiny pink nails. She has dirt under her fingernails from playing with her little brothers. She’s still in full makeup from the press conference earlier, and, with false eyelashes too dark for her fair complexion, Dee looks like a higher-contrast version of herself. Her blond hair is in loose waves that end exactly at her shoulders, the same cut and style as my own. The only difference is that Dee’s natural coloring looks like an American landscape—country-sky-blue eyes and hair the color of Tennessee wheat fields, golden strands with darker undertones. My hair is nearly black, and I have jealous green eyes. In a fairy tale, she’d play the good fairy. I’d be the evil witch’s screwup second cousin.

Dee’s working through something in her mind, hugging herself as one hand toys with her necklace. The necklace is her trademark talisman—a thin chain with a tiny horseshoe that rests right on the hollow of her throat. Jimmy gave it to her for her fourteenth birthday, and she’s never played a show without it. The necklace suits Dee so perfectly—the gold color and the simple, delicate charm—that it seems intrinsic, as much a part of her as the tiny scar on her chin or the freckles across her shoulders.

“Hey,” I say, finally figuring out why she’s so preoccupied. “That reporter from earlier . . . she doesn’t know anything. I think her hair was proof of that.”

Dee tries not to smile, but she can’t help it. I like to think of myself as the devil on her shoulder, happy to say the things that she’s too polite to think. “I don’t want it to be like this, you know. Missing him makes me feel weak and pathetic.”