Open Road Summer(3)

“I know.” When she talks about Jimmy, she almost never says his name. She doesn’t have to. He’s the “him” in every sentence that really matters; he’s the “he” in every song.

She shakes her head. “I brought this on myself by writing the songs that I wrote. Of course they were going to ask. I just have to take it.”

Thinking back to this afternoon’s press conference, I bite down on the insides of my cheeks—a habit I’ve developed since I quit smoking last month. The media session, held in the event room of the record label’s building, was mostly uneventful, but one reporter got pushy.

“Your first album was all about falling in love,” the reporter said. “This album seems to be mostly about heartbreak. Can you speak to that?”

Dee’s smile stayed glued on, but I know sadness swelled in her lungs. In interview prep, Dee’s publicist quizzes her with painful questions like they’re multiplication flash cards. I knew she could handle this question, but she looked so diminutive up on the platform, sandwiched between her bulky manager and her towering publicist at a long table.

“Eh,” Dee answered smilingly, trying to sound casual. “I didn’t want to be seen as a one-trick-pony songwriter, so I focused on something other than falling in love—falling out of love.”

That’s another thing the fans have wrong about her. They think she’s a celebrity, and she is. But she’s also a real girl, one who fake-smiles until she can close her bedroom door and sob.

“Did you recently end a relationship that caused you heartbreak?” It was the same reporter, butting in without being called on. My noncasted hand gripped into a fist. “Perhaps a long-term relationship with a high-school boyfriend, as it’s been rumored in the tabloids?”

Behind the microphone, Dee caught her smile right before it dropped to the floor. “The only relationship I’m in is with my guitar. We’re still very happy together; thank you for asking.”

Laughter spread through the crowd of reporters. Even Dee’s sour-faced publicist, Lissa, almost smiled. Dee moved on with press-conference pleasantries, but my edges are harder than hers and always have been. She forgives, forgets, moves on; I smolder quietly like embers, waiting for just enough fresh air to rage into a wildfire. Needless to say, that reporter better hope she never comes up against me. I grew up in a minefield of mean girls, and their snarky shrapnel made me bionic. Now I’ve got a stockpile of verbal ammunition and a grudge against anyone who crosses Dee.

Dee sighs and slides over to my couch, still with the same solemn look on her face.

“Reagan, I can’t tell you how much it helps to have you here.” She’s the only person I know who can say sentimental things and still sound completely real. She glances toward the back of the bus and says in a quieter voice, “Peach is great, but it’s not the same.”

Peach is Mrs. Montgomery’s youngest sister. When Dee was little, she couldn’t say her aunt’s real name, Clementine. She called her Peach instead, and now everyone else does, too. Dee takes after Peach, with her fair skin and naturally blond hair. But Peach is taller, with straightened hair and feathery bangs.

I smile at her. “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

Actually, I almost did miss it. My dad was reluctant to let me spend my summer traveling the country on a tour bus with only Dee’s twenty-six-year-old aunt as the chaperone. He isn’t much for parental mandates, so I assume that my stepmother was pulling his puppet strings. Fortunately, they both hated Blake, the guy I was dating at the time, and would have done anything to put distance between us. They finally agreed to the tour when I mentioned college applications. I plan to use the tour as a way to add to my photojournalism portfolio. By summer’s end, I should have shots from all over the country.

For me, this summer is more than a pleasant detour; it’s a necessary diversion. For the past year, I’ve been stuck in the life of a normal junior in high school, passing the time with people I don’t especially like at parties that aren’t especially fun. So I made my own fun, and it did not go very well. Meanwhile, Dee has been performing at award shows, shooting magazine covers, and completing the Middle of Nowhere album.

Peach emerges from the bedroom area in the back of the bus. When Dee opened for the band Blue Sky Day last year, she needed a guardian to accompany her on tour. Dee’s parents couldn’t come because of her brothers, so Peach volunteered. She wound up dating Dee’s banjo player, Greg, which explains her eagerness to join up on this tour as well. Dee requires very little supervision, so Peach spends her time hanging out with her boyfriend and fielding phone calls from Dee’s management team.

True to form, Peach is holding a magazine. She keeps up with all the gossip websites, too, checking for articles about Dee. I’m always tempted to read what people say about Dee, but my temper can’t handle it.

“Thought you might want one.” Peach smiles as she hands me the open magazine. “It’s not out till next month, but we got a few first-run prints for approval.”

“Thanks,” I reply before she retreats to the bedroom. I examine the front of the magazine, which happens to be a favorite of mine. I never would have thought Dee could land the cover of Idiosync; she’s the first country artist ever deemed cool enough for it. The magazine’s aesthetic is edgy and urban, which is how I’d describe my own sense of style—but never Dee’s. In the picture, she’s wearing red ballet flats and a tight navy blazer over a white collared shirt and jeans . . . while riding a mechanical bull at a Nashville saloon. Instead of some trying-to-be-sexy rodeo-girl pose, Dee’s holding on with both hands, head tilted back and laughing. She looks taller than her petite stature—only one inch taller than me—and it makes me wonder if other people in magazines are smaller in real life. BUCK THE MAN, the title screams. Dixie darling Lilah Montgomery talks prep-school style, small-town roots, and bucking off pop music.