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Birdie
“Youkilledit,Birdie!God, that was fantastic.”
I take a water bottle from my tour manager, Eric, practically draining the entire thing in one gulp. “Thanks, E. The energy was wild out there tonight.”
“I can’t believe a guy threw his underwear at you,” he laughs while walking away to talk to our PR person, Gia.
I stave off rolling my eyes. I’m used to men throwing their underwear at me and women throwing their bras, too. It isn’t anything new. My voice is sultry and smooth, like if Mama Cass and Janis Joplin had a baby. Or at least that’s what my record label told me when I was signed five years ago.
Something about the way I move my hips while I sing and play piano just inspires people to throw themselves at me. I find it funny, and slightly annoying, that Eric still has trouble believing a plus-size woman such as myself could inspire that kind of behavior from people. But I’m confident, sexy, and know my worth. That comes through in my performance and music.
Don’t get me wrong, I have insecurities just as other people do. But my weight isn’t one of them. When you’re in the music industry long enough, you get used to detaching from the endless critiques of how you look and how you sound. You learn that people love you for you, or for your music, and screw the rest who don’t. I don’t have time to wallow about how Page Six calls me fat or says I shouldn’t wear a bikini on my one vacation a year. I don’t care if my record executives want me to change my hair or go on a diet. I pay their bills with my voice, not my looks.
As Mom told me in the beginning of my career when it still bothered me,“You’re making more money for their pockets than the numbers on the scale will ever read. Tell them to shove their little insecure baby-man feelings where the sun doesn’t shine! They work for you.”
I smile at the thought of her. She lives in Arizona with her boyfriend on a small ranch that I bought for her last year. She loves the energy there and the hot weather. I visit every once in a while when our tour stops over, or I have some down time… which isn’t as often as I’d like.
Five years ago, my entire life changed when I won the hit singing competition, America’s Next Singing Star. I had the most votes from the American people out of anyone that had ever won in their past four seasons. I was stunned when I found out, but the opportunity led me to a record deal, which led me to three Grammys, three sold-out world tours, brand deals and even some TV appearances. The biggest being SNL just a few days ago. That was a wild ride, and one that I’ll never forget.
When Mom said she named me Birdie Wilder because it sounded like the name of someone destined to be famous someday, I never really believed she would be right.
“Great show, B!” a male voice exclaims. I jump as if the boogeyman just yelled BOO! I’d been so lost in thought I didn’t see him approach.
“Woah there, didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you saw me.”
I turn toward my guitarist Kevin’s voice. His gaze is full of concern, but I smile at him to ease his mind. “Sorry, I’m just tired.”
He cracks a grin, wiping his long, sweaty, black locks off his forehead. “It’s been a long week. I’m looking forward to our down day tomorrow. Do you have any plans?”
“Me, a bath, and a big giant bed with cheesy New York pizza.”
He high-fives me. “Right on. My boyfriend is visiting if you wanna have a drink or something with us, but no pressure. I can’t pass up a night in New York City no matter how tired I am.”
“Thanks, Kev. If I can get out of bed, I’ll let you know.” We’ve been on tour for over a month straight now, and tonight is our second show at Madison Square Garden. Not to mention life has been a little complicated as of late… between my anxiety, the constant shows, and traveling the country, I’m beat.
Kevin stares at me, his blue eyes penetrating. I can tell he’s worried, but I don’t want him to be. “You want me to walk you back to your dressing room?” he asks.
I smile warmly at him, “That’s sweet of you, but the security in this place is airtight. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay... but if you ever need me, just say the word. You know I’ve got your back, Birdie.”
“Thanks. You know I appreciate that. And nice job tonight. Your solo in “Desire Reigns” was on point.”
His eyes shine with pride. “I’m glad you liked it. Wanted to try something different.”
“It worked. Keep doing it.”
“Thanks, B!” he smiles wide, his pearly whites on full display. “Well, I’ve got some interviews then I’m going to go back to the hotel so I can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for my man’s arrival in the morning.”
“Night, Kevin.” I salute him before walking off to find Eric again. I think I have a quick interview or two and some fans to meet before I can head back to the hotel and order room service. I’m craving a juicy burger and fries. After all the running around on stage and the stress, I am ready for some greasy food.
When I find Eric, he’s standing near Gia next to a small wet bar. Eric’s hands are flying everywhere, and he doesn’t look pleased. My stomach sinks.
I hope I didn’t get another letter… or heaven forbid, notes from the label. They’ve been on my ass about my hair. I decided to go back to my roots and dye my hair natural blonde instead of my usual black. Apparently, they’re still furious, but the crowd didn’t care if I had blonde hair or black hair. They came to see me and my band. To hear my music.
“What’s wrong?” I question as I approach.
