A Song for the Season

by Kellen Hertz

  That’s no tour bus, I thought. But I had to laugh at myself. It was silly to have assumed that I would be riding in a big fancy tour bus—after all, I was no Belle Starr … not yet at least!

  I ran back to the kitchen. “Zane’s here!” I announced. I swallowed my last bite of toast and put my plate in the dishwasher. Then I yanked on my coat and ran outside.

  Zane already had the van’s back doors open. Inside I could see microphones, cables, and an amp, all of which I knew were from Mockingbird’s studios. There was also a big cardboard box of CDs. Our EP!

  “Hey there, showstopper!” Zane greeted me. “You ready to get on the road?”

  Part of me wanted to jump up and down squealing “Yes!” but I also wanted to look professional, so I just nodded. I took one of the EPs out of the box. Our band name, Tenney & Logan, was splashed across the front of the case in bright bold letters.

  “Can I keep one?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Zane said with a smile. “You and Logan can take a few for your families, but we need to sell the rest. I’m hoping that we can sell around a hundred fifty of these. Then we can start talking about recording a full album.”

  I did the math in my head. That meant we had to sell just thirty CDs at every show. Easy peasy lemon squeezy, as Mom liked to say.

  By the time Dad brought out my guitar and our suitcases, our whole family had gathered by the van. It took only a minute to load everything. Then it was time to say good-bye.

  “Keep the calls and texts coming,” Mom told us.

  “And photos!” Mason echoed. “We want to feel like we’re on tour, too.”

  “You got it,” Dad said, hugging him.

  Mom turned to me, her gaze calm and strong.

  “Even though I’m not going, I’ll still be with you,” she said.

  “I know,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around her.

  Then Aubrey hugged me, talking the whole time. “If you have questions about how to accessorize, let me know,” she told me seriously. Aubrey had helped me pack my suitcase the night before and insisted that I bring every necklace, pair of earrings, and hat that I own.

  Mason rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about how you look, Tenney,” he told me. “Just make sure you rock every show to the fullest. Make people know they need to listen to you.”

  “I will,” I promised, the passion in his words stirring me up.

  We finished our good-byes and got in the van. As Zane backed down the drive, Mom, Mason, and Aubrey waved until the van pulled around and drove us out of view.

  Our next stop was Logan’s house, which was just a few minutes away. When we pulled up, he was on the front porch with his mom and little brother, Jude, surrounded by stacks of drum cases and his guitar.

  “I hope all this can fit in the van,” Mrs. Everett said as we walked up.

  “Don’t worry,” my dad said. “We’ll get it all in.”

  “Yep, and you’ll get to help unload it!” Zane told Logan with a chuckle.

  “Wait, we have to set up our own gear?” Logan said, looking confused.

  “You bet!” Zane said lightly.

  Logan’s shoulders slumped. “When Belle went on tour, she brought a crew to set up and tear down for each show.”

  Zane raised an eyebrow, nodding. “Well, Mockingbird’s a small record label and so it’s a bare-bones tour,” he explained. “Some places will have people who can help us set up.”

  Logan looked disappointed. Clearly the tour he’d been imagining had roadies.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said, trying to stay upbeat.

  We all pitched in loading Logan’s drum gear and guitar as he hugged his family. Mrs. Everett wiped away a tear, but kept smiling. Jude, on the other hand, was having a harder time saying good-bye. He wrapped his arms around Logan and wouldn’t let go.

  “Why can’t I come with you?” he asked Logan in a pleading voice.

  “Because I need you to stay here and help Mom decorate the Christmas tree,” Logan said, keeping his voice light.

  “But I want to do that with you,” Jude said softly, and started sobbing into Logan’s chest.

  Logan and Mrs. Everett exchanged a look.

  “I know,” Logan said, hugging Jude tightly. “But I have to go. I promise I’ll call every day and send pictures, okay?”

  Jude nodded, his lower lip trembling. He threw himself onto Logan again.

  “I’ll be home in no time at all,” Logan told him.

  Mrs. Everett gathered Jude in her arms, and they walked toward the house as we piled into the van. Logan gazed out the window and waved, smiling as big as he could.

  “Can we go?” he said through gritted teeth, still smiling and waving at Jude. Zane started the engine.

  As soon as we were on the road, the smile faded from Logan’s face. “How long till we get to perform?” he asked.

  “Franklin’s just over a half hour away,” Dad replied.

  “And you’ll be onstage soon after that,” Zane added. “Once your set is over, we’ll get right back on the road and head to Kingsport, where you’ll perform tomorrow.”

  “Good,” said Logan, checking the time on his phone impatiently.

  “I’m excited to get started, too,” I said to Logan. “This tour’s going to be great.”

  “Yeah,” Logan said, but something in his voice told me that he wasn’t convinced.

  Before we knew it, we were driving through Franklin’s cobblestone-paved downtown with its quaint, picture-perfect shops. I’d been there many times before with my family, and I was excited to kick off our first show there. Main Street had been roped off from traffic, so we drove down a street parallel to it. As we did, I caught glimpses of white-tented craft and food stalls thronging with people. Every building was decorated for the holidays and bustling with shoppers. It was already crowded, even though the festival had just begun.

  “This is a huge music day for the festival,” Zane said. “A lot of bands are playing today.”

  “But only one of them is kicking off their first-ever tour,” Dad said, winking at me. I smiled, but my stomach did a nervous flutter.

  Zane parked on a side street. “The main stage is just around the corner,” he told us. “We don’t need Logan’s drums for this one—they’ve got a kit there. Just bring your guitars.”

  He turned off the van, and we all hopped out. Logan and I grabbed our instruments from the back, and together the four of us tromped down the cobblestones to where the side street opened onto the festival route. The crowd was thick here. Most people were watching the festival stage, where a four-piece Irish folk band was blasting through a brash jig version of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”

  “Follow me!” Zane shouted over his shoulder. As we edged through the crowd toward the band, he led us around the side of the stage to a roped-off entrance patrolled by a security guard. Zane flashed a badge at the guard, who opened the rope and let us in.

  The backstage area was a giant tent full of musicians tuning up, winding down, and chatting. Zane found the stage manager, who consulted her clipboard and confirmed that we’d be onstage in about thirty minutes.

  “Just enough time to get nervous,” Zane said, grinning at me and Logan.

  Behind us, the crowd cheered as the Irish band closed their song with a final flourish. My stomach flip-flopped and I turned to Logan, who seemed to have perked up a bit now that we were finally here.

  “Do you want to warm up?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said, offering a crooked smile that showed me that he was starting to feel nervous, too.

  We played scales and vocalized, keeping our coats on as we walked around each other in the nippy air. Then we went over each song in our set quickly, playing the most difficult transitions and discussing introductions. We’d been rehearsing a ton, so we were on the same page about nearly everything.

  We’d just finished running through “Cold Creek Christmas,” a holiday song of Portia’s that still played on the r
adio every once in a while, when I heard a voice behind me say, “That song sure sounds familiar.”

  Behind us stood Portia herself, wrapped in a tasseled wool cape, her cheeks red as apples.

  “Portia! What are you doing here?” I peeped.

  “Just thought I’d come see my favorite duo kick off their first tour,” she said with a warm laugh.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” I said, hugging her. As I did I realized how tense I’d become since we arrived, and tried to relax.

  “So? How are you two feeling?” Portia asked after she’d hugged Logan. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” Logan and I said at the same time.

  “Okay, then,” Portia said with a throaty laugh.

  Zane came over to greet Portia and told us we were on in five.

  “Have fun up there,” Portia told us. “That’s what it’s all about.”

  “We will!” I said, flashing her a smile, but as I followed Zane, Dad, and Logan to the steps leading up to the stage, anxiety prickled through me again. I remembered what Belle had told me after our encore: The first show sets the tone for the rest of the tour …

  That makes this show the most important one of our tour, I thought. We have to nail this.

  There was a huge round of applause as the band ahead of us finished. They exited the stage in a sweaty bunch, shaking hands and congratulating each other. Finally, background music started, signaling a transition time to the crowd.

  Zane and Dad went onstage along with two audio technicians. They worked quickly, adjusting microphones and checking cables. Finally, Zane came offstage.

  “You should be all set,” he told us. “Good luck up there. And don’t forget to mention that you have EPs for sale!”

  The stage manager stepped onstage. The background music stopped, and the crowd fell silent. “It is my pleasure to introduce two of the youngest and most talented musicians to ever grace the Franklin Music Fest stage,” she said. “Please welcome: Tenney Grant and Logan Everett!”

  Logan and I gave each other a quick fist bump and climbed the steps onto the stage. The minute I saw the crowd, my anxious prickles crackled into fizzy pops of excitement. This is it! I thought to myself. Our first show of our first tour. I practically skipped over to my spot center stage. I switched on my two microphones, one for my guitar and the other for my vocals. I looked at Logan behind the drums, and he gave me a thumbs-up.

  “Happy holidays, y’all!” I said to the crowd, who cheered in response. “We are Tenney and Logan!” I said.

  “Or Logan and Tenney,” Logan added from his place next to me. It was a joke we’d done before, and we knew that it always worked to warm up the audience. Sure enough, the crowd laughed.

  As I laughed along, I noticed my breath turn to steam in the cold. Funny, I thought. I don’t feel cold at all.

  “We’re excited to be here!” I said. “For our first song, we’d like to do a classic that y’all may have heard.”

  Logan nodded. “Feel free to sing along,” he added.

  We counted off, then started in, our guitar lines weaving together into the complex arrangement that started our version of “Cold Creek Christmas.” I stepped toward my microphone, taking a deep breath. Just as I was about to sing, however, an ear-shattering ZINGGGG! sounded through the speakers.

  I stepped back, stunned, silencing my guitar. “Sorry,” I tried to say into the microphone, but it ZINNNNNGED! again, even louder this time. Some people in the audience put their hands over their ears. Logan flipped off his microphones quickly, and I followed.

  “Give it a second, then switch them on again,” Logan whispered.

  I nodded, composing myself, then switched on the mics again.

  “Sorry about that,” I said into my microphone. But it was dead. No one could hear me. I strummed a few chords on my guitar, but that mic was out, too.

  Panic flooded through me. Audio problems are every performer’s worst nightmare—the slightest problem can ruin a show. You can’t play without amplification. Well, you can, but the audience won’t be able to hear you. Whenever I’ve had audio problems, which isn’t often, I usually end up waiting awkwardly onstage, feeling gigantically uncomfortable while audio techs try to figure out what’s wrong. I did not want that to happen here.

  Stay calm, I told myself, as I switched the microphones on and off again. Still nothing.

  “HELLO?” Logan said into his microphone. But his voice sounded like a whisper. Logan stood up from behind his drums, shooting me a frustrated look.

  I glanced offstage, but no one was there. I felt frozen, rooted to the ground as wave after wave of anxiety hit me. I had no idea what to do next. Leave the stage? Keep playing even though no one could hear us? I didn’t know, so I just stood there, growing colder by the second, as the first concert of our first real tour turned into a total disaster.

  I looked out from the stage. Franklin’s Main Street stretched in front of me, teeming with festivalgoers and holiday shoppers who should have been clapping and singing along to our music. Instead, they were staring at us in quiet confusion.

  “Sorry!” I shouted to them. “We’re having some audio issues!”

  Before I could say anything else, Zane rushed onstage with the two audio technicians from the festival.

  “Hang tight, y’all,” he told Logan and me. “We’re going to fix this ASAP.”

  “Okay,” I said, but I was brimming with worry. Who knew how long this was going to take? We were sure to lose our audience if we didn’t play soon.

  As Zane and the techs clustered around the cables leading to the amplifier at the front of the stage, I edged over to Logan. “What do you think we should do?” I whispered.

  “Wait, I guess,” he said, but he sounded uncertain.

  I sized up the crowd again. Around the edges, people were starting to drift away. Within a few minutes, we would lose our audience entirely.

  “Let’s play,” I said to Logan, and before he could say anything, I launched back into the beginning of “Cold Creek Christmas,” playing fast and loud. Logan looked surprised, but he grabbed his guitar and started playing along.

  “The lake’s iced over and the birds have flown,” I belted as strongly as I could. Logan’s voice joined mine, blending and doubling our sound in strength.

  “The fire’s gone out and I’m chilled to the bone,” we continued. “All that’s left is my hope that you’ll come on home, and share this Cold Creek Christmas with me.”

  In the far back, people were still walking off, but the audience members in front of the stage quieted listening to the music. As we sang, both of us instinctively moved toward the front of the stage, belting as loudly as we could. The crowd seemed to move closer to us, too.

  They’re listening, I thought, my heart spinning in a pinwheel of joy. I started on the chorus.

  “May your season sing with joy—”

  ZIIIINNNNNGGGGG!

  Earsplitting feedback screamed through the stage amplifiers again, stunning Logan and me into silence. The crowd groaned.

  Before Logan and I could do anything else, the amps ZINGED! again. Zane hurried over to us.

  “A cable’s gone bad somewhere,” he told us. “You guys need to stop playing until they figure out where it is.”

  “But we’re not even using the microphones!” I protested.

  Zane shook his head. “We need to get the audio working again,” he insisted. “If the audience tries to listen to music right now, they’ll just end up frustrated every time we get feedback.”

  “He’s right,” Logan admitted reluctantly.

  I wanted to protest again, but I knew I had to respect Zane.

  “We’ll be back soon!” I shouted to the crowd, and then shifted my guitar over my shoulder and followed Logan off the stage.

  As Zane and the technicians worked on the sound, I watched the crowd from backstage. With each passing minute, our audience grew thinner. It was painful to watch. Finally, after what seemed lik
e forever, Zane came off the stage. He beckoned to us, but as we approached, the stage manager stepped up and started talking to him.

  “Is the sound fixed?” Dad asked Zane as we reached him.

  “Yes, but there’s another problem,” he responded, frowning.

  “What?” I asked. The festival manager looked apologetically at Logan and me.

  “You two were supposed to be onstage for thirty minutes,” she explained, “but more than half of that time is gone now. And I’m afraid we can’t push the bands after you because our schedule’s extremely tight.”

  “So, what does that mean?” Logan said.

  “You can play for only fifteen minutes,” she replied.

  My heart sank, and the pity in the festival manager’s eyes didn’t help.

  “I’m very sorry,” she told us. “It’s our only option. Otherwise you can’t play at all.”

  “Okay,” I said, gritting my teeth in frustration. “Then I guess we should get going.”

  Everyone nodded. Logan and I hustled back onstage with our guitars.

  “We only have time for a few songs,” I told Logan as we moved to our microphones. “Let’s start with something they can sing along to.”

  “How about ‘Winter Wonderland’?” he suggested, and I nodded.

  I flipped on my microphone.

  “Hey, y’all, we’re back!” I said as brightly as I could, looking out at the crowd.

  Main Street was still buzzing with shoppers, but hardly anyone was paying attention to us. Portia and a few others near the front of the stage were the only people waiting for us to perform.

  We launched into “Winter Wonderland,” as energetically as we could. We sounded okay—at least I think we sounded okay. Although I was performing on the outside, inside I was scrambling to figure out what song we should do next. But as the audience grew and a few people started singing along, I started to relax. By the end of the song, I’d figured out what we’d play next.

  I turned to Logan and whispered, “‘Carolina Highway.’” It was a song my dad wrote. It’s rollicking and catchy, so I knew it would get the crowd’s attention. Logan must have, too, because he nodded.