American Girl Contemporary Series 1, Book 2

by Kellen Hertz

  “Oh, that’s terrible!” I said. Last summer, Mina had talked all the time about how much she loved her all-girls school.

  Wiping her face, Mina explained that she was worried that she and her classmates would fall behind in school if it didn’t reopen soon. “We’re just hoping that we can raise the money as soon as possible.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Jaya asked.

  Mina sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “The people in my town are spending their money on fixing their own houses and hospitals and roads. Some people have given money to the school, but the repairs are very expensive.”

  “I wish there was something we could do to help,” I said, shaking my head.

  “That’s okay,” Mina replied. “It helps just to know you care.”

  “Of course we care,” Jaya said, and I nodded. I didn’t know what else to say.

  After a long pause, Mina perked up. “Hey, I know how much you guys loved learning that song I taught you last summer. Would you like to hear a new one?”

  “Yes!” Jaya and I said in unison.

  Mina grinned. “I’ve been practicing for a school concert that is supposed to happen next month. At least I can carry on with my music even if I can’t go to school right now.” She reached behind her, pulled out an unfamiliar stringed instrument, and cradled it between her knees, its wide neck leaning on her left shoulder. It looked like the sitar that my dad had for sale in his music shop, but its body was slimmer.

  “What kind of instrument is that?” I asked Mina.

  “It’s called an esraj,” she replied, running her bow over its strings while her other hand moved over the frets. It sounded a lot like a violin playing deep, minor tones.

  She began playing an upbeat song that made Mrs. Mitra, Jaya, and me tap our feet. When it was over, we burst into applause.

  “That was awesome,” I said.

  “I loved it,” Jaya added. “I hope you get to perform that at your school concert.”

  “Me, too,” said Mina. “My favorite teacher, Miss Alimah, told me it’s a song about hope. I keep playing it as a prayer to keep our teachers at the school and to reopen the building as soon as possible.”

  When she said that, my heart broke. “We’re sending you good thoughts from Nashville,” I told her.

  Mina thanked me, and we said our good-byes.

  Jaya put our plates in the dishwasher and then sat down across from me at the kitchen table, resting her chin in her hand.

  “Such terrible news about Mina’s school,” her mother said.

  I nodded. “I just wish we could do more than send good thoughts.”

  Suddenly, Jaya’s face lit up. “We could!” she said. “What if we raised some money ourselves to help rebuild the school? It would be girls helping girls across the world!”

  “That’s a great idea!” I said.

  “It is,” Jaya’s mom said, standing up. “If you want, I can e-mail the school’s director and find out how much money it would take to rebuild. Although I’ll warn you, it might be more expensive than you think.”

  “That’s okay,” Jaya said stubbornly. “If Tenney and I work as a team, we could raise the money together. It’ll be fun, right?”

  “Definitely!” I agreed. Besides playing music, I couldn’t imagine anything more fun and important than working on a good cause with my best friend.

  I had a test on Monday, but as I pored over my textbook for one last study session, I couldn’t shake the melody ringing in my head. Music’s always taking over my brain at odd moments, like when I should be thinking about fractions. I pulled my songwriting journal out of my backpack. When I get an idea, I have to write it down fast, or it buzzes around my brain like a mosquito. I’d just finished writing out the chord progression in my notebook when Jaya rushed up to me.

  “Guess what!” she said. “My mom got a response from the director of Mina’s school in Bangladesh this morning.”

  “Oh!” I said, stuffing my journal in my bag as we started down the hall. “What did it say?”

  “They need to replace part of the school’s roof and repair some water damage,” said Jaya. “She said it’ll cost about three thousand dollars.”

  “Wow,” I said. Jaya’s mom had said it would cost a lot, but three thousand dollars? The most money I’d ever raised was forty-six dollars for a jog-a-thon in third grade.

  “I know it’s a lot,” Jaya chimed in, as if she were reading my mind. “We just need to find a good way to raise the money.”

  “What if you designed a poster?” I thought aloud. “We could make prints and sell copies, sort of like you did for the Jamboree.”

  Jaya’s eyes glittered with excitement. She loves making art. “Great idea,” she said. “But I’m not sure we can sell three thousand dollars’ worth of posters. Besides, posters cost money to print.”

  “Right, I didn’t think of that,” I admitted.

  “Could we persuade Zane to let you record a song as a fund-raiser?” Jaya said dreamily. “If it became a hit, you would become a star and the record would sell tons of copies. We’d make more than enough money to donate to the school.”

  For a second, I imagined myself traveling the world, playing concerts, and raising money to fix all the world’s problems. Then I came back to earth.

  “Mina said that the school would close if they couldn’t find the money to repair the building by the end of next month,” I said. “That means we only have about a month and a half. I think recording a song and waiting for it to get big would take too long.”

  “Good point,” Jaya said, sighing. Her forehead furrowed with worry as we reached Ms. Carter’s classroom and went inside.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll figure out how to raise the money.”

  “What are you raising money for?” said a familiar voice behind me.

  Our classmate Holliday Hayes stood in the doorway behind us, her golden-brown ponytail cascading perfectly over her shoulder like a shampoo commercial. I noticed that the colorful embroidery on her jeans coordinated perfectly with her jewel-toned backpack.

  “Oh. Hi, Holliday,” I said, smiling to cover up the edge in my voice. I’ve always felt a little uneasy around Holliday because she likes to make everything a competition—and she usually wins.

  Jaya didn’t seem to notice my discomfort, though. She explained to Holliday that we were trying to raise money for her cousin’s school in Bangladesh. “But Tenney and I have to find a solution fast. The longer we wait, the more likely it is that the school will never reopen.”

  “I’d love to help!” said Holliday, practically sparkling with excitement.

  I wanted to say that we didn’t ask for her help, but instead I nodded politely. I remembered how she’d pretty much taken control of planning the Jamboree. I could only imagine how she’d boss us around about this!

  Jaya seemed to be reading my mind. “Thanks, Holliday,” she said. “Once Tenney and I figure out a plan, we’ll let you know if there’s anything you can do to help out.”

  Holliday’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh,” she replied, sounding a little hurt. For a moment I felt bad for her … but then she opened her mouth again. “You should. I wouldn’t want to watch you two crash and burn just because you don’t have enough help.”

  A spike of anger hit my stomach, but before I could figure out a snappy comeback, the bell rang and Ms. Carter asked us all to take our seats.

  Jaya leaned into me playfully. “Don’t worry about Holliday,” she said. “I’m just glad we’re doing this together.”

  “Me, too,” I said, nudging her back so she knew that I really meant it.

  That afternoon, Jaya told me she’d volunteered to help Ms. Carter take down winter decorations and put up spring ones, so we wouldn’t get a chance to brainstorm fund-raising ideas after school.

  “I promise to call you tonight,” said Jaya, squeezing my hand as we walked out of the building.

  “Sounds good!” I said. Sp
otting my brother waiting for me by the front steps, I waved good-bye to Jaya.

  As I stepped down to the sidewalk, Holliday rushed past me, her backpack brushing my shoulder. She opened the door of a white SUV waiting in front of the school and glanced over her shoulder at me, crinkling her nose. I couldn’t tell whether she was giving me a mean look or if she had to sneeze. Before I could figure it out, she flipped her perfect hair and climbed into the car.

  “What was that about?” asked Mason.

  “Nothing,” I said, swallowing the hard pebble of irritation that had risen in my throat. Mason shrugged, and we continued walking the few blocks from Magnolia Hills Middle School to Dad’s instrument shop, Grant’s Music and Collectibles.

  Dad gave us a wave when we walked in. He was on a stepladder, dusting the rows of guitars, banjos, and mandolins hanging along the far wall up to the ceiling. Every inch of the shop was packed with stuff: instruments, sheet music, vinyl records, and music posters. There was a rehearsal stage up front and a listening room in back. It was pretty much musicians’ heaven.

  My sister, Aubrey, came out of the back storeroom with our pet golden retriever, Waylon, trailing behind her. Aubrey was wearing one of her countless flower crowns. So was Waylon. Aubrey’s seven and thinks everything looks better with glitter and petals, even if it slobbers.

  “Finally!” Aubrey said to me. “Come play hide-and-seek with me and Waylon.”

  “I can’t,” I said, pulling the tiara off Waylon’s head. “I’m supposed to play my new songs for Zane tomorrow, and I have to practice.”

  “Nooo!” Aubrey moaned, like the world was ending. “All you do anymore is write songs, practice your guitar, and ignore me.”

  “I’ll play with you as soon as we get home,” I promised.

  I grabbed my guitar case from behind the front register and headed to the small, wood-lined listening room at the back of the store. I closed the door and began tuning my guitar, admiring the white flowers and birds inlaid on its aquamarine body.

  Then I set my songwriting journal on the music stand in front of me. Flipping through the pages, I paused, looking at my notes for “Reach the Sky,” the song I had performed at the Bluebird Cafe showcase. I had written it for my mom, because I wanted her to know how much she inspired my music. It was the first “real” song I ever wrote—all the songs I’d come up with before then were about silly things, like going on vacation or the time Waylon escaped from our backyard. But Portia once told me, “A good song is always about something meaningful to you.”

  I flipped ahead to my notes on the guitar riff I’d had in my head this morning. Hugging my guitar close, I strummed out the chord progression. It was a sad, slow melody, and I liked it a lot. But what should it be about? I asked myself.

  I tried to think about the things that made me sad. Rainy days and math tests made me sad, but I didn’t think I could write a meaningful song about puddles or long division. Seeing Mina upset made me sad, but I knew she’d be super happy when Jaya and I figured out how to raise the money to save her school.

  Then I thought of Holliday and the way she made me feel this afternoon.

  She’d made me feel the same way a few months ago, right after she found out I was performing at the Bluebird Cafe. “You’re nothing special,” she had told me. “I’m sure your music won’t be, either.” Even though it had been a while since that happened, her hurtful words still stung. Jaya and I definitely didn’t need Holliday’s bad energy around our fund-raiser.

  Angry heat rose in my throat, and suddenly, the first words to the song popped into my head. I folded my legs under my guitar, took a breath, and started playing.

  When it was time to go home, I had come up with the first verse and the chorus to my new song. I guess Portia was right, I thought as I packed up my guitar. Some songs do come out right the first time you play them. I couldn’t wait to play my new song for Portia and Zane the next afternoon.

  The next day after school, Mom drove me down to Music Row so I could play my new songs for Zane at the Mockingbird Records office. Most record companies have offices in big metal buildings with tinted windows, but Mockingbird is a small independent label. Its offices are in a cheery-looking brick Victorian row house. I’d been there a few times before, but seeing it still made me fizzy with excitement.

  Zane greeted me at the door and guided us into his office, where Portia was waiting with Zane’s niece, Ellie Cale. Ellie’s job title was A&R coordinator for Mockingbird Records; that stood for “artists and repertoire,” and one of her responsibilities was to be sort of a talent scout for the label. Ellie waved hello, and I smiled, remembering the day that she had handed me her business card after hearing me sing at Dad’s shop. That day had felt like the beginning of the rest of my life, and in a way, it was. Now I was here, about to play my new songs for Ellie, Zane, and Portia.

  The adults talked while I settled into the leather couch and started tuning up. As I tested the strings, I let my eyes explore the walls, which were decorated with unusual musical instruments. In one corner, an Australian didgeridoo leaned next to a Korean drum and a Moroccan oud. Last time I was here, Zane had shown me how to play chords on the oud, which was kind of like a lute.

  I smiled when I recognized an esraj a lot like Mina’s suspended over Zane’s vinyl collection; it reminded me that Jaya was going to call tonight to talk about our fund-raising project. I had been playing with Aubrey in the backyard when Jaya had called last night. When I called her back, her mom said she was busy with homework, so we had agreed to try again tonight.

  Zane’s voice snapped me back to the present. “Ready when you are, Tenney,” he said, pushing his porkpie hat back on his head.

  “Oh, right,” I said, feeling a nervous flutter in my chest now that I was about to share my songs with Zane. I traced my finger around the tiny mother-of-pearl songbird inlay on my guitar, a little ritual I’ve developed to help me calm down. As soon as I started playing, I felt more relaxed. The sound of my music made me feel like I was exactly where I wanted to be.

  Over the next hour, I played two ballads that I’d been working on with Portia: “Good Morning, Glory,” a sweet, pretty song, followed by “If You Come Home,” which was slow and sad. I was relieved that Zane seemed to like both songs. He and Ellie and Portia took turns offering suggestions for a few minor improvements: a better rhyme, a stronger verse-to-chorus transition—nothing too scary.

  “Is that all you’ve got for me?” he asked.

  “Well, I started writing a new song last night,” I said, perking up. “I really like it so far, but it’s not totally worked out.”

  “That’s okay,” Portia said amiably. “Let’s hear it.”

  I resettled myself and dove into my new song. As I sang, Portia sipped her tea and Zane stared off into the distance. I threw my heart and soul into the chorus, but I only got to the first line in the second verse before Zane waved me to a stop.

  “It’s good,” Ellie said, “but it needs something.”

  Zane nodded.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “I can’t say yet,” Zane mused. “The melody’s stronger than how you’re playing it.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Portia squinted, deep in thought. “I think what he’s getting at is that your tempo is pretty slow, and this song was meant to be faster.”

  “But it’s a ballad,” I explained. “I like sad, slow songs because they’re more emotional.”

  “Hmmm,” Portia said, cocking her head. “Every good song is emotional in its own way. But the lyrics you’ve written aren’t just sad—they’re feisty, right?”

  She picked up her guitar and shifted it onto her lap. Her arms twined around the polished instrument, and her hands found the strings. Then she started playing my song, note for note—Portia only needs to hear a song once before she can play it perfectly. She strummed the start of the chorus, fast. As she sang, her voice took on an edge. Suddenly, it didn’t sound like
my song anymore.

  Zane nodded, pleased. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I like it better when it’s slower,” I said, uneasiness prickling my chest.

  Portia studied me. “You know, your last two songs were this tempo and mood,” she responded. “This song has a more complicated melody line. It might work better if you picked up the pace.”

  I shrugged, my mouth twisting into a stubborn knot.

  “It doesn’t hurt to try something new,” Ellie said. “Try to open your mind about how you think about this song.”

  I nodded, but inside I was thinking, I like my song fine how it is. What if I changed the tempo, and the song turned into something I didn’t like, or that didn’t sound like me?

  I thought about the story my mom had told me about when she’d signed with a studio and tried to make a demo record a long time ago, when she was just a few years older than I was now. The producer had wanted to change everything about her—even her hair color! She had told me that I should never feel pressure to make a change that I wasn’t comfortable with. I wished she were here now to step in.

  “What you have to remember, Tenney,” Zane was explaining, “is that great songwriters don’t limit their imaginations to one kind of song. They listen to different music and let it influence them to try new things.”

  “Like the Beatles,” Ellie chimed in, mentioning one of my favorite bands. “Their songs show all kinds of emotions. John Lennon and Paul McCartney couldn’t have written such different songs if they had been afraid to explore new sounds. Tenney, if you want to improve as a songwriter, you need to push yourself musically.”

  “I guess,” I said, but my voice sounded as flat as a pancake.

  “Remember,” Zane pointed out, “the most important thing any singer-songwriter needs is a great set. Our goal for you this month is to build a solid, half-hour performance of original songs,” he continued. “Each one should feel unique. They’ll all be Tenney Grant songs, but they need to show different sides of you.”