by Kellen Hertz
“You two are musical partners on stage and off,” she added. “A huge part of what makes a band successful is having original music that’s your own recognizable sound.”
I knew they were right, but uncertainty was rising like a tidal wave in my stomach. I love writing songs by myself. For me, it’s something private and thoughtful that I do to figure out my emotions, like writing in a diary. Thinking about having to share that with Logan Everett made me want to curl up in a ball. But I couldn’t tell him that. I racked my brain for another reason that would convince Zane that this was a bad idea.
“I’m not really used to writing to a drumbeat—” I began, but Zane cut in.
“Logan plays bass and guitar, too,” he pointed out, “so it shouldn’t be hard for you two to collaborate on melodies.”
He was right, of course. Most musicians start writing a song using a guitar or a piano. Since Logan played, too, I knew we’d be able to collaborate. I just wasn’t feeling too excited about it. From his expression, I could tell Logan wasn’t, either.
“I guess,” he said, as if he had just agreed to take out the trash.
“I still don’t understand,” I said. “Why can’t we just write on our own and bring songs in when they’re done?”
“You can,” Zane said evenly. “But you also need to get in a room and make some new music together. Look, I know it was rough when y’all collaborated on ‘Where You Are,’ but it turned out so good because you each brought something different to it,” he noted. “The path’s going to get smoother as you two get to know each other better musically.”
Logan and I shared a glance. He looked as uneasy as I felt.
“I just think we’re so different; I’m worried we won’t agree on anything,” I said.
“I agree!” Logan said, nodding.
“See? You just agreed on something,” Zane pointed out.
We both started protesting, and Zane put up a hand to silence us, chuckling.
“Pipe down,” he said gently. “I had a feeling that you two wouldn’t be very happy about this. And I know that you both can be very stubborn when it comes to songwriting. That’s why I asked Portia Burns if she’d oversee some songwriting sessions with you both, to start you off. Cool?”
I nodded as Logan did, and my stomach relaxed. Logan and I had worked with Portia before, and we both trusted her. She’s been a songwriter and performer in Nashville since my mom was a kid. Plus, she’s my friend. If anyone could keep me from walking out on Logan in the middle of a songwriting session, I thought, it was Portia.
“Glad you approve,” Zane said, folding his arms behind his head again. His eyes twinkled reassuringly. “I’ll stop by after you guys have met a couple of times to hear what you’ve cooked up. Once we build that unique Tenney and Logan sound into your songwriting, we can start putting together enough original songs for an EP.”
Excitement vibrated through me. An EP is like a mini album—between three and five songs long—that bands record when they’re just starting out, almost like a test run. If Zane was talking about letting Logan and me make an EP, I knew he definitely thought we had the potential to make it as professional musicians.
Logan’s eyes were electric sparks, so I could tell he was excited, too.
“When do we start recording?” he asked Zane.
“Whoa, now,” Zane cautioned. “We still have a ways to go before we book studio time. I need you guys focused on songwriting. You need to be rehearsing three times a week, plus working with Portia every week. We have a playing room at Mockingbird where you can practice.”
“Okay,” I said, my brain spinning. I looked at Logan. His face had darkened, and he was shaking his head.
“I can’t do that,” he said. “I can only meet twice a week.”
Zane’s eyebrows shot up, but when he spoke his voice was mild. “This is a big opportunity for you, Logan,” he said. “It requires a big commitment.”
Logan stared at the table. It was tough to tell what he was thinking, but he didn’t look happy.
“I can only do two times a week,” he repeated, crumpling up his greasy napkin.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes,” he growled, shooting me a look that dared me to say more. “And I can’t rehearse at Mockingbird. It’s too far from my house.”
I blinked in disbelief. Logan seemed to be happiest when he was playing music. It seemed weird that he was being so grouchy about this.
Everyone sat there for an awkward moment.
“You live in Rosebank, right, Logan?” Mom said. “That’s not too far from us. You two could rehearse at Tenney’s dad’s music shop.”
“Sure, I have a small drum kit you could use during rehearsals,” Dad added. “Would that work for you, Logan?”
Logan’s expression softened a little, and he nodded. “I guess I could probably rehearse two times a week plus once a week with Portia,” he mumbled.
“Sounds like a deal,” Zane said. “Why don’t you both take a couple of days to brainstorm song ideas, then meet on, say, Tuesday afternoon at the shop and start songwriting?”
I nodded thoughtfully. “Right, and then we could meet at Portia’s after school on Thursday and play what we have.”
Zane looked satisfied. “Excellent. I’ll check with Portia to make sure that day will work for her. Does that sound good, Logan?”
Logan was checking his phone. “Sure,” he said, standing up. “I have to go. Mom’s picking me up at the side entrance.”
“I’ll walk you over there,” I said, jumping up.
He moved so fast that I had to skip to keep up as we darted past food trucks toward a gated park entrance.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied, but his voice sounded a hundred miles away.
Maybe he’s nervous about writing together, like I am, I thought. “I know writing together won’t be easy, but I’m glad we’re giving it a shot,” I said, trying to reassure myself as much as Logan. “Maybe Zane’s right. If we’re going to be successful, we need to have a distinctive sound. I think that if we keep—”
“Tenney, I get it,” Logan snapped. “My dad’s a professional musician, remember? I know what it takes to be successful.”
Heat flooded my cheeks. What is with him, anyway? I thought.
I could tell Logan knew he’d hurt my feelings. “I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “You’re right. I’m just tired.”
We reached the side entrance. A green truck was idling by the curb outside. Logan’s mom was behind the steering wheel in the fuchsia hospital scrubs she usually had on the few times I’d seen her. Mrs. Everett is a pediatric nurse. I knew she worked a lot, but she was always super friendly, even on the days when she seemed really tired.
“Hey, guys,” she said with a wave. “How was the show?”
“Great!” I said. Logan got into the truck as I told her about our set.
“Sounds like you two tore it up,” Logan’s mom said, grinning at him. “I wish I could’ve made it.”
“Next time,” I told her. She nodded.
“Mom, I’m late,” he reminded her.
“I know,” Mrs. Everett said mildly, and kissed him on the head. He looked beyond embarrassed.
“Bye, Tenney,” Logan mumbled, and his mom waved again. As the truck pulled away, he threw a sneaky glance back at me, as if he was worried I’d follow him.
Weird, I thought. As I watched the truck turn the corner out of view, I realized that beyond music, there was a whole lot I didn’t know about Logan Everett. Maybe that was why part of me still didn’t quite trust him.
My friend Holliday stopped in the center of the school hallway and stared at me. “No way,” she said, blue eyes wide. “You and Logan are going to make a record?”
“It’s just an EP, and it’s not going to happen for a long time,” I said quickly. I didn’t want to sound like I was bragging.
“Who cares when it happens?” my best friend, J
aya, squeaked. “It’s amazing!”
“I know,” I whispered. Seeing my friends bursting with pride made it all feel very real. A wave of joy surged through me and I did a happy twirl.
“Watch it!” said a passing eighth grader as I bumped into him.
“Oops! Sorry!” I called after him, but I couldn’t stop grinning.
Holliday, Jaya, and I talked about the future Tenney & Logan EP all during lunch in the cafeteria.
“I know what’s going to happen,” Holliday said, dreaming out loud. “You and Logan will record the EP, and it’ll be a huge hit and your career will take off!”
“She’s right!” Jaya trilled. “I can help design the EP cover and your website …”
“… And I’ll organize your concert tour,” Holliday finished.
“That would be great,” I said with a smile. Jaya’s a great artist, and Holliday loves planning events. Plus, her dad works for a record label, so she knows a lot about the music business. It was nice that they wanted to help out, but what meant the most was seeing how genuinely happy they were for me.
“Now all you guys have to do is decide which songs to record for the EP!” Holliday said.
I winced and nodded, glancing at the edge of my songwriting journal, which was peeking out of the top of my book bag. As I ran my hand along it, my floaty happiness evaporated into a flutter of nerves.
“What’s wrong?” Jaya asked, cocking her head.
“Zane wants Logan and me to write some new songs together,” I grumbled, taking a bite of my sandwich.
“But you love songwriting,” Holliday chirped. “What do you have to be worried about? It’ll be fun!”
I nearly choked on a bite of peanut butter and banana. “No,” I said, after I’d managed to swallow. “It is not going to be fun.”
Holliday and Jaya looked at me with matching furrowed brows.
“Logan and I have totally different personalities and tastes,” I explained. “We got into so many arguments just working on ‘Where You Are.’ He’s talented, but he’s so stubborn.”
“Like you,” Jaya said with a grin.
“I’m not stubborn!” I protested. Then I realized how stubborn I sounded. “Fine,” I admitted. “Maybe I am sometimes.”
“Especially about your music!” Jaya said, letting out a giggle.
“That’s because it’s my music,” I said passionately. “I hear it in my head; I know the way it should be. Anything else just sounds wrong.”
Holliday took a sip of her milk and squinted thoughtfully. “Even if you and Logan disagree on things, you sound great together onstage,” she said. “Isn’t that what’s important?”
“That’s part of it, but the songwriting’s even more important, because it can decide our future as a duo,” I explained. I let out a sigh. “If Logan and I can’t learn to collaborate, this could turn into a musical disaster.”
“Try to focus on the songs, not on Logan,” Holliday advised.
“Easier said than done,” I said. “I’ve been trying to brainstorm song ideas for my writing session with Logan today, but everything just seems wrong.”
“I can help you!” Holliday said, her eyes crackling with enthusiasm.
“Me, too!” Jaya agreed.
“Really? Okay,” I said, surprised at how relieved I felt. I pulled out my songwriting journal and fished a pen out of my bag. “I need to come up with topics to write about, for a start.”
“Everyone always writes about being in love, but music can be about so much more than that,” Jaya offered. “You should write a song about helping the earth.”
“Yes!” I said, cracking open my journal.
“There should be more songs about friendship, too,” Holliday added. “And otters.”
“Otters?” I said, a little confused.
Holliday nodded. “They’re so cute,” she said. “They deserve their own song.”
“What about a song about how hard it is to get up on Monday mornings?” Jaya said.
“Good idea,” I said, writing it down. “Everyone can relate to that.”
By the time lunch was over, Jaya and Holliday had helped me come up with a long list of ideas for possible songs. I wasn’t sure how many of them Logan would like, but I liked them. That was enough to make me happy.
When school ended, I walked over to Dad’s music store. It’s just a few blocks away, snuggled next to a pizzeria at the end of a long strip of brightly painted storefronts with big windows. As soon as I turned the corner, I could see the cheery wooden sign reading GRANT’S MUSIC AND COLLECTIBLES hanging over the entrance.
The cluttered little shop felt like a second home to me. I could describe it with my eyes closed. Its walls were decorated with album posters and covered from floor to ceiling with gleaming guitars, mandolins, and banjos that hung from hooks. The instruments’ polished wood and metal bodies reflected the afternoon light, giving the place a magical glow. The air smelled like cedar and guitar glue.
Suddenly, a memory floated into my mind: I was a few years younger than Aubrey is now, running through the store. I stopped midstride and watched Dad tenderly hanging each instrument on the display wall as if it were a rare jewel. That very day I asked Dad to teach me how to play guitar. Coming back to reality, I felt all over again how much I love it here.
I spotted Logan through the shop’s window. He was crouched on the small demo stage on the far side of the shop, setting up a drum kit. Dad stood over him, supervising. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to our first songwriting session, but at least we were in my territory.
Here goes nothing, I thought to myself, and entered the store. As the front door jangled shut, they both saw me.
“Tennyson!” Dad said with a broad grin.
Logan gave me a curious look.
“Tennyson’s my full name,” I explained shyly.
“Correction!” Dad said. “Your full name is Tennyson Evangeline Grant. Named after the great poet, Alfred, Lord Tennyson.”
My cheeks got hot. I like my full name, but it’s a mouthful, and for a moment I was worried Logan might make a joke about it. To my relief, he went back to fastening the last cymbal onto its stand without a word.
“Looks good,” Dad said, nodding. “And you need to borrow a guitar for songwriting, I assume.”
“If that’s okay,” Logan said. “I don’t own my own guitar yet.”
“I’ve got a couple in here somewhere,” Dad joked. He pulled a small-bodied acoustic off the wall and handed it to Logan.
“Thank you,” Logan replied. “And thanks again for letting us practice here, Mr. Grant.”
Dad waved a hand. “Of course,” he replied. “We don’t get many customers in here on weekday afternoons, and if we do, they’ll be happy to hear some live music.”
He turned to me. “I’m going to go do inventory in the stockroom. Y’all come get me if we get any customers or if you need anything.” With that, he disappeared into the back.
I grabbed my guitar case from its place beneath the cash register and my songwriting journal from my bag, and we started tuning up. We didn’t talk much, which was fine by me. I wondered how we’d decide who was right when Logan and I disagreed about something—because we were definitely going to disagree.
I started playing scales as I always did before a songwriting session. Logan just sat there, clicking around on his phone. Doesn’t he need to warm up? I thought. I let my gaze drift down to the mother-of-pearl songbird inlaid on my guitar. Just focus on the music, it seemed to be telling me, echoing Holliday. I smiled to myself. Warmth crept into my fingers as I picked up my pace. After a few minutes, my hands felt nimble, like if I let them go, they might twirl into the sky.
“Ready,” I said, glancing at Logan. He was checking his cell phone. Annoyance buzzed through me.
“Yeah,” Logan said after a moment, as if he’d just remembered we were supposed to be working. He set down his phone.
“So I came up with some song ideas—” I b
egan, but Logan’s phone chimed with a new text, cutting me off.
“Hold on,” he said. He checked his phone and started typing. My feet did an impatient tap dance. After what seemed like forever, the text sent with a whoosh and Logan looked up.
“Maybe you could turn off your phone,” I said.
Logan looked at me like I’d just grown a third eye. “No way,” he replied.
“We’re supposed to be working on song ideas,” I said, an edge creeping into my voice.
Logan shrugged in that offhand way that drove me crazy. “Some things are more important,” he said.
“Like your phone?” I snapped before I could stop myself.
Logan gave me a hard look, and for a moment, I had a flash of how I’d felt when we argued while we were working on “Where You Are.”
“I’ll turn off the ringer,” he said at last.
“Thank you,” I said, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
I flipped through my journal, looking for the list that Jaya and Holliday had helped me brainstorm.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship, and how important it is,” I said. “That could make a good song.”
Logan shrugged again. “It’s pretty unoriginal.”
“Unoriginal?” I said, feeling irritation start to bubble inside.
“Yeah, there are zillions of songs about friendship. And Zane said that we’re supposed to write songs that are unique,” Logan pointed out. “Plus, it’s kind of a big topic. Like, what about friendship?”
That’s what we’d figure out together, I thought to myself, but I was too annoyed already to say that.
“Fine,” I said, changing the subject. “What about a song that talks about wishing it was summer when it’s winter? I wrote a poem about that once, and I like the idea. You know, looking back at a time when you were happier.” Like I’m doing right now, I added silently to myself.
“Ugh, no,” Logan groaned. “That seems sappy.”
“Okay,” I said between gritted teeth. I moved on to my next idea. And the one after that. And the one after that. Logan disliked all of them. Every time Logan said no, I got more upset, but I held it in.