by Kellen Hertz
“I’m so glad you’re here!” Aubrey told him, grabbing his hand. “Now you can hear me play my accordion!” She pulled him over to the couch.
Dad smiled and shook his head before heading into the kitchen to help Mom. I inhaled, breathing in the warm, cheesy garlic smell of tonight’s dinner. Suddenly, my mouth was watering.
I excused myself to set the table in the kitchen, keeping an eye on Aubrey’s private accordion concert for Logan in the living room. I was worried that he would be rude to Aubrey and try to “fix” her playing somehow, the way he sometimes did with me. But he listened politely, even offering her an encouraging smile as she played her newest song.
I placed the last water glass on the table and leaned against the doorway to watch as Aubrey squeezed out the final notes of her song. The accordion was almost too big for her, but she pushed and pulled, notes cascading out in a melody. I could tell she’d been practicing from how smoothly she played. When she finished, Logan and I applauded.
“That was awesome!” he exclaimed.
Aubrey stood up and did a proud little bow, hugging her accordion. “It’s hard to work the bellows because my arms are small,” Aubrey told him, puffing as she squashed in the shiny red accordion to let out a wheezy chord.
“I’m really impressed,” Logan told her. “I could never play the accordion; it’s really tough.”
Aubrey beamed, and my annoyance at Logan melted a little. He’s being really nice, I thought. Maybe he was such a pain at rehearsal because he’d had a bad day at school or something.
As the night went on, Logan continued to warm up to my family. When Mason came in from working in the garage, Logan asked him about the amplifiers he was fixing up. At dinner, he cleaned his plate and answered all my parents’ questions. In the time it took to eat one plate of spaghetti and meatballs, I learned that Logan was born in Pigeon Forge, had a younger brother, and liked bike riding and Indian food. If I’d known that eating was the secret to getting him to open up, I would have brought brownies to every rehearsal.
“I haven’t really had much of a chance to talk to you about music, Logan,” Mom said as she served him more spaghetti and meatballs. “I know your father’s a guitarist, but does your mom play an instrument?”
Logan shook his head. “It’s more my dad’s thing. He taught me guitar.”
“How’d you learn drums?” Dad asked.
Logan shrugged. “On my own. I taught myself by watching videos online.”
“Wow,” Mason said, impressed. Mason plays drums, too, but he took lessons. “You’re even more talented than we realized.”
Logan turned bright red and studied his plate. I had to admit, it was impressive. Drums aren’t easy to learn, but Logan was a skilled player. It made me wonder how well he played guitar. I hadn’t heard more than an E chord out of him during our short-lived songwriting session.
“How long have you played guitar?” I asked.
“Since I was four,” Logan replied.
“That’s how old Tenney was when she insisted that I teach her to play,” Dad said, chuckling. “Your parents must be proud.”
“Now why haven’t we met your dad yet?” Mom asked. “Is he still on tour?”
“Um, yeah,” Logan said, his eyes flicking down to his plate. “I think he’s in Japan right now.”
Logan’s dad had been on tour the whole time I’d known him. For a moment I imagined traveling the world, learning about new cultures and performing on a different stage every night.
“That’s so cool,” I said.
“I guess,” Logan replied, but he didn’t look like he thought it was cool. He looked the way Waylon does when we put him in a crate to go to the vet. Logan was acting like his dad being a professional musician was boring or something. Weird.
“Hey,” Dad said suddenly. “Did I ever tell you guys about when my high school rock band booked our own tour through eastern Tennessee?”
Mason, Aubrey, and I groaned, but Dad ignored us. “It’s an epic journey involving a seventy-nine Cadillac, a spontaneously combusting amplifier, and an audience of very upset heavy metal fans,” he told Logan.
“You’ve told this story fifty times,” Mason said.
“Because it’s a great story!” Dad insisted. “Trust me, the only thing better than touring is being able to talk about it afterward.”
“I want to hear what happened,” Logan said. He seemed genuinely interested.
We all listened as Dad recounted his crazy adventures playing in town squares and high school gyms. Then Logan asked Dad about what songs he’d performed … which led to Aubrey asking how “Achy Breaky Heart” goes … which led to Mom singing it. And pretty soon everyone was singing along, even Logan. By the end of dinner, he had a grin on his face wider than the state of Tennessee. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him look happier.
Once the dishes were cleared, Dad headed to the garage to fix Logan’s bike. “It’ll just take a minute,” he said.
Aubrey and Mason were helping with dishes, so Mom waved Logan and me into the living room.
Waylon was sprawled on the rug by a back wall, where our family’s musical instrument collection hung. Logan bent down to scratch Waylon’s ears, his gaze drifting past Dad’s guitars, Mom’s Autoharp, and Mason’s mandolin to the older antique instruments near the ceiling.
“Do you guys actually play all these?” he asked.
“The ones hanging up top are too delicate,” I said, “but the rest of them get played a lot. We used to jam together as a family every Sunday. We haven’t done it in a while ’cause things have been so busy.” I sighed. “I really miss it.”
Right then an idea popped into my head. “Hey! You should come over sometime and jam with us!” Wait … did I just say that? I asked myself. This was definitely not how I expected this day to end up.
“Maybe sometime,” Logan said. He looked out the window at the darkening sky. “You’re pretty lucky, Tenney,” he said. “I mean, your life, your family, and being surrounded by all this music? It’s amazing.”
I nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Yeah,” I said. “I love being able to share my music with my family.”
Logan looked down at his shoes. It seemed like he wanted to say something, but he snapped his mouth shut. Another moment of silence passed, and he turned back to the instrument wall.
“What a cool guitar,” Logan said, running his hand down a small one with red frets.
“That’s a tres guitar, from Cuba,” I said. “It’s mostly used for salsa music. See how the strings are set differently?” I pointed out the fret board. “They’re set in pairs. You play it more like a rhythm instrument.”
“Oh yeah,” Logan said, looking closer.
“You can try it if you want,” I said.
Logan looked thrilled. He lifted the guitar off its wall hook and strummed it. A rich wave of sound came out, and Logan smiled. “Might be a little too complicated for me,” he admitted.
He scanned the instruments again and nodded at a small, scratched-up guitar off to the side. “What about the one at the end?”
“That one?” I asked. “It’s just my ol’ beater.” Ever since Dad had given me my new mini Taylor a few months ago, I had put aside my old guitar.
“It looks like the guitar my dad taught me on. Let me try it,” Logan said, trading me the tres for my beater. He hugged the old guitar close, like he knew it well. He adjusted the tuning and turned toward the window. Outside, the big oak tree I love glowed in the moonlight. With his eyes fixed on the tree, Logan began picking out a melody on the guitar. It was light and catchy, and as I listened, I realized Logan was an excellent guitar player.
“I like that tune,” I said. “Where did you hear it?”
Logan stopped playing, as if he’d just remembered I was there.
“I wrote it,” he said, ducking his head shyly. Thank goodness he wasn’t looking at me, because my jaw dropped in surprise.
“Wow,” I said. Logan’
s songs were usually fast-paced and hard-edged. I’d never heard Logan play anything so fun and upbeat before. It was very un-Logan.
“It’s not finished yet,” Logan said. “I’m still working on a chorus.”
“Well, what you’ve got so far is great,” I said in a rush. “Why didn’t you play it at rehearsal when I asked if you had any song ideas?”
Logan looked sort of embarrassed. “I don’t really know,” he said. “I guess I didn’t think you’d like it.”
“Are you kidding? It’s great!” I said. “We should work on it together!” The thought burst out of me before I’d even decided to say it.
“You mean write it together?” said Logan, looking surprised.
“Yes,” I said.
He squinted at me for a moment, as if he were trying to decide whether to tell me a secret.
“Okay,” he said at last.
“Great!” I said. Suddenly, we were beaming at each other.
“Logan! Tenney!” Dad called to us through the window screen.
We hung up the guitars and went outside.
“The tire needed a patch,” Dad explained to Logan, showing him the bike’s front wheel. “It’s fixed now, but the rubber’s wearing out all over. You should get a new tire when you can.”
“Um, sure,” Logan said. He stepped forward to take the bike, but Dad rolled it back.
“It’s getting dark,” Dad said. “We’ll drive you home.”
Logan shook his head. “That’s okay. I have a helmet and reflective gear, and it’s not far—”
“We’re driving you home,” Dad repeated, and the tone in his voice said it was a done deal.
A few minutes later, I was buckled in between Dad and Logan in the front seat of Dad’s truck. I looked out the window as we drove into Logan’s neighborhood. Night had fallen, and there weren’t too many streetlights, so it was hard to see. The houses were smaller than the ones on our block, and the trees were taller. Although we were only a few miles from our house in the city, it felt like we were out in the country.
We turned down Logan’s street. “You can just pull over there,” he said, gesturing to a small white house in the middle of the block. Dad slowed the truck to a stop, and Logan hopped out.
“Thanks for having me over for dinner,” Logan said to me, as Dad got his bike off the truck bed. “It was really fun.”
“I know,” I agreed, feeling a twinge of surprise. “I’m excited to work on our song.”
“Me, too,” Logan said shyly. “See you at Portia’s on Thursday.” With that, he took his bike by the handlebars and wheeled his way up the long dirt driveway into shadows.
When we got home, I went up to my room to think. My bedroom isn’t small, but I share it with Aubrey, so it never quite feels big enough. I crossed the room, walking past the glittery mound of shoes, clothes, and accordion stuff on Aubrey’s side, and flopped onto my bed. Ever since we’d dropped Logan off at his house, I couldn’t stop wondering whether he and I were real friends. I still wasn’t totally sure.
Logan confused me. I’d always respected his musical skills, but when we first met, I couldn’t stand his rude arrogance, and I had trouble keeping track of his moods. This afternoon, he was grouchy during most of rehearsal, but he seemed like a completely different person when he came over for dinner. He was patient with Aubrey and polite to my parents and Mason. What’s more, the melody Logan had played for me after dinner was sweet in a way that didn’t seem like the Logan I knew. I didn’t know what to make of it.
I sat up and pulled my guitar into my lap. My fingers settled on the strings, and I started picking out Logan’s melody. I don’t always remember every piece of music I hear, but his tune had stuck in my head. It was light and catchy, but it had a yearning feeling, too. Like an unfinished wish.
Logan had been right when he said it wasn’t done yet. He’d come up with a bright, pretty melody for the verses, but that was it. For a song to be complete, it needed a chorus, a bridge, an ending, and a sense of “going somewhere,” as Portia always said.
I sighed. We were meeting Portia for a songwriting session on Thursday after school. I didn’t want to show up with half an idea. Logan agreed we should write the song together, I told myself. If I come up with a few ideas now, it’ll make it easier for us to co-write with Portia. It might even be fun.
I played through the melody again. It started out strong, but got a little muddled at the end of the verse. I started over, simplifying the last couple of measures to complete the phrase. Then I found a natural chorus melody that complemented the song’s main theme.
By the time Aubrey came in to put on her pajamas, I had nailed down everything except the bridge and the outro, but I felt like the song was one step closer to being done. I realized I was actually looking forward to hearing what Logan thought of my changes. Maybe collaborating with Logan won’t be so bad after all, I thought.
When school got out on Thursday, I stopped by Dad’s store to grab my guitar and headed to Portia’s cottage.
Portia greeted me at the front door, her cheeks as pink as blooming roses. She wore an embroidered blouse, and her steel-gray hair was coiled in a braid around her head. Silver drop earrings twinkled on her ears. They jingled as she tilted her head at me, making her own unique percussion.
“Welcome!” she said. As she led me inside, I noticed she was holding a strange contraption: a metal loop with two thick black plastic handles.
“What kind of instrument is that?” I asked, lugging my guitar case into the comfy living room.
“This?” Portia said, holding up the metal thingy with a laugh. “It’s not an instrument. It’s a handgrip. I have to squeeze it thirty times a day as part of my physical therapy.”
“Oh, right,” I said. Over a year and a half ago, Portia had a stroke that had paralyzed her chord hand. She was mostly recovered now, but she still did exercises to restore the strength she lost.
“Does it hurt your hand to use it?” I wondered.
“Not anymore,” Portia said, squeezing the grip a few times fast. “When I started, it was tougher, but these days doing it makes me feel like Wonder Woman.” She put up her arm in a muscle-woman pose, and I laughed.
“To tell you the truth, though, nothing’s helped me more than playing my guitar,” Portia continued. “The best way to heal from anything is to do what you love. For me, that’s playing music.”
I nodded enthusiastically. She was right; playing music always made me feel better. I loved working with Portia, because every time I saw her, she taught me something about music, and even more about myself.
I had arrived early for our songwriting session, so Portia poured me some sweet tea and we chatted while I got out my guitar. To warm up, I played one of Portia’s songs, “April Springs.” Portia gave me pointers on my finger placement on the frets and advised me to tense up the wrist of my strumming hand to get a richer sound. I couldn’t help but smile. “April Springs” has always been one of my favorites, even before I knew Portia had written it. The song was a big hit years ago, when Portia was performing under the stage name Patty Burns. Playing it now, I remembered how shocked and thrilled I was when I first realized Portia had written a song that I loved. And now here I was, in Portia’s living room, getting advice from the songwriter herself.
It was so much fun, I almost forgot why I was there … until Portia frowned at the clock on her mantel.
“Where is Logan?” she asked.
I looked at the time. Logan was more than fifteen minutes late.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “He said he’d be here when I saw him on Tuesday.”
Portia’s eyes sharpened, but she just nodded and crossed her arms over her chest.
Ten minutes later, we heard a soft whoosh in Portia’s driveway. I peered outside. Logan was locking his orange-and-silver bike to the chain-link fence. His face looked like a storm cloud about to burst.
“How nice of you to join us, Mr. Everett,” Portia said s
harply as Logan slipped through the door and into the sitting room.
Logan didn’t apologize. “I need to borrow a guitar,” he said, his voice gruff.
Portia raised her eyebrows. “Over there,” she said finally, waving at some guitars clustered on stands in a corner. Logan stalked over and picked up the nearest one. He didn’t say a word as he plunked down next to me on the sofa.
“So I know you two have started writing together,” Portia said. “Why don’t you play me what you’ve been working on?”
I glanced at Logan, but he sat there like a bump on a log. So I told Portia about Logan’s tune.
“I’ve been trying out different ways to transition the verse melody into the new chorus that I added,” I started, peering back to Logan.
I thought he’d be pleased. Instead, suspicion ignited in his eyes.
“What does that mean? You just went off and rewrote it without me?” he said sharply.
“No, I brainstormed ideas,” I corrected him, trying to keep cool. “That’s it.”
Logan scowled, but I didn’t flinch. You agreed to this, I told him with my eyes. I’m not backing down.
“Whatever,” he mumbled at last. “I’ll play my melody for Portia first.”
“Fine,” I said. I swallowed my frustration and laid my guitar on my knees.
Logan started playing, attacking his guitar like he was mad at it. Suddenly, his fun, bouncy song sounded loud and grating. I couldn’t help but wince.
“Slow down,” Portia told Logan over the music. He did, which made it sound even worse. When he was done, Portia turned to me.
“So, Tenney, what were your ideas?” she said.
“Well, I made the end of the phrase a little simpler, for a start,” I said. I played Logan’s melody from the top, then went right into the chorus I’d come up with. Before I’d even finished, Logan was shaking his head.
“It’s too cute,” he said.
“What does that mean?” I said, annoyance streaking through me.
“It means I don’t like it,” Logan replied bluntly.
“Do you have a better idea?” I shot back.