by Kellen Hertz
“It means that we think you guys should continue to play together,” Mrs. Everett told him.
“Really?” I yelped.
Zane nodded. “I haven’t voided your contract, so we can pick up right where we left off, working on original music,” he said with a grin. “Only we’ll just add this concert in. What do you say?”
“It sounds amazing!” I said, thrilled.
Then I glanced at Logan. His expression was a shifting mix of emotions.
Logan might not want to rejoin the band if his mom needs help with Jude, I realized. And I wasn’t going to say yes without him.
“I don’t know what to say,” Logan said finally. “I have a lot of other responsibilities.”
“We know,” Portia noted. “We’ve been talking about that, too.”
“We thought you and Jude could start coming to the shop after school on a regular basis,” Dad told Logan. “That way, you and Tenney can practice.”
“Right, and I can help watch Aubrey and Jude,” said Mason.
“No! I’ll watch Jude, and you can watch me,” Aubrey told him, putting her arm around Jude protectively.
Logan looked a little overwhelmed. “Y’all would really do all this? Why?” he asked.
“Because,” Mason said. “We believe in you guys. If we can help, we want to.”
“I can help, too!” Holliday proclaimed. “If you need a backup, I’m available for babysitting.”
“So am I!” Jaya added.
“But we’re going to have to rehearse a ton and—” Logan began.
“We’ll keep right on helping,” Dad said firmly. “It’ll be the summer, so school’s out. Jude can hang out in the shop all day if his mom chooses.”
Aubrey’s eyes lit up. “We can have music camp! I’ll teach you how to play cowbell and accordion,” she told Jude, who looked excited.
“And y’all can come on over for Sunday supper anytime,” Mom said to Mrs. Everett.
“We would love that,” Logan’s mom replied.
Zane tipped his porkpie hat back on his head. “Don’t forget that Tenney and Logan will get paid for performing with Belle,” he pointed out. “So that should help, too.”
Logan sat down on a bench, and I sat next to him, a little dazed.
Belle smiled at us. “So? What’s the verdict?” she asked, putting a hand on her hip.
Logan opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking at me.
“I’m in if Tenney’s in,” he said. “We’re a team.”
Suddenly, everyone’s eyes were on me.
“Tenney? What do you say?” Belle asked.
It took me a moment to find my voice, but when I did, I spoke out loud and clear.
“Yes!” I said.
We were going to open for Belle Starr!
by Alaina Stacey
Tenney:
I don’t like the way you shrug
like you’ve got nothing else to say
And I don’t like the way you always
want to do it your way
You turn around and do
exactly what I ask you not to
And I can feel you criticizing
every move I make
And it seems like I’m the only one
that’s trying here
Logan:
I don’t like the way you think
that you know all there is to know
I don’t like the way you think
you’re better all on your own
I turn around and do
exactly what I need to do
’Cause you’re always moving
just a little bit too slow
And it seems like I’m the only one
that’s trying here
Chorus:
You’ve got the nerve
to act like I’m the one
who makes this hard
It makes me hurt
to think that we might
mess this up
And I’m done letting you
I can’t get through to you
Let’s meet this head-on
I’ll let you get on my last nerve
Tenney: You’re always changing track
like a scattered hurricane
Logan: You don’t know how to let things go
or how to take the blame
Tenney: You focus on the bad
when you should celebrate the good
Logan: Your sunny attitude
boils the blood in my veins
Tenney and Logan:
And it seems like I’m the only one that’s trying here
Chorus:
You’ve got the nerve
to act like I’m the one
who makes this hard
It makes me hurt
to think that we might
mess this up
And I’m done letting you
I can’t get through to you
Let’s meet this head-on
I’ll let you get on my last nerve
Instrumental Break
Ending Chorus:
’Cause we strike a nerve
The one that makes
the hairs stand on your skin
When we are heard
Together we have
so much more to give
’Cause it’s for music
So I guess we do this
You’re a pair of infuriating,
crazy maddening, always nagging
shoulders to stand on
Let’s meet this head-on
I’ll let you get on my last nerve
by Haley Greene
Pen and paper in my hand
Just so you can understand
I believe we have a voice
I believe we have a song
The stage is right where we belong
The stage is right where we belong
Chorus:
I am chasing this dream of mine
I just need
Someone who believes
Someone who believes
Verse 2:
I know that getting there’s not easy
We’ll never know unless we try
If we just give up all that we love
We’ll let the moment pass us by
We’ll let the moment pass us by
Chorus:
I am chasing this dream of mine
I just need
Someone who believes
Someone who believes
Bridge:
This is, this is my dream
I will, I will believe
This is, this is my dream
I will, I will believe
This is, this is my dream
I will, I will, I will, I will
Believe
Chorus:
I am chasing this dream of mine
I just need
Someone who believes
Someone who believes
ALAINA STACEY was born into a family of musicians and learned to sing before she could talk. She grew up in Chicago but moved to Nashville to build her career as a singer-songwriter. Despite her early success, the road to Nashville hasn’t always been easy. “It’s really hard to hear no in this business, but unfortunately it’s very common,” Alaina says. “When it first happens, it’s really disappointing and makes you want to quit.” Then she found that rejection can be “a blessing in disguise, because you learn things about yourself as an artist and what you need to work on that help you move forward.”
Her favorite thing about performing is getting to share her music. As she puts it, “Performing before an audience gives you an energy you don’t get when you’re just singing songs in your bedroom!”
Just as Tenney found inspiration through her frustration with Logan, Alaina finds inspiration in strong emotions and “the way songwriting transforms difficult emotions into something beautiful.” About the song “The Nerve,” she says, “It was easy to write because I was able to pull from the emotions Tenney and L
ogan were feeling in the story and imagine what they might write for each other.”
HALEY GREENE got her first guitar in middle school and started picking up chords on her own because she wanted to join a band. She also plays piano, and she now performs regularly around her college town and has put out a CD as well.
“I just love the communal atmosphere of performing,” says Haley. The first time she heard people singing her own lyrics back to her during a performance was “one of the most incredible experiences I’ve ever had. I feel like I’m just one with the crowd.” For Haley, that’s what being a performer is all about, not money or fame.
As a girl, Haley, now twenty-one, lived in China, Africa, and Ecuador, where she attended high school and started performing. “Just being exposed to all these different musical styles really helped influence the direction I wanted to take and my identity as a musician,” she says.
While writing “Someone Who Believes,” Haley identified strongly with Tenney’s character. “She feels intimidated by the talent around her. As the storyline goes on, you can see her growing confidence. And confidence is really the key to being successful in music. I really related to that!”
With gratitude to manuscript consultant Erika Wollam Nichols for her insights and knowledge of Nashville’s music industry; to music director Denise Stiff for guiding song development; and to songwriters Alaina Stacey and Haley Greene for helping Tenney and Logan find their perfect harmony.
As a young reader, Kellen Hertz loved L. Frank Baum’s Wizard of Oz series. But since the job of Princess of Oz was already taken, she decided to become an author. Alas, her unfinished first novel was lost in a sea of library books on the floor of her room, forcing her to seek other employment. Since then, Kellen has worked as a screenwriter, television producer, bookseller, and congressional staffer. She made her triumphant return to novel writing when she coauthored Lea and Camila with Lisa Yee before diving into the Tenney series for American Girl.
Kellen lives with her husband and their son in Los Angeles.
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Meet the 2017 Girl of the Year, Gabriela McBride! She’s a true talent who gets creative for a cause.
Can Gabby use the power of her poetry to save her beloved community arts center from shutting down?
Turn the page to read a preview of Gabriela’s first book!
Toe-heel-toe-heel-toe-heel-STOMP.
Toe-heel-toe-heel-toe-heel-STOMP.
Each move burst into my head like a shout. All around me the air was filled with the sounds of tap shoes scraping and stomping, Mama calling out the next step as she snapped in time to the rhythm of the music. Above me, the sun poured through Liberty’s stained-glass windows, leaving little pools of colored light on the floor at my feet.
Riff-heel-ball change-riff-heel-stomp.
Riff-heel-ball change-riff-heel-tuuuuuuurrn.
I stood on my right leg and whirled around, careful to find my spot so I wouldn’t get dizzy. My spot was always the same in dance studio number seven: The hollowed-out square cut into the wall right between the two big mirrors. A phone niche, Mama called it, from the time when phones were so big people had to literally carve out space for them.
Toe-heel-toe-heel-toe-heel-chug.
Toe-heel-scuff-heel-tip-heel-SLAM!
My feet flew over the dance studio’s worn wooden floor, from one puddle of light to another, and soon my heart was pounding out a rhythm in time with the beat, like the music and I had become one. I couldn’t help it. I closed my eyes. I knew what Mama would say if she caught me: “Gabriela McBride, you know how unsafe that is? And you can lose your place that way!”
I did know that, but I knew Liberty better. Knew every spot on its dance floors, scuffed white from years of dancers like me stomping, turning, and tapping. And I knew that when I opened my eyes, a few beats from now, I’d see Liberty’s painted-over brick walls, exposed heating pipes, and its tin-tiled ceiling. And I’d have no trouble finding my place.
“And … finish,” Mama said as she turned the volume down on the old sound system we used during tap rehearsal. The music faded and then disappeared. I opened my eyes just as Mama began to clap.
“If I didn’t know any better,” said Mama, “I would think I was in the presence of Savion Glover’s dancers.” Mama beamed at each member of the Liberty Junior Dance Company in turn. When her eyes met mine, she winked. I winked back.
Mama, or Miss Tina as all the other students called her, was the founder and executive director of Liberty, also known as Liberty Arts Center, a community center she’d started seventeen years ago. Not only was Mama the “Big Kahuna” (that’s what Daddy called her), she was also the director of dance programs, which suited her just fine. Mama, with her strong, powerful legs and fluid movements, always said dancing came naturally to her, like breathing. And then she’d say, “It’s like that for you, too, Gabby.”
It was true. Dancing came to me as easily as coding came to my best friend, Teagan, or the way words came to my cousin, Red. Or the way words seemed to come to almost everyone else, except me.
I glanced up at the clock as Mama instructed us to take a seat on the floor. My heart was still racing, and as the clock crept closer to six, my pulse sped up. I had somewhere important to be.
“Excellent work today, ladies! You’re almost ready for our Rhythm and Views show next month.”
Five fifty-five. I stared at Mama, willing her eyes to meet mine. When at last she looked over at me, I looked at the clock and back at her. She nodded. She hadn’t forgotten she’d given me permission to skip ballet rehearsal and go to the poetry group meeting instead. I half listened as Mama rattled off dates, expectations, and information about costumes.
“Remember how much Rhythm and Views means to Liberty and to the wider community,” Mama said. “Sixteen years this show has gone on, and people always come up to me and say—”
I finished Mama’s sentence in my head: that they look forward to this day all year. The Liberty community loved the show because we got to celebrate all the hard work we’d done in the last year. Art students got to exhibit their work in the lobby and guests could even purchase the artwork, just like at a real art gallery. The dance companies performed the pieces we’d been perfecting all year. An empanada take-out joint from across the street catered the snack bar, and everyone’s friends and family came out for the show. It was like a block party, cookout, and concert all rolled into one, and it was my favorite day, too.
Mama finished her speech and then clapped loudly again, her way of signaling that it was time to go.
I jumped to my feet, ran over to where I’d left my bag, and tore off my tap shoes. In four seconds flat, I was bolting toward the door in my sneakers, pausing just long enough to wave to Mama. She smiled and shook her head. I guess she was as surprised as I still sometimes was that I was in a hurry to get to a place where I’d have to stand up and talk in front of other people.
See, talking wasn’t like dancing for me. When I danced tap or hip-hop, I could speak with my feet. My hands. My whole body, if I wanted to. I could make one move quiet as a whisper, the next loud as a shout. But sometimes, when I opened my mouth, it was like my words started to second-guess themselves. Like they weren’t sure if they wanted to come out and when they finally did, I started stuttering like crazy.
But not all the time.
Like when I was racing to the dance studio where the poetry group met, I ran straight into Amelia Sanchez, my ballet instructor. “Whoa, Gabby, slow down,” she said, laughing. “I spoke to your mom. You’re going to make up tonight’s missed rehearsal, right?”
“I definitely am,” I said, without a single stutter.
I kept on going. And when I ran into good old Stan, the friendliest janitor ever, he said, “Where are you hurrying off to, Gabby?” and
I replied, “Poetry club meeting. See you later!” without missing a beat.
Mrs. Baxter, my speech therapist at school, told me that people who stutter don’t do it as much in places they feel comfortable. That’s why my speech was hardly ever bumpy when I was in our little white-and-blue house on Tompkins Street with Mama and Daddy or at Liberty, because both places were home to me, both places filled with family. Like Amelia, who I’d known since she was nineteen and I was six. She taught me how to spot on my turns by challenging me to a staring contest. “Every time you turn, I want us eye-to-eye.” Even now, four years later, if Amelia thought I wasn’t spotting she’d gently say, “Staring contest, Gabby,” to remind me. Stan was like family, too. I’d known him my whole life—he’d been the janitor at Liberty ever since Mama opened it.
“Hold on there now,” Stan called out, and I stopped in my tracks. “Poetry’s been moved to the auditorium, hasn’t it?”
Shoot! How had I forgotten? I took off in the other direction, calling, “Thanks, Stan,” over my shoulder as I went.
By the time I made it to the auditorium, the whole group was already up onstage. For the second time, I stopped in my tracks. I’d danced on that very same stage plenty of times, but today was the very first time I’d have to speak on it. I gulped.
“Gabby, over here!”
Teagan called to me with a frantic wave of her hand. The poetry group had made a circle onstage in front of the heavy red curtain, and Teagan had saved me a seat right beside her.
“I’ve got everything ready to go,” she whispered to me, reaching up to adjust her beanie over her strawberry-blonde hair. There were two things Teagan was almost never without: her coding notebook (she’d named it Cody) and her turquoise beanie.
“Got what ready to go?” I asked.
“The you-know-what that we’ve been working on?” Teagan wriggled her eyebrows. “You know, the surprise?”
“Oh, right!” I wiped my sweaty hands on my leggings.
“Are you okay, Gabby?”
“Y-Yes,” I stammered. But Teagan knew me better than almost anyone.
“You’re nervous about saying your poem in front of Bria and Alejandro, right?” Teagan sat up on her knees and faced me. She was in full-on Teagan Problem-Solving Mode. “Just relax and remember to think about each word before you say it. Give it time to form in your mind. Don’t rush. Okay?”