by Kellen Hertz
This song’s for you, my love.
You watch over me from above.
I squinted at the words and realized that I disliked them even more than I had a few nights ago. They were sugar sweet and boring, the kind of lines I wrote when I didn’t know what to write. I crossed out the lyrics with a thick black line.
Maybe this shouldn’t be a love song, I told myself. Except the melody sounds like a love song. I sighed. All my favorite songs were about heartbreak. But what did I know about that? I was only in sixth grade!
“Be proud of yourself and love what you see!” Aubrey shrieked.
“Mom, make her stop!” Mason groaned.
We stopped at a light. Mom turned to look at Aubrey. “Honey, you’ve maxed out your Belle Starr time,” she said, and put out her hand.
Pouting, Aubrey handed over the phone. Without music, she became restless. She leaned over, trying to read my journal. I pulled it to my chest.
“Are you even writing anything?” Aubrey asked.
“Yes,” I said with a scowl. But as I stared at my scratched-out lyrics, my stomach scrunched up in frustration.
I need some time alone to write, I thought. Maybe after school.
“Don’t forget, Tenney, you have a Jamboree meeting at the senior center this afternoon,” Mom said, like she was reading my mind.
Oh yeah. I’d forgotten all about that. For now, my song would have to wait.
When I got to school, I found Jaya at her locker. Her eyes lit up as I told her about meeting Ellie Cale and the invitation to perform at the Mockingbird Records showcase at the Bluebird.
“It’s not anything real yet,” I said, but Jaya was already hugging me.
“What do you mean?! It’s incredible!” she shrieked.
I nodded shyly, but my heart soared with pride. “Don’t get too excited yet,” I said. “My parents have to agree to let me perform first.”
“They will,” Jaya said. “They know how talented you are. Why would they want to hold you back?”
Jaya’s enthusiasm flooded me with hope. My parents had brought music into my life—there’s no way they would take it away now.
After school, we met Ms. Carter and the rest of the Jamboree committee outside the school’s front doors and walked over to the senior center together.
As soon as we got there, I marched up to Portia, who was sitting in the same armchair where she’d been last time, looking out the window.
“Hi, Portia,” I said, trying to warm her up with a smile. “Have you thought about what we could do for the Jamboree?”
“Not really,” she said, resting her chin in a bony hand. Her fingertips were rough and hard. Suddenly, I realized that we had more in common than I thought.
“Do you play guitar?” I asked.
Portia blinked as if she was just waking up. “I do. Why?” she asked.
“You’ve got calluses on your left hand just like mine,” I said, showing her my fingertips. “And I got them from playing my guitar all the time.”
She gave a little snort and studied me. “How long have you played?” she asked.
“Since I was four,” I replied.
“Are you any good?” she asked, crossing her arms.
I chuckled nervously. “Um, I think so.”
“Okay, then,” Portia said. She stood up unsteadily and grabbed a carved walking stick from behind the chair. “Follow me,” she said, leaning on her stick, and walked haltingly toward a doorway.
I followed her down a hall and into a small book-lined study. Portia eased herself into a leather chair and nodded toward the corner of the room, where a guitar case stood propped against the wall.
“Play something for me,” she said.
I never turn down the opportunity to pick up a guitar, but suddenly I felt a little bashful. I set the case on a side table and opened it. Inside was a polished mahogany guitar. Thin lines of inlaid gold sparkled around the sound hole and across the frets.
“Wow,” I said. “Is this your guitar?”
Portia nodded.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“That better not stop you from playing it,” Portia said.
My stomach fluttered, but I sat down opposite her, pulling the guitar onto my lap. I tuned it and strummed some riffs. The strings sounded light and silvery. The guitar’s neck was a little wider than I was used to, but I could still change chords pretty easily.
I slipped into my new melody, pouring my heart into every chord. Portia listened, tapping a finger in time as I played.
When I finished, I looked up at her. Her eyes shone with a warmth that I hadn’t seen before. “That’s good,” she said. “You wrote that?”
I nodded, surprised. “How did you know?”
“You’re playing like the tune’s part of you,” Portia said. She smiled as my cheeks reddened. “Tell me what the song’s about.”
“I don’t really know yet,” I admitted. “I started writing lyrics, but I don’t like them.”
“Hmm,” said Portia. “In my experience, a good song is always about something meaningful to you. Deep down, you already know what it is. You just need to find it.”
“Have you written songs before?” I asked, handing her the guitar.
“Some,” she said. “But that was a while ago. Tell me more about you.”
As she asked questions, answers poured out of me. I told her about the Tri-Stars and singing lead at last weekend’s show, and about Ellie Cale and her invitation to the showcase.
“But my parents might not let me perform. They think I’m too young,” I said.
“There’s no such thing as too young in music,” Portia said bluntly. “It’s not about age; it’s about being ready.”
“How do you know when you’re ready?” I asked.
“When you find your voice,” said Portia. She leaned in, her eyes sparkling. “Don’t worry about playing one showcase,” she said. “You need to figure out what you want to say with your music. When you know that, you’ll find your voice as an artist. And that is something special. That’s something no one can ever take away from you.”
Portia’s advice echoed in my head as I walked back to school with the Jamboree committee. I wanted to find my voice more than anything. But how?
“Are you okay?” Jaya asked, nudging me out of my daydream.
“I’m stuck on the words to my new song,” I admitted. “How can I write a song I love if I don’t know what I want to say?”
“Well, if you’re stuck, maybe you should take a break from that one,” Jaya said, tilting her head. “Whenever I’m having trouble with a design, it always helps me to work on something else.”
As soon as she said it, I realized she was right. After all, I wasn’t going to find my voice with just one song.
Every afternoon for the rest of that week, I pored over my songwriting journal after I’d finished my homework. I didn’t like most of my old songs anymore, but there was one that I thought might have potential, called “Home Again.” I’d written it last year after we got back from a road trip to Knoxville. It wasn’t perfect, but it could work if my parents let me play the Mockingbird showcase.
Be patient, I told myself. And focus on your music.
By the end of the weekend, though, I was starting to get antsy—my parents still hadn’t brought up the showcase. I decided that if they didn’t give me their decision by dinner, I was going to bring it up.
Tonight was Sunday Supper, a monthly Grant family tradition. We all chipped in to help: I made the salad, Mason prepared the grits, Dad barbecued ribs, Mom baked cornbread and banana pudding pie, and Aubrey set the table on the backyard patio. I usually love Sunday Supper, but that night I felt prickly and worried thinking about the showcase. I needed to know my parents’ decision.
Near the end of dinner, everyone was in a good mood and I finally felt brave enough to bring up performing at the showcase. “We should probably call Ellie Cale soon,” I said casually. “You know, to let h
er know whether or not I’m performing.”
My parents exchanged a glance. Finally, Dad spoke. “Mom and I talked about this for a long while,” he said, “and we don’t think it’s a good idea for you to play in the showcase.”
I sucked in a short breath. “But it’s just one performance,” I said.
“It’s not about the performance,” Mom replied. “It’s about what it could lead to.”
I stared at my plate. If I looked at my mom, I might start crying.
“What about the Jamboree?” Dad asked. “Playing music at your school is a great place to start. We’re happy to give you permission to perform there.”
“The showcase is hosted by a music label, Dad. It could be my big break,” I said. I could feel my chin quivering. It took all the strength I had not to fall apart.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Mom said, “but we think you’re too young to start pursuing a professional music career.”
“There’s no such thing as too young in music,” I fired back, quoting Portia. “It’s not about age; it’s about being ready.”
My parents looked surprised. Good, I thought. Maybe they finally understand … But when they didn’t respond, I knew that the conversation was over.
As I took my plate inside, I heard Mason say, “I don’t know why you guys won’t just let her perform. Chances are, it won’t lead to anything. And even if it does, you could say no then. But she’s good and she deserves—”
“Mason, enough,” Dad said.
I dumped my plate and went into the family room. The chairs were set up in a circle for our Sunday music jam, where we all play songs together. The last thing I wanted to do was pretend everything was okay and play music as a big happy family. But I knew my parents were not going to let me off the hook.
Once the dishes were cleared, we settled in the family room with our instruments.
“Tenney, you want to choose a song first?” Dad asked, tuning his guitar.
I shook my head. I knew Dad was giving me first choice to make me feel better, but I wasn’t in the mood.
“Okay, then. Georgia? Do you have one?” Dad asked Mom.
“I think so,” Mom said brightly, slipping her Autoharp onto her lap. Her fingers skimmed across the body, picking out the opening chords of “April Springs.”
“Last April the rains came down,” she sang, “and washed away your love.” Her voice was strong and woodsy against the shimmering Autoharp, and on the next line, she looked right at me. “Last April the rains came down, and washed away my pride.”
I was still upset, but somehow hearing Mom’s steady voice soothed my hurt feelings. Dad joined in, and their harmony wrapped around me like a warm hug. Still, I wasn’t ready to sing.
Mom started the next verse. Dad says my voice is like hers, but as I listened, I couldn’t see how that was possible. Mom’s voice seemed bigger than her body, as if the song coming out of her was powered by a swirl of emotions. Every note gave me chills.
She could have been a professional, I thought. What really happened at Silver Sun Records? What wasn’t she telling me?
By the time the chorus started and Mason and Aubrey joined in, my frustration had softened and I finally felt ready to play along. As I sang, I felt the aching and loss in the song’s lyrics, and I poured my own sadness into my voice. It made me feel better. I was still sad, but I felt connected to my parents, and to Mason and Aubrey—as if the music made us all part of something bigger.
We played song after song, until Aubrey started yawning. Dad took her upstairs to get ready for bed, and Mason went to work on his broken amp in the garage. That left me to help Mom do dishes. I rinsed the plates, and Mom put them in the dishwasher. We stayed quiet for a long time, but every so often Mom would give me a sideways glance.
“I’m sorry that you feel hurt by our decision,” she said finally, drying her hands on a dish towel.
“I’m just confused,” I said. “I mean, you recorded a demo yourself. And you wanted a music career.”
“I did,” she said. “But then I learned that a career in music is not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, frowning.
“Honey, I grew up singing and playing and loving music, just like you,” Mom said. “And when I was nineteen, I met a producer who told me I could be a star.”
“Then what?” I asked.
Mom leaned against the counter. “Well, sometimes what you start out wanting and what you end up getting turn out to be different things,” she said sadly. “I loved music, but I didn’t love what the music business did to me.”
“What did it do to you?” I asked.
Mom hesitated. “Being a professional musician can be a lot of pressure, Tenney,” she said finally. “It isn’t always fun.”
I frowned. What could be more fun than doing the thing you love most all the time?
Before I could ask, Mom put her hands on my shoulders. “You are incredibly talented, sweetheart,” she said. “But being successful in music isn’t just about talent—it’s about hard work. You’re so young. I just want you to be a kid while you still can be. There’s no reason to rush into a music career, I promise.”
Mom wrapped me up in a hug. I knew she wanted me to feel better, but a question echoed in my mind: What if I never get a chance like this again?
The next day was the sixth grade’s field trip to the Ryman Auditorium. Before the first bell rang, kids were swarming the bus by the front steps. Jaya and I boarded and sat near the back.
I leaned against the seat and looked out the window. I’d had a hard time falling asleep last night after my talk with Mom. I still couldn’t understand why Mom had been so unhappy as a professional musician. She had never really answered any of my questions.
Jaya’s voice broke into my thoughts. “What do you think of this for a Jamboree poster?”
She held up her sketchbook, showing me a colorful drawing of people dancing in front of a big-top tent. In cowboy-style type, she’d written Food! Folks! Fun! Magnolia Hills Jamboree! across the bottom.
“It’s awesome!” I said, pasting on a smile even though I was still feeling down.
Jaya grinned. “Oh, I almost forgot!” she said, flipping to a new page. “I made something for you.”
She held it up. Tenney Grant was written across the page using a lettering like nothing I’d seen before. The words were written on a five-line staff, like sheet music. The T in Tenney was shaped like a treble clef, and the G was shaped like a bass clef. The rest of the letters looked like musical notes.
“It’s your own font!” said Jaya. “You can use it for posters and your website when you start performing. What do you think?”
My heart sank. “It’s really cool,” I said, trying to sound excited, but before I knew it my eyes had filled with tears.
“What’s wrong?” Jaya asked.
I took a deep breath and told her all about my parents’ decision not to let me play the showcase.
“Oh, Tenney,” Jaya said, leaning into me. “I’m so sorry.”
Before she could say anything else, the bus came to a stop in front of the Ryman and my classmates started filing into the aisle.
“Try to have fun today, okay?” Jaya said. “You love the Ryman!”
I nodded and gave her a grateful squeeze.
We piled off the bus in the shadow of the majestic red brick building with arched windows and double doors.
Our tour guide met us in the lobby. “Welcome to the Ryman, also known as the Mother Church of Country Music!” our guide said. “There’s a reason this place looks so much like a church—it used to be one. And ever since it was converted to an auditorium in the early twentieth century, nearly every star in the history of American country music has played here.” She continued narrating the building’s past as we followed her upstairs and into a small dressing room. A white leather chair sat in front of a mirror lined in bright lights. On the walls hung photos of stars like Dolly Parton and
Tammy Wynette.
“This is the Women of Country dressing room,” said the guide. “It was named in honor of the Ryman’s best female performers, and it still gets a lot of use today. Just last week, Belle Starr got ready before her show right in that very chair.”
One of my classmates squealed in excitement. Even Holliday Hayes looked impressed.
“We’ve heard of Belle Starr,” Ms. Carter said, smiling.
“One of my coworkers met her,” the guide said. She leaned in and lowered her voice as if she was about to tell us a secret. “She said that Belle was talking all about how just a few years ago she was only playing at family potlucks and her uncle’s barbecue restaurant. She could hardly believe that she was playing at the Ryman!”
I bet Belle’s parents would have let her play the showcase, I thought as we trooped through the other rooms and back downstairs.
“I’ve got one more treat for you,” said the tour guide as we turned down a hallway. “Not everyone who visits gets a chance to do this, but your teacher mentioned there were some big music fans here.”
We turned another corner. Ahead, some curtains were drawn open next to a sign reading STAGE.
“Y’all ready for your star turn?” the tour guide said, winking.
My heart bounced into my throat. We were going to stand on the Ryman stage!
We lined up with Ms. Carter in the wings and peered out into the auditorium. Stunned by the beauty of the room, I felt my disappointment about the showcase and my parents fall away. Light streamed through stained-glass windows onto rows of wooden pews and the balcony above. Powerful stage lights shone down onto the wide stage, which had been polished smooth as glass. The guide signaled to someone standing at the back of the auditorium. Suddenly, the stage lights faded to a single spotlight on an old-fashioned silver microphone at center stage.
One by one, each of my classmates went onstage and stood in the spotlight behind the microphone.
When it was Jaya’s turn, she struck a rock-star pose and pulled the microphone to her face. “Hello, Nashville!” she said, her voice echoing throughout the theater.