by Kellen Hertz
Finally, it was my turn. The air felt cool as I walked through the shadows, but when I stepped into the spotlight, it was like standing under a giant sun. Everything was bright orange until my eyes adjusted.
The audience was a dark sea in front of me. I tilted my face up to the microphone, picturing rows full of people with eager faces, waiting to hear my songs. Electric wonder buzzed through me. I could barely feel the stage under my feet. I wonder if this was what Belle Starr felt when she performed here, I thought. And Patsy Cline! And Taylor Swift! I imagined singing into the gleaming microphone, my voice ringing out strong and clear, the audience singing along with every word.
“Tenney?” A hand tapped me on the shoulder. Ms. Carter stood behind me, smiling. “Honey, I’ve been calling your name.”
From the darkness, I heard kids snickering.
“Sorry,” I said, embarrassed.
As my eyes readjusted to the dark of the theater, I took one last look at the view from the Ryman stage, memorizing it. Someday I’ll come back here to perform, I promised myself.
My brain buzzed during the whole ride back to school. Standing on the Ryman stage had inspired me. Who cares if I can’t play the showcase? I thought. The important thing is to write great songs and perform them whenever I can. “You look like you’re in a better mood,” Jaya said with a nudge.
I grinned, feeling energized. “Belle Starr played potlucks and barbecues, anywhere she could. That’s what I need to do—starting with the Jamboree.”
“Yes!” Jaya said. “Have you signed up yet?”
I shook my head, suddenly remembering that Ms. Carter had urged us to sign up before it was too late. “What if all the slots are already full?”
“They won’t be,” Jaya replied, but her voice was uncertain.
When the bus dropped us off at Magnolia Hills, we raced to Ms. Carter’s classroom. The sign-up sheet was still on the door. Every line had someone’s name on it … except for the last one.
“Thank goodness!” I said. I wrote my name down. Under “talent/act” I wrote singer-songwriter.
“I’m so excited to hear your song!” Jaya said, clapping.
“Me, too,” I said. “Now I just have to finish it!”
“You write songs?” came a voice from behind me. Holliday Hayes was standing there, looking like she’d just eaten something rotten.
“Yeah,” I said, “and I play guitar and sing.”
“Tenney’s amazing,” chirped Jaya.
Holliday made an angry noise, like a cough and a snort mixed together. “Congratulations,” she said.
Before I could reply, she brushed by us down the hall.
“What’s wrong with her?” Jaya asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, confused. I didn’t have time to worry about her, though. I was thinking about what Mom had said: A music career doesn’t just take talent—it takes hard work. I needed to find the words to my song.
Mom and Dad worked late that night, so Mason cooked dinner. The frozen pizza was burned and the peas were shriveled, but I ate everything as fast as possible. I finished my homework and then carried my guitar and journal into the family room to work on my new song.
Aubrey followed me into the room with a handful of markers and a notepad.
“Aubrey, I’m working,” I said to her.
“I’ll be quiet, I promise,” she said, kneeling on the floor in front of the coffee table to spread out her supplies.
I turned to a blank page in my journal and tried to focus. I haven’t liked any of the lyrics I’ve come up with so far, I thought. So I’ll start from scratch. Shifting my guitar into place, I played the melody slowly. Every now and then, I’d stop and write down ideas for lyrics as they came to me. When I was done, I looked at my brainstorming page. Love, miss, night, stars … Words spiraled around one another like dragonflies. Each of my verses had five lines, so I tried making up short sentences, singing them as I played. I rhymed “night” with “flight,” but the phrases didn’t seem to go anywhere. I finally found a couple of verses that made sense and matched the melody. But when I sang them, they sounded forced and hollow.
Mason stuck his head into the family room. “Time for bed, Aubrey.”
“Five more minutes,” she said, pouting. But before she could protest more, Mason scooped her up and tickled her until they were both laughing.
“Shh, I’m trying to write!” I said, but Aubrey’s giggles were so infectious I couldn’t help laughing along.
“C’mon, Aubrey,” Mason said. “Let’s go upstairs to give Queen Tenney some peace and quiet.” He winked at me and threw Aubrey over his shoulder.
“That song had better be about me!” Aubrey shouted as Mason carried her upstairs.
I smiled and let my eyes wander to Aubrey’s drawing. She’d drawn our family: Mom held a whisk and bowl, Dad led Waylon on his leash, Mason banged on a snare drum, Aubrey posed like a ballerina, and I played my guitar.
I put the drawing on the kitchen table for Mom and Dad, and looked out the window at the night sky, starry over our backyard. Waylon sat on the porch, eyelids drooping. Maybe I just need a change of scene, I thought. I grabbed my guitar and journal and headed outside to Waylon’s doghouse. From where I sat in the dark, I could see the kitchen lit from within. Okay, new approach, I thought. Ask questions.
What’s the song about?
Love.
What about it?
Um …
I had no idea what I wanted to say about love. That it was good? That it made me happy? That seemed obvious. I remembered what Portia had told me: A good song is always about something meaningful to you.
Okay, I thought, so this song is about someone I love. But who? I’d never been in love or had my heart broken, but all my favorite songs were about losing something the songwriter loved. I couldn’t think of anything I’d lost besides my favorite hat, and that didn’t seem important enough to write a whole song about. But I couldn’t think of anything else. I was stuck. My heart felt like a crumpled-up piece of paper. I yawned and rubbed my eyes, but I didn’t want to go to sleep without having written at least one good lyric for this song.
Then I heard the low rumble of Mom’s food truck backing into the driveway. Mom parked and got out. I almost called out to her, but then I saw her face; her eyes were puffy and tired and her mouth was drawn into a weary frown. I’d never seen her look so exhausted. Usually, I was asleep when she got home from work. She trudged up the back porch steps, entered the kitchen, and sank into a chair at the table.
Suddenly, a smile warmed her face, and I saw her pick up Aubrey’s drawing. She studied it for a long time, her eyes bright with love.
I took in a sharp breath, realizing that I knew what my song was about. I wrote down a title in my journal: “Reach the Sky.” Exhilarated, I started writing, the words flooding out of me. I wrote down all the things I wanted to tell Mom in that moment. I stopped worrying about writing the perfect song and just let my thoughts flow.
By bedtime, I’d finished a rough draft of the song lyrics. I sang it to myself, softly. It wasn’t perfect, but I loved it. I’d said what I wanted to say. For the first time maybe in forever, I felt like songwriting was what I was born to do.
“When are you going to play me your new song?” Jaya asked the next day at lunch.
“When it’s ready,” I replied. “It still needs work. But maybe you’ll get to hear it at the Jamboree!” Even if “Reach the Sky” wasn’t perfect yet, I thought, it was a solid start.
Jaya wrinkled her nose at me across the lunchroom table and bit into her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Speaking of the Jamboree, have you and Portia figured out what activity you’re doing as a team?”
I shook my head. “Portia didn’t seem too excited about the Jamboree, actually.”
“What is she excited about?” Jaya asked.
“Well, she likes music—” Before I’d even finished my sentence, an idea hit me like a bolt of lightning. I drew in a sharp
breath. “I should ask her to perform a duet with me at the Jamboree!” I blurted. “She plays guitar. I bet she sings, too. How come I didn’t think of that before?”
“I have no idea,” Jaya said, and we both laughed.
After school, we headed to the senior center with Ms. Carter and the rest of the kids on the Jamboree committee. As soon as we arrived, I started looking for Portia. I didn’t see her at first, but I eventually found her tucked into a corner of the small study where I’d played her guitar.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Tenney,” Portia said as I walked up. “What brings you a-calling?”
I hesitated. The last two times I’d visited, Portia hadn’t wanted to talk about the Jamboree. She’d liked hearing my song, though. Maybe if I played her the version with lyrics, she’d like it enough to agree to perform with me at the Jamboree.
“I finished my song,” I said. “Will you listen to it and let me know what you think?”
Interest flickered in Portia’s eyes. She nodded.
My stomach did a nervous wiggle as I picked up her guitar. I hadn’t played the song for anyone yet. I wanted an honest opinion, though, and I had a feeling that Portia wasn’t going to hold back just because I was a kid.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Portia said.
I started playing, keeping my eyes on the guitar. I was worried I’d forget the words if I looked at Portia. By the second verse, though, I was relaxed enough to glance up at her. She was listening carefully, but I couldn’t tell what she thought, even after the song ended.
After a long pause, she finally spoke. “It’s good. Better than good, actually.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling pleased.
“Don’t get too excited; it’s not a home run—yet,” she said. “I have some suggestions if you’re interested.”
She put out her hands, and I gave her the guitar. Then Portia did something incredible: She started playing my song, note for note. I couldn’t believe what a great guitar player she was. She’d only seen me play the melody twice!
“The verse and the chorus are catchy,” she said, breezing through the melody, “but the bridge could be bigger. Maybe something like this?”
She improvised on my bridge, picking up the tempo. “This song has fire,” she said. “You need to bring that out more.”
“You’re really good,” I said. I watched in awe as her fingers danced over the guitar’s frets.
Portia chuckled. When she started playing faster, though, her chord hand jittered. Before I could blink, it shuddered again. The music turned into a muddle. Portia yanked up her hand, clenching it into a tight fist.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said. She laid the guitar in her lap.
“What happened to your hand?” I asked softly.
“Six months ago, I had a stroke,” Portia said. “I’m doing much better now, but the muscles in this hand are still very weak.” She looked at her hands as if she was embarrassed.
“You shouldn’t feel bad,” I said. “You’re still a great guitar player. You just need to practice.”
“I know,” she said.
“Maybe I could come back with my guitar and we could practice together,” I said.
Portia squinted at me for a long while. “Maybe. Okay,” she said finally.
“Um, also, I signed up to perform at the Jamboree,” I told her. “I’m pretty nervous about it.”
“Well, you don’t get better by going around what you’re scared of,” Portia said.
“Maybe I wouldn’t be so nervous if you performed with me …” I said.
“I don’t think so,” Portia said.
“Why not?” I pushed. “You’re a great player, and we need to do something together for the Jamboree. I think it would be fun.”
“No,” Portia snapped.
I shut my mouth and looked at her, unsure what else to say.
Portia’s eyes softened a little. “Sorry,” she said, “but I don’t perform anymore.”
“I thought you don’t get better by going around what you’re scared of,” I replied.
Portia pressed her mouth into a stiff, stubborn line, and shrugged. “What else can we do at the Jamboree?”
“I guess we could work the bake sale table …” I fumbled.
“Fine,” Portia said. And as she gazed out the window, I knew the conversation was over.
That night, I worked on “Reach the Sky.” First, I made up a stronger bridge, as Portia had suggested. Then I polished the lyrics, double-checking every word to make sure it was the one I wanted. The song felt stronger, but I wanted to bounce it off someone whose ear I trusted, and I wasn’t going to see Portia again until later in the week. So I went to the garage to find my brother.
Mason was at his worktable soldering wires. When he saw me, he jumped up, pulling off his safety goggles. “I’m in the middle of something!” he huffed.
“Sor-ry!” I said. “I just need five minutes to play you a song.”
“Oh! Why didn’t you say so?” Mason said, grinning. He tossed a towel over his project and sat back. “Go for it.”
I took a deep breath and started playing. I jumbled a few new words, but I thought I played okay. When I was done, though, Mason stared at me like I had three heads.
“You wrote that?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said defensively. “Why?”
“Tenney, that song’s good enough to be on the radio!” Mason said.
“Really?” I said, my heart soaring.
“Yes!” Mason said. “You need to go play that for Mom and Dad right now. It’s awesome!” He started for the door.
“Wait!” I said. “I don’t want to play it for them yet.”
“Why not?” Mason asked. “Tenney, this song proves you’re a real songwriter.”
Joy flooded into me. I’d been waiting forever to hear someone say that. “Thank you,” I mumbled.
“Don’t thank me, believe me,” Mason said. His eyes were serious.
“I want Mom and Dad to hear the song at the Jamboree, when I’ve really got it down. I just wish I had more opportunities to perform it first,” I said, thinking out loud, “so I could get used to playing solo in front of people. But there’s no way.”
Mason drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking.
“Maybe there is,” he said.
“What do you mean? The Tri-Stars don’t have another show until next month, and we already know that the showcase isn’t happening.”
Mason started to reply, then stopped himself. “I’ll get back to you on that,” he told me.
Mason’s words were a distant memory when Jaya bounced up to my locker a few days later. She seemed way too happy considering how much homework we had for the weekend.
“What are you doing after school?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
I shrugged. “I guess I’ll get a head start on my book report.”
Jaya shook her head. “I have a better idea …”
I wasn’t sure what she was talking about—until we walked out of school and found my brother leaning against Dad’s truck by the front steps.
“You weren’t supposed to pick me up today,” I said, confused.
“I had to,” Mason said with a grin. “It’s a special occasion.”
He pulled down the door of the truck bed. Inside was my guitar case and the broken amplifier that Mason had taken from Dad’s shop. Tenney Grant was splashed across the front of the amp, painted in Jaya’s curvy, unique font, and pretty pink flowers danced along the sides.
I looked from Jaya to Mason, stunned. “I don’t understand,” I said.
“We fixed it up for you!” Jaya said.
“Every great musician needs an amp. How else are people going to hear you when you perform today?” Mason said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Wait—today?” I squeaked.
“Yup!” he replied. “Nashville needs to hear Tenney Grant’s music right now, don’t you think
?”
I gulped. This was happening really fast. Even so, I was more thrilled than afraid. Excitement pulsed through me.
“Yes!” I said at last. It was now or never.
Fifteen minutes later, the three of us were riding down Broadway, the crowded heart of Nashville’s music scene. I pressed my nose to the window. Bright neon signs for Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge and Robert’s Western World blinked as we passed by, and I could hear the echo of live music booming through their open doors. Legendary musicians play these clubs, I thought with a shiver. Even being in the same neighborhood was intimidating. I wondered whether Dad would ever book the Tri-Stars at one of these venues.
My breath caught in my chest as I remembered how my parents said I was too young to perform.
“Mason, you checked with Mom and Dad about doing this, right?” I asked.
“They said it was fine to take you and Jaya downtown,” Mason said without taking his eyes off the road. “Help me look for parking.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling a rush of relief.
We found parking off Commerce Street and got out of the car.
“I’m not sure I should try to play on Broadway,” I said, as Mason unloaded the gear.
“I couldn’t have gotten you a slot at one of these clubs anyway,” Mason admitted, handing me my guitar. “So how about Printers Alley?”
“Yes!” I said. “That’s perfect!”
Downtown Nashville has a bunch of quaint alleys and side streets, and Printers Alley is the most famous one. A hundred years ago it was the booming center of the printing trade in Tennessee. The print shops are long gone, but there’s still a gorgeous old sign reading PRINTERS ALLEY over the entrance. It’s a popular photo spot for tourists.
As we lugged the gear over to Church Street, I started to get nervous.
“Where will we plug in the amp?” I asked. “It’s okay if I have to play without the speaker.” Maybe it’s better if people can’t hear me, I thought to myself.
Mason explained that he had rewired the amp to run on batteries. “It’s portable,” he said proudly. “The mic hooks up to the amp, too.”