by Kellen Hertz
“Don’t worry, Tenney,” said Jaya. “You’ll be loud enough that they’ll hear you all the way up the block!”
“Great,” I said, even though the idea set my heart racing.
We reached Printers Alley and found a cool mural inside the lane where there was space to set up. Mason showed me how to use the amp’s foot pedal to start an electronic backbeat.
“It’s like your drummer,” he said. “It’ll help keep time while you play. You ready?” He plugged in my guitar’s pickup and then switched on the amp and the microphone.
I nodded, but I didn’t know how to start. Standing awkwardly on the edge of the sidewalk, I felt invisible. People hurried past me, paying no attention to me and my guitar.
What if no one stops to listen to me? I thought. Or what if they do—and they hate my song? My stomach shrank into a worried ball. I put my fingers on the guitar strings, but my hands were trembling.
“I’m Tenney Grant,” I tried to say, but all that came out was a dry choke. I may not have been on a real stage, but I had big-time stage fright.
I looked over. Mason’s and Jaya’s faces were creased with concern.
Pull yourself together, I told myself. I took a deep breath to shake off my nerves. It didn’t help. I stood there, frozen.
Finally, Mason came over. He switched off the microphone.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” I said miserably. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Tenney, if you want to be a singer, you have to sing,” Mason said gently.
“I don’t know how to start,” I said, my voice small.
“You want some help?” Mason asked.
I nodded, moving back from the mic.
Mason stepped forward. “As soon as I finish,” he murmured to me, “you start in with ‘Carolina Highway.’ You know that song forward and backward, so it should feel really natural.”
“Okay,” I said, wiping my palms on my jeans.
“Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention, please!” Mason shouted, spreading his arms like an old-time announcer. All he needed was a tuxedo. “Y’all ready to hear some great music? Are you?” he said to a passing couple.
They laughed and slowed down.
“Well, you’re in luck!” Mason continued. “Because I’m offering you front-row seats to see one of the most talented twelve-year-olds in the country! So stop right here but step on back, because Tenney Grant is about to ROCK. THIS. STREET!”
He slid sideways, and I pushed up to the mic, diving into the intro for “Carolina Highway.” As my hands flew, I laughed, giving in to the joy of playing fast. Right as the lyrics were about to kick in, I closed my eyes. It helped me focus. I could listen to my voice and control my breathing better.
“This Carolina highway’s full of dead ends and byways,” I sang. “This Carolina highway’s awfully dark.”
By the middle of the song, I felt relaxed enough to open my eyes. My audience had grown to around a dozen people! Seeing them gave me a jolt of energy.
I put everything I had into the rest of the song. When I finished, the crowd broke into applause. I blushed and gave a little curtsy. When I looked up, I spotted our next-door neighbor Ms. Pavone across the street. She gave me a big thumbs-up, adjusted her enormous purple glasses, and turned to continue up the street.
I grinned and started talking before I could get nervous again. “This next song is a brand-new one. It’s called ‘Reach the Sky,’” I said.
This time, I forced myself to look at the crowd as I strummed the first chords. I imagined Mom in the front row, watching me. The crowd smiled back at me, tapping their feet and swaying in time to my song. It felt like a dream.
“I am planted in the ground, tiny like a seed,” I sang. “Someday I will make you proud. I’ll be steady like a tree.”
I finished the first verse, then the second. With each line, I told Mom that I loved her in my mind. And then, all at once, the song was over and the crowd cheered. I felt a wave of joy wash over me. I never wanted this moment to end.
Mason and Jaya couldn’t stop raving about my performance on the way home.
“You were on fire, Tenney!” said Jaya.
Mason agreed. “That was your best performance ever!”
I beamed. I felt like a floating balloon, buoyed by happiness. “That was so amazing!” I said. “I can’t wait to tell Mom and Dad how it went!”
Suddenly, Mason’s smile disappeared and he grew quiet. I knew something was wrong. “The thing is, Tenney … they kind of didn’t know you were performing,” he admitted.
“What?!” Jaya and I said at once.
Joy melted into worry in my stomach.
“But you told me Mom and Dad said it was okay!” I huffed, throwing an outraged glare at Mason.
“No, I said that we had permission to go downtown,” Mason corrected me. “There’s no way they would have let you perform if I’d asked; they’re way too protective.”
“How could you not tell me?” I protested.
“Because you never would have performed, and you needed to,” said Mason. “Besides, Mom and Dad don’t ever have to find out about this.”
I gulped when an image of big purple glasses flashed in my head. “Actually …”
Mason looked at me. “What?”
I told him about seeing Ms. Pavone during my performance. “Mason, we have to tell them.”
My brother gritted his teeth. “Fine. But if Mom and Dad are upset about you performing, that’s their problem, not yours.”
I frowned. I wasn’t so sure Mason was right. But I was sure of one thing: If my parents found out about Printers Alley from Ms. Pavone—and not from us—they’d never let me perform again.
“Tenney, aren’t you hungry?” Mom said, wrinkling her brow at me from across the kitchen table at dinner.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, taking a bite of chili. But I didn’t really have an appetite. My head was swimming with worry. I want to have a music career, I thought. But I’ll never get to be a real musician if I don’t get to perform more. I need Mom and Dad’s support. I need to tell them how I’m feeling—without getting Mason in trouble.
“Mom, Dad,” I said at last, “I’d like permission to perform more.”
Maybe if I get their permission now, I thought, they won’t mind that I already performed today.
Mom and Dad exchanged a look.
“You’re playing the Jamboree in a few weeks,” Mom pointed out.
“And the Tri-Stars have a gig at the library fund-raiser next month,” Dad added, reaching for another roll. “We’ll need you to keep singing lead on a couple of songs, and we can start rehearsing them that way this weekend.” He gave me a wink.
“That’s great, Dad, thanks,” I said. “But I want to try to play more solo shows.”
Before my parents could say no, I rushed on. “Look, I love performing, and I’ve been working on my songs,” I said. “I know you guys don’t want me to play the Mockingbird Records showcase, but even if I don’t, I still want to perform more, at real shows.”
“Honey, we’ve been over this,” Mom said firmly. “You’re too young, and that’s the way it is.”
“Yeah,” Aubrey said.
“Aubrey, don’t pile on,” Mom said, giving her a gentle warning glance.
My whole chest throbbed with anger and hurt, but I tried to stay calm. I turned to my brother, silently pleading with him to back me up.
Mason cleared his throat. “You guys should hear Tenney’s new song. It’s fantastic. Good enough to record!”
Mom took a bite of salad and nodded.
“I’m not kidding,” Mason said to her.
“I know you’re not,” Mom said.
Mom reached over and put her hand on mine. “Tenney, I know you want to be a singer-songwriter, but—”
“No, Mom, I am a singer-songwriter!” I said sharply. “When I performed my song today, people loved it!”
Mom blinked abo
ut five hundred times in one second. “W-wait. Today? Where did you perform?” she asked.
I hesitated. Mason was begging me with his eyes not to say anything, but I had to be honest.
“Printers Alley,” I said. “But Mason and Jaya were with me the whole time. We were totally safe!”
Dad’s face went beet red. Mason looked like he wanted to crawl under the table.
“I was good. You can ask Mason and Jaya,” I insisted, plunging into my argument. “I know you want me to wait until I’m older, but I’m good at this right now. And I want to get better! But I can’t do that if I don’t perform.”
“We’ve heard enough,” Dad said.
“You both knew you needed permission before doing any sort of performance,” Mom said. “Therefore, you’re both grounded until further notice.”
“Don’t punish Tenney,” Mason said. “She thought we had permission.”
“She should have known better,” Dad said.
I stared at my glass, trying not to cry. It didn’t work. I rushed out of the kitchen, hot tears stinging my eyes. As I ran upstairs, I couldn’t escape this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that my life was over.
As soon as I got to my room, I curled on my bed and cried. Fat drops of disappointment slipped down my cheeks. I wiped them away. I hate crying, even if it does make me feel better sometimes.
I picked up the jar full of guitar picks from my nightstand. I began collecting picks after my first guitar lesson at Dad’s shop. For a while, everyone in my family was adding to my collection whenever they found one. I had picks from music stores and guitar makers, and ones advertising artists and records. Usually, looking at them reminded me of how many people music touches. Right now, though, they just made me sad. So did the framed 78 rpm record of “Hound Dog” over my bed that Mom gave me for my eighth birthday.
Why did my parents teach me to play music if they weren’t going to let me perform? I wondered. I sat up and wiped the tears from my cheeks. Don’t just feel bad, I told myself. Do something.
I scrambled to the end of my bed and hauled up my beater guitar. I wrapped myself around it and picked out a melody that was sad and angry and dramatic, everything I was feeling at that moment. As I played, I felt my emotions flowing into the guitar, as if the music was expressing all the things I couldn’t say. I’d been playing for a few minutes when Aubrey opened the door. She glared at me and crossed the room to her dresser.
“Mom and Dad are fighting, so good job,” she said, pulling out her pajamas.
I didn’t say anything. Through the floor, I could hear the muffled sound of my parents’ angry voices downstairs.
“You shouldn’t have lied to them,” Aubrey said.
“I didn’t lie,” I replied hotly. My mouth trembled, like I could cry again. “I was honest. I just want a chance to perform my music.”
I rubbed my face to stop the tears. When I looked back, Aubrey’s eyes were lowered to the floor, and I could tell that she felt bad for making me cry.
“If it were up to me, I would let you play,” she said. “Your songs are really good.”
“Thanks,” I said hopelessly.
Aubrey hugged me and got into her bed.
There was no way I could sleep right now, so I took my guitar and left, shutting off the light as I went.
As I tiptoed downstairs, I could hear my parents talking in the family room, their voices much calmer than they had been a half hour ago.
Mom sighed. “Ray, you know what the music business can do to people.”
“Tenney has us to protect her, Georgia,” Dad said. “We can guide her and support her—and if we have to, we can say no down the line. All I’m saying is maybe our decision is too extreme. Playing the showcase doesn’t mean she has to chase a professional career.”
Part of me wanted to keep eavesdropping, but I didn’t want my parents to catch me. I slipped through the kitchen and quietly stepped out the porch door. Waylon ambled over as I sat down on the porch steps and looked out at the yard, trying to leave this miserable day behind. The night was cool and quiet. I watched a glimmering dragonfly flitting over the grass.
I shifted my guitar to my knees. Resting my fingers on the strings, I replayed the song I’d started in my room, this time a bit slower and softer.
“La-la-la-la,” I sang. “Laa-la-la.”
Behind me, the door whispered open. I stopped playing and looked over my shoulder. Mom was watching me from the doorway.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I was just fooling around with an idea.”
Mom sat down by me and scratched Waylon behind his ears. “Will you play me something?” she asked.
I hesitated. I still felt very hurt, but I wanted to play for her so badly. I took a deep breath and started “Reach the Sky.” Halfway through the intro, I looked over at Mom. She was watching me intently with a gentle smile. A wave of shyness hit me. I looked into the yard, at the green grass and the dancing dragonfly, and started singing.
I am planted in the ground
Tiny like a seed
Someday I will make you proud
I’ll be steady like a tree
Will you teach me how to grow?
Gonna be myself, nobody else
Gonna reach the sky if I only try
I admit that I am young
Tucked beneath your wings
But someday I’ll be on my own
Wild and flying free
Will you teach me how to sing?
Gonna be myself, nobody else
Gonna reach the sky if I only try
I sent the song into the cool night air, feeling every word. I stumbled twice on the tough part of the bridge, but I kept going.
I know you wanna keep me
Safe away at home
But I’ve got my own dreams
And I can’t tell them no
Gonna be myself, nobody else
Gonna reach the sky if I only try
I didn’t look at Mom until I finished. Her eyes were wet with tears.
“Why are you sad?” I said, alarmed.
“I’m not sad—I’m proud of you,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Your song is fantastic, Tenney. I can tell it’s really meaningful to you.”
I almost told Mom that she inspired the song, but I didn’t want her to think that was why I’d sung it. I did want her to know how I felt, though.
“I know you and Dad are trying to do what’s best for me,” I told her, “but I can’t help what I feel. I want to perform more than anything else in the world.”
Mom nodded and thought for a long while.
“Honey, a music career takes time and sacrifice, and nothing’s fair about the business,” she said. “A lot of pain in my life has come from that fact.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Tell me what happened.”
Mom’s jaw flexed. I could tell she was wrestling with how to say what she needed to tell me.
“My momma had really high hopes for me when I was your age,” she said finally. “She was convinced I was going to be a big star, and she wanted that more than anything.”
“And you didn’t want that?” I said.
Mom gave me a bittersweet smile. “I was like you. I wanted to write songs and share them with people who loved music as much as I did,” she said. “But my mom wanted more for me. So she pushed me really hard. She took me to see some producers when I turned sixteen, and this producer wanted to sign me. He paid us a few thousand dollars to record a single.”
“Your demo?”
“Yes,” Mom replied, “except when we got in the studio, the song I was supposed to record wasn’t mine, it was some other song that I didn’t like. It wasn’t me.”
“Oh,” I said.
“My momma urged me to cut the demo. So I did it,” said Mom. “But afterward, I asked the producer about my songs. He said we’d have to wait on those—and in the meantime, I�
��d need to dye my hair blonde, lose ten pounds, and start wearing high heels.”
I frowned, confused. “What does any of that have to do with music?”
Mom let out a laugh. “That’s what I said!” she replied. “It turned out that for the producer, the music business was more about the business than the music. In other words, he just wanted to make money off me, and he thought he’d make more money if I changed who I was.”
“So what did you do?” I asked.
“I dyed my hair for about five minutes,” Mom said. “It looked pretty bad, but it helped me decide I’d rather be true to myself. Good thing, too, because the producer decided I wasn’t ‘star material’ after all. That was fine by me, but when I asked for my songs back, he said that the label owned them now.”
I gasped.
“Was that true?” I asked.
Mom nodded. “Momma gave him the rights in the contract she signed,” she said. “Then it got worse. After I left, I wrote more songs and I got some meetings with other record labels. They all knew who I was. I found out the producer was telling people I was hard to work with, so they didn’t want to sign me.”
I shook my head. “That’s so unfair! How could he even get away with that?”
“I’m not sure he could today,” Mom said, “but he was a powerful guy back then.”
I squeezed Mom’s hand. For the first time, I understood why she had been so worried about me starting in the music business. “I’m really sorry that happened to you,” I said.
Mom put an arm around me. “It was years ago, but it took me a long while to get over it. And of course, I don’t want something like that to ever happen to you or your music,” she said. “At the same time, I see how talented you are. And it’s clear that the older you get, the more you love music.
“I know you have been working so hard on your music even though we told you that you couldn’t play the showcase.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I’ve thought about it a lot, and it seems unfair to stand in your way just because I’m afraid that you might face disappointment or pain in a music career. If I keep you from doing what you love, you’ll blame me—and you’ll be right,” Mom continued. “Your dad also reminded me that we can help make sure you and your music are more protected than I was.”