by Laurence Yep
“Thank you,” the coach said cautiously. “That means a lot.”
He whipped out a small notebook. “Now, I jotted down some ideas for Vanessa’s next routine.”
“Dad-dee,” Vanessa said, grabbing his arm, “that can wait. Let me enjoy today at least.”
“You’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot, kitten,” her father objected. But with a nod, Mrs. Knowles seized his other arm, and she and Vanessa dragged him toward the exit—with him protesting all the way.
By then, some other coaches and parents had come over to Coach Schubert, and with a wave, Anya and I left her to this other part of her job and went on to find our families and friends. After we had hugged everyone, I got down to the business of grilling Dad and my brothers. “Where were you guys? What took you so long to get here?”
Dad pointed over his head toward a skybox. “Oh, we were here. Just up yonder.”
“You should have been there, Sis,” Rick bubbled. “Chairs so plush, they swallowed you up like quicksand.”
“And the fridge was stocked with every kind of soda,” Skip added.
“And snacks,” Perry said, smacking his lips. I was sure he’d made a serious dent in them.
“I called in a few favors from my buddies here,” Bob said.
“Well, it was great being up there,” Dad said to him, “so thanks.”
“But,” Rick added, “when we realized you couldn’t hear us cheering, we made the ultimate sacrifice. We left all that comfort and came down here to mix with the peasants.”
“It really made a big difference to me,” I said, “so thanks for doing that.”
“We thought it would,” Nelda said. She circled me, inspecting the dress critically. “I think I’m going to call this the Mia Special. You did Zuzu proud.”
“You did us proud, Sis,” Skip said, grabbing my shoulders. The next moment, Dad and my brothers had hoisted me into the air.
“Three cheers for Mia!” Rick called out. “Bravo!”
Heads started to turn as my friends and family cheered, raising me high above them with each cheer. When that was finished and I’d been set back on my feet, I glimpsed shy Anya trying to sneak away.
“And three cheers for Anya!” I said, grabbing her arm.
She turned red as a beet. “Please don’t make me,” Anya begged.
“Sorry,” I said, “but this is the price of success in my family.” I dragged her toward her fans and her fate. “People may not remember our skating, but they’ll certainly remember our celebrations.”
“Folks’re going to remember a lot of things about you, girls,” Dad predicted. “This is only the start of a big future for the both of you.”
If Dad’s prophecy comes true, I will owe it all to my family and my friends.
And then I was helping my brothers lift Anya into the air as I joined everyone in cheering for her at the top of my lungs.
Meet the Author
Laurence Yep has published more than sixty books, and recently he won the Laura Ingalls Wilder medal for his contribution to children’s literature. He has been a fan of figure skating since childhood, when he went to see mummies in a museum connected to a skating rink. He wound up watching the figure skaters instead. He is very proud of his official Kristi Yamaguchi bobblehead doll.
Real Girls, Real Letters
American Girl receives hundreds of letters a week from girls asking for help. Here are some real letters from real girls who are learning to develop their talents—and to compete in healthy ways.
To: American Girl
From: Bad Sport
Subject: Good Sportsmanship
Dear American Girl,
I was in a track program with my friend last year. I beat her in every race. This year, she is beating me in every race. I know I should congratulate her, but I just can’t! Instead I get mad.
Instead of measuring yourself against others, use your competitive energy to set personal goals, such as beating your own best time, and try to reach those. Being a good athlete isn’t just about winning; it’s also about being a good sport and a supportive teammate. If you’re disappointed in your time, take a minute and cool off in private. Then challenge yourself to congratulate your friend the way you’d like to be congratulated. Remember—if you’re giving it your all and accepting your times with confidence and grace, then you’re a winner—no matter what the stopwatch says.
Following Your Heart
Dear American Girl,
I’m in a sport that most girls aren’t in, and I’m afraid that people won’t like me for this.
–Karate Girl
If someone doesn’t like you because you do karate, then he or she is not a good friend. If karate is right for you—you enjoy it, you’re growing stronger and healthier because of it, and you’re working with others who also enjoy it—then just go for it. Although it can be hard to follow a path that’s a bit different, you are not alone—there are other girls and women who excel at karate! When you meet other girls in your classes or at competitions, make a point of getting to know them. But enjoy your friendships with the boys you train with, too. Common interests can create strong friendships!
Behind the Scenes
Dear American Girl,
My two best friends and I tried out for a play. They both got parts and I didn’t. I feel so left out when they talk about rehearsals at school. I don’t know what to say.
–Bad Actress
Feeling “out of the loop” is hard, but being onstage isn’t the only way to be part of a play. Talk to the director about helping with lighting, scenery, costumes, or makeup. Be as supportive as possible to your friends, but don’t be afraid to sometimes say, “Hey, can we change the subject?” if the play is becoming the only topic of conversation. And take heart; the play will be over soon enough. Your friendships, however, could last a lifetime.
Competition
Dear American Girl,
There is a new boy in my class and he’s really good at drawing. I used to be the artist of the class, but nobody likes my drawings anymore.
–Jealous
Just because this boy is good at art doesn’t mean that you aren’t, too. Competition can be rough, but it can also inspire you to improve, so don’t get discouraged. Keep working on your art and developing your own style. Focus less on your classmates’ comments and more on feeling good about your own growth as an artist.
Oh, Brothers!
Dear American Girl,
I have a huge problem. I’m the only girl in a family of boys! I have no one to play with. I’m tired of watching TV. What should I do?
–No one 2 play with
Just because they’re boys doesn’t mean you can’t play with your brothers. You know that girls can do anything that boys can, so instead of sitting on the sidelines, join in! Or better yet, invite them to join you in an outdoor game. Stop thinking of activities as “for boys” or “for girls,” and you’ll have more fun. And so will your brothers!
To: American Girl
From: Worst Player
Subject: Stay or go?
Dear American Girl,
I am in basketball, but I’m no good. Should I quit, or stay?
There are many roles on a team, and being the most skilled player is only one of them. Before you quit, ask yourself a few questions: What drew you to basketball in the first place? Are your skills getting better, even if you’re not the best player? What else do you bring to the team—are you the heart or spirit of the team, and do you offer your teammates much-needed support? Is your body stronger and healthier because you play? Are you learning to work as part of a group? And most important of all—is it fun? If you answered yes to some of these questions, stay on the team.
My left hand shifted down the neck of my guitar, fingers pressing into the frets to form chords, while my right hand sailed over the strings with my favorite pick. I knew every note of “April Springs.” I didn’t have to look at my sheet music or think about how to play the
song. I just let go and played, feeling the music as if it was flowing out of my heart.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Dad waving me down from a few feet away.
Startled, I clamped my hand over my guitar’s neck, muting its sound mid-chord. It took me a moment to realize I didn’t hear the buzzy twang of Dad’s bass guitar. I glanced around. The rest of our band wasn’t playing, either.
“Sorry,” I said, feeling my cheeks turn hot pink.
“No worries,” Dad said, winking. “I know you love that one. And you were singing with so much heart that it nearly broke mine to stop you.”
I blushed. When I play a song I love, it’s easy for me to get swept up and forget about everything but the music. “April Springs” has a slow, sad melody that fills me with warmth every time we rehearse it. And when I sing its romantic lyrics, I can’t help daydreaming about what the songwriter must have been feeling when she composed them.
“That transition out of the chorus still sounds a bit rocky,” Dad said to the band. “Let’s try it again.”
Our lead singer, Jesse, wrinkled her nose at him. “Come on, Ray. This is the fifth time we’ve gone over the chorus. Let’s just move on to the next song.”
My seventeen-year-old brother, Mason, rolled his eyes from behind his drum kit. Mason isn’t Jesse’s biggest fan. He thinks she’s stuck-up because she never helps unpack gear at our shows. Also, she only drinks bottled water from France, even though the tap water is perfectly fine here in Nashville, Tennessee. Despite all that, I couldn’t help but admire her. Jesse definitely had what it took to be a lead singer for a band. She had a great voice, she loved performing, and she was happiest when she was the center of attention. Every time I watched her perform I wondered: Could that be me someday?
“Let’s try the chorus once more,” Dad replied calmly. “We haven’t practiced in ages. And with our next show around the corner, I want to make sure we have this down.”
Jesse pouted, but she knew she couldn’t say no because the Tri-Stars were Dad’s band.
The Tri-Stars used to be a family band. But when Mom quit to start her own food truck business, Dad invited Jesse to join us as the lead singer. I wish we got to perform at the big stages around Nashville, like the Ryman Auditorium or the Grand Ole Opry, but we mostly just play weekend gigs around our neighborhood. Even so, we have a few fans—that is, if you count my little sister and my best friend.
Jesse sighed. “Let’s get on with it, then.” She counted off, and the four of us launched into “April Springs” again.
“Last April the rains came down,” sang Jesse, “and washed away your love.”
Dad and I joined in, harmonizing on the next lines. “Last April the rains came down, and washed away my pride. When I lost your heart in that rainstorm, I think I nearly died.”
Jesse pushed her microphone away and looked over her shoulder at me.
“Tennyson, your vocals need to blend more,” she hissed.
Jesse always uses my full name when she bosses me around. Usually I like having a unique name, but the way Jesse says it always makes my temper rise into my throat.
“I’m doing my best,” I said to her.
I like singing harmony, but when I’m singing low notes, my voice loses some of its smoothness and gets a grainy edge. Mom says that’s what makes my voice unique. When you’re singing backup, though, you’re not supposed to sound unique; you’re supposed to sound invisible.
“It’s boiling in here,” Jesse said curtly. “I need a break.” Without waiting for my dad’s reaction, she stepped off the edge of the stage and slipped out the front door.
Dad frowned. “I’ll go turn up the AC,” he said, heading to the storeroom at the back of the shop where we rehearse.
I sighed. We never seemed to be able to get through an entire rehearsal without Jesse getting upset—and this time it was my fault.
Mason slung an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t let Jesse get to you,” he said. “She’s not happy unless she’s complaining about something. I thought you sounded great. Didn’t she, Waylon?”
Waylon, our golden retriever, perked up. He’s named after one of Dad’s favorite singers, the “outlaw” Waylon Jennings, and he definitely lived up to the name when he was a puppy. He always used to break the rules, like escaping from the backyard and chewing up our shoes.
“Maybe the Tri-Stars should try playing some of your songs,” Mason suggested, nudging me with his drumstick. “Remember that one you wrote about Waylon? Oh, Waylon. Wayyy-lon! He’s a real sweet pooch… ” he crooned.
I sang the next line. “Long as you make sure he’s not on the loose… ”
“Wayyy-lon,” we harmonized. Waylon howled along.
I laughed. “I don’t think those lyrics are ready for an audience yet.”
“C’mon, it’s a good song!” Mason said.
“It’s just okay,” I said.
I’m twelve now, but I’ve been writing songs since I was ten. “Waylon’s Song” was the first one I ever shared with my family. I was really proud of it back then. Now, though, the words seemed sort of cheesy.
“I’ve gotten better since I wrote that one,” I said.
“Yeah?” Mason said. “You should play me something.”
I hesitated. I’d been working on a few songs lately, but none of them were quite ready for anyone’s ears but mine.
“I need to finish some lyrics first,” I said.
“Suit yourself. Want to help me catch up on inventory while we wait for Jesse?”
We always hold Tri-Star rehearsals at my dad’s music shop, Grant’s Music and Collectibles. My parents have owned the store since I was little, so for me, it’s the next best thing to home. Mason and I don’t officially work there, but we all help out when we can.
I followed Mason into the storeroom. It’s packed with shipping boxes and instruments that need repairing. Dad was at his desk, writing Trash on a piece of paper that he had taped to a sagging black amplifier.
“Wow!” Mason said. “Is that a Skyrocket 3000?”
Dad nodded. “A guy dropped it off for recycling yesterday. Apparently it’s broken.”
“No way,” said Mason.
“You want it?” Dad asked.
Mason nodded eagerly, his eyes so wide that you’d think he’d just won a free car. My brother loves rewiring musical gear. Our garage is full of half-fixed amplifiers and soundboards that he’s determined to repair.
“Great, we’ll bring it home to the workshop after rehearsal,” Dad said.
Mason craned his neck to peek out the window. “I’m not sure we’re getting back to rehearsal any time soon,” he said. “Jesse’s still on the phone.”
I groaned.
Dad gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “Tenney, I know you’re excited to practice, but Jesse’s got a lot of solo shows coming up and she’s a little stressed out. So let’s just give her another few minutes here.”
I knew Jesse was busy, but it was hard to be patient. I’d been looking forward to band rehearsal all week. If I could, I’d play music every waking minute.
“Fine,” I said after a moment. “I’ll go work on some of my own songs.”
“Good idea,” Dad said, ruffling my hair.
I ducked out of the storeroom and returned to the small stage at the front of the store. Dad lets customers use the stage to test out microphones, amplifiers, and instruments, and it doubles as the Tri-Stars’ rehearsal space. I slung my guitar over my shoulder and adjusted Jesse’s microphone to my height, looking out at the empty store. Waylon was curled up by the vintage cash register, watching me. For a moment, I imagined myself on a real stage, in front of thousands of people, about to perform a song I’d written.
“This next one goes out to Waylon,” I said into the microphone.
I picked out the chords of the tune I’d been working on. Melody comes easy to me, but it takes me a long time to find the right lyrics to match. I hadn’t figured out words to this song ye
t, so I just hummed the melody while I played. As the song’s energy rose and washed over me, I filled the empty room with music.
The song ended and I opened my eyes. Waylon was asleep, which made me laugh. Jesse was still on the phone outside. Everything looked the same, but somehow I felt stronger inside. Playing music always made me feel like that. But performing my own songs for people, letting them feel what I felt through the music—that was my biggest dream.
Jesse came through the door and tucked her cell phone into her pocket. “Okay,” she said. “Go get your dad and brother, and let’s get this rehearsal over with.”
I snarled and let my fingers ripple down my guitar’s six strings, sending up a wave of notes. Jesse doesn’t know how good she has it singing lead, I thought. I hopped off the stage and headed toward the storeroom. Maybe I should ask Dad to let me perform one of my songs with the Tri-Stars, I thought. But I knew that he’d only agree if he thought the song was great. And that meant not playing it for him until I was sure it was ready.
We wrapped up rehearsal and drove home. When we pulled up, my seven-year-old sister, Aubrey, welcomed us by doing cartwheels on the lawn in front of Mom’s food truck. I love Mom’s truck. It has shiny silver bumpers and it’s painted robin’s-egg blue. Georgia’s Genuine Tennessee Hot Chicken is painted in scrolling tomato-red letters along the side.
Mom appeared from the open garage, her carrot-colored hair twisted up under a bandanna, and her freckly arms moving fast as she loaded food bins into the truck’s tiny kitchen. She reminded me of a hummingbird: always in motion and stronger than she looks.
“Finally!” Mom said, as we hopped out of Dad’s pickup truck. “We were starting to get worried about y’all. How was rehearsal?”
