Chrissa Stands Strong

by Mary Casanova

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 yet, 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?”

  “Okay,” I said. “But we only rehearsed three songs.”

  Mom raised an eyebrow. As the former lead singer of the Tri-Stars, she knew that being in a band is always full of drama. “What happened?” she asked.

  “Jesse happened,” said Mason.

  “We sounded good, though,” Dad chimed in. Aubrey cartwheeled over to us, her sparkly tutu bouncing as she landed with a thud on the grass. “When do I get to play with the Tri-Stars?” she asked.

  “Soon, baby,” Dad said.

  Aubrey pouted. Everyone in my family plays an instrument, but Dad is the one who decides when we’re ready to perform with the band. Dad plays anything with strings. Mom sings and plays Autoharp, Mason plays mandolin and drums, and Aubrey’s learning accordion. I’ve played guitar since I was four, and I started banjo last year. Dad always says that as members of the Grant family, we have music in our bones.

  Mom rubbed Aubrey’s shoulder. “Just keep practicing. Nobody ever won a Country Music Award by doing cartwheels onstage.” She checked her watch and nodded at my guitar case. “Better get that inside, Tenney. We’re wheels up in ten minutes,” she said. “We need to be set up by six o’clock.”

  We were about to take the truck downtown to sell Mom’s food at Centennial Park. Aubrey’s favorite singer, Belle Starr, would be performing an outdoor concert there. I wasn’t a huge fan, but I’d never turn down a chance to hear live music.

  I ran into our family room with its red patchwork rug, jumble of antique furniture, and musical instruments everywhere. I set my guitar next to a couple of Dad’s and raced upstairs to the bedroom I share with Aubrey. You can definitely tell whose side is whose. Aubrey’s half looks like a glitter factory exploded. My side’s less shimmery, and decorated with all things music. I’ve adorned the wall over my bed with old photos of Patsy Cline, Joan Baez, and Johnny Cash, and a framed 78 rpm record of one of my favorite songs, Elvis Presley singing “Hound Dog.” My guitar pick collection sits in a glass jar on my nightstand.

  As I sat down to change shoes, I saw my most prized possession: my songwriting journal. The cover was decorated with rosebuds and blooms, and I’d covered its pages with lyrics, song ideas, and doodles. With my new melody still stuck in my head, I was tempted to crack open the journal to work out some lyrics. Before I could, though, Mom honked from the driveway. I hopped up with a sigh. Writing my song would have to wait.

  © 2009 American Girl. All rights reserved. All American Girl marks, Chrissa™, Chrissa Maxwell™, Sonali™, Gwen™, Tenney™, Tenney Grant™, and Girl of the Year™ are trademarks of American Girl. Used under license by Scholastic Inc.

  Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by American Girl or Scholastic Inc.

  Illustrations by Richard Jones

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

  Excerpt from Tenney by Kellen Hertz. © 2017 American Girl.

  Tenney cover illustrations by Juliana Kolesova.

  First printing 2009

  e-ISBN 978-1-338-19736-5

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012