“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.
© 2015 American Girl. All rights reserved. All American Girl marks, Grace™, Grace Thomas™, and Girl of the Year™, Tenney™, and Tenney Grant™ 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 Sarah Davis
Author photo credit: James Hanson
Excerpt from Tenney by Kellen Hertz. © 2017 American Girl
Tenney cover illustrations by Juliana Kolesova
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
First printing 2015
e-ISBN 978-1-338-19716-7
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
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