by Kellen Hertz
“Okay, let’s get going,” Zane said. “Tenney, play your song the way you originally wrote it. Keep it simple. Logan, you listen, think about how you could back her, and if you feel like you can join in, bring the tempo up, and give it an edge.”
Logan nodded, twirling his drumsticks in both hands like he was showing off. It was really annoying.
Zane glanced at me. Taking a deep breath, I started my song. I played slowly, trying to draw attention to the beauty of the melody. Listen, I tried to say through the music, this song doesn’t need to be faster. It’s perfect how it is. Listen.
I’d barely finished the first verse when Logan’s voice broke into the song.
“It’s pretty sleepy,” he said.
I paused, annoyance prickling down my back.
“Sleepy?” I repeated.
Logan nodded, giving a yawn the size of Texas.
“You haven’t even heard the whole song yet,” I said sharply.
Logan shrugged. “I can tell where it’s going,” he said. The fact that he was so casual made me even more frustrated.
Before I could figure out a snappy comeback, though, Portia stood up. “We should leave you two alone,” she said.
I felt panicked, like a fish caught in a net. “What? Why?” I burst out.
“So you can work it out together,” Portia replied. “We’re just going into the control booth. We’ll watch from there.”
Zane nodded. “We’ll be able to hear and see everything. We’ll chime in if we have suggestions, but I want the two of you to work on the song like we’re not here, okay?”
“No problem,” Logan said, stretching behind his cymbal stands.
This was not how I thought things were going to go. Still, I didn’t want Logan to see that I was rattled.
“That’s fine,” I said, holding my chin up.
“Great,” Portia said, squeezing my shoulder.
She and Zane exited through a side door. After a moment, they appeared in an upper window that looked into the rehearsal room.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Zane said, through the intercom.
“I’ll set the beat, and you follow,” Logan told me. Before I could reply, he launched into a brisk rock tempo.
“C’mon!” he shouted over the drums.
I felt like rolling my eyes, but my parents raised me better than that. Instead, I dug my fingers into my guitar frets, counted off a couple of measures in my head, and started playing. The beat was fast, but manageable. I can do this, I thought, relaxing.
Big mistake. As I exhaled, Logan changed the beat. Suddenly, he was playing triplets! It sounded like a runaway train. My fingers stuttered to an off-tempo halt.
“Why’d you stop?” Logan asked.
“You changed the beat,” I shot back.
“I was experimenting,” he told me, as if I was in preschool. “That’s what you do when you jam.”
“I know,” I said, irritated, “but where I come from, you let people know before you change the beat.”
“You need to roll with it,” Logan said. “My dad taught me that when things change, you just keep going.”
I felt like I had swallowed a flaming-hot pepper of fury, but I fought the urge to explode.
“A triplet beat confuses the melody,” I said in a tight voice. “Can you play something else, please?”
Logan blinked at me for what felt like forever. “Whatever you want,” he said finally.
“Good,” I said. I turned my back to him and started over.
This time, Logan kept pace with me for the first verse and the chorus. As soon as I hit the second verse, though, he started adding cymbal hits. I kept going, ignoring him and his cymbal crashes. It worked okay for a while, and I even improvised some new lyrics:
It was only going to be her and me
And then you came in with your thoughts
Planning everything so perfectly
Giving your best shot
But when we started the second chorus, Logan’s backbeat was suddenly all wrong. He was out of time with my singing, and he didn’t even try to adjust! We sounded horrible.
For a heartbeat, I thought about matching Logan’s tempo. Then stubbornness knotted my jaw. No way, I thought. He should match me.
We slogged through the rest of the song. When it was over, I looked at Zane and Portia in the sound booth window. They were frowning.
“Guys, playing together means listening to each other,” Zane said through the intercom. “That was a mess.”
“Well, Logan wasn’t listening to me!” I protested.
“No! You didn’t adjust to me!” Logan shouted over me.
“You’re both right, and you’re both wrong,” Portia said calmly. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
I gritted my teeth and stared down at my guitar. “We need to work together and listen,” I grumbled.
“Good idea. Do that,” said Portia.
I glared at Logan. His cheeks were bright pink, but his eyes were serious. When I started the song over, Logan fell into a beat that matched my tempo.
At the end of the first verse, he picked up the beat slightly. I followed him, and when he added some heat to the chorus, so did I. For a measure or two, we sounded okay.
Then Logan started pounding on the drums.
Annoyance burned inside me, but I adjusted, singing louder to make sure I could be heard over him. We stumbled on, sounding like we were driving over a bumpy road until the song ended. When we finished, there was silence.
“Okay, guys.” Zane sighed through the intercom. “Come up here.”
I let myself breathe as Logan and I made our way up to the booth. Logan had made a total mess of my song. There was no way Zane would still want us to perform together after that. He had to see that teaming us up was a bad idea.
But the moment we walked in, Zane clapped us both on the back.
“Great start!” he said to us.
Logan looked at Zane as if he’d just sprouted a purple polka-dotted beard.
“Really?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.
“Yep!” Zane said, flashing a broad grin.
“Don’t look so shocked,” Portia added dryly. “By the end of that round, the two of you sounded great together.”
I thought they both needed their hearing examined, but I knew better than to say that.
“Tenney, you look like you disagree,” Zane said, tilting his head.
“I just like the song better the way it was,” I admitted.
“I don’t,” Portia said matter-of-factly. “Logan, the last beat you used was exactly what the song needs.”
I gripped my guitar, trying to stay calm. I thought Portia was on my side!
“I guess I need some time to think about it,” I finally managed to say.
“Let’s wrap it up for today,” Zane said kindly. “We’ll meet again next Monday, but before that,” he told us, “I want you two to get to know each other musically. The more you understand each other’s musical influences, the better you’ll be able to play together.”
At Zane’s request, Logan and I exchanged phone numbers. Then we said good-bye to Portia.
“I’m really looking forward to working with the two of you more,” Zane said as he walked us out. I was still trying to figure out how to ask (nicely) if Logan and I had to work together when Zane turned on his heel and ambled back to the studio.
Logan stared out the front window at the parking lot while I tried to think of something to say.
“So … um … who are your favorite artists?” I said at last.
“There are too many to list,” he said dismissively. “I’ll text you a bunch of songs I like so you’ll know what my sound is.”
“Great,” I said. I waited for Logan to ask me about my influences. Instead, he checked his phone.
“Well, I love singer-songwriters,” I finally told him. “Paul Simon, Joni Mitchell, Taylor Swift …”
“I have to go,” Logan said abruptly.
He was looking past me, outside. A banged-up station wagon had just turned in to the parking lot. “See you,” he said, and he ducked out the door.
On the drive home, I told Mom about everything that had happened.
“I can’t believe I might have to perform with that kid,” I groaned.
“It’s just one performance,” Mom reminded me. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“It sure feels like it,” I muttered gloomily.
As Mom turned up our street, my phone chimed with a text.
“It’s Logan,” I said, checking it. “He sent me some songs as MP3s.”
“At least he’s reliable,” Mom said.
I scrolled through the songs Logan had attached. Some were songs I knew, by Green Day and Bob Dylan. Some I didn’t know. I clicked on one that I’d never heard of—“Tough as Nails,” by a band called the Rusty Hammers.
As it started, crashing percussion made me jump out of my seat.
“Whoa!” I said, turning down my phone.
The song kept playing. It was more like a giant sound explosion than actual music.
“I know this song!” Mom said, her eyes lighting up. “The Rusty Hammers, right?”
“Mom, this is not a song,” I protested. “This is a horrible musical accident!”
Mom laughed as I turned it off. “I don’t think it’s horrible,” Mom said. “The Rusty Hammers were a local Nashville band back in the day. It’s punk, ska, and bluegrass mixed with rock …”
“And noise,” I grumbled.
“I get it, you don’t like it,” Mom said with a laugh.
“I hate it! And it’s one of Logan’s favorite songs!” I said, letting out a sigh a mile long. “How are we supposed to find what we have in common musically if he has such terrible taste?”
“Honey, that seems a little extreme,” Mom said. “‘Tough as Nails’ is an underground classic. A lot of people love that song.”
“Well, it’s totally different from the music I write,” I griped.
“That is true,” Mom said gently, “but if you listen with open ears, you can learn something from all kinds of music.”
I squirmed a little. Of course, she was right, but thinking about being open to anything Logan had to say made me bristle.
“I don’t like how he changed my song,” I admitted as we pulled into our driveway.
“I get that,” Mom said.
I looked over at her. “Is this how you felt when that producer tried to get you to dye your hair?” I asked.
She turned off the engine and faced me. “Honey, this is very different. Nobody is trying to change who you are or control how you sound. Zane and Portia are just trying to help you branch out as a songwriter. And Logan is adding to your song, not rewriting it.”
She took my hands in hers. “It’s your song,” she continued, “but you need to be open. Collaboration is one of the most important parts of making music. It’s what you create with other people that makes a song great. Whether other people are just listening or making changes, there’s always going to be someone else involved. I know you’re passionate about finding your own voice, but you need to let other people help you, too. Nine times out of ten, they’ll make the music better.”
I shrugged, twisting my seat belt.
“You know, when your dad first wrote ‘Carolina Highway,’ he thought it was going to be a foot stomper,” Mom said, grinning. “But then I got my mitts on it.”
I looked at her, surprised. “Carolina Highway” was my favorite song that Dad had written. It was a slow and bittersweet ballad, and I couldn’t imagine it any other way.
“I thought Dad wrote it like that,” I said.
“Nope,” Mom said. “He was going to sing it himself as an upbeat bluegrass tune. When I heard it, though, I thought it sounded better slower, and in a minor key. We reworked parts of the melody together, too. Your dad would be the first one to tell you it’s a better song now.”
She ducked her head and looked me in the eye. “All I’m saying is, give Logan and his suggestions some time—he might surprise you.” She smiled gently and climbed out of the truck.
I sat still for a moment as I watched her walk inside. I knew I needed to give Logan a chance. But a big part of me was scared about what would happen to my music if I did.
The next day, Jaya brought in a stack of flyers she’d designed for our book drive and showed them to Holliday and me. BOOKS FOR BANGLADESH! the flyer read in a splashy font. YOUR DONATIONS WILL HELP REBUILD A SCHOOL ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD! In the center of the flyer, Jaya had drawn a beautiful illustration of a large book open to a photograph of Mina and some classmates standing in front of their school.
“Wow,” I said. “It looks awesome! I only wish Mina could see it.”
“Maybe she could,” Holliday said. “Jaya, you should e-mail it to her.”
“Great idea,” Jaya replied, giving Holliday a high five. For a moment I felt sort of left out, but I told myself to shake it off.
When the final bell rang, Jaya, Holliday, and I roamed the halls, figuring out the best places to put them up.
“How about here?” Jaya asked, holding a flyer to the gymnasium door.
“Definitely,” Holliday said. “Every kid in school uses the gym for PE, so everyone will see it!” Jaya held up the flyer, and I taped it to the door.
We worked our way down the hall, putting flyers on doors. As we did, I told them about my disastrous jam session with Logan. I was expecting Jaya to share my outrage, but instead she seemed confused.
“If Portia and Zane liked it, then maybe Logan’s ideas are worth considering,” she said, handing me another flyer.
“I have considered them,” I said, frustration catching fire inside me. “But Logan doesn’t care about my song, and he doesn’t understand it. I’m not just going to let him come in and ruin my music.”
“Who says he’s going to ruin it?” Holliday asked.
“Yeah,” added Jaya. “He might even make your song a little better!”
I stopped short. I wouldn’t expect Holliday to back me up—but Jaya? My patience snapped. “Never mind,” I told her. “You can’t really understand, because you don’t play music.”
Jaya looked like I’d just stepped on her toes. “Fine,” she said quietly.
In a flash, my cheeks flushed hot with regret. I was about to apologize and explain what I’d meant when Holliday interrupted.
“We should ask other kids if they can help collect donated books,” she said. “Charlie Wakida said he could collect from the senior center, and Tara Higgins said she’d do the post office and the grocery store.”
Jaya turned away from me and focused on Holliday. “Good,” she said. “The more volunteers we have, the more books we can collect and, hopefully, the more money we can raise.”
Jaya and Holliday continued talking and planning as I quietly taped posters to classroom doors. Every now and then, I tried to find my way back into the conversation. But they just gave me halfhearted nods and kept talking with each other.
“We’ll definitely need to work after school on the Friday before the Spring Clean,” Holliday said. “The event begins at ten o’clock the next morning, but I think we should get there early. Then we’ll sell as many books as we can before things wrap up at two.”
Jaya finally turned and looked directly at me. “Can you do all that, Tenney?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, a little surprised.
“I just know you’re really busy with music,” Jaya said.
“Right,” Holliday agreed smugly.
“It’s fine,” I said firmly. “Of course I’ll be there.”
Aubrey and I were setting the table for dinner that night when a cymbal clash clattered through my phone. It was the sound I’d assigned to Logan’s texts.
“That text alert is annoying,” Mason said as he squeezed past Mom, who was dicing carrots by the stove.
“That’s the point. It’s from Logan,” I said,
checking my phone.
Aubrey craned her neck to see over my shoulder. “What did he send?”
“Another song,” I said, squinting. On my phone screen was an MP3 link and a message: So you can hear my vision.
I frowned. “He didn’t say what the song is,” I said, clicking on the link.
The song started playing out of the phone’s tinny speaker.
At first, all I could hear was percussion. Then a fuzzy guitar kicked in, and my stomach shuddered in horror as I recognized the melody.
It was my song.
I sat there, frozen, as Logan’s growly voice came in, singing the first verse.
“I cannot believe this,” I sputtered. “He changed everything, and he didn’t ask permission first! It doesn’t even sound like my song anymore.”
For a moment, the four of us sat there, listening to Logan destroy my music.
“It actually sounds pretty good,” Mason said. I shot him a cold glare.
Mason put up his hands in surrender. “I mean, it doesn’t sound like something you would write,” he said, “but it’s not bad.”
“I have to agree, honey,” Mom said.
I took a deep breath, trying to keep the fire rising inside me from exploding. Keep an open mind, I told myself—but it was impossible. The longer I listened to the song, the angrier I got. When it ended, I was burning with fury.
“Mom, can I call Portia?” I asked. “Please?”
Mom studied me. I knew she could tell I was upset, because her voice was gentle when she spoke. “Go ahead upstairs. We’re eating at six,” she said. “I expect to see you back down here by the time dinner’s on the table.”
I grabbed my phone and rushed up the stairs two at a time, heading into my room for privacy. To my relief, Portia answered after just a couple of rings.
“What happened?” she said when she heard the panic in my voice.
“Logan happened!” I said, outraged. I told her all about Logan recording my song.
“He didn’t even ask! He just took my song and did whatever he wanted to it,” I said.
“It sounds like he’s trying to help you hear what he’s thinking,” Portia said.
“I’d be more willing to listen if he weren’t so rude,” I said. “I can’t work with someone like him.”
