by Kellen Hertz
Be professional, I told myself. Professional musicians don’t get mad just because someone disagrees with them. They stay focused on the music.
I went through my entire list of ideas (except for Holliday’s otter idea), and Logan rejected every single one. When I got to the end, I took a deep breath.
“Do you have any ideas?” I asked Logan.
Logan’s expression turned sour, and he shrugged again. Then he thrummed his guitar, sending a few shimmery chords into the room. “I haven’t really thought about it yet,” he said.
“Really?” I squeaked in disbelief. I couldn’t help myself; I was super frustrated. “Zane told us we should come to this session with ideas.”
Logan gave me a sharp look. “I haven’t had time,” he said. “Anyway, I think we should just play our set and see how it goes.”
“What do you mean, ‘see how it goes’?” I replied tartly. “We’re supposed to have ideas to play for Portia on Thursday. In a couple of weeks, Zane’s going to want to hear something.”
“We’ll figure something out at Portia’s, okay?” he shot back. “I just don’t feel like doing it right now.”
My heart was an angry fireball in my chest, but I refused to let Logan see how mad I was, even though I really wanted to yell at him. Stay professional, I reminded myself again.
“Fine,” I said at last. Portia will handle this, I thought. I’m sure of it.
“Fine,” Logan said. He hung the guitar back on the wall and got behind his kit.
He nodded, putting up his drumsticks. We started playing “Reach the Sky,” not looking at each other. When I closed my eyes, the music sounded fine. As soon as I opened them, though, I felt lonely even though Logan was just a few feet away.
We spent the next hour playing through the rest of our old set, pausing to get Dad when customers came in, replaying parts of songs that we often messed up, and taking water breaks when we needed to. The music calmed me down, and I considered bringing up songwriting again. But I didn’t know how Logan would react, so I didn’t say anything.
Finally, Dad came in from the stockroom and walked toward the front door. “It’s six,” he said, turning the OPEN sign to CLOSED.
Logan hopped off the stage. “I should get going,” he said.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I was still disappointed that we hadn’t gotten any songwriting done, but at least I didn’t have to look at Logan’s sour expression anymore today.
We gathered up our stuff and went outside.
“Is your mom picking you up?” Dad asked Logan.
Logan shook his head. “I’m riding my bike.”
“Guess I’ll see you Thursday,” I said to Logan, barely glancing at him.
“Yep,” he said, and moved to the bike rack, heading for an orange bike with silver streaks.
I had turned and started toward Dad’s truck when I heard Logan say, “Oh no.”
I looked back and saw Logan inspecting a flat tire on his bicycle. “Stupid bike,” Logan growled, nudging the tire with the toe of his sneaker. “It’s always going flat. I’m so sick of it.”
“Do you need a ride home?” Dad asked.
Logan shook his head hard while opening his bike lock. “I’ll just roll it.”
“Are you sure?” Dad asked, his eyes crinkling with concern.
Logan chewed his lip, thinking. “Do you have a bike pump by any chance?” he finally asked.
“Not here,” Dad said, “but there’s one at the house, and I have patches. We can put your bike in the back of my truck and fix the tire there. It’s just a few blocks away.”
Logan looked torn, but he finally nodded.
“Great,” Dad said. “You can stay for dinner, too.”
“Really?” Logan asked, perking up.
“Yeah, really?” I echoed before I could stop myself. My voice sounded sharp, and I immediately felt bad. Logan’s face turned bright red.
“I mean, isn’t it late notice for Mom?” I said to Dad.
“I’ll ask,” Dad said, whipping out his phone and typing a text. “You know her, she always makes extra. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” I said, trying not to sound as uncomfortable as I felt.
“I should probably ask my mom, too,” Logan said, pulling out his cell phone. “I’ll text her.”
We waited in silence for Mrs. Everett and Mom to reply. Dad had a goofy grin on his face while Logan and I tried to avoid making eye contact. Within moments of each other, Dad’s and Logan’s phones chimed.
“My mom says it’s okay,” Logan told us.
“Georgia says no problemo!” Dad said.
Logan looked relieved. For the first time all day, he cracked a smile.
Dad hoisted the bike over his shoulder and started for his truck. He glanced back at me with a curious squint.
“What are you waiting for, Tenney?” he called.
I realized I’d been standing there, gritting my teeth in silent frustration. The last thing I wanted was to spend more time with Logan right now. But at this moment, it didn’t seem like I had a choice.
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Cover illustration by Juliana Kolesova
Author photo credit: Sonya Sones
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First printing 2017
e-ISBN 978-1-338-15207-4
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