Tenney Shares the Stage

by Kellen Hertz

  Mason shrugged. “Well, you and Logan haven’t always seen eye to eye.”

  “But he wasn’t mad at me this time,” I insisted. “Besides, that’s no reason for him to not show up.”

  “You’re right, but there’s not much you can do about it right now,” Dad replied.

  An idea flew into my mind. “We should drive over to his house to see if he’s okay.”

  Dad sighed wearily. I could already hear the no coming.

  “Why not?” I persisted. “You know where Logan lives, and it’s not far away.”

  “I’ve got deliveries coming,” Dad said. “I need to stay here.”

  “Mason could run me over there in the truck,” I suggested.

  “I could,” Mason admitted.

  Dad’s mouth tied into a thoughtful bow. “Fine,” he relented, “but make it quick.”

  It only took a few minutes to drive to Logan’s house. As Mason pulled up out front, I peered at the house through my window. The curtains were drawn, and the garage was closed.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Mason said.

  “I need to check,” I said.

  I hopped out of the truck and walked toward the house along a footpath overgrown with weeds. A smiley face on a worn welcome mat grinned up at me in front of a rusty, lopsided screen door. I rang the doorbell twice, but no one answered.

  When I got back in the truck, Mason gave my shoulder a squeeze.

  “Don’t get stressed about it,” he said as I fastened my seat belt.

  “I’m not,” I replied, but I didn’t even convince myself.

  On the drive back to Dad’s shop, my brain tumbled anxiously over what could have happened to Logan. Had he bailed on me and our music? Or even worse, had he or someone in his family gotten hurt?

  When we walked inside the store, Dad was on his phone, his voice low. His face was red and his jaw was hard, the way they get when he’s upset. When he saw us, he murmured something into the phone and hung up.

  “What’s wrong? Is it Logan?” I asked.

  Dad nodded. Suddenly, I was too afraid to say anything. A few weeks ago, I wasn’t even sure if I liked Logan, but now the thought that he could be hurt froze me with fear.

  “What happened?” Mason asked. “Is he okay?”

  “Yes and no,” Dad said. “Logan didn’t make rehearsal because he got arrested.”

  I blinked hard, trying to wrap my head around what I’d just heard.

  “Logan couldn’t have gotten arrested,” I insisted. “There must be some mistake.”

  “It didn’t sound like it,” Dad said gruffly. “That was Zane on the phone. He told me Logan’s been charged with shoplifting.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “What did he steal? Where?”

  Dad shrugged, frowning. “No idea. Zane said he’d call back when he knew more.”

  My brain felt like it was in a spin cycle of a washing machine. I had so many questions, and Logan was the only person who could answer them.

  “I need to talk to Logan,” I said, pulling out my phone.

  If he’s been arrested, he probably doesn’t have his phone right now,” Mason pointed out, but I was already texting Logan.

  Are you OK? I wrote. The message sent with a whoosh and I stared at the screen, waiting for a response.

  “Try to be patient, Tenn,” Dad said.

  “I am,” I said, pocketing my phone.

  My patience lasted for another twelve minutes and nineteen seconds. When Logan still hadn’t replied, I sent him a second text asking if he’d gotten my first text. When he didn’t reply to either one, I called his cell phone and left a message. There was no answer at his house, either, so I left a message there, too.

  The store closed at six. I still hadn’t heard from Logan. By the time we drove home, my stomach was churning with sour worry.

  At dinner, Logan was the main topic of conversation.

  “I have to say, I don’t have the faintest idea what he was thinking,” Dad said, his voice hard. “Clearly that boy’s more trouble than he looks.”

  I bristled. “Dad, you know Logan,” I said. “He’s a good person.”

  Dad gave a terse shrug. “Well, maybe he’s not the boy we thought he was,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

  Heat flooded my cheeks. I knew Dad could be right, but I wasn’t ready to give up on Logan. “We don’t know the whole story yet,” I whispered.

  Mom and Dad exchanged a look.

  “Maybe not,” Mom said, “but until we know more, Dad and I think you should step back from your partnership with Logan.”

  My head felt like it could explode. “What do you mean, step back?” I asked.

  “Take a break from each other,” Dad said. “No rehearsals together, no songwriting, and definitely no performing.”

  “Stop playing music with him?” I said in disbelief. “Why? We just wrote a great song together.”

  “That seems kind of unfair,” Mason chipped in. Aubrey nodded in agreement.

  “It is unfair,” I said, my throat tightening. “Logan and I are partners—”

  “For the moment,” Dad interrupted firmly.

  Mom threw him a sharp look.

  “What does that mean?” I asked Dad, curiosity prickling down my neck.

  My parents exchanged another look.

  Mom sighed, meeting my gaze. “Zane is very concerned about Logan’s arrest,” she said. “If Logan broke the law, it wouldn’t just damage his own reputation; the bad publicity could also hurt the two of you as a duo. Zane’s going to meet with Logan and get the whole story, but he’s also going to let him know that he’s in danger of being dropped by the label. If that happens, it’s possible that Tenney and Logan could be dropped, too.”

  A chill ran through me, as if all my blood suddenly froze in my veins. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. I felt like I’d been turned to stone.

  “There’s no way that will happen,” Mason said, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly. “Zane loves Tenney.”

  “True,” Mom said. “But he decided to partner her with Logan when he signed them as a duo.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  Mom turned to me, her eyes soft with sympathy. “I’m just saying that it’s not up to us, honey. He might decide to drop Logan and keep you on the label as a solo act. We just don’t know yet.”

  I gulped. Inside I was a giant whirlpool of emotions—anger, fear, but mostly confusion.

  “But Logan and I signed a contract …” I trailed off.

  “I know, honey,” Dad said. “But sometimes this happens in the music business.”

  “What if Logan and I don’t want to break up our act?” I said desperately.

  “You might not have a choice,” Dad said.

  I took a deep breath, my emotions settling into a glob of dull sadness in my stomach. I knew Dad was right—if Zane decided to drop Logan, there was nothing I could do. But then I remembered the pure joy on Logan’s face when we’d finished writing “The Nerve.” Music is the best thing in my life, he had told me. I won’t let anything keep me from playing. The memory forged a nugget of confidence inside me. No matter what, I thought, Logan would do whatever he could to keep our act together.

  “This is all going to turn out to be nothing,” I said, trying to reassure myself. “It’s just a big mistake.”

  “Maybe,” Dad said, but neither he nor Mom looked convinced. Their expressions made my confidence weaken into doubt.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” I whispered. Aubrey leaned over in her chair and hugged me, but it just made me feel worse.

  “I’m sorry, I need to be excused,” I mumbled, and before my parents could reply, I rushed out.

  I ran upstairs to my room and curled up on my bed. As soon I was alone, I buried my head in my pillow. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. I was angry, but I wasn’t sure who to be angry with—Logan or Zane or my parents or the whole situation. I t
urned over, rubbing my eyes, and stared at the ceiling.

  We finally found our voice, I thought sadly, and now it might not matter.

  I didn’t want to go back to being a solo act. I’d gotten used to being one half of Tenney & Logan. Thinking about that ending made me feel suddenly, deeply lost. If I felt that way, I couldn’t even imagine how Logan would feel when Zane talked to him.

  I sat up on the bed and wrapped my arms tight around my knees. I wanted to talk to Logan. I wanted to tell him that our band and our music had come to mean something to me. I wanted to ask him why he would risk losing everything we had worked toward. But I knew I couldn’t. I had to wait until he called me back, or until Zane told us his decision. And I had no idea how long that would take.

  The next day was Monday, and we still hadn’t heard anything from Logan or Zane by the time I got home from school. After I had finished my homework, I was restless, circling the kitchen like a song on repeat.

  “Honey, try to do something constructive,” Mom suggested as she rolled out a mound of biscuit dough. I shook my head.

  “I can’t focus on anything right now,” I said.

  “Okay, then make yourself useful and walk the dog,” Mom said. She pulled Waylon’s leash off a row of hooks on the wall. Waylon immediately jumped up and started wagging his tail.

  “Fine,” I said with a sigh, taking the leash.

  I’d hoped that walking Waylon would calm me down, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Logan. Why hadn’t he called me yet? I had no idea if he didn’t have a phone or was angry with me and wanted to be left alone. Even if I couldn’t speak with Logan, I needed to talk to someone who could understand how I was feeling. Before I knew it, Waylon and I had walked the nine blocks to Portia’s cottage.

  She looked surprised to see us when she opened the door, but she let us in. She fixed Waylon a bowl of water and me a glass of sweet tea, and we got comfortable in the sitting room.

  “How’re you holding up?” Portia asked with a sad, concerned smile.

  “Not good,” I said miserably. “Have you heard anything about Logan?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “I know this must be confusing to you.”

  “It is,” I said. “Logan was proud of our song, and he was excited that we were going to open for Belle Starr. Why would he risk all that by shoplifting?” I tucked my legs up under me. “I just don’t think we know the whole story. It makes no sense.”

  Portia raised an eyebrow. “A lot of things in this world don’t make sense,” she observed.

  “This is different,” I said. I clenched my hands together as I struggled to put my feelings into words. “I just know how much playing music helps Logan. It’s like breathing to him—he has to do it. Remember how you said music helped heal you after your stroke?” I reminded her. “I can tell it’s like that for him, too. Right now he needs music more than ever. That’s why I think we should go over to his house and talk to him.”

  Portia set her chin in her hand. “A couple of weeks ago you couldn’t even be in the same room with Logan for five minutes before you had fire shooting out of your ears,” she said. “Why do you want to help him now?”

  I heard our duet playing in my head, and the answer flooded into my heart.

  “When I first met Logan, I thought that he was selfish,” I explained. “Since I’ve gotten to know him, I’ve realized he’s not. He might not always be sweet as pie, but I know he cares about our music as much as I do,” I finished passionately. “There’s no way I can give up on our music. Which means there’s no way I can give up on him.”

  Portia leaned back in her chair and studied me. It was tough to tell what she was thinking. But just as my heart began to sink into hopelessness, she spoke.

  “Okay then,” she said. “Let’s go talk to Logan.”

  Portia drove a classic Ford truck with a big curved hood, the kind you see in old movies. It swayed as she turned off the main road onto Logan’s street. I pointed out his house, and she parked out front.

  “Okay,” she said. “You ready?”

  I nodded, but I was nervous.

  When we’d dropped Waylon at home, I’d expected that I’d have to beg Mom to let me go with Portia to see Logan, but to my surprise she gave me permission.

  “I agree that you need to talk to Logan,” she’d said gently. “Just remember, Tenney, things don’t always turn out the way we want them to.”

  Mom’s words echoed in my head as Portia and I walked up the overgrown path to Logan’s house. I rang the doorbell.

  After a moment, a little boy opened the door. He had on a T-shirt, jeans, and a red sheet tied around his neck like a cape. His hair was sandy like Logan’s but spiky as a hedgehog. Thick eyeglasses were strapped around his head with a purple elastic band.

  “Hi!” he said, almost yelling.

  “Oh! Hi,” Portia said, startled. She squinted at him like he was an alien.

  “Is Logan here?” I asked.

  The boy shook his head vigorously. “He went to the grocery store,” he said.

  “Are you his brother?” I guessed. The boy nodded shyly, but when I smiled at him, he smiled back.

  “I’m Jude,” he said.

  There was a noise behind him. Logan’s mom stepped into the doorway. She looked like she’d just woken up.

  “Portia, Tenney,” she said blearily. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was hoping to talk to Logan,” I said.

  Mrs. Everett nodded. “Y’all have to forgive me,” she said. “I got home about an hour ago from working a night shift at the hospital. Logan took his bike to go run an errand.”

  “Can we wait for him?” I asked.

  Mrs. Everett looked surprised, but with a nod she opened the door wider to let us in the house.

  The Everetts’ living room was tidy but sort of bare, with a flowery rug and a wall of framed photos above a fraying couch. Jude plopped himself down by a pile of toys on the rug and zoomed a little train around the floor. The rest of us got settled, then stared at one another, as if we’d forgotten whose turn it was to go next.

  “How’s Logan?” Portia asked, breaking the silence.

  “Pretty upset,” said Mrs. Everett. “After we got home from the station, I gave him a piece of my mind. Then Zane came over and did the same thing. It wasn’t what Logan wanted to hear,” she said, folding her arms, “but he needed to hear it. What he did was wrong.”

  “So he really shoplifted?” I said, a chill running through me.

  She nodded. Her expression was serious. My heart went cold, like it had been plunged into ice water. I’d convinced myself that Logan’s arrest must have been a misunderstanding of some kind. Now I didn’t know what to think.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Portia asked.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Everett said with a tired sigh. She took a deep breath. “Logan’s a great kid,” she began. “He’s helpful, loyal, and he prides himself on being independent. But he’s also stubborn. He thinks he can handle more than he should sometimes. And since his dad’s been gone, he’s had to take on a lot more responsibility than most kids his age.”

  “My dad’s in Japan playing guitar with Godzilla!” Jude shouted. He let out a T. rex–sized roar and ran into the kitchen. His silliness broke the tension for a moment, and we all smiled.

  “Phil’s been on tour backing a Japanese band for a while now, but the pay has been unpredictable,” Mrs. Everett said. “Last month the band told him they weren’t going to pay him till the end of the tour. Because of that, it’s been tough to get our bills paid on time.”

  “I’ve been there,” Portia said.

  Mrs. Everett gave a hard nod, but her eyes softened. “Music is my husband’s life,” she continued. “I knew that when I married him. I just wish it was a little bit easier.”

  “How long is he on tour for?” I asked.

  Mrs. Everett’s lower lip trembled. She glanced at Jude in the kitchen and lowered her voice to a whisper. “
I’m not sure,” she finally said. “He had a rough time getting work in Nashville. And since he went on tour he’s been sending checks home, so we’re grateful.” She shifted uncomfortably. “You see, money’s been tight for a while. Even when Logan’s dad was sending us money, I had to pick up extra shifts at work. So Logan’s been helping out more at home, and with his brother. He even got a job.”

  “A job?” Portia said. “He’s only fourteen.”

  “It was his choice,” Logan’s mom said. “When he told me he wanted to find a job, I discouraged him. I wanted him to focus on music and school. Most of all, I didn’t want him to feel responsible for our family. But he begged and begged until I gave in. He took on a few hours a week as a junior custodian at the hospital where I work.” She shook her head, almost like she was angry. Then she let out a long, sad sigh. “It was a mistake. Lately he’s been trying to balance school, music, a job, and helping out at home. He won’t admit it, but of course he’s been overwhelmed.”

  Suddenly, all of Logan’s strange behavior—his bad moods and lateness, the moments when he constantly checked his phone, and the times when he rushed out of our songwriting sessions—started to make sense to me. Logan wasn’t being a jerk, I realized. He’s just been trying to keep up with everything.

  Jude rushed back into the room with a juice box and flopped down beside his mother. She kissed his head and let out a wobbly breath.

  “Looking back, I see now that Logan was getting stressed out,” she said, “but he never talked to me about it. Then yesterday we found out that Logan’s dad wants to stay in Japan for as long as he has work, which could be until the end of the year,” she explained. “Logan was upset, but he didn’t want to talk about it. I’d worked the night shift, so I was exhausted. The plan was for Logan to watch Jude and let me sleep for a couple of hours, and then he would leave and meet y’all for rehearsal,” she continued. “But clearly that didn’t happen.”

  “What did?” I asked.

  “I hadda azzma ’tack!” Jude proclaimed proudly. He stood up in a superhero pose.

  Mrs. Everett smiled sadly and put her arms around him. “Jude has asthma,” she explained. “He was having trouble breathing, and he’d used up his inhaler medication. Instead of waking me up, Logan decided to go to the pharmacy to get an inhaler refill for Jude on his own. Unfortunately, his bike had a flat tire, so he ran the whole way there. When he finally got to the pharmacy, he asked for the order and then realized he’d forgotten his wallet at home and didn’t have his money or our insurance card. The pharmacist told Logan that he’d have to come back for the medication. But then she went to answer a phone call, leaving the medication sitting there on the counter …”