by Jen Calonita
There it was! Applause!
The audience was clapping for me! And they were clapping loudly!
I looked at my parents and friends in astonishment. They all stood up and gave me a standing ovation! Dad was filming with his phone, and Mom was taking pictures. Her eyes looked teary.
Lauren yelled to me over the applause. “Stand up, Z! Let everyone see you!”
So I rose. I looked around at my family and my friends, and smiled bigger, stood taller, and soaked it all in. Mom was right. I was never going to forget this moment.
“Come on, Z! Take a bow!” Mari cheered.
I blushed, but my friends and parents clapped even louder and I couldn’t help but smile. It had been a bumpy road, but I’d done it—I’d made a movie I was proud of, and it premiered at a film festival!
I was sitting in Ms. Garner’s class paying excellent attention to the math equation on the board (I’d learned my lesson there!) when there was an announcement over the loud speaker.
“Attention all members of Camera Club,” I heard Mr. Mullolly say. “Emergency meeting during free period today. Please be there. Thank you.”
I glanced at Lauren, who shrugged.
Emergency meeting? That didn’t sound good.
Was it about our broken camera? Mr. Mullolly had lent us his tablet for the last few weeks to work on our assignments, but we still didn’t have a real camera for the club. Without my prize money, I didn’t see us getting a camera anytime soon. I was still a little sad that I hadn’t saved the day, but I knew I had tried my best.
“We’ll figure out a way to keep reporting,” Lauren had said.
I hoped she was right, but I was worried. Other clubs had shut down before. What if Camera Club was on its way out?
After class, Lauren and I headed to the media room off the library. We were a little slow, since Lauren kept stopping to ask me things about the math class we’d just had, and point things out in her book. The bell rang.
“Lauren,” I wailed. “We’re already late!”
“Sorry!” she said, and sped up.
“Can you open the door?” Lauren asked when we arrived. Her arms were full of books.
“Sure,” I said, and turned the knob.
“Congratulations, Z!” everyone shouted as we walked through the door, startling me.
“What … wow!” I said, trying to find the words.
The entire Camera Club was there, with balloons and a huge CONGRATULATIONS banner hanging from one wall. On the table were colorful napkins, plates, and pink and purple cupcakes with tiny director clapboards on them.
“We wanted you to know how proud we are that one of Camera Club’s reporters had a film shown in the CloudSong Film Festival,” Mr. Mullolly said. “I hope you’ll share it with us one day during a meeting so we can all watch it.”
“Thank you!” I said to everyone, blushing. “It’s so nice of all you guys to do this.”
“Why doesn’t everyone grab a cupcake, and we’ll go over some club business while we’re here,” Mr. Mullolly suggested.
I took a seat with Maddie, Andrew, and Lauren.
“You sneak,” I said to Lauren. “You didn’t really need to ask me math questions!”
Lauren laughed. “I had to stall you somehow.”
“So our first order of business is still how we manage to keep producing a news segment for Pine Crest Middle School without having a camera,” Mr. Mullolly said.
I looked at Lauren worriedly. I could picture Mr. Mullolly telling us we had to end the club for the year. I didn’t want that to happen! “I don’t mind lending you all my tablet when I can, but sometimes I need it myself, so I wanted to see if we could brainstorm other ways we can keep working while we petition the school for funds to buy a new one. Any suggestions?”
Everyone started murmuring, and I wracked my brain for an answer. I’d been as worried as everyone else about what would happen to our club, but I realized now I didn’t need to be. We just had to think outside the box, just like I had to do when I didn’t love my first film edit.
The Camera Club had a story to tell. Lots of stories! And we didn’t need a pricey camera to do it. I smiled to myself. If we were creative, we could come up with tons of ways to tell our school’s stories together.
I raised my hand.
“Z?” Mr. Mullolly called on me.
“Well, I know filming on a real camera is best, but I’m re-thinking the idea of using our phones and webcams. Sometimes I use both of those for my blog,” I explained to the group. “I even used some phone footage for my CloudSong movie. There are some great apps for video editing and taping that I’d be happy to share with everyone. We can probably do segments that look as good—if not better—than what we’ve done before.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Mr. Mullolly said enthusiastically. “Storytelling can be done in different ways. Thanks, Z! Andrew?”
“Well, this isn’t about filming, per se, but I was thinking maybe we could post our news segment to the school website so that students who miss the broadcast the first time can watch it later,” Andrew suggested.
“Or their parents can watch their kids if they’re featured in a segment,” Maddie added.
Slowly, others started to raise their hands, too, and gave some great suggestions for ways to film and for how to get our videos out there.
I looked at my friends. Lauren, Maddie, Andrew, and I were all smiling. Mr. M was grinning, too. “These ideas are great. Can someone start a list?”
“I will!” Maddie volunteered, ripping a page out of one of her notebooks. She started taking notes.
I watched as Maddie’s list got so long she needed a second page. One idea would spark another, and another, and we couldn’t stop! All it took was one bit of inspiration. A vision, as Mom would call it.
It made me wonder what my next film was going to be. And I knew there would be a next film. I couldn’t wait to dig into a new project.
But not quite yet.
First, I had some major celebrating to do.
Z Crew out!
Jen Calonita graduated from Boston College where she majored in communications. This degree helped her land a job at a teen magazine where she got to interview several of her favorite movie and music stars! These days, Jen writes books for young readers, including the Fairy Tale Reform School series. She also has written the Secrets of My Hollywood Life series for teens. The Real Z is her nineteenth novel. When she isn’t working, Jen loves going running, taking pictures, and hanging out with her husband and two boys at their home on Long Island in New York. She also enjoys going on walks with her feisty Chihuahua named Jack, where just like Z, Jen does her best brainstorming for whatever project she’s working on next.
My left hand shifted down the neck of my guitar, fingers pressing into the frets to form chords, while my right hand sailed over the strings with my favorite pick. I knew every note of “April Springs.” I didn’t have to look at my sheet music or think about how to play the song. I just let go and played, feeling the music as if it was flowing out of my heart.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Dad waving me down from a few feet away.
Startled, I clamped my hand over my guitar’s neck, muting its sound mid-chord. It took me a moment to realize I didn’t hear the buzzy twang of Dad’s bass guitar. I glanced around. The rest of our band wasn’t playing, either.
“Sorry,” I said, feeling my cheeks turn hot pink.
“No worries,” Dad said, winking. “I know you love that one. And you were singing with so much heart that it nearly broke mine to stop you.”
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 stil
l 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.
