by Kellen Hertz
Dad played a fast tune on his guitar to get their attention. “Georgia’s Hot Chicken! Georgia’s Hot Chicken! Get some quick before we’re all outta pickin’s!” he howled, strumming wildly.
I joined Dad’s song as Aubrey danced around doing jazz hands. We weren’t great, but people noticed us. Soon we had a line of customers waiting to buy my mom’s food.
For the next hour, we worked hard to keep the customer line moving. As soon as the sky turned dark, the Parthenon’s stage lit up in a blaze of lights and electric guitar riffs. I only saw Belle Starr for a split second before the crowd jumped up, blocking my view.
“Hello, Nashville!” Belle Starr called over the sound system. The crowd roared.
“I want to see!” whined Aubrey. Dad put her on his shoulders as the band launched into “Star Like Me.”
Mom looked out of the truck, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Sorry about the view, Tenney,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I said. I didn’t care that I couldn’t see. I just loved being at a concert, the air crackling with excitement. Live music makes everything brighter, I thought. When I looked up, it seemed like the stars were dancing.
When Belle Starr finished her song, the audience burst into applause.
“Wow,” I said. “The audience really loves her.”
Mom nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Do you miss performing?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Sometimes.”
As Belle Starr dove into her next hit song, I had to yell over the screaming crowd. “I wonder if I’ll ever get to play my own music for an audience this big.”
“Make the music you love first,” she said. “The rest will take care of itself.”
I hoped she was right. Because making music was what I wanted to do forever.
On Monday morning, Dad dropped me off at school. I started sixth grade at Magnolia Hills Middle School in September. It’s much bigger than my elementary school, and even though we were already a month into the semester, I was still getting to know my way around. Luckily, my best friend, Jaya Mitra, is in the same homeroom, so I never felt entirely lost.
I got to class and found Jaya drawing at her desk in the front row. She was wearing bright green pants, a red top, and rainbow barrettes in her black curly hair. When she saw me, her eyes lit up.
“Look!” she said, holding up her binder. On the page, both of our names curved together in elegant, hand-drawn letters. “It’s my new font.”
“Wow, it’s gorgeous!” I said, sitting at my desk behind her.
“Hey, did you get my text yesterday?” she asked. “I sent you a video of a piglet kissing a puppy.”
“Yes, it was so cute!” I said, remembering. “Sorry, I meant to write back.”
“That’s okay,” Jaya said. “I thought you could use something funny before your Tri-Stars rehearsal with Jesse. How did it go?”
“Okay,” I said with a sigh. Before I could tell her anything more, though, the bell rang, signaling the start of class. Our teacher, Ms. Carter, collected permission slips for our upcoming sixth-grade field trip.
“I know that most of you have been to the Ryman Auditorium before,” she told us, “but I promise that this tour will make Nashville’s musical history come to life. It’s the perfect way to get everyone excited to work on this year’s Magnolia Hills Jamboree.”
Excitement rippled through the room. The Jamboree is our school’s annual autumn carnival. Every year the students plan games, make food, and play live music to celebrate fall. It’s a big event for the neighborhood, too. My family had been going for years, and I’d always loved it. It was exciting to think that this year I was going to help put it on!
Ms. Carter smiled. “And while we’re on the subject of the Jamboree, I have some exciting news: Normally, the money we raise goes to a local charity,” she said, “but this year, we’re doing some things differently. We’ll be partnering with seniors from the Lillian Street Senior Center to plan the event. Not only that, but the Jamboree itself will take place at the center.”
My classmates murmured to each other with surprise. Ms. Carter didn’t even blink.
“Two members of this class will serve on the Jamboree Steering Committee with representatives from the other homerooms,” she said. “We’ll come up with ideas for food and stalls. The committee will also be working with seniors at the center to help them get involved. This is a chance for all of you to connect with members of our community. It’ll take some after-school time,” she added, “but I promise it’ll be worth it. Any volunteers?”
Jaya’s hand shot up. “Tenney, come on,” she whispered.
It would be fun to work on the Jamboree, I thought, especially with Jaya. I raised my hand.
Ms. Carter’s eyes scanned the raised hands in the room and landed on the front row. “Tenney and Jaya, thank you for volunteering,” said Ms. Carter. “We’ll meet here today at lunch.”
The fourteen kids on the Jamboree committee were settling into a circle of desks for the meeting when Jaya and I got back from the cafeteria with our lunches. I immediately spotted Holliday Hayes—and got a sour feeling in my stomach. Her purple plaid headband perfectly matched her pencil case and high-top sneakers, as usual. Holliday and I had been in the same class in fifth grade. She’d always been polite to me, but we weren’t friends, exactly. She always seemed more interested in being right than in being friends.
As we munched on our sandwiches, Ms. Carter called the meeting to order. “This year’s Jamboree theme is Southern Hospitality,” she said. “Who has ideas for food we can serve?”
Suggestions started flying. We all agreed that we should have a stall serving different flavors of sweet tea, and another where you could decorate your own cupcakes.
“My mom makes fresh pralines,” said one girl. “She could have a booth.”
“Great idea!” Holliday chirped. “And my dad’s got the hot chicken covered.”
“Tenney’s mom makes hot chicken, too,” said Jaya. “She has her own food truck.”
“It’s really good,” I said, trying not to sound like I was bragging.
“I’m sure,” Holliday said, “but my dad said he’d pay for a cook from Bolton’s to come out.”
Everyone looked impressed. Bolton’s makes Nashville’s most famous hot chicken.
“That seems expensive,” Ms. Carter said.
“It’s all right,” replied Holliday. “My dad really wants to do it.”
“Well, if your father insists,” Ms. Carter said.
A smug grin wreathed Holliday’s face. I couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. But I told myself that Mom would probably rather attend the Jamboree than work there.
“Now, moving on to entertainment,” said Ms. Carter. “We want students and seniors performing all day, so if any of you dance or act or play music, think about signing up.”
Excitement fizzed inside me. This could be my chance to perform my own songs!
Holliday’s voice broke into my thoughts. “My dad’s a vice president at Silver Sun Records,” she said. “That’s Belle Starr’s label. I could ask if she’s free.”
Now everyone really looked excited.
“You can get Belle Starr to come?” squeaked a blond boy.
Ms. Carter stepped in. “Actually, Holliday, the Jamboree is about showcasing musicians from the East Nashville community.”
Holliday shrugged.
“A sign-up sheet for performers will go on my door after lunch,” Ms. Carter continued, looking around the room. “Don’t wait to put down your name, though. Slots fill up fast, and we always have a big crowd.”
“You have to sign up!” Jaya whispered to me.
I managed a smile. But the thought of performing for almost everyone in school was making my stomach do somersaults.
“Now,” Ms. Carter added, “this committee needs a chairperson. Who’d like to volunteer to lead us?”
Jaya and Holliday both shot thei
r hands into the air. Ms. Carter asked them both to tell the group why they wanted to be chairperson and then we’d vote. Jaya went first.
“Improving our community is really important to me, and I think working with the senior center is a great way for us to get more involved with our neighbors,” Jaya said. “I love working on a team and coming up with ideas together. I think that’s the best way to face a challenge.”
Ms. Carter smiled. “Very nice, Jaya. Now, Holliday. Tell us why you think you’d make a good chairperson.”
Holliday sat up very tall. “I want to be chairperson because I have really good ideas,” she said. “I’m good at making decisions and keeping track of what everyone should be doing. Also I promise, if I’m elected, this Jamboree will have more cupcakes than any other Jamboree in the history of the school.”
“Wow,” said Ms. Carter. “That’s a tall order! Thank you both.”
We put our heads on our desks and raised our hands to vote. I voted for Jaya, of course.
“The votes are in!” Ms. Carter announced. “The sixth-grade chairperson is … Holliday Hayes!”
Holliday stood up and beamed. “Thank you all so much for making the right choice.”
I looked over at Jaya. She put on a brave smile as she congratulated Holliday, but her eyes looked sad. As we dumped our lunch trash, I could tell she was upset.
“I should have said something about cupcakes, too,” she said.
I tried to think of something that would cheer her up. “Well, we’ll still have fun working on the Jamboree,” I said. “Maybe you could volunteer to design the posters.”
Jaya perked up. “Good idea,” she said. “Are you going to sign up to perform?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ve only played with the Tri-Stars, though. I’ve never performed alone onstage. What if I mess up?”
“You won’t!” said Jaya, giving me a squeeze. “You’re a great singer. Plus, you’ve got six weeks until the Jamboree.”
“That would give me time to practice,” I admitted.
“Yes!” she said. “I bet you could even write a new song, if you wanted.”
Maybe Jaya was right. The new song I’d been working on had a really great melody. If I could nail the lyrics, I knew it would be amazing.
I could play a real solo show as a singer-songwriter! My heart did an excited drumroll. I smiled until a worrying thought hit me: What if I play and no one thinks my songs are any good?
I decided I’d take some time to think about it.
On Thursday, the Jamboree committee visited the Lillian Street Senior Center for the first time. As the center director showed us around, he pointed through a window at a spacious brick patio and sprawling green lawn lined with trees. “We’re planning to build a stage out there,” he told us, “and arrange the food and craft stalls around it.”
“We should string lights across, too,” said Holliday Hayes.
“Good idea!” said Ms. Carter. “We’ll figure out more of the details later. But now it’s time to get the seniors involved,” she said.
The center director smiled and nodded. “Having the Jamboree here will help our seniors stay actively involved in the community,” he said. “They can hardly contain their excitement about this event.”
“Each of you needs to find a senior to partner with,” said Ms. Carter. “Spend some time getting to know each other, and then ask your partner how they’d like to be involved with the Jamboree. Ideally, you will be partners at the event, too.”
We headed into the main activity room. Older people were sitting at tables and on couches, reading, chatting, and playing board games. For a moment, we all looked at one another awkwardly.
I suddenly felt a little shy. What could I possibly have in common with someone my grandmother’s age?
“Come on, y’all, hop to it!” Ms. Carter said.
Jaya immediately stepped forward and approached a man wearing rainbow suspenders. Following her lead, the rest of us spread across the room. Holliday marched up to a woman in a pink jumpsuit and matching lipstick. I started toward an older man with kind eyes and a bowtie, but one of my classmates reached him first. In a blink, it seemed as if all the seniors had partners.
Finally, I spotted a woman with messy gray hair huddled in a deep chair in the corner of the room, frowning as she peered out the window. She didn’t look friendly, but she was my only choice.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” I said as I approached.
The woman glanced at me with watery blue eyes. I greeted her, but I’d barely even gotten out the word “Jamboree” before she turned toward the window again.
“I think it will be a lot of fun,” I said. “So would you be my partner?”
“I suppose,” she replied, so sourly that you’d think I was asking her to eat boiled okra.
“Great!” I said, pasting on a smile. “I’m Tenney. What’s your name?”
She hesitated, as if she was trying to decide whether she should trust me.
“Portia,” she said finally.
“Okay,” I said. “Um, what do you like to do for fun?”
“Backgammon and general thinking,” she retorted.
General thinking and backgammon didn’t seem like good activities for Jamboree stalls. I couldn’t think of what to say next, though, so we just sat there.
I glanced around. Everyone else was chatting easily with their senior partners. I decided I wasn’t going to give up on mine just yet.
“We’re doing a bake sale. Do you bake?” I asked.
Portia shook her head. “I like eating, though,” she said, with a small smile.
Encouraged, I kept asking questions. Portia mostly gave one-word answers and seemed far away, as if she was thinking about something more important.
When it was time to go, I said good-bye to Portia and followed the other members of the Jamboree committee toward the entrance of the senior center. When I glanced back, I was surprised to see Portia looking directly at me with a curious expression. I waved to her, and she gave a slow wave back.
“The Jamboree is going to be super fun!” Jaya said as we walked home. She told me about her senior partner, the rainbow-suspenders man. His name was Frank and he used to work at a newspaper. Together they’d come up with the idea of having a block-printing booth at the Jamboree.
“Frank knows someone who’ll lend us a portable printing press!” she said with a skip. “I’m going to design a limited-edition Jamboree poster. Then at the event, we’ll show people how to print them!”
“Sounds cool,” I said. “And Frank sounds really great.” Jaya’s enthusiasm made me wish Portia and I had connected like she had with Frank.
“How did it go with your partner, Tenney?” she asked, almost as if she was reading my mind.
“Okay,” I said, “but I’m not really sure that Portia likes talking to me.”
“She just needs to get to know you,” Jaya said, hooking her arm with mine. “Maybe next time, you should try to figure out what you two have in common—like Frank and I did.”
“Good idea,” I said, relieved to have a plan.
That night, after dinner, dishes, and homework, I finally had time to work on my music. I grabbed my guitar and my songwriting journal and headed to the backyard. The air was crisp as Waylon followed me down the porch steps to my favorite spot to write: a soft patch of grass next to his doghouse under the wide oak tree. I sat down and took a big breath. All during dinner, my new melody had been bouncing around my head. Now I wanted to focus. I flipped through my journal to the page where I’d been brainstorming lyrics for the song.
Aubrey calls my journal a “diary,” which bugs me. She says it like I just write about boys and other drama and draw hearts and butterflies everywhere. There are a few doodles, but mostly I write down song ideas. Anyone else looking at it would probably just see a scribbled mess of words and chord progressions, but to me the pages are a collection of puzzle pieces, each one waiting for the moment when I can fit it into a so
ng.
I stared down at my lyrics brainstorm. So far, I had clusters of words and the start of two lines:
This song’s for you, my love.
You watch over me from above.
I wrinkled my nose. “From above” sounded weird, like “my love” was on the roof or something—or was dead. That’s definitely not what I wanted to say. I need a word that rhymes with love, I thought.
Who looks like a sweet white dove?
No way, I thought, frowning.
Whose arms fit me like a glove?
Who gives me a big shove?
Ugh, NO!
And who was “my love” anyway?
I squeezed my eyes shut with frustration. No matter how much I loved my melody, I couldn’t come up with lyrics until I’d figured out what it was about. I opened my eyes. Moths danced around the porch light. Inside the lit kitchen, I could see my parents talking.
Maybe I should ask Mom or Dad for some ideas, I thought. They’re practically experts when it comes to songwriting. Unfortunately, they have the same rule about songwriting that they do with homework: I can’t ask them for help until I’ve finished on my own. If I told Dad I was having problems with a song now, he’d just give me his crooked smile and quote his favorite line of Ulysses, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, the poet I was named after.
“‘To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield,’” he’d say. “Songwriting’s hard. But this is a song by Tennyson Evangeline Grant. That means something. Your music, your voice. That means your words.”
If I asked Mom, I knew she would remind me that I’m still trying to find my voice. “The best songs come from people who dig deep to figure out how they feel and then write about it,” she always says. “Nobody can do that for you but you.”
The sound of the creaking screen door interrupted my thoughts. I glanced up and saw that Mom was on the porch.
“Time for bed, Dreamy,” she said.
Mom always calls me Dreamy when I’m songwriting because I block out everything around me and get lost in the musical world inside my head.
I glanced down at my journal. I was so tired that the words on the page were blurring together. I sighed and hopped up.
