American Girl Contemporary Series 1, Book 1

by Kellen Hertz

  “There’s always tomorrow,” Mom said as I came up the porch steps. “No song was built in a day.”

  That Saturday, Dad, Mason, and I loaded our instruments into Dad’s pickup and headed over to East Park, where the Neighborhood Association mixer was happening. The Tri-Stars were performing at two o’clock—a whole hour from now—but I could hardly wait to get onstage.

  East Park’s small, just a square of grass and a few playing fields. A temporary stage had been set up on the baseball diamond, where another local band was playing a lively bluegrass tune for a small crowd. A few dozen people were milling around two food stalls. Mom could have sold hot chicken, I thought, but she’d taken the truck and Aubrey to work a private party. We spotted some of our neighbors, and Dad stopped to say hello to Ms. Pavone, the woman with enormous purple glasses who lives next door.

  Finally, we circled up behind the stage and tuned our instruments. Dad went over the set list, naming each song in the order we were going to play them. By the time he was done, I could tell Mason was getting nervous—Jesse still hadn’t arrived.

  “We go on in less than a half hour,” Mason said, checking his watch. “Where is she?”

  Dad pressed his lips together. “I’ll call her,” he said. He whipped out his phone and dialed, shaking his head when she didn’t answer. He tried again a few minutes later—and then again …

  By the time she picked up, we were supposed to go on in fifteen minutes. I couldn’t hear what Dad was telling her, but he did not look happy. When he hung up and walked back to us, he looked dazed.

  “Is she on her way?” I asked.

  “No,” Dad said. “She quit.”

  Mason and I gasped.

  “Now?” I squeaked. “No way! She can’t!”

  “It’s okay,” Dad said, although he didn’t look okay. “We can reorganize the set list. I’ll sing lead.”

  “What about ‘Carolina Highway’ and ‘Wildwood Flower’?” Mason said, with worry creasing his forehead. “Your voice is too low—and we’ve never practiced those songs in another key.”

  “I can sing them!” I blurted out, without even thinking.

  Dad gave me a worried squint.

  “I can,” I insisted. “I have the same range as Jesse, and I’ve sung both songs in rehearsal a million times.”

  “Tenney’s right—she can do it,” Mason said.

  A nervous chill tap-danced down my back. This was all happening so fast. “What about my guitar part?” I asked. “I can’t sing and play backup too—not without rehearsing.”

  “I’ll play guitar and we’ll do without bass for ‘Carolina Highway,’” Dad decided. “All you need to do is sing.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to ignore my galloping heart. “Okay,” I said.

  Dad looked relieved, and Mason squeezed my shoulder.

  I can’t believe it, I thought. I’m actually going to sing lead! Excitement tingled through me. But when I looked up at the crowd dancing in front of the stage, my confidence suddenly evaporated. I’d sung solos, but I’d never sung a whole song alone in front of an audience. And now I was going to sing two. I took a deep breath.

  I know these songs. It’ll be fine.

  The next few minutes were a blur. We ran through both song intros so I’d remember when to start singing, and then waited for the act ahead of us to finish. Finally, we went onstage.

  I tried not to look at the audience as I helped set up our gear with Mason and Dad. I didn’t want to be reminded of how many people were going to be looking at me.

  Once we were ready, Dad stepped up to the lead microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are the Tennessee Tri-Stars, named for our beautiful state flag,” he said with a smile. “We’re one star short today, but I’ve got faith that we’re still going to shine.”

  He gave me a wink and counted off. We jumped into our set. Our first two songs were fast and fun, designed to get people dancing. Dad calls this trick “lighting up the audience.” By the time Dad started his guitar solo on “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” people were clapping to the beat. Dad’s fingers flew. He was playing so fast I thought his strings might start smoking! As he finished with a flourish, people shouted, “Bravo!”

  How am I supposed to follow that?! I thought.

  We were playing “Carolina Highway” next. Dad had originally written it for Mom to sing, years ago. It’s a great song, but it needed a voice as good as hers. I tried to swallow my anxiety.

  Just stay on key, I told myself.

  “I’m so proud to introduce the youngest Tri-Star,” Dad said. “My daughter, Tenney.”

  Dad moved over, and I stepped up to the lead microphone. It was too high, but before I could ask Dad to adjust it, he started playing. Mason joined in, his mandolin balancing Dad’s rhythm guitar.

  I can do this, I told myself.

  My cue was approaching. I tried to pull the microphone toward my mouth—but it didn’t budge.

  It’s locked! I realized, panicking. I tried to loosen the knob, but it was no use. How was anyone going to hear me?!

  I yanked the mic again with both hands, but it stayed put. Finally, just in time for my cue, I pulled the mic out of its clip and stepped around the stand.

  “This Carolina highway’s full of dead ends and byways,” I sang. “This Carolina highway’s awfully dark. It twists into forever. I might be heading nowhere—I just hope it leads me back into your heart.”

  Okay, got through that one. Eight bars later, I sang the second verse even better than the first, my voice becoming clearer as I gained confidence. Now came the chorus. Mason and Dad got ready to harmonize with me.

  “Where are you?” I sang, relaxing into my usual singing part. Then I had a horrified thought: No one’s singing the melody.

  I was so startled I went quiet, missing the next lyric.

  “I need you,” Mason and Dad sang together, covering for me.

  Embarrassment turned my cheeks hot, and I turned around to look at Dad. His eyes locked on mine. I believe in you, his look said.

  I gave a nod and breathed deeply. Stay in the moment, I told myself. It didn’t seem like the crowd had noticed my screwup. People were listening politely. Ms. Pavone gave me an encouraging thumbs-up. As the next verse started, I put my heart into it.

  “Carolina highway, are you going my way?” I sang. I closed my eyes, my voice sailing across the melody. “Carolina highway, help me just fly away.”

  My nerves melted away. I opened my eyes. Why had I been so afraid? The audience was swaying to the rhythm. I felt like I was being held up by love.

  The chorus started again. “Where are you?” I sang, looking up at the sky. I felt strong and free, more like myself than I ever had before. I never wanted the song to end.

  But when it did, the crowd burst into applause.

  “Thank you,” I whispered into the mic.

  Before I could take in the moment, Dad started playing “Wildwood Flower.” It’s a simple folk song, and I’ve practiced it a lot, so it was easier than “Carolina Highway.” Singing it felt like hanging out with a good friend.

  Somewhere in the middle of the song, I glanced over at Dad. He was watching me, looking proud and a bit stunned, as if he hadn’t really seen me before this moment.

  For the rest of the show, I felt like I was floating. I’d done it! I’d sung lead, and I sounded good! I just wished Mom had been there to see it. I couldn’t wait to tell her everything.

  When we got home, I rushed inside. Mom was in the living room with Waylon. She listened patiently as we told her how I’d ended up singing lead.

  “Congratulations, honey,” Mom said. “Did you have fun?”

  “I had so much fun!” I said.

  “Tenney was fantastic,” Dad said.

  “Better than fantastic,” Mason said, throwing himself onto the couch next to Waylon.

  “Could I sing lead again sometime?” I asked.

  Mom laughed. “Well, it sounds like you might get m
ore chances now,” she said, raising an eyebrow at Dad.

  “Just don’t start singing any old where,” Dad said.

  “I won’t,” I said, but I barely heard him. My mind was still buzzing with excitement.

  I couldn’t wait to perform again.

  The next morning, I was back at Dad’s store, helping to restock guitar strings. As I slipped the packets onto their hooks, moments from the Tri-Stars show kept replaying in my head. Not only had I gotten through both songs without making any huge mistakes, I’d had fun singing lead. The only thing that would have made the experience even better was if I’d sung a song I’d written.

  Singing my own songs, I could really show people who I am, I thought. And with the right lyrics, I could maybe make them feel what I feel. I pictured the crowd singing along with my song, everybody thinking about how the lyrics related to their own lives. With that image in my mind, I was more motivated than ever to finish my new song.

  I looked up at my dad, who was punching numbers into a calculator behind the cash register. “Dad, can I take a break?” I asked. “I want to work on a new song.”

  “Sure, honey,” he said. “I think the listening room is available if you want to practice on your favorite guitar.”

  I flashed him a grin. The guitar I own, the one I use to write songs and perform with the Tri-Stars, is what musicians call a “beater.” It’s plain and old, with scratches above the sound hole and on the pick guard. It’s not a beauty, but it sounds good, and in music, that’s what counts—right?

  But ever since Dad got a new shipment of guitars in the store, I had fallen in love with one in particular—a mini Taylor with white rosebuds and vines swirling around its aquamarine body, and a single songbird perched on its bridge.

  I skipped over to the guitar display room and slipped it off the wall before heading to my favorite part of the shop: a small wood-lined “listening room” in the back where you can play any guitar you want in private. It’s where my dad taught me how to play guitar. Most of what I know about music, I learned in this little room.

  I closed the door and started working on my song. First, I played slowly through the melody. There are lots of ways to put together a song, but this one was pretty straightforward. It had two verses, then a chorus and a bridge—a section in the middle of the song with a different melody and lyrics to keep the listener’s attention—and the final chorus.

  “La-la-la-la,” I sang, since I still didn’t have any lyrics. “La-la-laaa …”

  Hearing the melody made me fall in love with the song all over again. It was simple but heartfelt, and it sounded great on this guitar, which had a richer sound than my old beater. I picked up the tempo, feeling the joy and heartache the melody stirred up inside me.

  A knock on the listening room’s window startled me. I jumped and dropped my pick. A young woman with spiky dark hair stood on the other side of the window. She was wearing a retro-looking pink shawl over a tank top and jeans. A line of tiny hoop earrings sparkled on the curve of one ear.

  I opened the door to the listening room. “Sorry,” I said. “Do you want to use the room?”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you,” she replied. “You’re really good. What song were you playing?”

  “Oh, um … it doesn’t have a name yet,” I said, startled.

  The woman’s eyebrows shot straight up. “Did you write it?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Really,” she said. She leaned in, squinting at me like I was a bug or something. “I think I saw you perform yesterday at East Park.”

  “Yes!” I said proudly. “It’s our family band. We’re called the Tri-Stars.”

  Before she could reply, Mason came up behind her. “Can I help you?” he asked. “Or was my little sister playing too loud again?” He gave me a wink.

  “I’d like to hear more, actually,” said the woman, turning back to me. “I was just telling your sister here how much I liked her song.”

  Mason nodded. “Tenney’s our little star,” he said, making me blush.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Tenney,” she said, shaking my hand. “My name is Ellie.” She reached into her purse and handed me a card.

  “Ellie Cale,” I read aloud. “A&R Coordinator, Mockingbird Records.” My heart skipped a beat.

  “Mockingbird Records?” Mason repeated.

  “Tenney, I think you’re a great performer,” she told me. “You have a unique voice, solid guitar chops, and great stage presence. I knew you had something special when I saw you play yesterday at East Park, but now that I know you wrote that song—” She paused and nodded thoughtfully.

  I held my breath, waiting for her to finish her thought.

  At last she said, “Are you interested in pursuing a career in music? From what I’ve seen so far, I think you have a lot of potential.”

  My jaw felt like it dropped to the ground, I was so surprised.

  “You know she’s twelve, right?” Mason blurted.

  “Mason,” I snarled, glaring at him.

  Ellie chuckled. “Tenney, have you written any other songs?”

  “I have a few, but—”

  Mason interrupted me. “She writes all the time. She’s really talented.”

  “Great! We’re always looking for new artists who write their own songs,” Ellie continued. “Twice a year Mockingbird hosts a new talent showcase at the Bluebird Cafe. It’s a chance for us and some other labels and management to hear undiscovered talent. Our next showcase is in a month. Would you like to come and play an original song for us?”

  “Yes,” I blurted, before I could even process Ellie’s question. My brain started racing. The Bluebird Cafe? It’s one of the most famous music clubs in Nashville. Everyone from Garth Brooks to Faith Hill has played there. Taylor Swift was discovered during one of their songwriter nights. Just thinking about performing there gave me chills. I’d have to rework one of my old songs or finish my new one, but I could do it. I had to do it!

  “Great,” said Ellie. “Double-check to make sure your parents are cool with it, and then give me a call to confirm you’ll be there. Okay?”

  I nodded so hard my teeth chattered.

  After Ellie left, Mason and I ran to the front of the store to tell Dad about Ellie’s offer.

  “Wow,” he said, “that is something.”

  “It’s more than something—it’s amazing!” Mason said. He picked me up and spun me around.

  Dad laughed, but it was hard to tell what he was thinking. “We’ll talk about it with your mom tonight,” he said.

  As soon as we got home, Mason told Mom I’d been “scouted.”

  Dad showed Mom Ellie’s card. “Mockingbird Records is a solid label,” he said.

  “That is true,” Mom said, handing me silverware to set the table for dinner. She didn’t seem as excited as I expected. She barely said anything when Mason looked up Mockingbird Records on the Internet and rattled off the names of some of the great artists they had signed.

  “What if after Tenney sings at the showcase, Mockingbird decides to sign her?!” he said.

  My heart did a pirouette in my chest.

  My parents looked up at each other but didn’t say a word. Mom just handed the dinner rolls to Aubrey and said, “Will you put these on the table, sweetie?”

  Why aren’t they more excited? I wondered. I thought of Mom’s story about recording a demo with Silver Sun Records.

  “What if they let me make a demo—and then they decide to turn it into a record? And what if when it comes out, it’s a hit?” I asked, my mouth moving faster than my brain. I did an excited spin and bumped into Aubrey and her rolls.

  “Watch it,” she said with a frown, and set down the breadbasket.

  “Sor-ry!” I sang, dancing away.

  “Okay, Tenney,” Mom said, sounding amused. “Let’s not get too far out in front of this. It’s an invitation to a showcase.”

  “But it could be the first step to becoming a professiona
l musician!” I cried.

  My parents exchanged another tiny, cautious look.

  “What’s wrong?” I said, sensing that something was up.

  “Honey, we just think you might be a little young for something like this,” Dad said.

  “Yeah,” Aubrey chimed in. I shot her a glare.

  “Why am I too young? You were okay with me singing lead with the Tri-Stars! It’s just another performance,” I said.

  “It’s more than that,” Mom replied, gently. “You said it yourself—it could lead to bigger professional music opportunities for you. And that’s something that we need to consider carefully, as your parents.”

  I felt like I was a balloon that someone had just popped.

  “Are you saying I can’t play at the showcase?” I said.

  “We’re saying we need to discuss it in private,” Dad responded.

  “I don’t understand,” I said to Mom. “You played professionally. You even recorded a demo!”

  “I was a lot older than you at the time, sweetheart,” Mom said gently.

  “But I really want to perform at the showcase,” I insisted.

  “I know,” Mom said. She squeezed my shoulder. “Give your father and me a few days to think about this.”

  “You can be a star like me!” Aubrey wailed, eyes closed. “Know who you are and you’ll be free!”

  She had been listening to “Star Like Me” on repeat on Mom’s phone ever since we’d all piled into the food truck to drive to school. She was wearing earbuds, so I couldn’t hear the actual music, just her voice. That almost made it worse.

  I clapped my hands over my ears and stared at my songwriting journal. I’d been trying to brainstorm lyrics for my new song. It had been an entire day since Ellie Cale had invited me to perform at the showcase, and my parents had made it clear that they needed more time to make their decision. I was desperate for an answer—but for now all I could do was focus on my music and try not to think about it.

  So far, it hadn’t been easy. I still had only two lines: