by Kellen Hertz
I nodded, but I was still confused. “So what are you saying? Am I still grounded?”
Mom gave me a warm smile. “I think you and Mason have learned your lesson, and we’re glad you told us the truth. But we don’t want you to go sneaking around to perform again. So what I’m really saying is that Dad and I have decided that we’ll allow you to perform at the Mockingbird Records showcase—as long as you promise to take it slow and not let performing get in the way of what matters most: your family, your friends, and your schoolwork.”
Shocked, I tried to speak, but all that came out was a squeak. I threw my arms around her.
“I hope that’s a good noise,” she said with a chuckle.
“I promise I’ll make you proud,” I said.
She clasped my face in her hands. “You already have.”
That weekend, I only put down my guitar long enough to eat, sleep, and do homework. By Sunday evening, my fingers were raw from playing. I had a backache and I was tired, but I was starting to feel prepared.
As I shuffled up to my locker on Monday, Jaya gave me a concerned once-over.
“You look like you just saw ten Taylor Swift shows back-to-back,” she said. “Were your parents super mad about Printers Alley?”
“Oh my gosh! I was so busy practicing that I forgot to call you.” I told her everything, from being grounded to playing my song for Mom to finding out I could play the showcase.
“No way,” Jaya said.
“It’s true!” Though I could hardly believe it myself. “This could be my only chance to ever play at the Bluebird. I have to be really good,” I said as we entered the girls’ restroom.
Jaya put her hands on my shoulders. “Tenney, you got invited to perform at a professional showcase at the Bluebird Cafe hosted by Mockingbird Records! I’d say you’re already good. What if they give you a record contract?!”
“Everyone performing at the showcase will be hoping for that,” I said.
“They’re not Tenney Grant,” Jaya said, grinning.
I smiled back. Jaya’s confidence in me always makes me feel like I can do anything.
A stall clicked open behind us. Holliday Hayes sailed over to a sink, glancing at me in the mirror. A snicker slipped out of her.
“What’s so funny?” Jaya asked, bristling.
“Nothing,” Holliday shrugged. “I just think it’s silly to think Tenney would have a chance at a record deal, that’s all.”
“What do you know?” Jaya fired back. “You’ve never even heard Tenney sing.”
Holliday shrugged, and when she looked at me, her blue eyes sparkled like hard, cold jewels. “My dad runs a record label, remember?” she said. “I know how hard it is to make it big in music. You’re Tenney Grant, not Taylor Swift. You’re nothing special. I’m sure your music won’t be, either.”
My face was on fire, but I kept my voice steady when I replied. “I’m just going to play my music and do my best.”
“Good luck,” said Holliday, but the edge in her voice made it clear that she didn’t mean it at all. She pushed past us and out the bathroom door.
I stood perfectly still, feeling as if Holliday had trampled my heart with her plaid high-tops.
Jaya stepped in front of me, her eyes burning. “Tenney, don’t listen to one stupid word Holliday said. You are the one and only Tennyson Evangeline Grant. And you’re going to be amazing.”
As Jaya hugged me, I tried to believe that.
The morning of the showcase, I woke up to the smell of fresh blueberry muffins.
Suddenly I remembered: Tonight I’m singing at the Bluebird Cafe! A storm of excitement flooded through me. Then I heard Holliday’s words echoing in my mind: You’re nothing special. I’m sure your music won’t be, either.
Was Holliday right? What if my performance totally bombed? What if I did great, but nobody liked my song?
I’ve got to practice, I decided. So I shook off my worry and bounded downstairs and into the kitchen.
“You’re up early,” Mom said, rinsing a sudsy spatula at the sink. “The muffins will be ready in a few minutes.”
I kissed her good morning. “Thanks, but I’m too nervous to eat right now. I’m going to go practice for a little while.”
Mom nodded sympathetically. “Just be sure to play quietly so you don’t wake up Aubrey and Mason.”
I headed for the family room and grabbed my guitar from its stand before sitting cross-legged in front of the couch. Taking a deep breath to calm my jitters, I started playing scales to warm up. Within a few minutes, my stomach and my mind had settled down.
For the next hour, I played “Reach the Sky” nonstop. I practiced the chord progressions and worked on the parts where I sometimes mess up. Finally, Mom brought me a muffin and convinced me to take a break.
Dad poked his head in from the kitchen. “Thank goodness you stopped playing,” he said.
“Why?” I asked, confused.
“Because I have something better for you to practice on,” he said. He stepped into the room with a guitar case in his hand.
“What is that?” I said.
Dad gave me a lopsided grin and set the case in front of me. I ran my fingers over its smooth leather surface. Its shiny brass snap locks looked like they’d never been touched.
“Go ahead, open it,” Dad said.
I flipped open the clasps, lifted the lid, and gasped. It was my favorite mini Taylor guitar from my dad’s store, glowing aquamarine against the pink velvet of the case’s interior and leaving me breathless.
“Dad, this is too nice for me,” I said.
“You’re playing a professional gig,” Mom said, putting her arm around Dad’s waist. “So you need a professional guitar. Go on, try it out.”
I picked it up and strummed the first chords of my song. It sounded cleaner and clearer, richer and deeper than it had on my beater guitar. Playing it made me feel like I could fly.
“It’s amazing,” I said, hugging my parents. “Thank you so much.”
“This is an incredible opportunity for you as an artist, Tenney,” Dad said seriously. “Who knows who could be listening at the Bluebird tonight.”
“I know,” I said. Once again my stomach twisted into a nervous pretzel. A professional guitar meant I had no excuse for sounding bad onstage.
For the next few hours, I rehearsed with my new guitar on the porch. I’d played it before, of course, but performing with a new instrument is different. The strings were tighter than they’d been on my old beater, and I had to adjust the position of my left hand to get it around the guitar’s wider neck.
Maybe I shouldn’t play it at the show, I thought, but quickly dismissed that idea. My parents had given me my dream guitar. I had to play it.
As the day wore on, I tried to keep myself busy by reading and helping Mom in the kitchen and playing with Aubrey, but I couldn’t focus. The showcase was in just a couple of hours, and it was all I could think about.
“Earth to Tenney,” Aubrey said, waving her hands in front of my face. “It’s your turn.”
I looked down at our tic-tac-toe game and saw that her Xs had me trapped. “You win,” I said. “What should we do now?”
Aubrey perked up, her eyes sparkling with an idea. “Let’s get ready for your showcase!” she said.
I’d thought about performing for weeks, but somehow I hadn’t considered what to wear. As soon as we got upstairs, though, it became clear that Aubrey had spent a lot of time thinking about it. Within minutes, she’d laid out some outfits for me to try on: a pink dress with puffy sleeves and one of Aubrey’s tiaras, a super-fancy sequined dress that I used to wear when Jaya and I played dress-up, and a paisley lace top and sparkly tulle skirt.
“You have to try this one,” Aubrey insisted, holding up the pink dress. It was her style, not mine. It was itchy and frilly, and I’d hated wearing it to my cousin’s baptism last year. Luckily, it was too small now. And the sequined dress was fraying and way too showy. So that left the l
ace top and sparkly tulle skirt. Mom had bought them for me hoping I’d wear them for a Tri-Stars performance, but it always seemed too fancy for our shows at East Park and the library parking lot. I twirled around, looking at myself in the mirror. It was perfect for the showcase.
Aubrey squinted at me. “It needs something.”
“Like what?” I asked warily. I was not going to wear her tiara.
“Like this,” Aubrey said, holding out a small box wrapped in pink paper. “Open it.”
She bounced nervously as I ripped through the paper. Inside the box was a pretty hair comb covered in overlapping guitar picks that had been neatly glued together like tiny feathers.
“Wow! Where did you find this?” I asked.
“I made it,” Aubrey said. “I’ve been collecting picks just like you do. Do you like it?”
“I love it!” I said, and hugged her.
“I can’t wait to hear you rock out,” Aubrey told me, which made me laugh.
“Me, too,” said Mom, grinning from the hallway with a set of hot rollers in her hands.
Aubrey watched as Mom set my long hair in the rollers, then brushed it out in long waves. She fixed Aubrey’s comb so it was holding back one side of my hair, then sprayed everything with hairspray. She even let me put on sparkly lip gloss.
“So you don’t disappear under the lights,” she said, smoothing my hair.
When Aubrey followed Mom downstairs, I hung back, taking one last look in the mirror. I almost didn’t recognize myself. With my flowing hair and comb, shimmery makeup and outfit, I looked a little like a movie star.
In an hour, I’ll be onstage at the Bluebird.
My stomach clenched, but I inhaled deeply and smiled at the girl in the mirror. Don’t worry, I said to her in my head. You’re just not used to this yet.
The Bluebird Cafe is a small club tucked between shops in a strip mall. If you didn’t know that it was one of the most famous music clubs in Nashville, you’d miss it.
Dad pulled into the nearly full parking lot and found a space. The show wasn’t starting for another half hour, but the place was already hopping, with people mingling around a handful of tables. A line of microphones stood on a low stage against the back wall, which was lit up with a neon sign of a soaring bluebird and some strings of twinkly lights. The Bluebird wasn’t big or fancy like the Ryman Auditorium, but I’d never been more excited to play anywhere.
The host led us to a reserved table by the side of the stage. I sat down facing the club’s entrance. The showcase was by invitation only for performers and guests, and Ellie had told my mom that I could invite my family plus one friend, so I asked Jaya. Before long I spotted her coming through the front door. I caught her eye and waved.
“This place is so cool!” Jaya said, looking around. She unbuttoned her bright green coat, revealing a purple T-shirt with Tenney Rocks! printed across it in my special font.
“Great shirt!” I said.
“I made it!” Jaya said. “How else will everybody know that I’m your biggest fan?”
The door opened again, and in walked Ellie Cale with a gray-haired man in a porkpie hat. Ellie grinned at me and led the man to our table.
“Tenney! I’m so glad you’re performing tonight,” she said.
“Me, too,” I said. My voice sounded far off, like I wasn’t even in the room.
“Tenney, this is my uncle Zane, the head of Mockingbird Records,” Ellie said.
Zane Cale shook my hand and then introduced himself to my family. He didn’t really look like the head of a big music label—he looked more like your goofy uncle who plays ukulele. He was wearing red cowboy boots and a bolo tie shaped like the state of Texas. His gray hair stood straight out under his hat, like he’d been electrified, but his eyes were warm and thoughtful as he looked down at me.
“I hear you’re twelve,” he said solemnly.
“Yes,” I replied.
“What sort of music do you like?” he asked.
“A little bit of everything,” I said. “But mostly singer-songwriters.”
“Well, that’s good, because we love singer-songwriters over at Mockingbird,” he replied.
“Well, I hope you like my song, Mr. Cale,” I said, blushing.
“I hope so, too,” he said. “And my friends call me Zane.” He gave me a wink and wandered off into the crowd.
“Is he looking to sign new artists?” Mason asked Ellie.
“We’re always looking,” Ellie said with a sparkle in her eye. She turned back to me and pointed to a row of chairs by the stage where a group of musicians were sitting tuning guitars. “When you’re ready, Tenney, you should go sit with the other performers.”
I glanced at the group of musicians. Most of them looked at least twenty years old. Ellie gave my shoulder a squeeze and walked off.
Mom glanced at me.
“Are you all right?” she asked, frowning.
I realized I was holding my breath. I nodded, letting out the air in a hard rush. I suddenly felt very warm. Even my feet were sweating. I reached down to loosen the straps on my new shoes.
“I think your cowboy boots are in the truck. Do you want them?” Mom asked.
“Maybe that’s a good idea,” I said.
I waited by the entrance while Mom went to get my boots. She’d only been gone a moment when the front door opened and Portia walked in wearing a purple poncho and leaning on her carved wood walking stick.
“Portia! What are you doing here?” I cried.
Her face cracked into a big open grin. “A little bird told me that you were playing here tonight,” she said. “And I couldn’t miss your big show! Look at you, all fancy.”
I smiled. “I’m glad you came.” I was about to ask her how she got a ticket for the showcase when she let out a whoop. “This place has more hop than a sack of jackrabbits,” she said, laughing.
I giggled and spotted Ellie making her way toward us. I thought she was going to urge me to go sit by the musicians again, but I was surprised when she pulled Portia into a big hug.
“Portia!” she said, beaming. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! How are you feeling?”
“Still using this old thing,” Portia said, tapping her stick, “but I’m doing better. I came to see Tenney sing,” she continued, looking at me.
“I didn’t know you knew each other!” Ellie said.
I nodded, but before I had time to ask how they knew each other, Ellie hooked her arm with Portia’s and said, “Come on with me. Uncle Zane’s got a table in back. He’ll be so happy you’re here.”
“All righty,” said Portia. She turned to me. “I’ll see you after, Miss Tenney. You knock ’em dead for me.”
By the time Mom returned with my boots, the place was so crowded that I couldn’t see where Portia and Ellie had gone.
Mom helped me slip on my favorite cowboy boots, and we went back to our table. Dad had my new guitar waiting.
“It’s almost five,” Dad said, handing it to me. “Time to take your place with the other performers.”
This was it. One by one, I hugged everyone. They all wished me luck.
Mom bent down so her face was level with mine. “You’re gonna be great,” she whispered. “Just be yourself, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, and walked over to my seat.
There was one empty chair left, between a girl with cherry-red hair and a short man with sideburns. The next few minutes before the show started seemed to last forever. I tuned my guitar and did vocal warm-ups. As the other performers chatted around me, I caught bits of their conversations.
“I sold the rights to that song, but they wouldn’t sign me …”
“… I’ve been singing backup for Miranda since May to pay the bills.”
“I’m supposed to play some clubs in Europe next month …”
The girl beside me warmed up on her banjo, her pick hand hammering out arpeggios at the speed of light.
These are real musicians, I thought. And I’m
just Tenney Grant. The butterflies in my stomach stopped twirling and started kickboxing.
Calm down, I thought. I looked around for a distraction. My eyes settled on a RESERVED sign sitting on an empty table right in front of the stage. I took a breath and closed my eyes.
I never should have opened them.
An elegant blonde woman was making her way to the reserved table in front of the stage. Behind her, in perfect lavender cowboy boots, was Holliday Hayes.
Oh no. I wanted to sink through my chair and disappear.
The house lights dimmed and the stage lights came up. Ellie climbed the steps to the microphone.
“Hey, y’all!” she chirped. “Thanks for coming!” She introduced the first musician and the show began.
I willed myself not to look at Holliday. Focus on the music, I thought, staring at the stage. My strategy worked through the first two singer-songwriters. But near the end of the third performance—a guy with a big beard and a fast, angry song—I let my gaze drift.
Holliday was staring at me with her cold blue eyes.
Suddenly, everything felt uncomfortable. My dress felt scratchy. Aubrey’s comb felt like a giant weight on my head. And Holliday’s words clanged around my brain: You’re nothing special. I’m sure your music won’t be, either.
Her words echoed inside me while the girl with the cherry-colored hair was singing about her cheating ex-boyfriend, and after she finished and the audience clapped. They echoed as I picked up my guitar and stepped on the stage for my turn.
Onstage, the lights felt hot and bright, the way they had at the Ryman. This time, instead of feeling exhilarated, I felt seasick. I looked out into the audience. All I could see was darkness.
“I’m Tenney Grant,” I said.
The mic zinged and I jumped, startled. I heard a supportive whoop that sounded like Mason. I shifted my guitar closer and plugged it in. Then I adjusted the microphone and started playing.
I was off from the moment I started. My tempo was too fast. Trying to slow down, I shifted my weight onto the other foot. That’s when I dropped my pick. The guitar shuddered to a stop.
