by Kellen Hertz
“Sorry,” I mumbled. My face burned as I bent to pick it up.
Staycalmstaycalmstay—
“Okay,” I said.
I started over. This time, I got through the intro and was just about to start singing the first verse, when I heard it. The A string was sharp. Suddenly, everything sounded wrong.
“Sorry,” I said, and stopped again. I stood there, frozen, staring at the darkness beyond the edge of the stage.
Had I just ruined the biggest opportunity of my life?
Under the stage lights, my skin felt like it was on fire. I stared at the stars clustered on my guitar frets, begging them for help. Somewhere in the audience, someone let out a concerned murmur. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that when I opened them I’d be back in my bedroom and this would all be a dream. As I did, though, I heard Mom’s voice telling me, Just be yourself.
Something in me clicked. Maybe I’d messed up part of the most important performance of my life. But it wasn’t over yet.
“Sorry, folks—technical problems,” I said, retuning my A string. A few people laughed.
I noticed a chair tucked into a corner of the stage. I moved it to the microphone. I lowered the mic and sat on the chair cross-legged, shifting my guitar into my lap. Finally, I felt comfortable—I felt like myself.
I curled into my guitar and started the song over. After the intro, I glanced out at the audience. My eyes had adjusted and I could see people now, even Holliday. She suddenly seemed far away, and it no longer bothered me that she was there. All I wanted to do was sing.
“I am planted in the ground, tiny like a seed,” I sang. “Someday I will make you proud. I’ll be steady like a tree. Will you teach me how to grow?”
I glanced at my family. Mom was next to Dad, glowing with pride. With my eyes locked on hers, I poured my heart into the chorus.
“Gonna be myself, nobody else. Gonna reach the sky if I only try.”
As I started the next verse, I heard my own voice for the first time since I’d stepped onstage. I sounded like my mother, my voice strong, clear, and unbroken. I played the chorus and then the bridge, my fingers dancing along the frets. I had played my song millions of times by now, but in this moment, I felt like I was hearing it anew. Every measure made me happy.
Finally, I played the last chords, lifting my fingers off the strings to make the ending pop. For a moment, I only heard silence. Then applause hit me in a crashing wave. Some people even gave me a standing ovation. Awe shivered through me. They liked it!
“Thank you so much,” I said.
The moment the show finished, my family and Jaya swept me up in a wave of hugs.
“You were great!” said Aubrey.
“I love the changes you made to the second verse!” Mason said.
“I wish I hadn’t messed up at the top,” I said.
“It’s not how you start, it’s how you finish,” Mom said, and Jaya nodded. I hoped they were right.
I looked around. “I’ll be right back,” I told Mom. “I want to find Portia.”
I slipped through the crowd, craning my neck. When I finally found her, she was talking to the girl with the cherry-red hair.
“It was such an honor to meet you,” the girl said, shaking Portia’s hand.
“My pleasure,” said Portia, looking a little uncomfortable. She spotted me and gave me a wink.
I grinned, but before I could join their conversation, I felt a hand touch my elbow. I turned to find Holliday’s mother beaming at me. Holliday stood behind her, grimacing like she’d just swallowed a lemon.
“Tenney, you were wonderful!” Mrs. Hayes gushed. “So much talent!”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I know a future star when I see one, and you are it,” she said. Then she turned to her daughter. “Holliday, maybe if you hadn’t quit practicing, you could’ve been up on that stage with Tenney.”
Holliday turned bright red.
“Holliday’s wanted to be a country music starlet since she was seven,” continued Mrs. Hayes, “but she hated playing guitar, and voice lessons didn’t go so well.”
“Mom!” Holliday hissed.
“It’s fine, hon. You can’t help it if you’re tone deaf,” Mrs. Hayes said, patting her on the shoulder.
Holliday stared at the ground, looking as if she wanted to disappear.
Suddenly, I felt bad for her. “Holliday’s really good at other things,” I said to Mrs. Hayes. I looked at Holliday. “Like planning! You’re doing a great job on the Jamboree.”
Holliday squinted at me, as if she couldn’t figure out why I was being so nice.
“Thanks,” she mumbled at last.
I excused myself and made my way back to our table, where Zane was talking to my parents.
“Tenney!” he said, noticing me. “Great song.”
“Thank you,” I said. My heart was hammering a mile a minute in my chest.
“I enjoyed your performance very much,” Zane said. “I have to shake some hands, but I’d like to sit down later to discuss it with you and your parents. Is that all right?”
It was more than all right. This was the moment I had been waiting for.
Mason took Jaya and Aubrey home while my parents and I went to meet Zane at a nearby diner. The whole way there, I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. Even once my parents and I sat down in the booth across from Zane, it seemed like a fuzzy dream. I couldn’t quite believe I was here, getting ready to talk with Zane Cale about signing to Mockingbird Records! After all, why would he have asked to meet in person if he wasn’t going to sign me?
“Thank you for coming,” Zane said, sipping his coffee.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I’m really excited to be here.”
I glanced up at my mom. What if Zane offers to sign me and she says no? I wondered. But my worries floated away when Mom squeezed my hand under the table.
Zane rocked back and forth thoughtfully. “Tenney, what happened at the beginning of your performance?” he asked, cocking his head.
Mom and Dad both bristled. Dad started to say something, but Zane Cale put up his hand.
“I’m asking Tenney,” he said gently.
“Um, I was nervous. And I didn’t feel like myself,” I said.
Zane Cale nodded, watching me. His eyes were like a bloodhound’s: soft and droopy, wise and maybe a little sad. “You know, I’ve been in music a long time, and I’ve found that the quickest way to fail as a performer is to not be yourself,” he said. “You have to be authentic in everything you do, always. That’s true in life, too, but it’s especially true onstage. If you do something that isn’t you, your audience can smell it.”
“I agree,” I said. I liked that he wasn’t talking down to me.
“What do you like about writing music, Tenney?” he asked.
I thought for a second. “I like finding the right words to express how I feel,” I said, “and I like performing my own songs.”
“And why do you like to perform?” Zane asked.
“Because I want to say something with my music that people can relate to,” I said.
Zane Cale nodded again. He nodded for so long that I wondered whether I’d said something wrong.
“I think you’re extremely talented, as both a songwriter and a performer, Tenney,” he said finally. “You have a fantastic voice and strong stage presence. But you’re also very young, which may be why you got flustered onstage.”
“Tenney’s performed quite a bit with our family band,” Dad said.
Zane nodded, his eyes still locked on mine. He leaned in. “Tenney, you were very good. But I needed to see you own the stage the whole time you’re on it,” he said sincerely. “I don’t think you’re ready for a record contract.”
“Oh,” I said with a trembling voice.
We sat there in silence for a long moment. I kept waiting for Zane to say something else, but he didn’t. I couldn’t look at him, so I looked at Mom instead. Her eyes were blazing.
>
“You could have told us this at the Bluebird,” she said, “and spared Tenney’s feelings.”
Zane looked mystified. He shifted his gaze over to me.
“Tenney, you want to have a career in music. Right?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Ellie asked me to listen to you and think about your potential, so I did. I wanted to sit down with you face-to-face, to let you know my thoughts. The best thing for anyone in this business is to hear an honest opinion,” he continued. “I think you have the potential to be a professional musician, Tenney. But I don’t think you’re ready. Not yet. Do you understand?”
I nodded. Hearing that made me feel a little better. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, Mr. Cale,” I said, sitting up a little straighter.
“You’re welcome,” Zane Cale said, and he winked at me with one of his bloodhound eyes.
The drive home was one long, sad pause interrupted by my parents’ attempts to make me feel better.
“It sounds like a record contract isn’t even something Mockingbird would consider for someone your age,” Dad said.
“Right,” Mom agreed.
They both kept talking about what a good job I’d done. Finally, I told them I was over it, but I’m pretty sure they could tell I wasn’t.
Mason was waiting for us out front when we got home. He started to ask what happened, but Mom hushed him. Watching Mason’s expression change from excitement to pity made me feel even worse.
“I’m really tired,” I said. “I’m going upstairs.”
Aubrey was asleep in our room, but Waylon was by the foot of my bed, waiting for me. In the half-dark, I sat down and hugged him, letting myself feel devastated.
When I stepped into the hallway to go brush my teeth, I saw Mom. She was standing in the doorway to her room.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Are you okay?”
I shrugged, feeling my bottom lip tremble with an uncried sob. “I know I shouldn’t feel bad,” I said, “but I feel like I failed.”
“You didn’t,” Mom said firmly. “You were very brave to sit up on that stage all alone. And you were so good, honey.” She hugged me, and I realized I’d never needed a hug so badly. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I tightened my arms around her.
“You can still play music, no matter what,” Mom said. “That’s the most important thing—to keep trying.”
I knew she was right, but at that moment, my heart hurt too much to imagine ever playing again.
Over the next week, my family tiptoed around me. Mom made me even more blueberry muffins, and Dad gave me a new pick. Aubrey kept telling me how pretty I looked. It was like I’d been struck by lightning or something, and everyone was afraid they’d get shocked if they got too close. I knew they were trying to make me feel better, but it made me self-conscious.
To keep my mind off the showcase, I focused on homework and preparing with the Jamboree committee after school. I helped build stalls and painted banners and tied up straw bales that we would use for seating. Inside my head, I wasn’t hearing music or thinking about lyrics, as I usually did—everything was silent. I didn’t feel like myself, and I really didn’t feel like performing. The problem was, I was still signed up for the Jamboree.
Finally, I told Ms. Carter I didn’t think I wanted to perform anymore.
“Are you sure?” she asked, frowning.
I wasn’t completely sure, but I nodded anyway.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll find someone else to take your spot.”
The morning of the Jamboree, some parents helped us bring everything over from the school gym to the senior center. The Jamboree committee spread out and started setting up the booths. I was fastening colorful fall leaves to some windows when I heard my name. I looked over. Portia was walking toward me, leaning on her walking stick.
“There you are!” she said. “I’ve been looking all over for you. We never really got to talk after your show at the Bluebird.”
“Oh, right,” I said. The showcase felt like it happened years ago.
“You were really good, once you found your groove,” Portia said. “The song was every bit as good as I remembered, too. I’m glad you took my advice about that bridge.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Zane told me that you were pretty disappointed that he didn’t sign you—” Portia paused and waited for me to respond, but I just stared at the ground to signal that I didn’t want to talk about it. She seemed to understand and changed the subject.
“So! Have you been practicing for this shindig?” Portia asked, waving a hand at the corner of the yard where some parents were building the Jamboree stage.
I shook my head. “I’m not going to play today, actually,” I said, feeling a twinge of regret.
Portia looked at me like I’d just told her I was moving to Mars.
Before she could say anything, I continued, “I told Ms. Carter to give my slot to someone who really wants to perform.”
Portia’s mouth twisted into a lopsided grimace. I thought she was going to try to convince me to play. Instead, she gave a tiny nod.
“Very well,” she said. After a moment of awkward silence she said, “Can you excuse me for a minute? I need to say hi to someone.”
Glad to be done with the uncomfortable questions, I went looking for Jaya. The courtyard swirled with activity. Game, food, and craft stalls had been set up on all sides around the Jamboree stage. A pink stall by one wall invited guests to MAKE YOUR OWN SWEET TEA! and catty-corner from that, the bake sale table stretched out forever, loaded with goodies. Papier-mâché trees with tissue-paper flowers curved around the doors to the courtyard like a garden arbor. Glittery strings of lights hung from a main tent pole, creating a magical, sparkly canopy. Surrounded by all this excitement, it was very hard to stay in a bad mood. Working on the Jamboree had made me feel part of something bigger than myself. Now, watching it unfold around me, I was flooded with pride for my school and my community.
I spotted Jaya setting up a corner stall with Frank. They were wearing rainbow-striped aprons and were surrounded by stacks of colored paper and a shiny metal printing press. As I walked up, Jaya lifted a colorful Jamboree poster off the press and clipped it to a clothesline above her to dry.
“Great poster!” I said, excited.
“Thanks!” Jaya said. “Want to see how we do it?”
Jaya showed me how to roll the ink onto the carved wooden letters in the press. Then she gently laid a piece of poster paper over the letters and slid a bar over it to press the paper into the ink. By the time my poster was dry, the Jamboree doors had opened and people were streaming in.
I spotted my family and waved them over.
Aubrey was practically squirming with excitement. “They have face painting! And a bouncy castle!” she cried, yanking Dad and Mason ahead.
Mom laughed and put her arm around me. “Do you want to introduce me to this Portia that I’ve been hearing all about?”
I brought Mom over to the bake sale table, but I didn’t see Portia among the other volunteers.
“What a nice stage,” Mom said, gesturing ahead of us to the wide circular platform. “It’s too bad you decided not to play.”
“Yeah,” I said, my eyes lingering on the stage. After a moment I spotted Ms. Carter and Portia stepping out from behind a tall speaker.
I grabbed Mom’s arm and brought her over.
“Hey, I thought you were going to meet me at the baked goods table,” I said as we approached.
“I had a different idea,” Portia said, and shifted. I noticed that her guitar was slung across her back.
“Are you playing?” I said, surprised.
She nodded. “I thought I’d do a few songs,” she said.
Mom was staring at Portia with a strange look on her face. I realized I’d forgotten to introduce them.
“Mom, this is my senior partner, Portia,” I said.
“Yes, wow!” Mom said, her face turning red. She
seemed all fluttery—and very un-Mom. “I’m a huge fan of your music, Ms. Burns.”
I wrinkled my nose, confused. “What do you mean, a fan?” I asked.
“This is Patty Burns, honey,” Mom said. “She’s an amazing performer and songwriter.”
I shook my head. “No, Mom. Her name is Portia.”
Portia laughed. “My friends call me Portia. But my stage name is Patty.”
My mom grabbed Portia’s hands. “I saw you play the Ryman when I was eighteen. I remember it like it was yesterday!”
“So do I,” Portia said, chuckling.
“Wait—you’ve played the Ryman?” I said, stunned.
“A couple of times,” Portia said.
“Honey, she wrote ‘April Springs,’” Mom said to me.
“No way,” I said, realizing that this whole time I had been hanging out with the woman who wrote my favorite song. I blushed, suddenly remembering that I’d told Portia she needed to practice guitar more.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” I asked.
Portia waved a hand. “It wasn’t important,” she said. “But I’m glad you know now, so I can finally thank you.”
I looked up, surprised. “Thank me? For what?”
“Without you, I’d still be sitting in a corner feeling sorry for myself,” she said. “You helped me remember why I love music.”
“I did?” I said, feeling my cheeks burn red.
“Yes, ma’am,” Portia replied. “You’re the first person I’ve met in a long time who loves music as much as me. That’s why I told Ms. Carter I’d take your spot when you said you weren’t going to perform—” She paused and gave me a coy smile. “And why I’m hoping you’ll do me a favor and help me out onstage.”
It took a second for me to really understand what she’d just said.
“Help you out—now?”
“Well, in about twenty minutes,” Portia said with a chuckle. “Ms. Carter said you don’t have to work the baked goods if you get up there with me. That is, if it’s okay with your mom.”
“It’s up to Tenney,” Mom replied, her eyes bright with pride.
