by Kellen Hertz
“It’s called an esraj,” she replied, running her bow over its strings while her other hand moved over the frets. It sounded a lot like a violin playing deep, minor tones.
She began playing an upbeat song that made Mrs. Mitra, Jaya, and me tap our feet. When it was over, we burst into applause.
“That was awesome,” I said.
“I loved it,” Jaya added. “I hope you get to perform that at your school concert.”
“Me, too,” said Mina. “My favorite teacher, Miss Alimah, told me it’s a song about hope. I keep playing it as a prayer to keep our teachers at the school and to reopen the building as soon as possible.”
When she said that, my heart broke. “We’re sending you good thoughts from Nashville,” I told her.
Mina thanked me, and we said our good-byes.
Jaya put our plates in the dishwasher and then sat down across from me at the kitchen table, resting her chin in her hand.
“Such terrible news about Mina’s school,” her mother said.
I nodded. “I just wish we could do more than send good thoughts.”
Suddenly, Jaya’s face lit up. “We could!” she said. “What if we raised some money ourselves to help rebuild the school? It would be girls helping girls across the world!”
“That’s a great idea!” I said.
“It is,” Jaya’s mom said, standing up. “If you want, I can e-mail the school’s director and find out how much money it would take to rebuild. Although I’ll warn you, it might be more expensive than you think.”
“That’s okay,” Jaya said stubbornly. “If Tenney and I work as a team, we could raise the money together. It’ll be fun, right?”
“Definitely!” I agreed. Besides playing music, I couldn’t imagine anything more fun and important than working on a good cause with my best friend.
I had a test on Monday, but as I pored over my textbook for one last study session, I couldn’t shake the melody ringing in my head. Music’s always taking over my brain at odd moments, like when I should be thinking about fractions. I pulled my songwriting journal out of my backpack. When I get an idea, I have to write it down fast, or it buzzes around my brain like a mosquito. I’d just finished writing out the chord progression in my notebook when Jaya rushed up to me.
“Guess what!” she said. “My mom got a response from the director of Mina’s school in Bangladesh this morning.”
“Oh!” I said, stuffing my journal in my bag as we started down the hall. “What did it say?”
“They need to replace part of the school’s roof and repair some water damage,” said Jaya. “She said it’ll cost about three thousand dollars.”
“Wow,” I said. Jaya’s mom had said it would cost a lot, but three thousand dollars? The most money I’d ever raised was forty-six dollars for a jog-a-thon in third grade.
“I know it’s a lot,” Jaya chimed in, as if she were reading my mind. “We just need to find a good way to raise the money.”
“What if you designed a poster?” I thought aloud. “We could make prints and sell copies, sort of like you did for the Jamboree.”
Jaya’s eyes glittered with excitement. She loves making art. “Great idea,” she said. “But I’m not sure we can sell three thousand dollars’ worth of posters. Besides, posters cost money to print.”
“Right, I didn’t think of that,” I admitted.
“Could we persuade Zane to let you record a song as a fund-raiser?” Jaya said dreamily. “If it became a hit, you would become a star and the record would sell tons of copies. We’d make more than enough money to donate to the school.”
For a second, I imagined myself traveling the world, playing concerts, and raising money to fix all the world’s problems. Then I came back to earth.
“Mina said that the school would close if they couldn’t find the money to repair the building by the end of next month,” I said. “That means we only have about a month and a half. I think recording a song and waiting for it to get big would take too long.”
“Good point,” Jaya said, sighing. Her forehead furrowed with worry as we reached Ms. Carter’s classroom and went inside.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll figure out how to raise the money.”
“What are you raising money for?” said a familiar voice behind me.
Our classmate Holliday Hayes stood in the doorway behind us, her golden-brown ponytail cascading perfectly over her shoulder like a shampoo commercial. I noticed that the colorful embroidery on her jeans coordinated perfectly with her jewel-toned backpack.
“Oh. Hi, Holliday,” I said, smiling to cover up the edge in my voice. I’ve always felt a little uneasy around Holliday because she likes to make everything a competition—and she usually wins.
Jaya didn’t seem to notice my discomfort, though. She explained to Holliday that we were trying to raise money for her cousin’s school in Bangladesh. “But Tenney and I have to find a solution fast. The longer we wait, the more likely it is that the school will never reopen.”
“I’d love to help!” said Holliday, practically sparkling with excitement.
I wanted to say that we didn’t ask for her help, but instead I nodded politely. I remembered how she’d pretty much taken control of planning the Jamboree. I could only imagine how she’d boss us around about this!
Jaya seemed to be reading my mind. “Thanks, Holliday,” she said. “Once Tenney and I figure out a plan, we’ll let you know if there’s anything you can do to help out.”
Holliday’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh,” she replied, sounding a little hurt. For a moment I felt bad for her … but then she opened her mouth again. “You should. I wouldn’t want to watch you two crash and burn just because you don’t have enough help.”
A spike of anger hit my stomach, but before I could figure out a snappy comeback, the bell rang and Ms. Carter asked us all to take our seats.
Jaya leaned into me playfully. “Don’t worry about Holliday,” she said. “I’m just glad we’re doing this together.”
“Me, too,” I said, nudging her back so she knew that I really meant it.
That afternoon, Jaya told me she’d volunteered to help Ms. Carter take down winter decorations and put up spring ones, so we wouldn’t get a chance to brainstorm fund-raising ideas after school.
“I promise to call you tonight,” said Jaya, squeezing my hand as we walked out of the building.
“Sounds good!” I said. Spotting my brother waiting for me by the front steps, I waved good-bye to Jaya.
As I stepped down to the sidewalk, Holliday rushed past me, her backpack brushing my shoulder. She opened the door of a white SUV waiting in front of the school and glanced over her shoulder at me, crinkling her nose. I couldn’t tell whether she was giving me a mean look or if she had to sneeze. Before I could figure it out, she flipped her perfect hair and climbed into the car.
“What was that about?” asked Mason.
“Nothing,” I said, swallowing the hard pebble of irritation that had risen in my throat. Mason shrugged, and we continued walking the few blocks from Magnolia Hills Middle School to Dad’s instrument shop, Grant’s Music and Collectibles.
Dad gave us a wave when we walked in. He was on a stepladder, dusting the rows of guitars, banjos, and mandolins hanging along the far wall up to the ceiling. Every inch of the shop was packed with stuff: instruments, sheet music, vinyl records, and music posters. There was a rehearsal stage up front and a listening room in back. It was pretty much musicians’ heaven.
My sister, Aubrey, came out of the back storeroom with our pet golden retriever, Waylon, trailing behind her. Aubrey was wearing one of her countless flower crowns. So was Waylon. Aubrey’s seven and thinks everything looks better with glitter and petals, even if it slobbers.
“Finally!” Aubrey said to me. “Come play hide-and-seek with me and Waylon.”
“I can’t,” I said, pulling the tiara off Waylon’s head. “I’m supposed to play my new songs for Zane tomorrow
, and I have to practice.”
“Nooo!” Aubrey moaned, like the world was ending. “All you do anymore is write songs, practice your guitar, and ignore me.”
“I’ll play with you as soon as we get home,” I promised.
I grabbed my guitar case from behind the front register and headed to the small, wood-lined listening room at the back of the store. I closed the door and began tuning my guitar, admiring the white flowers and birds inlaid on its aquamarine body.
Then I set my songwriting journal on the music stand in front of me. Flipping through the pages, I paused, looking at my notes for “Reach the Sky,” the song I had performed at the Bluebird Cafe showcase. I had written it for my mom, because I wanted her to know how much she inspired my music. It was the first “real” song I ever wrote—all the songs I’d come up with before then were about silly things, like going on vacation or the time Waylon escaped from our backyard. But Portia once told me, “A good song is always about something meaningful to you.”
I flipped ahead to my notes on the guitar riff I’d had in my head this morning. Hugging my guitar close, I strummed out the chord progression. It was a sad, slow melody, and I liked it a lot. But what should it be about? I asked myself.
I tried to think about the things that made me sad. Rainy days and math tests made me sad, but I didn’t think I could write a meaningful song about puddles or long division. Seeing Mina upset made me sad, but I knew she’d be super happy when Jaya and I figured out how to raise the money to save her school.
Then I thought of Holliday and the way she made me feel this afternoon.
She’d made me feel the same way a few months ago, right after she found out I was performing at the Bluebird Cafe. “You’re nothing special,” she had told me. “I’m sure your music won’t be, either.” Even though it had been a while since that happened, her hurtful words still stung. Jaya and I definitely didn’t need Holliday’s bad energy around our fund-raiser.
Angry heat rose in my throat, and suddenly, the first words to the song popped into my head. I folded my legs under my guitar, took a breath, and started playing.
When it was time to go home, I had come up with the first verse and the chorus to my new song. I guess Portia was right, I thought as I packed up my guitar. Some songs do come out right the first time you play them. I couldn’t wait to play my new song for Portia and Zane the next afternoon.
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Cover illustration by Juliana Kolesova
Author photo credit: Sonya Sones
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First printing 2017
e-ISBN 978-1-338-15206-7
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