“Whoa!” Harper puts her hands up. “I know you guys think I’m pushy, but I’m not that big of an ego-case. Plus, that’s too close to my dad’s band’s name.”
“Argh!” Jess gets up and stalks out to the hallway.
“There she goes again,” Harper says.
I hand her the CD and marker. “Hang on a second.”
I find Jess looking out a tall window. Her right hand, resting on the window ledge, is wrapped in a wrist guard, sore from the last two days of nonstop guitar.
“You look weird without your guitar,” I say, keeping my tone light.
“I feel weird. Gotta take a little break, I guess.” She holds up her wrist. “Or a big break, if we don’t get into Tall Grass.” She gives me a sideways, almost embarrassed look. “I had no idea so many groups would be trying for this.”
“Neither did I.” We both look out the window. The day’s getting darker. Across the street, the lights are on in the Honeycomb Café. “But don’t you think we sounded great yesterday?” I’m trying to convince myself as well as Jess.
“All the other acts probably think they sound great too. But eighty of us are wrong.”
“Let’s not think about that right now.”
“We have to.” Jess’s voice is flat, defeated. “We have to face the fact that we might not be good enough.”
I look at her full-on. “You sound like my mom. Only exceptional people succeed, so you might as well give up.”
Jess pulls back. “She said that?”
“Close enough. It’s what she thought. Is it what you think?”
Jess shrugs.
I’m suddenly angry. “I can’t believe you still don’t want to try for Tall Grass after all the work we’ve put into this. There’s competition, so we shouldn’t bother entering?”
“How good do you really think we are?”
“Fine.” I call out, “Harper, we’re pulling out.”
“Nat! That’s not what I said.”
Harper charges out of the office. “What’s with you two? I was getting the hairy eyeball in there.” She doesn’t seem to have heard what I said. She makes for the stairs. “He’s asked us to go somewhere else until we get this name thing sorted out.”
“We don’t need a name if we’re not entering the contest,” I say.
“What?” Harper pivots at the top of the stairs. She jabs a finger toward Jess, her bracelets jangling. “No. You are not pulling this again. You are not wrecking our chance at Tall Grass.”
“I know. I’m not. You two need to shut up for a minute.”
We do. Jess telling us to shut up is even weirder than Jess without a guitar.
“Sorry. But you got off track with that thing your mom said. Or I got you off track. I don’t know.” Jess puts her good hand up to her forehead, then lets it drop. “I suck at this. Talking about stuff.”
“You said we have to realize we might not be good enough,” I prompt her.
“We do.”
“Oh, great.” Harper flings her hands up.
Jess’s eyes stay on mine. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want us to enter the contest. I do. More than that, I want us to win one of those spots. It hit me yesterday. The way we worked. The way we sounded. We’re good. All three of us.” She looks at Harper. “We’re good separately and we’re good together.”
I want to grab my best friend and hug her hard. But that would drive her crazy. I simply say, “We’re better together.”
Jess points toward the office door. “But you saw all those entries. We might not get in. We have to face that.”
“Whoa!” Harper says. “As far as I’m concerned, A, we’ll get in—”
“But—”
“Uh-uh!” Harper makes a chopping motion. “And B, if we don’t get in…actually, I won’t even think about that.”
“We can still be a trio,” I declare.
The dreadlocks-and-glasses guy leans out of the Tall Grass doorway. “Ladies. There is a café across the street where they would be delighted to serve you all the caffeine you need to fuel your debate. It’s called Honeycomb. I suggest you go.”
Honeycomb.
I already love the word because of what happened there with Gabe. But something in the way the guy says it—his warm, musical voice—nudges at me.
“Thanks, Robert. We’ll do that.” Harper waves the white envelope.
“I shall be here, anxiously awaiting the outcome.” Robert waves back and disappears.
Honeycomb.
“Robert? I suppose you know him?” Jess asks Harper.
“I do now. I like to get to know people. You should try it.”
“I wonder if he’s one of the judges.”
“If so, I’ve just improved our chances with my charming ways. You’re welcome.” Harper heads down the stairs.
“Wait,” I say.
Harper stops. “What now?”
“Honeycomb.” I sweep my hands out like a magician unveiling a surprise.
Harper and Jess stare, waiting for more.
“Yes, Nat.” Harper speaks slowly. “That is where we’re going.”
“We don’t need to go. Honeycomb. Say it.”
“Are you having a seizure or something?”
“Honeycomb.” Jess breaks into a smile. She gets it. I knew she would.
“Our band name,” I say. “Sweet, smooth, natural.”
“Perfectly structured,” Jess adds.
It dawns on Harper. “Like our harmonies! Honeycomb. It’s good.”
I take the white envelope and our CD from Harper. “Come on, Honeycomb,” I say. “We’ve got an entry to submit.”
Ten
Two weeks later, Harper, Jess, Gabe and I wait in Darrell’s office for him to finish a lesson. He said we should check the Tall Grass site together. To emphasize “together” he made us turn off our cell phones and said, “No sneaking a peek before I get back.” The results would be posted at noon. The clock on Darrell’s desk now reads 12:03. I’m afraid we’ll combust from the anticipation.
“We could check on his computer,” Harper says, sidling toward Darrell’s chair.
“No! Jeez, Harper, have a little patience,” Jess says. She leans against the doorframe, hands in her jeans pockets. She looks relaxed, but I’ve caught her glancing to the hallway about ten times in the last three minutes. Checking for Darrell.
Gabe’s left leg jiggles against mine like it’s plugged into an overactive circuit board. Harper watches him but says nothing.
She and Jess found out about Gabe and me the day of the contest entry. We ended up going to the Honeycomb Café after all, because Harper insisted on celebrating our band name. The tattooed barista gave it away. “Hi again, Songbird! Where’s your boyfriend with the banjo?”
Jess grinned, happy for me. Harper said, “As long as he doesn’t get in the way of the trio.”
Now Jess pushes away from the door. “Here comes Darrell.” She perches on the couch arm beside me, and we exchange anxious smiles.
Darrell swings into the room and drops into his chair. “Sorry. Long conversation about minor scales. Thanks for waiting, gang.” He takes us in, then gives a small laugh. “You look like you’re waiting to be sentenced for something. Relax.”
“Relax?” Harper says. “This could be the most important news of my life.”
Jess winces, uneasy with Harper’s drama.
Darrell sighs and clasps his hands together on the desk. “Listen up. You guys need to remember that what’s important in all this is—”
“No!” I can’t quite believe that was me, but I also can’t stop. “I think what we need is to check the results. Now. Please.”
“What, no words of wisdom?” Darrell says, raising an eyebrow.
“No!” we yell.
“Fair enough.” Darrell turns his monitor in our direction. We get up and cluster around like it’s magnetized. He types. The Tall Grass festival website appears. The mainstage, blue sky, a crowd. I feel a hand grip mine.
Harper’s.
Darrell scrolls to the Young Performers tab and clicks. Image of a stool, a guitar and a mic on an empty stage. Gabe takes my other hand. Darrell clicks again and a column of names appears. We all strain forward. I skim the list: Hannah Mac… Heavy Lifting…Honeycomb.
“Honeycomb! I knew it. We’re in!” Harper squeezes my hand and pulls me into a bouncing, squealing, laughing hug.
We’re in, we’re in! sings through my brain.
I notice Gabe’s hand is gone, though I didn’t feel it leave. I turn away from Harper.
Darrell, Jess and Gabe stare at the screen.
Gabe’s head drops. Jess puts a hand gently on his shoulder.
Eleven
I can barely look at Gabe when he says, “That’s amazing, you guys. I’m totally pumped for you.” He’s doing a decent impression of cheerful, but his face is pale.
Jess is the first to answer. “I can’t believe you’re not on that list. It feels wrong.”
I don’t know what to say. I want to reach out and take Gabe’s hand back in mine, but I worry that would be mistaken for pity.
“It sucks,” Harper says.
Gabe stares at her, stony-faced. “Thank you, Harper. Yes, it sucks big-time. Listen,” he says when he sees Darrell about to talk, “I’m gonna head out. My dad had plans for us to meet up for lunch.”
They probably thought they’d have something to celebrate.
Darrell gets up and puts his arm around Gabe’s shoulder. “Let me walk you to the door, dude.”
As soon as Darrell and Gabe are down the hallway, Harper lets out a yelp of excitement.
Jess spins to face her. “No. You are not doing that right now. No frigging bouncing.”
I make sure to stand still.
“Okay, okay,” Harper says. “But aren’t you even a little psyched? We’re performing at Tall Grass!” She grabs me around the waist and gives me a tight shake.
“But Gabe isn’t. Can’t you, for once, think of someone else?” Jess plunks down on the couch. “Whatever. Never mind.”
Harper lets go of me. “‘Whatever’ is right,” she says, making air quotes. “This is hard for Gabe. I get that. I’m sorry about it.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, Miss More-Serious-Than-Everyone, I am.” Harper fishes her phone out of her bag. “I’m going to go call Grandma Barb. At least she’ll be happy about our news.”
She bumps into Darrell at the door. He says, “Hey, we’ve got details to go over. Where are you going?”
Harper aims her answer back into the room. “To talk to someone who gets this stuff. To a real musician.” She faces Darrell. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.”
She goes, and Darrell turns to me and Jess.
I flop onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. “I guess I should have let you tell us those words of wisdom earlier.”
“Nah. Probably wouldn’t have helped anyway,” Darrell says.
It’s the first time I felt like a real musician. Gabe’s words from the after-party pop into my head. Now Honeycomb will be at Tall Grass. Like real musicians. And Gabe won’t.
Is this how it feels to be a real musician?
* * *
When I get home from Darrell’s, Mom is happy, though surprised, to hear that Honeycomb got into the festival. Then I tell her our performance date.
“I think that’s when we drive Eric up to hockey camp.” She pulls her phone out of her purse. She’s all dressed up and ready to go with Dad and Eric to the end-of-year hockey banquet. She scrolls to the calendar. “Yes. The same day.”
She says it as if Tall Grass was organized specifically to conflict with hockey camp.
“I can get a ride with Jess and her mom.” I open the fridge and pretend to be deeply interested in what’s inside so I can hide my disappointment.
Eric appears, a moth drawn to the fridge light, and reaches past me for a pop.
“The festival’s outside the city, isn’t it?” Mom asks.
“In Old Plains Park.” I close the fridge, empty-handed. “Why?”
“What festival?” Eric cracks open the pop.
“Don’t get anything on your white shirt, Eric,” Mom says. She leans out to the hallway and yells, “Carl, are you almost ready to go?”
I answer Eric. “The Tall Grass festival. Honeycomb got in.”
He wipes at a drop of orange pop on his sleeve. “What’s Honeycomb?”
“Nat’s trio,” Mom answers. “They got into the Young People’s competition. That’s pretty great.”
I’m so surprised she sounds enthusiastic I don’t even care that she got the contest name wrong.
“Cool, Nat.” Eric gives me a fist bump. Guzzles his pop.
“Thanks. It is kind of a big deal.” Amazing. Two family members impressed by my musical accomplishment.
Eric crumples his pop can. “You’ll get to hang out with all the potheads who go there.”
“Eric!” Why was I stupid enough to think he was impressed?
“What potheads?” Dad comes into the kitchen, wafting aftershave smell.
Eric smirks. “Nat’s group is singing at the Smoking Grass Festival.”
“What?” Dad swivels in my direction.
“Tall Grass Music Festival!” I say.
“So…is that good?” Dad asks Mom, his translator.
“It’s very good.” She herds him and Eric toward the door. “I’ll explain in the car. Your son’s being ridiculous.” She says over her shoulder, “It’s lovely news, Nat. We’ll see if we can figure something out.”
Then they’re gone.
“I’m glad you’re all so thrilled for me,” I say into the silence.
* * *
Alone in the basement, I take advantage of the empty house to practice singing scales at the piano. I hate doing it when Eric’s on the game player, or when Mom or Dad comes down for laundry.
My phone vibrates beside me on the bench. Finally. A text from Gabe. I’ve texted him about ten times since he left Darrell’s office earlier.
Thnx for txts. I’m fine. Don’t need to call me. U shld prob focus on T Grass. Good luck.
I scroll back to see if I somehow missed an earlier message. Nothing. I let the phone drop back onto the bench and close the lid over the piano keyboard.
Twelve
A week later the trio is back at the Tall Grass office to meet our new mentor.
Robert is behind the desk, sporting green glasses today and an ivory tunic. “Welcome back, Loud Ladies of the Hallway. All has worked out, I see.”
“It has,” Harper says, beaming.
Except it hasn’t. I haven’t heard from Gabe since he sent that single text. Plus Jess is pissed off at the idea of a new mentor.
When Darrell reminded us about the mentor the day the results were announced, Jess complained, “I don’t want to work with someone new. This ridiculous contest makes everything so complicated.”
Darrell said, “Try to embrace the opportunity.”
Jess hasn’t exactly embraced it, but she’s here. I’m determined to embrace everything about Tall Grass. It’s the best thing in my life right now.
“Honeycomb, Honeycomb,” Robert says, flipping through papers. “Ah, you are to work with Ingrid Leo.” He makes it sound like we are being introduced to royalty. “An exceptional musician. An exceptional teacher.”
“See, Jess? This’ll be good for us,” I say.
“More than good,” Robert says. “Transforming.”
“Wow,” says Harper. “That’s quite the endorsement.”
“Ingrid is my wife. Quite terrifying.” Robert winks. “She’s down the hall, the orange door on the left. You have precisely one hour. You’ve brought your music, I trust?”
“Of course,” Harper answers for us.
When we arrive at the orange door, two guys come out. They’re dressed all in black from their wool hats to their boots, and one carries a coffin-shaped guitar case. As they pass us, one says, “That was harsh
, bro. I feel sorta dizzy.”
The other replies, “Same here. But not, like, in a good way.”
“Wonderful,” Jess mumbles.
Harper leads Jess and me into the room and puts on her sparkly voice. “Hello? It’s Honeycomb.”
A tiny, porcelain-skinned woman stands barefoot in the middle of the room. She has spiky blond hair and wears a boxy, origami-like shirt over black tights.
I’ve seen her before. She was the impatient customer at Crescendo Music. The one with all the books. The one Bushy-Beard was afraid of.
“Well, that last group was unprepared.” A voice strong as a tuba coming out of the body of a doll. “Let’s see how you three fare.”
* * *
Twenty minutes into our session, Ingrid Leo plants one of her surprisingly large hands on my stomach. “Breathe in so my hand is forced outward,” she commands.
I try.
A dismissive grunt. “Again. Mean it this time.”
Mean my breath? I try again.
Ingrid withdraws her hand. My breath is disappointing to her. She didn’t pay all this attention to Harper’s breathing. “Let me show you.” She takes one of my hands and flattens it on her crisp shirt, over her stomach. I do my best to pretend I’m totally relaxed about this. One of her hair spikes almost stabs me in the eye.
“Picture the breath going behind the lungs, behind and under.” Ingrid takes a breath, and I feel my hand being pushed away. “Emotion lives in our solar plexus, so that’s where breath needs to go. To where our emotion lives.”
My hand vibrates from the force of her voice. “Wow.”
“You see?” Ingrid smiles at me. “Every note—every emotion—needs to be supported by enough breath. It takes lifelong practice.”
Jess, sitting beside Harper on the floor, leans back on her hands. “I’m all for lifelong practice, but the festival’s in July. We’ve been warming up for half an hour. Are we going to get to the actual songs today?”
“Jess!” Harper stands up, as if Jess is suddenly contagious.
“Come over here, Jess.” Ingrid’s voice is somehow creamy and steely at the same time. “Harper, you too.”
She makes us face each other, about three feet apart. “The chorus in ‘Blue Skywriting,’ it changes throughout the song, doesn’t it?”
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