American Girl Contemporary Series 1, Book 2 Read online

  For Mom and Dad,

  who taught me to sing my own song,

  and for Katie, who was always there to listen to it

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1: STUDIO TIME

  CHAPTER 2: COUSIN MINA

  CHAPTER 3: NEW IDEAS

  CHAPTER 4: A BIG OPPORTUNITY

  CHAPTER 5: TWO SURPRISES

  CHAPTER 6: IN A JAM

  CHAPTER 7: REALLY LISTEN

  CHAPTER 8: UNEXPECTED HARMONY

  CHAPTER 9: DOUBLE-BOOKED

  CHAPTER 10: FESTIVAL LIGHTS

  CHAPTER 11: OFF TEMPO

  CHAPTER 12: A BREAK IN THE MUSIC

  CHAPTER 13: AN UNEXPECTED ALLY

  CHAPTER 14: MAKING AMENDS

  CHAPTER 15: BANDING TOGETHER

  CHAPTER 16: A STAR ON THE RISE

  CHAPTER 17: SINGING TO THE SKY

  CHAPTER 18: NEXT STEPS

  SONG LYRICS

  ABOUT THE SONGWRITERS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PREVIEW OF TENNEY SHARES THE STAGE

  REQUEST A CATALOGUE

  LEARN MORE ABOUT TENNEY

  COPYRIGHT

  “You nervous, honey?” Mom asked me as our pickup rattled along the parkway toward downtown Nashville.

  “No,” I said. “Why?”

  Mom glanced at my legs, which were jittering a mile a minute.

  “I guess I’m just a little excited,” I admitted, squeezing my knees together to stop them from bouncing. Anticipation coursed through me as my pulse hammered with a rock ’n’ roll backbeat.

  We were on our way to Shake Rag Studios, where my friend Portia Burns was recording her new album. I’ve been playing music since I was four and performed on stage dozens of times with Dad’s band, the Tennessee Tri-Stars, but I’d never been inside a professional studio before. I’d always dreamed of recording my own music for an album someday. Now I couldn’t wait to see what it was like.

  Mom steered our truck down a side street. A few blocks away, I could make out the curving Music City Center building. With its sloped wood shape and lean, fret-like windows, it looks just like a giant guitar. Seeing it, a wave of joy washed over me. I’m so lucky to live here, I thought. If you love music the way I do, Nashville is the best town in the world.

  Before long we pulled into the Shake Rag Studios parking lot. From the outside, it seemed like a plain old concrete building. The outline of a golden guitar on the front door was the only clue that something special was inside.

  In the lobby, the receptionist perked up when Mom told her our names. “Tenney Grant, of course! Mr. Cale has been expecting you.” She punched some numbers into her phone. “Zane?” she said, giving me a wink. “The Grants are here.”

  Zane Cale is the owner of Mockingbird Records. I met him a few months ago when I performed a song I’d written in a showcase at Nashville’s famed Bluebird Cafe. When he asked to meet with me after the show, I was a bundle of nerves, hoping he’d offer me a recording contract. He didn’t, which was super disappointing, but then a few weeks later, he asked if he could become my manager and help me develop my music. I don’t think I’d ever been more excited in my life than I was at that moment.

  I was still smiling at the memory when Zane popped around the corner. His curly gray hair reminded me of a mad professor, but his brown eyes were as steady as a hound’s. As always, he was dressed in a style totally his own; today he wore a purple velvet vest over a Hawaiian shirt, jeans, orange cowboy boots, and his trademark porkpie hat.

  “Welcome!” he said, shaking Mom’s hand. Then he turned to me and squeezed my shoulder. “Portia’s excited you’re here,” he said.

  I grinned. I had only known Portia for a few months, but I felt close to her. We’d been paired to work together when my class teamed up with the Lillian Street Senior Center to plan our school Jamboree. She had helped me improve the song I wrote for the Bluebird Cafe showcase. Still, it wasn’t until we performed together at the Jamboree that I discovered that her stage name was Patty Burns, and that she’s a legendary singer-songwriter who’d written one of my favorite songs. Going to a studio session was cool enough, but getting to watch Portia record a song was a “pinch me” kind of cool.

  “Right this way!” Zane said as he set off down the hall. Mom and I had to scurry to keep up with his long legs. He stopped at a green metal door and opened it. We followed him into a dim room lined with audio equipment. It looked like the control room of a spaceship: Computer screens, buttons, levers, and dials were everywhere. I wished that my older brother, Mason, who loves music gear, could be here to see this.

  Zane sat in front of the blinking control board, next to a guy in a baseball cap.

  “This is Rob, our sound engineer,” Zane said. Rob nodded hello, his fingers flying over the buttons and dials. Across from him, on the other side of a wide glass window, Portia sat inside the recording booth with her guitar, wearing giant headphones.

  “How-dee, Miss Tennyson,” she said into a microphone.

  “Hi!” I said. “Wait, can you hear me?”

  Portia let out a gravelly laugh. “There are speakers in here so we can communicate,” she replied.

  “Oh, right,” I said, feeling my cheeks pink up.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Tenney,” Portia said. “I’m feeling a smidge nervous being back in the studio for the first time since my stroke.”

  I nodded, remembering that Portia had been anxious about performing at the Jamboree. The stroke had temporarily paralyzed her chord hand, so for a while, playing her guitar had been really hard for her. But since then, she’d been practicing and exercising her hand, and she’d recovered so well I sometimes forgot she’d ever had trouble playing.

  “You’ll be amazing,” I said, giving Portia a thumbs-up.

  “You ready to get started?” Zane asked. Portia nodded and tweaked her guitar’s tuning pegs.

  Mom and I settled into a couch to watch. Rob adjusted some faders up and down and clicked a red button on his computer screen. Then he signaled to Portia, and she jumped into a twangy guitar riff that made my foot tap. At the end of the intro, she leaned into a silver microphone and began to sing.

  You say it’s all over for me

  That I’ve lost what makes me myself

  I say I’m gonna go on

  With or without your help

  Portia’s voice soared, her right hand nimbly switching chords as her left picked out the verse’s accompaniment.

  It’s all right, I’m okay

  I’ll come back laughin’ all the way

  I’ll stand up tall, I’ll break away

  I’ll play my guitar, come what may

  ’Til I’m old and gray

  I’ll sing my song out every day

  Beside me, my mom was totally focused on Portia. Mom had collected all of Portia’s albums when she was a teenager. As fun as it was for me to see Portia record, I realized for Mom it must feel like a dream.

  “How’d that sound?” Portia asked Zane when she’d finished. I thought it had sounded flawless, but Zane fiddled with his ear pensively.

  “I’d like to hear you hit ‘come what may’ harder,” he said. “Really let it out, you know?”

  Portia nodded. Rob cued up the recording, and she started the verse again. This time when she got to “come what may,” her voice turned darker and stronger. It still sounded pretty, but there was an edge to it, too.

  “Great!” Zane said after she finished the verse. “Let’s do another take.”

  “Really?” I blurted out, confused. Rob chuckled.

  “Sorry,” I said to Za
ne, “I thought you said it was great.”

  “It was,” Zane said, “but that doesn’t mean we’re done. Sometimes we do forty takes of a single verse before we get it just right.”

  Forty? I knew recording a song was a long process, but singing a verse forty times seemed crazy. What did Zane want to hear? Before I could ask, Portia sat forward, ready to do another take. When she was finished, they did another take. And another! Each time, Zane, Rob, and Portia would listen to the playback and discuss what she’d do differently next time. They talked about tiny details, like how long Portia should sing a certain word, or where she should take a breath, and she’d try it again.

  After a while, all those small changes added up, and the song I was hearing seemed to shift. I couldn’t really say how it was different. I just knew it was better. Finally, on the fourteenth take of the first verse, Zane said, “We got it. Let’s move on.”

  “I need some water,” Portia said. “Tenney, can you bring me some?”

  Zane handed me a water bottle, and I took it into the recording booth.

  Portia gave me a squeeze. “What do you think of all this?” she asked, twisting open her bottle.

  “It’s definitely slow going,” I admitted, “but it’s interesting to hear how the song changes.”

  “Yup.” Portia nodded. “Some songs come out right the first time you play them. Other times, you need to play a song over and over, add new stuff, and take out other stuff, before you find the song it was meant to be.”

  “Really?” I said, scrunching my nose. The idea of a song I’d written having to be changed a lot made me queasy.

  Portia squinted at me, like she was trying to read my mind. “You can count on change—in life and in music—so you gotta be open to it,” she said. “The important thing is, did you like the song? Tell the truth.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s great!” I said.

  Portia swept a hand through her silvery hair, looking pleased. “I wrote it right after the stroke,” she confided. “I could barely hold a chord, and I was so darn mad. Sometimes, though, getting riled up is good for the music. It gives you something to focus on.” She sipped her water, studying me. “How’s your songwriting going, Miss T?”

  “Okay,” I said. Ever since the Jamboree, I’d been working on new material. Zane had suggested that I work on my songwriting with Portia once a week. I’d only been to her house a few times so far, but I had learned a lot.

  “I might have a song or two ready to play for Zane this week,” I said.

  “Perfect!” Portia said. “I can’t wait to hear the changes you’ve made.”

  I nodded, my heart doing a happy pirouette. I still almost couldn’t believe that Zane and Portia liked my music enough to want to work with me. Maybe if my songs were good enough, someday I’d get to record my own album, too.

  We heard Zane clear his throat through the speakers. “Sorry to interrupt, you two. But we’ve only got this studio for a few hours, and I’d like to get this track laid down today.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Good luck, Portia. You’ve got this!”

  She winked and put her headphones on again.

  When I came back into the control booth, I asked Zane for directions to the restroom.

  “Just follow the signs in the hallway,” he said.

  I made my way through a maze of corridors to the ladies’ room. I couldn’t help slowing down to look at the musical memorabilia lining the walls. A long row of framed gold records and platinum records gleamed between photos of famous musicians, album covers, and signed guitars. There was even a pair of original Patsy Cline concert tickets! Taking it all in, I felt like I was in a dream.

  My eyes fell on a glossy poster of the singer Belle Starr standing in the middle of Broadway downtown, where all the honky-tonks are. Belle was holding a gleaming gold guitar with strings that looked like they were made of fuchsia neon lights. CITY MUSIC FESTIVAL! was splashed in shining gold letters across the top of the poster.

  The City Music Festival was one of Nashville’s biggest events. Every club in the city is booked with live music shows until midnight for a whole week in April. Nashville’s most famous stages, like the Ryman Auditorium, the Grand Ole Opry, and the City Music Center, are packed with some of the biggest music stars in the world. When the City Music Festival is happening, it feels like all of Nashville is dancing.

  Maybe someday I’ll play at the festival, I thought. I drifted down the hall, picturing myself singing under hot stage lights in front of an endless crowd.

  Suddenly, I realized that I hadn’t been watching where I was going. Identical metal doors lined the hall in both directions. I had no idea where I was.

  “Great,” I muttered. Looking around, I started back the way I thought I’d come from. I turned one corner, then another. Finally, I spotted a green door ahead. Relieved, I went over and yanked it open.

  A wall of noise crashed into me. This was definitely not our studio. It looked more like a rehearsal room, its walls bare and lined with soundproof paneling. A boy not much older than me sat drumming on a giant kit in the center of the room. His sandy hair pointed in a million directions. The kick drum thumped as his freckly arms flailed, his drumsticks hitting the cymbals and snare drums with an intensity that gave me an instant headache.

  The moment he saw me in the doorway, he dropped his drumsticks down and stared at me.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “I’m Tenney,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Logan,” he said. He gave me an expectant look, as if he was waiting for me to say something else. When I didn’t, he finally asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m visiting my friend Portia. She’s recording a song for her new album,” I said proudly.

  “No, I meant what are you doing here? In my rehearsal space?” he asked impatiently.

  “Oh,” I said. “I got lost. I was looking for the studio where Portia’s recording and—”

  “Well, she’s obviously not in here,” Logan cut in.

  I winced, surprised by his rudeness. My stomach clenched in a flustered knot. But before I could respond, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “There you are!” Mom said, looking relieved. “Honey, let’s go say our quick good-byes to Portia and Zane. We have to go so I can drop you at Jaya’s and get back home in time to make dinner for Aubrey and Mason.” She glanced at Logan with a smile. “Oh, Tenney, who’s your new friend?”

  I wanted to tell her that Logan was not my friend, but I didn’t want to be impolite. “Um, nice to meet you, Logan,” I said instead, even though it hadn’t been nice at all.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, and started pounding away on his drums again.

  Twenty minutes after Mom dropped me off, Jaya and I stood in front of her kitchen stove, flipping pancakes and cooking scrambled eggs. Every few weeks we have a sleepover tradition: We watch movies, listen to music, and cook our favorite meal, “breakfast for dinner.”

  Jaya’s mom worked on her laptop at the dinner table, in case we had a kitchen emergency. As we loaded up our plates, I told them all about my trip to the recording studio.

  “When are you going to get to record something?” Jaya asked.

  “Not for a while,” I admitted. “I have to get better at songwriting.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Jaya’s mom said. “You wrote ‘Reach the Sky.’ That’s a beautiful song.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Mitra,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush pink.

  “It’s true,” Jaya insisted. “You’re so talented. I can’t wait until we get to hear your songs on the radio!”

  I beamed at her. It was my number one dream to become a professional singer-songwriter, and I knew that I had a long road ahead of me. But Jaya’s confidence in me made me believe I could do anything I set my mind to.

  We carried full plates to the kitchen table. I sat down next to Jaya’s mom just as a chime rang out on her computer, signaling an incoming video call.

&
nbsp; “Oh! It’s my sister Aisha calling from Bangladesh!” said Mrs. Mitra.

  “That’s weird,” said Jaya. “Isn’t it six o’clock in the morning there?” She jumped up to see the computer as her mom clicked to accept the call.

  After a moment, Aunt Aisha’s face filled the screen. She looked tired, but happy to see her family. “Jaya, hello!” she said, a gentle smile spreading across her face.

  “Hi, Auntie!” Jaya said, waving. “How’s Mina?”

  I perked up at Mina’s name. I had met Jaya’s cousin last summer when she came to Nashville to visit Jaya, and the three of us had been inseparable. She had shared her MP3 player with us, so I got to hear Bengali pop, rock, and folk songs. Mina even taught us how to sing my favorite one.

  Mrs. Mitra gestured at Jaya’s plate. “Sweetheart, eat your dinner before it gets cold. You can speak with Mina when you’re done.”

  Jaya took her seat and quickly started cutting into her pancakes, listening as her mother spoke to Aunt Aisha in Bengali. Suddenly, she stopped eating and looked up with a concerned crease in her forehead.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered.

  Jaya frowned. “My aunt just told my mom that a really bad tropical storm blew through their town yesterday.”

  “Oh no,” I said. “Is her family all right?”

  “I think so,” she answered quietly, listening as Aunt Aisha continued with her news. “But she says that many homes and buildings were destroyed.”

  “That’s awful,” I said.

  Mrs. Mitra and her sister continued speaking in Bengali. Jaya listened quietly, picking at her pancake with her fork. Finally, we heard Aunt Aisha yell in English, “Mina? Would you like to speak with Jaya?”

  Jaya and I jumped out of our seats and crowded in front of the computer.

  Soon Mina appeared. Her tear-streaked face softened into a weak smile when she saw Jaya and me on her screen. “Jaya! Tenney! I’ve missed you!”

  “We miss you, too,” said Jaya. “I’m so sorry about what happened. Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “But my school was badly damaged. Our headmaster says that the building is not safe for us to enter, and there’s no money for repairs. If we can’t raise the money by the end of the semester in June, our teachers might have to find work somewhere else. And then who knows when my school would reopen.” Her chin quivered, and a single tear slid down her cheek.