Tenney Shares the Stage Read online

  For John—

  I love sharing our song with you.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: A New Sound

  Chapter 2: Be Professional

  Chapter 3: Mud Pie and Melodies

  Chapter 4: Out of Tune

  Chapter 5: Sing Your Mind

  Chapter 6: Facing the Music

  Chapter 7: Where are You?

  Chapter 8: Silence

  Chapter 9: When the Music Stops

  Chapter 10: Duet for One

  Chapter 11: The Search

  Chapter 12: Alice

  Chapter 13: Secret Plans

  Chapter 14: The Gathering Place

  Chapter 15: Healing Music

  Song Lyrics

  About the Songwriters

  Special Thanks

  About the Author

  Request a Catalogue

  Learn More About Tenney

  Preview of Gabriela

  Copyright

  I always feel the same when I’m reaching the end of a performance: My feet feel like rocks from standing while holding my guitar, my fingers ache from picking strings, the back of my neck’s sweaty under my leather neck strap … and I’m in heaven. That’s how I felt as Logan Everett and I played the last song of our set in the amphitheater at Cumberland Park.

  As I sang, I scanned the crowd clustered on the wide lawn around the stage. We were playing as part of a one-day music festival to raise money for Nashville’s parks. I’d been to concerts here, but never as a performer. Now, with the stage solid under my boots, I felt proud of how far I had come.

  A few months ago, I’d only daydreamed about performing my own songs in concert. When I told my parents I wanted to get serious about starting a career in music, they said I was too young. But with a combination of hard work and good timing, I managed to convince them that I was ready. I also caught the attention of Zane Cale, a producer at Mockingbird Records, who thought I had a lot of potential and wanted to become my manager. At first I was super excited, but then Zane decided that my songs would be even better if I was playing them with Logan, a fourteen-year-old drummer with a ton of talent—and an ego to match. Needless to say, we were still getting used to being partners. But as I watched the heads bobbing to our music, I couldn’t help feeling that I had ended up in the right place.

  This was the largest audience we’d ever played for—even bigger than the enormous crowd that had shown up for our concert at Dad’s store last month in response to pop singer Belle Starr’s social media posts about Logan and me. Today’s turnout was so big because a lot of bands were playing after us at the festival, but, strangely, I wasn’t nervous. Instead, looking across the sea of shining faces, I felt as if I was made of light. Up above, the clouds in the bright blue sky seemed to bounce to our music.

  With a flourish on my guitar and a final crash of Logan’s cymbals, our song ended. For a moment, the whole world took a breath. Then an explosion of applause nearly knocked me off my feet. I felt dizzy, like I’d just stepped off a merry-go-round.

  “Thank you, Nashville!” I said into the mic.

  “Yes!” Logan chimed in from behind his drum set. “We are Logan and Tenney!”

  I wrinkled my nose. When Zane had signed us to a recording contract as a duo, he’d told us we needed to come up with an official band name. We’d decided to keep it simple and stick with Tenney & Logan. But for some reason, Logan always put his name first.

  “We’re also Tenney and Logan,” I added jokingly. The crowd laughed. “Thanks so much for listening!” I said.

  Logan stuck his drumsticks in his back pocket and slipped around his drum kit to join me as we took our bows.

  “Good set,” I whispered to him as we made our way offstage.

  Logan shrugged. “We could have been snappier on ‘Reach the Sky,’” he replied.

  I felt a nip of annoyance but tried to ignore it. Since I’d started playing with Logan, I’d learned that he often focused more on what was wrong than on what was right.

  “We sounded good,” I insisted as we jostled down the side steps behind the stage. “You’re just mad because I wouldn’t pick up the tempo.”

  Logan cracked a smile. “You’re right,” he admitted.

  “I know,” I said with a wink.

  Ever since we’d signed our contract, Logan and I had been rehearsing twice a week. Usually, we got along, but we still clashed sometimes. In rehearsal, Logan often tried new things midsong without warning me, which drove me crazy, and he hated it when I insisted we practice a song until it was perfect. Still, when we really listened to each other, there was no question that we rocked.

  “Tenney! Logan!”

  I turned around. My little sister, Aubrey, rushed up in an excited whirl of pink sparkles. “You were awesome!” she squeaked, giving me a hug.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “But wasn’t something missing from your show?” she asked playfully.

  Logan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Missing?” he asked.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like me, on accordion!” Aubrey proclaimed. “I’ve been practicing a lot, and I’m getting really good.”

  “You are,” I admitted. Everyone in my family plays an instrument or two, and even though Aubrey’s only seven, she’s got some mean accordion skills.

  “So can I back you guys up in your next show?” Aubrey begged, giving us her best hopeful puppy-dog look. Logan and I exchanged a glance.

  “It’s not really that simple,” I pointed out gently. “We’d have to ask Mom and Dad, and Zane …”

  “Oh,” Aubrey said, starting to wilt.

  “But it’s not impossible,” Logan added, with an encouraging smile. “Just keep practicing, and we’ll see what happens.”

  Aubrey hugged him with a squeal. Logan looked startled, as if he’d just been attacked by an overexcited baby bear. I had to laugh.

  As Logan gently loosened Aubrey’s grip, Zane bounded up to us like a jackrabbit, grinning from ear to ear.

  “There’s the dynamic duo!” he said to us. “Great set! Keep that up, and I can see a Tenney and Logan record in your future.”

  “Really?” I said, excitement pulsing through me. A record of my own music! It was something I’d dreamed of for as long as I could remember.

  “Well, we need to keep building your songwriting,” said Zane. “But you guys definitely have the musical chops and the onstage chemistry.”

  “When you do start recording,” Aubrey told Zane, “I’d be willing to guest-star on a track if you need an accordion.”

  “Good to know,” Zane told her with a wink. Aubrey looked thrilled as Zane turned to Logan. “Is your mom around?”

  Logan shook his head. “She had to work at the last minute.”

  “Okay,” Zane said. “Well, I’ve got something to discuss with y’all. Let’s go find Tenney’s parents.”

  We followed him around the back of the amphitheater up to the main entrance. Out front, several food trucks sat in a row in the parking lot. My mom’s sky-blue truck was smack in the middle, its chrome hubcaps as shiny as mirrors. GEORGIA’S GENUINE TENNESSEE HOT CHICKEN was stenciled across the side in red cursive letters.

  As we got closer, Dad stuck his head out of the truck’s service window and waved to us. He owns a music store in East Nashville, where we live, but he helps Mom out with her truck when he can. “Hey, Georgia, the Gruesome Twosome is back!” he called to my mom inside the truck. “How’s that for a band name, Tenn?”

  I grinned. “I think we’ll stick with Tenney and Logan for now.”

  Mom opened the truck’s back door. “Hey there!” she greeted us, sweeping som
e loose tendrils of carrot-red hair back under her bandanna.

  “From in here, you two sounded great.”

  “I think they could use some accordion,” Aubrey said.

  “Glad to know you have an opinion, Aubrey,” Dad joked.

  Before I could say anything, Logan broke in. “Are you guys done serving for the day?” he asked my parents.

  “For the most part,” Mom replied. “Lunch rush is over.”

  Logan looked crushed. “Does that mean you’re out of hot chicken?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Mom said, putting a hand on her hip. “I thought you two might be hungry, so I saved you some.”

  Logan’s eyes brightened. “Thanks!”

  We sat behind the food truck on folding chairs, at the card table Mom always sets up for a rest area. Dad brought everyone watermelon lemonades as Mom served up brown-paper trays of hot chicken, cheddar biscuits, and slices of watermelon. Logan dug in like he hadn’t eaten in days. I drained my lemonade, realizing how thirsty I was after singing.

  “Y’all should be proud of yourselves,” Zane said to Logan and me. He leaned back in his chair, pushing the worn porkpie hat he always wore off his face. “The more shows you play together, the better you sound.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, pleased. We’d played four shows in the past month. I thought we’d been sounding great, but I hadn’t wanted to seem like a show-off by saying it out loud.

  “When are we going to start booking some paid gigs?” Logan asked.

  “Soon, I hope,” Zane replied. “But remember, you’re just starting out. We’re going to have to play at least some shows for free as the Nashville music community gets more familiar with who y’all are. Then, once we’ve built a loyal fan base, we can book more paid club gigs. Does that make sense?”

  I nodded, but Logan’s mouth twisted into an uncertain knot. “I guess so,” he said at last.

  “Good,” Zane said. “But there’s something even more important we need to focus on. You two need to start building your own musical style together, as Tenney and Logan.”

  I scrunched up my nose. “I don’t understand; you just said we sounded great.”

  I already worked really hard to find my own voice, I thought to myself. Can’t Logan just adapt to my style?

  “You do sound great,” Zane said, looking from me to Logan. “You guys are a solid team musically, but to have a professional career you need to be more than solid—you need to be distinctive. That means having a unique sound. To get there, you need to be writing songs together.”

  Logan and I both went silent. I wasn’t surprised by Zane’s suggestion. After all, bands write songs together all the time. But the thought of writing a song from scratch with Logan made me nervous. I already had a sound as a songwriter, and I liked it. The few songs I’d heard that Logan had written were harder rock ’n’ roll than what I liked. On top of this, when Logan and I had worked together on my song “Where You Are,” we’d bickered all the time about our musical opinions. Wouldn’t that only get worse if we were writing together? Just thinking about it made my head hurt.

  Logan seemed to be reading my mind.

  “I write better alone,” he told Zane.

  “Me, too,” I said, relieved.

  The adults gave us skeptical looks.

  “It’s true,” I insisted.

  “I’m sure it is right now,” Zane said lightly. “But you don’t climb a mountain by going around it.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Dad chimed in as Mom nodded.

  “You two are musical partners on stage and off,” she added. “A huge part of what makes a band successful is having original music that’s your own recognizable sound.”

  I knew they were right, but uncertainty was rising like a tidal wave in my stomach. I love writing songs by myself. For me, it’s something private and thoughtful that I do to figure out my emotions, like writing in a diary. Thinking about having to share that with Logan Everett made me want to curl up in a ball. But I couldn’t tell him that. I racked my brain for another reason that would convince Zane that this was a bad idea.

  “I’m not really used to writing to a drum-beat—” I began, but Zane cut in.

  “Logan plays bass and guitar, too,” he pointed out, “so it shouldn’t be hard for you two to collaborate on melodies.”

  He was right, of course. Most musicians start writing a song using a guitar or a piano. Since Logan played, too, I knew we’d be able to collaborate. I just wasn’t feeling too excited about it. From his expression, I could tell Logan wasn’t, either.

  “I guess,” he said, as if he had just agreed to take out the trash.

  “I still don’t understand,” I said. “Why can’t we just write on our own and bring songs in when they’re done?”

  “You can,” Zane said evenly. “But you also need to get in a room and make some new music together. Look, I know it was rough when y’all collaborated on ‘Where You Are,’ but it turned out so good because you each brought something different to it,” he noted. “The path’s going to get smoother as you two get to know each other better musically.”

  Logan and I shared a glance. He looked as uneasy as I felt.

  “I just think we’re so different; I’m worried we won’t agree on anything,” I said.

  “I agree!” Logan said, nodding.

  “See? You just agreed on something,” Zane pointed out.

  We both started protesting, and Zane put up a hand to silence us, chuckling.

  “Pipe down,” he said gently. “I had a feeling that you two wouldn’t be very happy about this. And I know that you both can be very stubborn when it comes to songwriting. That’s why I asked Portia Burns if she’d oversee some songwriting sessions with you both, to start you off. Cool?”

  I nodded as Logan did, and my stomach relaxed. Logan and I had worked with Portia before, and we both trusted her. She’s been a song-writer and performer in Nashville since my mom was a kid. Plus, she’s my friend. If anyone could keep me from walking out on Logan in the middle of a songwriting session, I thought, it was Portia.

  “Glad you approve,” Zane said, folding his arms behind his head again. His eyes twinkled reassuringly. “I’ll stop by after you guys have met a couple of times to hear what you’ve cooked up. Once we build that unique Tenney and Logan sound into your songwriting, we can start putting together enough original songs for an EP.”

  Excitement vibrated through me. An EP is like a mini album—between three and five songs long—that bands record when they’re just starting out, almost like a test run. If Zane was talking about letting Logan and me make an EP, I knew he definitely thought we had the potential to make it as professional musicians.

  Logan’s eyes were electric sparks, so I could tell he was excited, too.

  “When do we start recording?” he asked Zane.

  “Whoa, now,” Zane cautioned. “We still have a ways to go before we book studio time. I need you guys focused on songwriting. You need to be rehearsing three times a week, plus working with Portia every week. We have a playing room at Mockingbird where you can practice.”

  “Okay,” I said, my brain spinning. I looked at Logan. His face had darkened, and he was shaking his head.

  “I can’t do that,” he said. “I can only meet twice a week.”

  Zane’s eyebrows shot up, but when he spoke his voice was mild. “This is a big opportunity for you, Logan,” he said. “It requires a big commitment.”

  Logan stared at the table. It was tough to tell what he was thinking, but he didn’t look happy.

  “I can only do two times a week,” he repeated, crumpling up his greasy napkin.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he growled, shooting me a look that dared me to say more. “And I can’t rehearse at Mockingbird. It’s too far from my house.”

  I blinked in disbelief. Logan seemed to be happiest when he was playing music. It seemed weird that he was being so grouchy about this.
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br />   Everyone sat there for an awkward moment.

  “You live in Rosebank, right, Logan?” Mom said. “That’s not too far from us. You two could rehearse at Tenney’s dad’s music shop.”

  “Sure, I have a small drum kit you could use during rehearsals,” Dad added. “Would that work for you, Logan?”

  Logan’s expression softened a little, and he nodded. “I guess I could probably rehearse two times a week plus once a week with Portia,” he mumbled.

  “Sounds like a deal,” Zane said. “Why don’t you both take a couple of days to brainstorm song ideas, then meet on, say, Tuesday afternoon at the shop and start songwriting?”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “Right, and then we could meet at Portia’s after school on Thursday and play what we have.”

  Zane looked satisfied. “Excellent. I’ll check with Portia to make sure that day will work for her. Does that sound good, Logan?”

  Logan was checking his phone. “Sure,” he said, standing up. “I have to go. Mom’s picking me up at the side entrance.”

  “I’ll walk you over there,” I said, jumping up.

  He moved so fast that I had to skip to keep up as we darted past food trucks toward a gated park entrance.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he replied, but his voice sounded a hundred miles away.

  Maybe he’s nervous about writing together, like I am, I thought. “I know writing together won’t be easy, but I’m glad we’re giving it a shot,” I said, trying to reassure myself as much as Logan. “Maybe Zane’s right. If we’re going to be successful, we need to have a distinctive sound. I think that if we keep—”

  “Tenney, I get it,” Logan snapped. “My dad’s a professional musician, remember? I know what it takes to be successful.”

  Heat flooded my cheeks. What is with him, anyway? I thought.

  I could tell Logan knew he’d hurt my feelings. “I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “You’re right. I’m just tired.”

  We reached the side entrance. A green truck was idling by the curb outside. Logan’s mom was behind the steering wheel in the fuchsia hospital scrubs she usually had on the few times I’d seen her. Mrs. Everett is a pediatric nurse. I knew she worked a lot, but she was always super friendly, even on the days when she seemed really tired.