Page 12

“No?” I glance up into his earnest brown eyes. He’s never said anything about it before, despite numerous opportunities.

He shakes his head, the edge of his mouth tipping up into a subdued smile. “When your dad was a kid, he was always counting his pennies. I knew right then he’d end up an accountant like me. But you?” He gives a short bark of a laugh. “You’d take your allowance right down to the corner store, pick out your snacks, and hand your money over, hoping you had enough to cover the cost.”

“Yeah, that tracks.” Math has never been a strength of mine, and I sit with this a minute. I’ve gotten better with the concept of money since then, but I still hired one of Granddad’s old colleagues to handle my accounting as soon as I started earning money. “Why didn’t you try to stop them from pressuring me?” It’s hard to keep the frustration out of my voice. Years of arguments over what my parents wanted versus what I wanted might have left me feeling less on my own if I’d known Granddad was on my side.

Granddad rubs the backs of his knuckles. “It wasn’t my place. I’d already raised your father; it was his turn to raise you. To be fair, your parents are doing their best. They only want what’s best for you.” He narrows his eyes at me. “But I don’t know,” he says after a beat. “Maybe they were right. Maybe music is just a creative outlet for you.”

My jaw tightens. “So you think being a musician’s a stupid career choice, too?” I try to keep my voice even, but I can’t quite mask the acid that burns the back of my throat.

“I didn’t say that,” Granddad says. “But here’s the thing you need to consider.” He holds my gaze for a moment until he’s sure I’m paying attention. “Is music your passion? Are you willing to do whatever it takes to get where you want to be? Or is it just a creative outlet? It’s okay if it is,” he says, holding his hands up. “Hobbies are important. But if music’s more than a pastime…if being a working musician is what you really want…then you can’t let any of this be what stops you.”

He’s right. I know he is. And I can’t let what happened with Six String Justice derail my dreams completely. I want to be a musician. I really do. But what am I supposed to do now?

Granddad interrupts my thoughts. “If you want to get a job, get a job. But if you want to be a musician, you gotta find a way. Life’s too short for what-ifs, sport.” He stands up and strides over to the pantry. “What you need right now is a good, old-fashioned MoonPie.”

Track 3

Feelings to Fall Into

Paisley

October 31

“Hope to have you back again next year,” I tell Lorna as I take the bronze key attached to a carved wooden eighth-note key chain from her outstretched hand.

“Sure thing, sugar,” she says with a gleaming grin. Lorna’s short brown curls frame her face, and without her layers of makeup and teased, bleached-blond wigs, she hardly resembles Dolly Parton. In fact, you’d never know just by looking at her that she’s one of the most popular Dolly impersonators in the Nashville area.

A fabulous singer in her own right, Lorna Meade is one of the most talented musicians to spend time at the Hideaway at Hidden Acres Christmas Tree Farm. She and her husband, Dave, are two local Nashville musicians who reserve the studio and the home-away-from-home cabin next door for a week to celebrate their anniversary. Every year for as long as I can remember, they’ve spent the last seven days of October hiking around the farm and recording songs.

One year, Lorna brought a bunch of her old costumes and Dolly-ed me up for Halloween. Out here in the boonies, there’s nowhere to trick-or-treat, so Mom and Dad, Lorna and Dave, and Halley and I piled into the farm’s old delivery van and went into town for the night. I felt so bold when I stepped out onto Main Street, hidden beneath a face full of makeup and decked out in rhinestone-covered clothes. Clutching my kid-sized acoustic guitar in one hand and an old milk pail in the other, I wanted nothing more than to fill my bucket with enough sugary treats to last me until Christmas.

The dented milk pail was about halfway full by the time we made it to the corner of Main and State. That’s where we ran into Mr. Barker, a Halloween legend. Mr. Barker always handed out giant candy bars from the front stoop of his hardware store, making his place a must-stop along our trick-or-treat route.

“Evenin’, Miss Dolly,” he said, tipping his pirate hat to me with his silver hook. Instead of a fearsome seafarer, Mr. Barker’s character was jolly.

“Trick or treat, Mr. Barker,” I said, grinning up at him as I held out my milk pail.

He pulled a candy bar from his bowl, but instead of handing it over like usual, he said, “How about a song for a Snickers?”

Aside from guitar lessons and a few friends-and-family gatherings, I’d never played in front of anyone before. Just thinking about people watching me try to remember the chords and strumming patterns sent a pang of unease through me. Beneath the layers of foundation, blush, and copious amounts of eye shadow, I felt my face grow warm and red.

Dad placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Show ’em what you got, Paisley.”

“I dunno,” I said, stepping back against my father as if I could melt into him and disappear.

“Why don’t you play ‘Jolene’?” Mom gave a nod of encouragement.

Lorna winked at me and Dave gave me a thumbs-up.

My nerves vibrated like the chainsaw Dad used to cut firewood.

Just thinking about it has my pulse racing like a frantic metronome now.

“You gonna come on down to the city for a duet at one of my shows?” Lorna asks with a glimmer in her eye. She’s been trying to get me to join her onstage, for what she thinks will be a “real hoot.”

I blink away memories of my first real showdown with stage fright and offer up a weak smile. “Maybe,” I mumble half-heartedly.

In reality, there’s absolutely no way I’d risk it. Tanking my last show was bad enough, but I couldn’t do that to Lorna. Or to Dolly.