Autumn

The sun rises over the wheat field as I rest my head against the rough, sappy bark of the small tree at the very edge of the field. I ran out here at dawn, my mind too ablaze to even try to sleep.

I could have everything I ever wanted. So why does it feel like I'm perched precariously at the edge of a cliff, about to leap off with one more step?

I strum another chord on my guitar, writing down scribbles in the songbook on my lap. The orange sun beams hit my face and I inhale, breathing in the fresh morning air.

The words from the pamphlet swim across my eyes. Specifically the words 'record deal'. 

It was true that I've been told how good I am just about every time I play something in class. It was true that I've always thought of myself as talented, and am willing to take whatever gig is thrown at me. What's not true is that I'm better than my dad.

My dad, Daniel Lee Henningsen, learned how to play the guitar and the banjo from his dad, who had learned while overseas. He then became so good at it that he was quickly snatched up by a record company at the age of seventeen.

I'm the same age that he was when he got his record deal. Yet, there's nothing.

I strum another chord on my guitar, write down a couple more lyrics, then crumple the paper into a ball and throw it across the field, watching as it disappears into the wheat. 

I deserve a chance to get my dreams, yet something is holding me back.

Mom always used to sing me a song before I went to sleep at night. Her voice wasn't as smooth as Dad's or as whispery as mine, but she could still carry a tune. I don't remember how the song went but the last line was "Carry your dreams and they'll take you far."

I do carry my dreams as a backpack. They weigh me down yet make me lighter at the same time. Just when I feel like there's no hope in reaching them, the chance of a lifetime comes along.

I should take it. I'm three seconds away from opening my phone and calling Harley when I remember what Dad said to me the night he left us.

"You are nothing, you hear me," He bends down to look into my eyes, "You will always be nothing. No matter how hard you try, or how hard you practice, you will get nowhere."

I didn't fight him. I just stood and watched him walk away, disheveled and a mess. I didn't know that was the last time I'd see him. Of course, I didn't know a lot of things. But I do now.

Screw him. I'll be better than Daniel Lee Henningsen ever was. A brief moment of darkness takes hold of me, and I finish dialing Harley's number on my phone. 

"I'm in." I say when he picks up. He says nothing but I swear I can hear him smiling on the other end of the phone.

"We'll talk at school." 

I hang up, smiling. I'm one step closer to getting what I've always wanted: a chance to prove my worth as a musician, not as Daniel Lee Henningsen's daughter.

"Do you really want to do this?" Faye asks. It's lunchtime. Faye stares at me from across the table, both only picking at their spaghetti.

"Yes, Faye. I need to." I say, taking a bite of meatball, "Emery already called the school and they were already contacted by Luca. They're willing to give us time off, only six weeks, I think."

"You mean, the two of you right?" When I turn to look over at Faye, she smiles sadly, shaking her head, "I need to stay here, A. I'm a senior and I need to get my life together before I graduate."

"Do you have to go?" My voice sounds like a little kid, but I can't help it. "I can't do this without you."

"Emery is so excited to go with you," Faye takes my hand, "and I promise, I'll come visit you when I can." Letting go of my hand, she pokes at her spaghetti, taking a bite. "Just think, in a day you'll be eating caviar garnished with sweet maple almonds on a golden plate with a golden knife and fork."

I don't laugh at her joke.

"I don't think they're that rich, Faye." I say, finishing my spaghetti.

"You watch." She brandishes her fork at me, flicking a noodle at my head.

"I'll miss you." I say, on the verge of tears.

"I'll miss you too. Go rock this contest. You're a star, Autumn, and it's time the world saw that."

Waiting is miserable. 

I sit with Harley at the airport, fidgeting anxiously. Per Luca's request, the airport is empty, devoid of the bustling, exciting panic that comes with an early flight. A four AM flight to be exact.
 The lights are on, and every couple minutes, I see a pilot with a coffee in hand, or one running diagnostics on the planes. Luca said he'd meet us at the hangar, but I don't see him. 

I'm three minutes away from falling asleep.

"You ready?" Harley whispers, and I rub my eyes, sitting up a little straighter.

"As ready as I'll....ever be." I yawn, not used to getting up so early. I shiver, regretting my decision to wear a dress. It's a cute, floral patterned, coral blue dress, and it has long sleeves, but the fact that it stops just above my knees doesn't help anything.

"Here," Harley says, taking off his leather jacket and placing it gently on my bare legs, "I have no idea why you decided to wear a dress today, but it's cold outside." I smile faintly, ignoring his barb. 

"I wanted to look nice for the cameras," I whisper, feeling myself fall deeper and deeper into sleep, "after all, we're famous now."

"Famous. Yeah." Harley looks away and I can see him tense up. 

I sit up, rubbing my eyes again, "Is something wrong?" I ask him, a little louder than usual. 

He opens his mouth to respond, but Luca appears at the edge of the hanger, waving us over. "Hurry up!" 

Harley helps me to my feet and the two of us run over to where Luca is standing. Looking over to where his hand points, I gasp.

The largest plane I've ever seen is sitting at the very front of the runway. It is sleek and it shines in the early morning light. It's small and looks brand new. 

"We have to leave," Luca says, walking up the gangway. His fancy boots click on the medal stairs and echo into the quiet morning. 

"Are you ready?" Harley asks again, turning to me. I shiver once more, nodding and adjusting the strap on my suitcase. Harley steps aside to let me walk into the plane, then follows close behind me.

"Welcome to the rest of your lives." Luca spreads out his arms like a game show host as we follow him deeper into the plane and take our seats.

The plane was gorgeous. Probably one of the most expensive things I'd ever sat in. There were eight seats, four on one side and four  on the other, all turn towards one another, with a table in between. A package of sweets sits on each of our chairs and each of the tables have an air conditioning or heat switch built in. There are bathrooms at the very edge, and there's even a fish tank at the very end.

I turn around, something black catching the corner of my eye. It's a piano. 

"What is this?" I ask, pulse fluttering nervously in my throat.

"The producers wanted you to play a song for your introduction piece," Luca says, coming up behind me, "Something short, preferably something that means a lot to you."

"Why?" I ask, "Aren't we already accepted?"

"This is going to be taped live, and the producers want to see a bit of what you can do." Luca says, lying to me through his teeth.

I decide to push him a little more, just to see him squirm. I know he's lying to me, but I can't figure out why. "Does Harley have to do this, too?"

"He will do it when the time is right," Luca snaps at me, voice cracking, "Hurry up. We don't have all day."

He wants footage of me for the press. I realize with a start, walking over slowly to the piano. They somehow know that I'm coming, and they want a cover story on me. 

The disgraced daughter, coming home at last.

I sigh, shaking out my hands, and begin to play an upbeat, jazz number that I learned when I was nine. Mama's friend taught me this one. Her name was Mrs. Drake and she was a stern, funny, warm pastor at Mama's church.

She had been invited over for the night, and while Mama sat in the kitchen, baking cupcakes and drowning herself in drink, the two of us had sat in the parlor, talking. Emery was gone for the night, studying at a friends house, and Dad was at the recording studio, having stormed off after a particularly brutal fight with Mama.

"Do you play?" Mrs. Drake asked, gesturing to the Yamaha keyboard in the corner. I nodded, still a shy, quiet girl, and went back to saying nothing, picking at a loose fabric in my sweater.

A few minutes passed, than Mrs. Drake piped up again, "Come here," she gestured to the piano, than put her coffee down, walking over to the bench, "It's okay. Come on." 

I walk over to her, hesitant, and sit on the bench next to her. She was warm, smelling faintly of pears and watermelon. Mrs. Drake positions her fingers on the keys and began to play, fingers dancing fast across the keys. "My ma taught me this one," she says, still playing, "It's called Willow, I think. She wrote it, anyway. She didn't write any sheet music, so when she passed on, I could only play from my memory."

"What if you forgot it?" I remember asking, my tiny voice barely able to rise over the piano. Mrs. Drake played on, nearing the end of the piece.

"The mind is a powerful tool. You get to choose what you remember and forget," she winked at me, than grabbed my hands and placed them on the keys, "Now play."

It had taken me a matter of hours to learn the song. That was the last time I saw Mrs. Drake. She died of a heart attack a week later.

I wondered if Mrs. Drake knew that her death was coming, and that's why she taught me Willow. Either way, it didn't really matter. I still played her tune, keeping the memory of it and her alive in my mind.

Mama didn't go to her funeral, claiming illness. But, sometimes I wonder if she blew it off because she allowed herself to feel again.

I finish the song, and stand, walking over to the nearest window seat. Plopping myself down, I close my eyes, and allow myself to rest for the first time in days.

I can do this.