Chapter 6: New Voices
Life at Riverside High had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Two weeks after Club Day, I was no longer just "the new kid" or "that homeless guy with the guitar." I was Kenny Rogers, featured performer in the spring showcase, the voice that had saved the Music and Dance Club from extinction.
It was strange, being known. Being seen.
I still wasn't sure I liked it.
Wednesday afternoon, room 304 was alive with creative energy. Coco had commandeered the space near the keyboard, playing back recordings of "No More Homeless" on her phone while she worked through choreography. Mary was sprawled on the floor nearby, sketching out formations and movement patterns in a worn notebook.
"The second verse needs something bigger," Coco said, pausing mid-movement. "When you sing 'I bathed in rivers when soap was too much'—that line hits hard. The dance should reflect that impact."
"What about a sharp downward motion?" Mary suggested, demonstrating without getting up. "Like something falling or breaking?"
"Yes! But then we rise up on 'I'm still standing here, singing through the rain.'" Coco tried the sequence, her movements fluid and expressive despite the cramped space. "Kenny, play it again from the top of verse two?"
I adjusted my guitar and started playing, watching as Coco moved through the choreography. She'd been working on this for days, determined to create something that matched the emotional weight of the song. Mary had volunteered to dance alongside her, though she claimed to be "mediocre at best."
They were both better than they gave themselves credit for.
I was halfway through the chorus when three sharp knocks interrupted the music.
"Did someone order pizza?" Mary asked hopefully.
"We don't have pizza money," Coco reminded her, then called out, "Come in!"
The door opened, and three students stepped inside hesitantly. I recognized one of them—a girl from my English class with curly red hair who always sat in the front row. The other two were unfamiliar: a tall boy with glasses and a nervous expression, and a shorter girl with bright blue streaks in her black hair.
"Hi," the redhead said, clutching a notebook to her chest. "Is this the Music and Dance Club?"
Coco straightened up immediately, her exhaustion vanishing behind a welcoming smile. "Yes! I'm Coco Tanaka, club president. This is Mary Chen, vice president, and Kenny Rogers."
"We know who Kenny is," the girl with blue hair said, her eyes locked on me. "Everyone knows who Kenny is after Club Day."
There was something in her tone—not quite awe, but close to it. It made me uncomfortable.
"What can we do for you?" Mary asked, sitting up.
The three students exchanged glances, some silent communication passing between them. Finally, the tall boy spoke.
"We want to join," he said. "The Music and Dance Club. If you're still accepting members."
Coco's face lit up like someone had just handed her a winning lottery ticket. "Are you serious? Yes, absolutely, we're accepting members! Always!"
"What made you interested?" Mary asked, though she was grinning too.
The redhead stepped forward. "I heard Kenny sing at Club Day. I've never heard anything like that before—so honest and raw. And I thought, if this club can create space for that kind of art, then I want to be part of it." She looked at me directly. "I'm a songwriter too. Not a performer, but I write lyrics and melodies. I'd love to collaborate, if you're open to it."
"I play bass," the tall boy added. "I'm not great at performing in front of people, but I'm solid technically. And I've been looking for a place where music actually matters, you know? Not just playing top forty covers at school dances."
The girl with blue hair crossed her arms, defensive but earnest. "I sing. And dance. I was in the Drama Club, but it's too structured—everyone fighting over lead roles, all this political bullshit. Your performance showed me that art can be about truth instead of competition. I want to be part of that."
Coco looked like she might actually cry from happiness. "This is... yes. Okay. Yes. Welcome to the Music and Dance Club!" She grabbed a clipboard from the desk and thrust it toward them. "Fill out these membership forms. What are your names?"
"Sophie Martin," the redhead said, taking the clipboard.
"Daniel Kim," the tall boy added.
"Riley Chen," said the girl with blue hair. "No relation to Mary, before you ask."
"I wasn't going to," Mary said, but she was smiling.
As the three new members filled out their forms, Coco pulled Mary and me into a corner.
"We have six members now," she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. "Six! Do you know what this means?"
"That we'll need more space?" Mary suggested.
"That we're legitimate," Coco corrected. "We're not a dying club anymore. We're growing. Because of you, Kenny."
"Don't put that on me," I said quickly. "They came because they want to make music. That's not about me."
"But it kind of is," Mary said gently. "Your song opened a door. You showed people what this club could be—a place where real art happens, where people can be vulnerable and honest. That's rare, especially in high school."
I wanted to argue, but Sophie was approaching with the clipboard.
"All filled out," she said, handing it to Coco. "So, what happens now?"
"Now?" Coco glanced at Mary, then at me, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Now we see what you've got. This is technically an audition."
"Wait, we have to audition?" Daniel looked panicked. "I thought—"
"Relax," Mary interrupted. "It's not a real audition. We just want to hear what everyone can do so we can figure out how to work together. No pressure."
"Says the girl who cried during my first performance," I muttered.
Mary elbowed me. "That was different. You ambushed us with talent."
"Okay," Riley said, stepping forward. "I'll go first."
She was confident in a way that reminded me of Mei—not arrogant, exactly, but certain of her abilities. She pulled out her phone, queued up a backing track, and launched into a performance of "Valerie" by Amy Winehouse.
Her voice was strong, controlled, with a slight rasp that added character to the high notes. She moved while she sang, nothing choreographed, just natural rhythm and presence. When she finished, Mary was nodding appreciatively.
"You're good," Mary said. "Really good. Have you performed before?"
"Community theater, a few open mics downtown," Riley said. "Nothing major."
"That's about to change," Coco said. "Daniel, you're up."
Daniel looked like he might pass out, but he pulled a bass guitar from a case I hadn't noticed by the door. "I don't have anything prepared," he admitted. "But if someone has a song they want me to try..."
"Know any Green Day?" Mary asked.
"Basket Case?"
"Perfect."
I started playing the guitar riff, and Daniel joined in on bass after the first measure. He was right about being technically solid—his timing was perfect, his fingers finding the notes without hesitation. He might not have stage presence, but he had skill.
"Nice," I said when we finished. "You've been playing long?"
"Since I was eight. My dad's a session musician, so I grew up around music. I just never had people to play with." He adjusted his glasses, smiling slightly. "This is cool."
"Sophie?" Coco gestured toward the keyboard. "Your turn."
Sophie set her notebook down carefully before sitting at the keyboard. "I wrote this last year," she said quietly. "It's called 'Paper Airplanes.'"
She played a simple chord progression, her voice soft but clear:
"I folded my dreams into paper airplanes,
Threw them from rooftops, watched them spiral down,
Each one a wish that crashed before it landed
Each one a hope that never left the ground."
The melody was melancholic, intimate, the kind of song that felt like reading someone's diary. When she finished, the room was silent for a long moment.
"That was beautiful," Coco said finally. "Did you write the music and lyrics?"
Sophie nodded. "I have about twenty songs like that. I've never performed them for anyone before. They're too... personal."
"Personal is good," I said, surprising myself by speaking up. "Personal is what makes people listen."
She met my eyes, and I saw recognition there—the understanding of someone else who used music to process pain.
"I'd like to work with you," she said. "If you're open to it. Collaborating, I mean. Your songs have this raw honesty that I'm trying to achieve in my own work."
Before I could respond, Coco clapped her hands together. "Okay, here's what I'm thinking. The spring showcase is in six weeks. We have six members now, which means we can do more than just solo performances. We can create something collaborative—maybe a set of three or four songs that showcase everyone's talents."
"What about 'Still Here' and 'No More Homeless'?" Mary asked. "Those are already slated for the showcase."
"Those are Kenny's featured spots," Coco said. "But we could add ensemble pieces. Maybe something where Riley and Kenny sing together? Or a song featuring Daniel's bass with Sophie's songwriting?"
"I could choreograph group formations," Mary offered. "Something that tells a story through movement while the music plays."
Ideas began flying around the room, everyone talking over each other with excitement. Riley suggested a medley of songs about resilience. Daniel mentioned a bass-driven instrumental he'd been working on. Sophie pulled out her notebook, flipping through pages of lyrics, offering pieces that might fit the theme.
I sat back with my guitar, watching them collaborate, and felt something shift in my chest. For months, music had been survival—a way to earn money, to process trauma, to prove I was worth something. But this, right here, was different.
This was community.
This was what music was supposed to be.
Practice ran late that afternoon. By the time we finally packed up, the sun was setting, casting long shadows through the classroom windows.
"Same time Friday?" Coco asked as we headed toward the door.
"I'll be here," Riley said.
"Me too," Daniel and Sophie chorused.
As we filed out into the hallway, Sophie hung back, waiting for me. "Hey, Kenny? Can I talk to you for a second?"
"Sure."
We stopped near the stairwell while the others continued ahead. Sophie fidgeted with her notebook, clearly nervous.
"That song you sang at Club Day," she said finally. "'No More Homeless.' Was it... was it really about you? Were you actually living on the streets?"
Here it was again. The question I'd been avoiding, the truth I'd tried to keep hidden behind lyrics and metaphors.
"Yeah," I said. "It was real."
"How long?"
"Two months. But I have an apartment now. A shitty one, but it's mine."
She was quiet for a moment, processing. "My older brother was homeless for a while," she said softly. "After our parents kicked him out for being gay. He lived in his car, couch-surfed, did whatever he could to survive. It nearly destroyed him."
"I'm sorry," I said, not sure what else to offer.
"He's okay now. He got a job, found a place, started rebuilding. But he still has nightmares about that time. And when I heard your song..." She looked up at me, eyes bright with unshed tears. "I thought about him. About how much courage it takes to survive something like that and then stand in front of hundreds of people and tell the truth. That's why I wanted to join. Because if you can be that brave, maybe I can be too."
I didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to explain that I hadn't felt brave at all—just desperate to turn pain into something meaningful.
"You're already brave," I said finally. "'Paper Airplanes' was one of the most honest things I've heard in a long time. That takes guts."
She smiled, wiping her eyes quickly. "Thanks. And Kenny? I'm really glad you're not homeless anymore."
"Me too," I said.
She headed down the stairs, leaving me standing in the empty hallway with my guitar and a strange warmth in my chest.
Three new members. Three new voices. Three new people who'd joined the club not despite my story, but because of it.
Maybe being known wasn't so terrible after all.
That night, in my apartment, I pulled out my notebook and started working on a new song. Not about homelessness or survival this time, but about finding your people. About the way broken pieces can come together and create something whole.
The opening lines came quickly:
"I thought I'd walk this road alone,
Carry every burden, every stone,
But then you showed up, out of the blue,
And suddenly the sky broke through."
I worked late into the night, the melody taking shape beneath my fingers, the lyrics flowing faster than I could write them down. This song wasn't about pain. It was about hope—the kind of hope that comes from connection, from being seen and accepted, from finding a place where you belong.
By midnight, I had a complete rough draft of "Break Through."
And I couldn't wait to share it with the club.
Friday's practice started with Coco announcing that we needed a name for our showcase performance.
"Every group act needs a title," she explained. "Something that ties all the songs together thematically."
"How about 'Voices'?" Riley suggested. "Simple, but it captures what we're doing."
"Too generic," Mary said. "What about 'The Unheard'? Like, we're giving voice to experiences that usually get ignored?"
"That's good," Daniel agreed. "But maybe a little heavy?"
"What do you think, Kenny?" Coco asked. "You're our featured performer. You should have input."
I thought about the last few weeks—about Club Day, about Sophie's story, about the way our six voices had come together in room 304. About how we were all here because we'd found something worth singing about.
"What about 'Still Here'?" I said. "After my song. Because that's what connects us—we're all still here, still fighting, still making art despite everything that tries to stop us."
The room went quiet. Then Coco smiled.
"Perfect," she said. "Our showcase performance is officially titled 'Still Here: Songs of Survival and Hope.' Now let's make something worth remembering."
And we did.
End of Chapter 6