# Chapter 2: The Music & Dance Club
The first thing I noticed every morning was the cold. It seeped through the thin blanket I'd found behind a laundromat, worked its way into my bones, and reminded me exactly where I was: under the Jefferson Street Bridge, surrounded by the smell of river water and exhaust fumes.
I sat up slowly, my back aching from the concrete. Around me, the city was beginning to wake—car engines humming on the bridge overhead, the distant clatter of a garbage truck, someone's alarm blaring from a nearby apartment building. Normal sounds of normal people living normal lives.
I folded my blanket carefully and tucked it behind a support beam where I'd carved a small hollow in the dirt. Everything had its place. My backpack hung from a bent piece of rebar. My school uniform—freshly washed in the river two days ago—was sealed in a plastic bag I'd salvaged from a grocery store.
The river was about fifty feet away, down a slope of rocks and weeds. I grabbed my towel (really just an old T-shirt) and made my way down. The water was freezing in mid-April, but at least it was running. I'd learned in my first week on the streets that standing water was dangerous—bacteria, parasites, things that could make you sick enough to end up in a hospital you couldn't afford.
I stripped down to my boxers and waded in up to my waist, gasping as the cold hit my skin. No soap today. I'd used the last of my bar three days ago, and I wouldn't have money for more until I performed this weekend. But I'd found something almost as good—or at least, something that created suds.
The egg was in a plastic container I'd hidden under a rock. It had gone bad a week ago, sulfur smell and all, but fermented eggs created a slick, soapy residue when mixed with water. Grandma had told me about it once, how people in the old country used to clean with whatever they had.
"Waste not, want not, Kenny-boy," I muttered in her voice, smearing the rotten egg mixture across my arms and chest.
The smell was awful, but it cut through the grime. I ducked under the water, scrubbing my hair, then rinsed everything off until I couldn't smell the sulfur anymore. Or at least, until I couldn't smell it as much.
Back on shore, I dried off and dug through my backpack for my toothbrush—a piece of tree root I'd whittled down with a pocketknife. The fibers were rough but effective, and I'd gotten used to the bitter taste of bark. I scrubbed my teeth with water, spat into the river, and checked my reflection in the cracked phone screen I used as a mirror.
Presentable. Barely.
I pulled on my school uniform, taking extra care with the buttons. The shirt and pants were secondhand, a little too big, but they were clean. That was what mattered. As long as I looked like I belonged, no one would ask questions.
My guitar case was the last thing I grabbed. Inside was my most precious possession—the acoustic guitar Grandma had helped me buy two years ago. I ran my fingers over the case, feeling the scratches and scuffs from months of street performances, then slung it over my shoulder.
Time to be a student.
Riverside High looked different in the morning light. Less intimidating. Students streamed through the front gates in clusters, laughing, shoving each other, complaining about homework. I slipped into the flow, keeping my head down.
"Kenny!"
I turned to see Jasmine jogging toward me, her braids bouncing. She had a brightness about her that seemed impossible this early in the morning.
"Hey," I said, adjusting my guitar strap.
"You brought your guitar! Does that mean you're serious about the audition?"
"Maybe. I don't know yet."
"Well, you should know that Marcus has been telling everyone about the new kid who's 'probably amazing.'" She grinned. "No pressure."
Before I could respond, the first bell rang. Students began funneling toward the building, and I followed, letting the crowd carry me along.
"Oh, by the way," Jasmine said as we reached the lockers. "You need to join a club. It's mandatory for first-years. Did anyone tell you that?"
"No." My stomach sank. Clubs meant commitment, time, energy—things I wasn't sure I could afford when every moment I wasn't in school was spent figuring out how to survive.
"Don't worry, it's not that bad. Most people just pick something easy and show up once a week. But since you're into music..." She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.
"There's a music club?"
"Music and Dance Club. Third floor, room 304. Fair warning though—it's kind of dead. Like, almost shut down last year because no one joined. But if you're serious about the showcase, it might be worth checking out."
The second bell rang.
"I have to run," Jasmine said. "But seriously, go check it out after school. Tell them I sent you!"
She disappeared into the crowd, leaving me standing in the hallway with my guitar and a strange flutter of hope in my chest.
By the time the final bell rang, I'd almost talked myself out of going to room 304. Clubs meant people. People meant questions. Questions meant lies I'd have to keep track of, a performance I'd have to maintain.
But then again, I'd come to Riverside for a reason. Education. Opportunity. A chance to build something real.
And music was the only thing I had left that felt real.
I climbed to the third floor, following the room numbers until I found 304. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear voices inside—female voices, talking quietly.
I pushed the door open.
The room was smaller than I expected, with scuffed wooden floors and walls covered in faded posters of musicians and dancers. A boombox sat on a desk in the corner, and someone had set up a small keyboard near the window. The whole place had an abandoned feeling, like a ship everyone had already jumped from.
Two girls looked up as I entered. One was tall and elegant, with long black hair pulled into a high ponytail. She wore the second-year uniform with an ease that suggested confidence, maybe even authority. The other girl was smaller, with short hair dyed a dark purple and an oversized sweater that swallowed her frame.
"Um," I said, already backing toward the door. "Sorry, wrong room."
"Wait!" The tall girl stood up quickly. "Are you looking for the Music and Dance Club?"
I hesitated. "Maybe? I thought... there'd be more people."
"You're looking at it," the shorter girl said flatly. "Two members. Well, three now, if you're joining."
The tall girl shot her a look, then turned back to me with a warm smile. "I'm Coco Tanaka, second-year, and club president. This is Mary Chen, first-year and vice president."
"Vice president of a three-person club," Mary muttered.
"We're rebuilding," Coco said firmly. "Last year we had seven members, but they all graduated. Mary and I are the only ones who stuck around, and we need at least three members to keep the club from being dissolved. So..." She gestured to me hopefully. "Please tell me Jasmine sent you."
"She did," I admitted. "I'm Kenny. Kenny Rogers."
Mary snorted. "Like the singer?"
"Like the singer," I confirmed, used to the reaction.
Coco's eyes dropped to my guitar case. "You play?"
"Yeah."
"And sing?"
"Sometimes."
"Can we hear?"
I looked between them—Coco with her eager, desperate hope, and Mary with her skeptical, seen-it-all expression. Every instinct told me to run. To protect myself. To not give anyone a reason to care about me, because caring led to loss, and I'd had enough loss for a lifetime.
But Grandma's voice echoed in my head: *You have a gift, Kenny.*
"Okay," I said quietly. "I can play something."
Coco's face lit up like I'd just promised her the world. "Really? Oh my god, yes. Mary, grab the chairs!"
Within seconds, they'd arranged three chairs in a small circle. I sat down, pulled my guitar from its case, and took a moment to tune it. My hands were shaking slightly—from nerves or hunger, I wasn't sure.
"What do you want to hear?" I asked.
"Whatever you want to play," Coco said. "Just... be yourself."
Be yourself. As if I knew who that was anymore.
I closed my eyes and let my fingers find the opening chords of a song I'd written three weeks ago, sitting under the bridge at two in the morning. It didn't have a name yet. I just called it "The Weight."
When I started singing, the words came from somewhere deep and true:
*"I carry ghosts in my pockets,*
*Wear their whispers like a chain,*
*They tell me I'm the reason*
*For every loss, for every pain.*
*But I'm still here, I'm still breathing,*
*Though the world wants me to break,*
*I'll build a life from broken pieces,*
*Find the light in my mistakes."*
The chorus swelled, my voice rising with it, and for those few minutes, I wasn't homeless or unwanted or cursed. I was just music, pure and honest and free.
When the last chord faded, I opened my eyes.
Coco had tears streaming down her face. Mary was staring at me like she'd seen a ghost, her mouth slightly open.
"Holy shit," Mary whispered.
"Language," Coco said automatically, wiping her eyes. "But yes. Holy shit."
"That was..." Mary shook her head. "Where did you learn to sing like that?"
"My grandmother," I said. "She used to say I had my grandfather's voice."
"Your grandmother has excellent taste." Coco grabbed a clipboard from the desk and thrust it toward me. "Sign this. Right now. Please."
I looked at the form. **Music & Dance Club Membership Application.**
"You don't need to hear more?" I asked.
"Kenny, I have been president of this club for one year, and in that year, I have begged, pleaded, and bribed people to join. No one has even come close to what you just did." She pushed the clipboard closer. "Please. Join us. Help us save this club."
I took the pen and stared at the blank line where my signature would go. Three months ago, I'd been part of a family—however dysfunctional. Two months ago, I'd been a grandson, an employee, someone with a place in the world. Now I was signing up to be part of a failing club with two strangers who'd just heard me pour my heart out in song.
It felt terrifying.
It felt like hope.
I signed my name.
"Yes!" Coco pumped her fist in the air. "Mary, we're official again!"
"We're official," Mary agreed, though she was still looking at me with something like awe. "So, Kenny Rogers. What's your story? And don't say 'nothing'—people who sing like that have stories."
I felt my walls slam back up. "It's not very interesting."
"Everyone says that," Coco said gently. "And it's never true. But you don't have to tell us now. We have time." She smiled. "We meet three days a week—Monday, Wednesday, Friday. We practice, we work on showcase pieces, and we try not to let the administration shut us down. Sound good?"
"Sounds good," I said.
Mary leaned forward. "One more thing. That song you just played—'The Weight' or whatever you called it. Is it yours?"
"Yeah. I write sometimes."
"We need originals for the showcase," Mary said, glancing at Coco. "Everyone does covers, but if we had original music..."
"We'd stand out," Coco finished. "Kenny, would you be willing to perform that song? Or others you've written?"
I thought about the notebook in my backpack, filled with lyrics I'd scribbled during long nights under the bridge. Songs about loss and survival and the sharp edge of hope. I'd never imagined anyone else would hear them.
"Yeah," I said. "I could do that."
Coco and Mary exchanged a look, and something passed between them—relief, excitement, maybe even the beginning of belief.
"Then welcome to the Music and Dance Club," Coco said, extending her hand. "Let's make something incredible."
I shook her hand, then Mary's, and for the first time since Grandma died, I felt like I belonged somewhere.
Even if they didn't know the truth about me.
Even if this fragile, beautiful thing could shatter at any moment.
For now, it was enough.
The sun was setting as I left Riverside High, guitar slung over my shoulder. Students streamed past me toward buses and cars, toward homes with dinner waiting. I turned in the opposite direction, toward the bridge.
My phone buzzed—the ancient flip phone I used for emergencies. A text from an unknown number:
*This is Coco. Jasmine gave me your number. Practice is Monday at 4 PM. Don't be late! Also—bring more songs. We want to hear everything.*
I stared at the message, feeling something warm and dangerous unfold in my chest.
Someone wanted to hear my songs. Someone believed I had something worth sharing.
I typed back: *I'll be there.*
Then I walked toward the river, toward my makeshift home under the bridge, and for once, the cold didn't feel quite so unbearable.