# Chapter 7: Woodworking
The weeks leading up to the spring showcase blurred together in a whirlwind of rehearsals, vocal exercises, and choreography sessions that left us all exhausted and exhilarated. Room 304 became our second home—or for some of us, like me, maybe our first real home.
"Again from the top!" Coco called out, clapping her hands together. "And this time, Riley, remember to breathe before the high note. You're rushing it."
It was Monday, three weeks before the showcase, and we were running through our fifth rehearsal of the day. The spring sun poured through the windows, and someone had opened them to let in fresh air. We needed it—six bodies moving, singing, sweating in a small classroom created a specific kind of heat.
Riley nodded, hands on her knees as she caught her breath. "Got it. One more time."
We'd established a brutal training schedule: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after school for three hours, plus weekend sessions when we could manage it. Coco had us doing vocal warm-ups that made my throat hurt, breathing exercises that left me lightheaded, and dance rehearsals that reminded me I'd been living on the streets eating garbage for two months—my body wasn't exactly in peak physical condition.
But I was getting stronger. We all were.
"Water break," Mary announced, checking her watch. "Five minutes, then we're running 'Paper Airplanes' with the full choreography."
Everyone scattered. Daniel grabbed his water bottle and collapsed against the wall, scrolling through sheet music on his phone. Riley and Sophie huddled together, discussing harmonies. Coco and Mary reviewed their notes, marking changes in their choreography notebook.
I sat by the window with my guitar, absently picking out melodies while my mind wandered. The showcase was shaping up to be something special—a five-song set that told a complete story. We'd start with "Still Here," then move into Sophie's "Paper Airplanes" featuring Riley on lead vocals, followed by an instrumental piece Daniel had composed with me on guitar. After that came "Break Through," the song I'd written about finding community, performed by all six of us.
But we needed something for the finale. Something that would leave the audience breathless, something that showcased every member of the club while pushing us into new territory.
That's where "Woodworking" came in.
I'd been working on it for two weeks, hiding in my apartment late at night, trying to blend genres in a way I'd never attempted before. Trap beats, pop melodies, rap verses—it was messy and experimental and completely different from anything I'd written before.
It was also terrifying.
"Hey," Sophie said, sitting down beside me. "What are you working on?"
"Just messing around," I said, but my fingers kept playing—a syncopated rhythm that would form the backbone of "Woodworking."
She listened for a moment, head tilted. "That's different from your usual stuff. What's the concept?"
I hesitated. We'd been collaborating for weeks now, but this song felt personal in a different way. "It's about rebuilding," I said finally. "Taking broken pieces and making something new. Like... woodworking. Taking scraps and sawdust and creating furniture, art, something functional and beautiful."
"Metaphor for your life?" she asked gently.
"Metaphor for all of us," I corrected. "Everyone in this club is here because something broke—family, expectations, previous definitions of who we're supposed to be. And we're rebuilding ourselves into something new."
Sophie was quiet for a long moment. "Can I hear it?"
"It's not finished."
"I don't care."
I took a breath and started playing for real, adding a beat by tapping my foot against the floor. Then I began to rap—something I'd never done in front of anyone before:
*"Started with scraps, yeah, broken and worn,*
*Pieces of me that were battered and torn,*
*Sandpaper rough on the edges and seams,*
*Building myself from demolished dreams.*
*Woodworking, I'm woodworking,*
*Taking the hurt and I'm making it work,*
*Splinters and sawdust, I'm putting in work,*
*Crafting my life from the dirt."*
Sophie's eyes widened. "Holy shit, you can rap?"
"Apparently?" I said, self-conscious. "Is it terrible?"
"Are you kidding? That's incredible! The rhythm, the wordplay—Kenny, this is next level." She grabbed my arm. "You have to show the others."
"I don't know if—"
"Everyone! Get over here!" Sophie shouted across the room.
Within seconds, the entire club had gathered around us. Coco looked curious, Mary skeptical, Daniel interested, Riley excited.
"Kenny wrote a new song," Sophie announced. "And it's completely different from anything we've done. Show them."
My face burned. "It's not ready—"
"Show us anyway," Coco said, settling onto the floor. "Come on."
There was no getting out of this. I adjusted my guitar, found the rhythm again, and launched into "Woodworking."
This time I didn't hold back. I let the rap verses flow faster, sharper, my voice finding the pocket between the beat and the melody. The chorus shifted into sung vocals, a pop hook that invited harmonies:
*"We're woodworking, hearts wide open,*
*Taking what's broken, building something golden,*
*We're woodworking, scars into art,*
*Every ending's just another start."*
I transitioned into the second verse, the rap getting more complex:
*"They said I was cursed, said I'd never amount,*
*But I'm stacking my worth, yeah, I'm keeping count,*
*Every rejection's a lesson I learned,*
*Every bridge that they burned, well, the tables have turned.*
*Now I'm measuring twice, cutting once, getting precise,*
*Building my life like I'm rolling the dice,*
*And the odds looking good, yeah, I knew that they would,*
*I'm a master craftsman working with wood."*
By the time I hit the bridge, everyone was nodding along to the rhythm:
*"From the sawdust we rise, from the ashes we climb,*
*Every scar is a sign that we're built to survive,*
*We're not victims, we're artists, we're makers of fate,*
*Taking broken and building something great."*
The final chorus exploded, and I imagined all six voices joining in, harmonies layering over the beat, creating something massive and triumphant:
*"We're woodworking, hearts wide open,*
*Taking what's broken, building something golden,*
*We're woodworking, scars into art,*
*Every ending's just another start!"*
When I finished, silence hung in the air for three full seconds.
Then Riley jumped to her feet. "That's our closer! That has to be our showcase closer!"
"It's so different from everything else in the set," Mary said, but she was grinning. "Which is exactly why it works. We start with raw emotion, build through vulnerability, and end with this explosion of confidence and energy."
"I can already hear the harmonies," Sophie said, pulling out her notebook. "Riley and I can take the chorus, Daniel can lay down a bass line that emphasizes the trap beat, and Coco and Mary can create choreography that's sharp and powerful—"
"Wait," I interrupted. "You all want to perform this? With me?"
"Obviously," Coco said. "Kenny, this song is perfect. It's contemporary, it's bold, it showcases everyone's range. And thematically, it ties everything together—we're all woodworking our lives, rebuilding from broken pieces."
"Plus," Daniel added quietly, "it's a banger. People are going to lose their minds."
For the next two weeks, we lived and breathed "Woodworking."
Coco choreographed sharp, angular movements that matched the trap beat—popping, locking, precise formations that made us look like a professional crew. Mary worked with her to create moments where the dance broke apart into individual expression before coming back together, symbolizing the journey from broken to whole.
Sophie and Riley developed harmonies that turned the chorus into something celestial, their voices weaving around each other with practiced precision. Daniel created a bass line that was absolutely filthy, driving the song forward with relentless energy.
And I worked on my rap delivery, practicing the verses until the words flowed effortlessly, until I could spit bars while moving through choreography without getting winded.
We trained our voices daily—scales, breathing exercises, harmony drills that Coco found on YouTube from professional vocal coaches. My range expanded. Riley learned to control her power notes. Sophie gained confidence in her lower register.
We trained our bodies too. Coco made us run through the full set three times in a row without stopping, building our stamina. Mary taught us how to move efficiently, how to conserve energy while still giving a dynamic performance. By the end of week two, we could perform all five songs back-to-back without collapsing.
The club had transformed from a struggling trio to a tight-knit ensemble. We knew each other's strengths, covered each other's weaknesses, pushed each other to be better.
And we sounded incredible.
The night before the showcase, we gathered in room 304 for one final rehearsal. The energy was electric, nervous excitement mixed with the confidence that came from weeks of preparation.
"Okay," Coco said, standing at the front of the room. "Tomorrow is everything we've worked for. Let's run through the full set one more time, beginning to end, no stops. Pretend we're on stage. This is the real deal."
We took our positions. I picked up my guitar, heart already pounding. Sophie stood beside me, notebook clutched to her chest even though she'd long since memorized every word. Riley stretched, loosening up her muscles. Daniel tuned his bass. Mary and Coco exchanged a look—some silent communication between president and vice president.
"From the top," Coco said. "In five, four, three, two—"
I struck the opening chord of "Still Here."
For the next forty minutes, we performed like our lives depended on it. Every note precise, every movement sharp, every harmony locked in. We moved seamlessly from song to song, the set flowing like one continuous piece of art.
When we reached "Woodworking," something magical happened. All six of us came together—voices, instruments, movement—creating a sound that was bigger than the sum of our parts. The room seemed to vibrate with energy, and I could feel it in my bones: this was what we were meant to do.
The final chorus hit, and we gave it everything:
*"We're woodworking, hearts wide open,*
*Taking what's broken, building something golden,*
*We're woodworking, scars into art,*
*Every ending's just another start!"*
The last note rang out, and we froze in our final formation—arms raised, faces toward the ceiling, breathing hard.
Then we collapsed into laughter and cheers, the tension of weeks of preparation finally releasing.
"That was perfect," Sophie said, wiping sweat from her forehead. "If we perform like that tomorrow—"
"We will," Coco interrupted firmly. "We're ready. More than ready."
Mary nodded. "I've been doing this for two years, and I've never seen a showcase set this tight. You guys are going to blow the doors off that auditorium."
"We all are," I corrected. "This isn't me. This is us. The Music and Dance Club."
Riley raised her water bottle in a toast. "To the Music and Dance Club. And to 'Woodworking' our way to the top."
We clinked our bottles together, grinning like idiots, and for a moment, I allowed myself to feel it—pure, uncomplicated joy.
Tomorrow would be nerve-wracking. Tomorrow would be pressure and expectations and the weight of proving ourselves. But tonight, in this room with these people, I felt something I hadn't felt since Grandma died.
I felt like I belonged.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I lay on my futon in my tiny apartment, staring at the water-stained ceiling, running through lyrics and choreography in my mind. My guitar leaned against the wall within reach, and my phone sat on the floor beside me, fully charged, alarm set for 6 AM.
I thought about the journey that had brought me here—from sleeping under a bridge to performing in a showcase, from being rejected by my family to finding a new one in the Music and Dance Club. It felt surreal, fragile, like a dream I might wake up from at any moment.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
*Tomorrow is your moment, Kenny. Don't hold back. The industry is watching. - K. Takahashi*
The talent scout was coming to the showcase. The thought should have terrified me, but instead, it filled me with determination.
I'd been told my whole life that I was cursed, that I brought nothing but bad luck and pain. But tomorrow, I'd stand on that stage and prove them wrong. I'd show Mei and Uncle Chen and every person who'd ever looked at me with disgust that I was more than their accusations.
I was a survivor. A musician. An artist.
I was still here.
And I wasn't done fighting.
I pulled out my notebook one last time, flipping to a blank page, and wrote:
*"They tried to bury me, but I was a seed.*
*They tried to break me, but I'm built to succeed.*
*Tomorrow I rise, tomorrow I shine,*
*Tomorrow the world will know—this stage is mine."*
Then I set the notebook aside, closed my eyes, and finally drifted off to sleep, dreaming of spotlights and standing ovations and a future built from broken pieces.
Tomorrow would be the beginning of everything.
The end