Woody’s Roadhouse was the kind of place everyone in town knew about, even if they’d never actually been inside.

It sat at the edge of the highway, painted bright red with faded white letters across the front. The giant plastic guitar hanging by the entrance buzzed in the wind like a loose screen door. Some people said real bands had played there once. Others claimed a dog had once run onstage and stole the microphone out of a singer’s hand during a show.

Either way, it had a stage, a sound system, and according to Mudpedal’s dad, “The best root beer floats west of the Mississippi.”

So when the owner, actual Woody himself, called Mudpedal’s dad and asked if their band would like to play a set on Open Mic Sunday, Mudpedal nearly fell out of his chair.

“Wait, like…real people?” he asked.

“Yup,” his dad said, holding up the phone. “Real crowd. Real stage. Real nerves.”

Mudpedal’s stomach did a flip. Then another flip. Then it tried to do a cartwheel and fell over.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “We’re not ready.”

His dad grinned. “That’s why we rehearse.”

They cleared their Saturday schedules – no chores, no cartoons, no video games. Just practice.

Corky was already in full show mode when they arrived at his house. He wore sunglasses inside, had tied a red bandana around his forehead, and was chewing gum with dramatic rock-star flair.

“You guys ready to make history?” he said, spinning a drumstick.

“Let’s just make it through the set without falling over,” Mudpedal replied.

They started with their full list of songs, alternating one cover, one original. Their goal: play the full 90-minute set flawlessly.

That goal lasted exactly two minutes and forty-two seconds.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Mudpedal said, holding up his hand.

They had launched into a cover of Twist and Shout, but something felt…off.

“My guitar’s out of tune.”

“It’s your low E,” Corky said without missing a beat. “It’s flat.”

Mudpedal twisted the tuning peg and plucked the string again. “Better?”

Corky nodded, twirling his drumstick like a wand. “Tighten it just a hair more. It sounds like a bumblebee napping.”

They restarted.

This time, it sounded good. Really good.

The room filled with music and energy. They grooved through three full songs before hitting a bump in Mudpedal’s newest original, “Fifty-Five Pancakes”, a surprisingly heartfelt tune about missing breakfast and childhood at the same time.

“Wait,” his dad said, stopping the bassline. “Do I go to the A chord or the D chord in the chorus?”

“It’s A, then B minor, then E,” Mudpedal said. “You keep jumping to D early.”

“I thought D was next.”

“No, D’s the bridge.”

“That’s what I said.”

Mudpedal sighed. “Let’s run the chorus again.”

They played the chorus five more times until it clicked.

Mudpedal could feel it – the song was getting tighter, sharper, more alive. The band wasn’t just playing parts anymore. They were playing together. Listening. Responding.

But then Corky dropped the big question:

“Are we gonna have a name before we play at Woody’s?”

They all froze.

Mudpedal hadn’t even thought of that. They were just “the band.” No logo. No name. No identity.

“I thought we were called ‘The Weekend Wonders’?” his dad offered.

“I thought that was a joke,” Corky replied.

“It was,” said Mudpedal. “A really bad one.”

“Okay then, what about something serious?” Corky said. “Something cool. Something that sounds like we mean business. Like…Sonic Tsunami.”

“No.”

“Okay, fine. What about Stunt Sandwich?”

“Corky!”

Mudpedal rubbed his forehead. “This is going to take forever.”

By the end of rehearsal, they had narrowed it down to a short list:

The Chord Sharks

Feedback & Fuzz

Hold My Root Beer

Mudpedal and the Messengers

Unstrung Heroes

They agreed to vote after dinner.

But first, they needed to nail down their best songs.

The next few days became a rehearsal marathon.

Mudpedal played every afternoon after school. His fingers no longer hurt, but his wrist had started to get stiff after long sessions. He stretched before playing now, just like an athlete.

They rehearsed transitions between songs, making sure Corky didn’t wander off for soda between every track.

They rehearsed volume control after Mudpedal’s mom came in holding her ears.

They even rehearsed introductions.

“Hi,” Mudpedal said to an imaginary crowd. “We’re…um…a band.”

“No,” Corky said. “You have to sound confident. Like, Hey, everyone! We’re the most awesome band in the galaxy and this is our first show, so please clap or we’ll cry!”

“Maybe not that either,” said Mudpedal’s dad.

They took turns pretending to be the front person. Mudpedal didn’t love the spotlight, but he was starting to like it more each day.

The night before the gig, they had one final rehearsal in Corky’s garage. They strung up Christmas lights for ambience and even invited Corky’s neighbor, Mrs. Nguyen, to sit in a folding chair and be their “test audience.”

“Do you take requests?” she asked after song two.

“Only if it’s one of the twelve songs we know,” Mudpedal said, grinning.

After the last song, Mrs. Nguyen clapped and handed them each a sugar cookie.

“If the people at Woody’s don’t love you,” she said, “You come back here and I’ll give you an encore.”

Mudpedal went to bed that night with his guitar on a stand next to his bed like a nightlight.

He lay under the covers, staring at the ceiling.

Tomorrow.

They were playing a real gig tomorrow.

His stomach did that thing again – flipping and flopping like a fish in a laundry basket.

What if he forgot the chords?

What if the amp buzzed?

What if he burped into the microphone?

But underneath the nerves was something stronger.

Excitement.

Hope.

The feeling that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something bigger.

He picked up the notebook next to his bed and tore out a page.

Woody’s Roadhouse – Setlist (Final)

Twist and Shout

Rocket Shoes (original)

Godzilla

My Cat Can Skateboard (original)

Johnny B. Goode

Fifty-Five Pancakes (original)

Crossroads

Windshield Stars (original)

You Really Got Me

We’ll Be Back (original)

And at the bottom:

Band name: TBD