Mudpedal didn’t eat breakfast the next morning. Not even a single crumb of toast.

His mom offered pancakes. His dad tried bacon. Corky sent a photo of a jelly donut with the message “Power snack before we rock the house!”

But Mudpedal just sat at the table, pale and silent, gripping a spoon he wasn’t using.

His dad set down his coffee and looked across the table. “Nervous?”

Mudpedal nodded.

“Good,” said his dad. “Means it matters.”

Woody’s Roadhouse looked even more legendary in the daylight. A little more weather-beaten, a little more crooked, and a lot more real.

The giant plastic guitar next to the door swung slightly in the breeze, as if nodding its approval.

Inside, the room smelled like old campfires, lemon cleaner, and a hint of fried onions. The stage was at the far end of the space, low and wide, with big square speakers on either side and cables trailing like vines across the floor.

“This is it,” said Mudpedal, trying to keep his knees from wobbling.

“Looks smaller than I thought,” said Corky, snapping his drumsticks together like he was warming up for battle.

They hauled in their gear – amp, bass, snare, cables, guitar cases – and set up near the back of the stage. Mudpedal’s hands shook as he tightened his guitar strap.

The soundcheck was chaos. The microphone squealed. The amp buzzed. Corky dropped a stick and it rolled under the pinball machine. Mudpedal’s dad kept playing the bassline from Stand by Me, even when nobody asked him to.

But after twenty minutes of adjusting knobs and restarting cables, they had sound.

Decent sound.

People began to trickle in. Adults. Teenagers. A few kids holding cups of lemonade. Corky’s parents arrived first and sat near the front. Mudpedal’s mom waved from the bar and gave a thumbs-up.

Then, at exactly 3:00 p.m., the stage lights flickered on.

It was time.

Mudpedal stepped up to the mic.

He had practiced what to say. Rehearsed it in the mirror. He even wrote it on the inside of his guitar case in case he forgot.

But when he saw all the faces – real people, blinking, chewing, waiting – his mind went blank.

All he could say was: “Uh…hi.”

Corky made a drumroll sound. His dad leaned over and whispered, “Breathe.”

Mudpedal took a breath.

“We’re The Synchronicity Three,” he said, surprising even himself. “Thanks for being here. Hope you like music.”

Corky counted them in—one, two, three, four!

And the music began.

Their first song, Twist and Shout, blasted out strong. Mudpedal strummed confidently and his dad’s bass thumped in time. Corky twirled his sticks mid-beat and grinned like a maniac. The crowd clapped along. A little girl near the front started hopping in place.

By the second song, Rocket Shoes, one of Mudpedal’s originals, the band had found its groove. They played tighter than they ever had in rehearsal. The chords rang clear. The solo slid perfectly into place.

When Mudpedal finished the final note, people cheered.

Clapped. Whistled.

He’d never heard that sound before – people clapping for something he’d made.

As the show went on, the nerves melted away. Every cover song got heads bobbing. Every original got bigger applause than the last. By the time they played Fifty-Five Pancakes, the crowd was chanting “More pancakes! More pancakes!” after the second verse.

Even Mudpedal’s mom stood up and clapped, mouthing along with the lyrics.

At the end of We’ll Be Back, their final number, Corky tossed a stick into the air, caught it with his eyes closed, and hit the final cymbal crash with the flair of a professional rock star.

The last chord rang out like a bell.

The crowd stood and clapped. Whistled. Even stomped their feet.

Mudpedal’s hands were shaking again, but not from fear.

From joy.

They had done it.

They were a real band.

The band huddled off to the side of the stage, grinning, high-fiving, sipping ice-cold sodas with shaking hands.

“That was incredible,” Corky said, pulling off his bandana and tossing it like a trophy.

“We didn’t even mess up the bridge on ‘Skateboard Cat,’” said Mudpedal’s dad.

Mudpedal just nodded, his heart still racing. He couldn’t stop smiling.

That’s when they heard the voice.

“Excuse me! Hello! Gentlemen!”

A man in a bright blue blazer, mustard-yellow trousers, and a camera bag slung across his shoulder strode toward them like he owned the building.

He had silver hair slicked back like frosting on a birthday cake, a dazzling smile, and a voice like someone who’d narrated a thousand infomercials.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your victory huddle,” the man said, clapping his hands, “But I just had to meet the band.”

“Uh…hi?” said Mudpedal.

“Name’s Kopi Delmar, morning show host, Channel 11,” the man said, pulling a business card from his blazer with a flourish. It had his face on it. Twice.

“I was here for the open mic,” he continued. “My niece’s jazz trio is playing later. Very talented. But you guys – you’ve got something. You’ve got spark. You’ve got juice.”

Mudpedal blinked. “Juice?”

“Kopi means you’ve got energy,” Corky explained helpfully. “Probably.”

Kopi nodded dramatically. “Exactly. I’d like to invite you fine folks to be on Good Morning, Central Valley! We’ll do a segment on young musicians in the community. You’ll play a song, chat with me, maybe eat a pastry on live TV.”

The three bandmates looked at each other, stunned.

“Us?” said Mudpedal.

“Why not you?” said Kopi, spreading his arms like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re fresh. You’re talented. You’ve got charisma! Plus, you have a kid named Mudpedal. That’s television gold.”

“We’d love to,” Mudpedal’s dad said, stepping forward with a handshake.

“We would?” Mudpedal said, but no one heard him.

“Here’s the plan,” Kopi said. “We’ll shoot next Wednesday. Live spot. You’ll be great. Dress bright. Bring energy. Be yourselves.”

And just like that, Kopi spun around and disappeared into the crowd, waving to everyone like he was the mayor.

The band stood in silence for a few seconds.

“We’re going to be on TV,” Corky said.

“Oh no,” Mudpedal whispered. “Now I’m nervous again.”

That night, back at home, Mudpedal couldn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, guitar still humming in his head. The sounds of the show echoed in his ears: applause, basslines, his own singing voice. The bright lights. The smiling faces.

They had really done it.

He picked up his notebook and scribbled across a fresh page:

To Do:

Practice TV song

Pick bright outfit

Don’t throw up on live TV

Thank Woody

Write more songs

At the bottom of the page, he drew a tiny cartoon of Kopi, arms outstretched, saying “You’ve got juice!”

Mudpedal smiled.

His fingers were sore, his voice was tired, and his heart felt full.

And for the first time ever, he thought, Maybe I really am a musician.