TREVOR REYNOLDS WAS THE MIDAFTERNOON PERFORMER on the last day of the festival. Brad had never heard of him before, but he liked what he saw and heard. Liked it a lot.
What he liked even more was getting to meet the singer. Unlike the other performers before him, Trevor didn’t act rushed or disinterested when Brad was introduced backstage. He met Brad’s eyes with a direct gaze and invited him to sit down so they could talk awhile. It wasn’t long before Brad shared—in a halting voice—his private dream of being a drummer in a professional band one day.
“How old are you?” Trevor asked once Brad fell silent.
“Seventeen.”
“Still in high school?”
Brad nodded. “I’m a senior this fall.”
“Are you in a band now?”
“Only the school band.”
Trevor smiled. “Nothing wrong with a school band. That gives you a different kind of experience, and all experience is good.”
“Yeah, but I can’t wait to graduate so I can become a part of something more than that. My dad and sister are all set on me going to college, but I’d—”
“Kid, can I give you a piece of advice?”
“Sure,” he answered with enthusiasm. “I’d love some.”
“Don’t skip college. You’ll regret it if you do. I speak from experience.” The singer wasn’t smiling any longer. His expression said he was dead serious.
But Brad was convinced Trevor was wrong. What difference would college make to a drummer in a country band?
Trevor leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Tell you what,” he said after a lengthy silence. “You wait to chase your dream until you graduate from college. If you do that, I’ll make sure you get some auditions in Nashville. If I’m in need of a drummer when that time rolls around, I’ll even audition you myself.”
Brad felt a strange sensation shoot through his body. More than excitement. More than anticipation. Something even more than hope. Almost from the moment he’d given his heart to God at winter camp, he’d prayed that music, that playing the drums, that being part of a band, would be God’s will for his life. And for the first time, he sensed it might be. A door had been opened. Just a crack for now, but still open.
“Here.” Trevor held out a business card. On the glossy side was his photograph and a website URL, as well as his agent’s contact information. On the plain white back side of the card, Trevor had scribbled his cell phone number and e-mail address. “You keep in touch. Let me know how you’re doing.”
“You mean it?” Brad looked up from the card, eyes wide.
Trevor grinned. “Yeah, I mean it.” Softly—probably not meaning for Brad to hear—he added, “Call me crazy, but I mean it.”