I don’t know if they have other plans or she’s tired or what. I see Ethan studying me. He comes over and gives Emme a hug.
ETHAN: Great show tonight.
EMME: Thanks. I’m going to pack up and then head out with Carter. Do you want me to grab your cords onstage so you can get back to your fan club?
Emme moves her chin subtly over to the group of four girls glaring at her.
Ethan doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge them.
ETHAN: No, it’s okay. I’ll go with you.
A girl comes over and tugs Ethan’s shirt.
GIRL: Hey, Ethan, I totally want to show you the pictures I took.
I can tell Ethan has no interest in looking at the girl’s photos. I can also sense tension between Ethan and Emme.
ME: I can help pack up and, like, move stuff or whatever.
Very elegant, Carter.
EMME: That’d be great, thanks.
Emme moves to leave the room, and Ethan pulls away from the other girl and grabs Emme’s arm.
ETHAN: Just give me a few minutes and I can help.
Emme shakes her head.
EMME: It’s getting late, and I want to pack up and leave. You know, some of us do have a curfew. Don’t worry about it — we can handle the breakdown. Talk to you later.
Emme turns on her heel and walks out the door. I follow her down the hallway, onto the stage.
Jack and Ben are already there disassembling the drum kit and amps. Jack doesn’t hesitate putting me to work. And I love it. I mean, I realize that I’m here purely for manual labor, but being with them makes me feel like part of the team.
I’m a little disappointed when the last amp is packed into the truck.
Ethan comes out to the alley with two girls following behind him.
JACK: Nice for you to show up once we’re done.
Ethan clenches his teeth and ignores the laughter coming from the two girls leaning against the wall.
EMME: Okay, guys, I’m heading out. Great show.
Emme gives each of the guys a hug. After she embraces Ethan, he leans in and whispers something in her ear. She turns around with an annoyed look on her face.
Emme leads me to a place close to the F train. She gets a green tea while I get a delicious mocha drink (if I’m going to splurge, might as well do it big-time, right?).
I go on and on about the show, and Emme listens patiently as she sips her tea. I run out of compliments and after I use the word awesome for the twelfth time, I decide to take a break.
EMME: You know, Carter, it’s okay. You can talk to me about Sophie.
ME: Sophie?
Sophie hasn’t even entered my mind the entire evening. Which should probably give me a hint of how well things are going between us.
EMME: Yeah, I assumed that’s what you wanted to talk to me about.
Oh, of course she assumed that it was about Sophie. This was a stupid idea.
ME: No, I just …
She sets her glass down and leans in. Her bright green eyes sparkle, and I can tell that I can trust her. Sophie constantly says what a good friend she is, and it’s clear that Emme has always gone out of her way for her friends.
ME: Actually, I wanted to talk to you about school. And I know this is going to sound weird, but this isn’t how I thought school would be.
She nods at me knowingly. I can tell that she is going to let me talk. I’m not used to that. Mom and Sophie do the talking. I do the listening. But not tonight. Tonight I’m going to say what I’ve been dying to scream out for years.
ME: I hate acting.
There. I’ve said it. And now I feel the floodgates open.
ME: Acting wasn’t even my choice. I’ve been doing it for forever and I don’t even like it. Sure, as a kid it was like playing pretend. And I had fun traveling the world and doing the Kavalier Kids movies, but then it just became so redundant. We sat around, got tutored, spent four hours shooting three lines of dialogue. At least with the soap, everything moves quickly because we’ve got five hours of TV to fill a week. But I’m not happy. This isn’t what I want. I don’t know what I want.
I pause.
ME: Actually, that’s a lie. I love to draw and paint. I love art. Sometimes on the weekends, I put on a baseball hat and a hoodie and spend hours at galleries in SoHo. And that’s such a stupid thing to have to hide. But I hide it from my mom, who wants me to return to the glory days. I know she’d think there’s no future in art, but like there is in acting? Let’s face it, I’m not that good. Sure, as a kid, I got by being all cute, but I don’t have the desire or depth to do more adult roles. I get the lead in everything because the girls will buy the tickets. Most of the teachers don’t even like me. Let’s not even get into the students. I don’t know. And I don’t know why I’m babbling to you, I just … I see you up onstage with the guys and you seem happy. Like you’re doing exactly what you are meant to do. Do you have any idea what a blessing that is? I don’t even see you that happy when you’re performing with Sophie.
I know I’ve hit a nerve. I can see her shift uncomfortably.
ME: I’m sorry, I know that is none of my business. I just … I want to be happy.
I finally let out a breath and take a sip of my mocha.
EMME: What would make you happy? Right now.
ME: Quitting the soap.
EMME: Okay.
She says it like that is so easy. But I guess it is. Money isn’t an issue. I technically don’t have to work.
EMME: And then?
ME: Take art classes.
EMME: Okay. So you need to quit the soap and take art classes.
Quit the soap and take art classes.
EMME: Does your mom have any idea about how you feel?
I shake my head. This has been her dream for so long, I don’t think she’s ever taken a moment to consider what I want.
ME: No, I’ve been keeping everything hidden from her. I don’t think she’d take it well.
EMME: But this is your life.
Yes, my life. Carter Harrison. Not “Carter Harrison” the all-American, blond-haired (thanks, lemon juice!), blue-eyed, sparkly white-teeth (thanks, bleach!) act. Me. Plain Carter. I hesitate as I want to tell her more, but I figure trying to quit the soap will be hard enough. So I’ll talk to Mom about quitting the soap and taking art classes.
Yeah, that’s going to be fun.
EMME: Can I see your art?
Even though Emme has told me to basically flip my world upside down, this is what scares me the most.
ME: I’ve never shown anybody my art. I don’t know, this is going to seem stupid, but it feels too personal.
Emme nods her head.
EMME: I know exactly what you’re saying. I feel that way about my songs sometimes. But for me it’s easy — Sophie is the one who gets up there and sings my words. It actually helps me when I’m writing the lyrics. I don’t have to censor myself, wondering if people will read into something, because I know it won’t be me up there singing it. I kind of see Sophie as my security blanket. I guess artists don’t have that luxury.
I never thought of it like that before. That Emme, who has this incredible support system, would feel self-conscious about her songs. And I never realized how much she needs Sophie. I always saw it from Sophie’s perspective, that Sophie needs Emme’s songs.
I guess we’re both hiding in our own ways.
ME: Well, I’m going to have to show it to people sometime. Although I do need to warn you, I’m no Trevor Parsons.
EMME: Trevor had to start somewhere. You know, he would be a great person to talk to.
I laugh. Emme makes this all seem so simple. But maybe it is. It can’t be any harder than keeping a straight face saying lines like “Dammit, Charity, I’m not a mind reader, I’m just a guy trying to tell you how I feel inside!”
I think about my conversation with Emme as I go for a run in Central Park the next morning. Running helps clear my head, and I need it for what awaits me at ho
me. I come back to our Central Park West apartment to find Mom at the kitchen table, reading scripts for me.
MOM: Honey, I made you some eggs.
I go to the counter, scoop up the eggs, and pour myself a glass of orange juice.
MOM: No juice — too much sugar.
I sit down and don’t say anything.
MOM: Nervous about school on Monday?
I shake my head. Nope, not nervous about that. Although about the conversation I want to have right now? I believe terrified is the word I’m thinking of.
ME: I need to talk to you.
She puts down the script and removes her reading glasses.
ME: It’s about the soap. I don’t want —
MOM: I know, honey, and I’m so sorry about the pressure the producers have been putting on you for the new Charity story line. At first, I thought it would help with school starting, they know your hours are being cut and I think they wanted to give you something big before you wouldn’t be around so much.
ME: It’s not that. I don’t want to do it anymore.
MOM: I’m confused. You don’t want to do the Charity story line or the show?
ME: The show.
MOM: Oh.
She looks down at the table and nods.
MOM: Okay, Carter. But you do realize you’re on a contract.
What is going on? She’s so calm. This isn’t what I was expecting; this isn’t how she reacts when I …
I try to think about a time when I stood up for myself and said I didn’t want to go on an audition or accept a role. And I can’t. That’s impossible. I …
ME: How long is the contract for?
MOM: Just until next September.
Next September? That’s a year.
MOM: Let me talk to the producers and see what we can do. We’ll work something out, but you won’t be able to quit right away.
I shake my head. That’s it. She’s not going to …
To what? I start going through all the scenarios in my head of when I’ve taken roles, and it’s always been my decision. I’m the one who put myself in this circumstance. I’m the one who thought a soap would be a good way to balance school.
MOM: I’m glad you said something to me, honey. I didn’t know you were that unhappy with the show, but you’ve been demonstrating so much promise at school, it makes sense you’d want to concentrate on your senior year.
I’m in shock. I quietly eat the rest of my eggs as I try to even think about what must be going through her mind.
Mom hands me the script she’s been reading.
MOM: I think this is really good; you should read it. Tell me what you think. Maybe you can do this next?
She kisses me on the cheek and pats my back before she heads to the living room.
I’m so shocked that I don’t even bring up art. No point doing that until I know what’s going on with the show.
I clean the dishes in a daze. Then I automatically pick up the script she handed me and head to my room. Anything to take my mind off what will happen once I stop acting, once I don’t have a role to hide behind.
So the question is: Am I really ready to be just plain old Carter?
On Monday, while the rest of the school begins classes, the selected performers wait backstage as Dr. Pafford does his usual scaring of the freshman class. Reminding them that while they were probably the top music/art/dance/drama students in whatever borough they came from, they are average here. That on top of academics, they’ve got four studio classes. That they are here for an hour longer than “normal” high schools.
Emme approaches me with a smile on her face. I told her about my conversation with my mom and she was really happy. Sophie, on the other hand, can’t believe that I’d want to leave the show.
It isn’t until after Emme gives me a hug that I notice that Trevor Parsons is behind her.
EMME: Hey, Carter, do you know Trevor?
TREVOR: Hey, man. I, of course, know who you are.
I shake his hand and can hardly speak. I’ve been around a bunch of celebrities in my life, but there’s something about Trevor that renders me utterly speechless.
EMME: I’ve been talking to Trevor about possibly doing some artwork for the band.
ME: Cool.
Cool? This is not the impression I want to make with somebody like Trevor.
EMME: I hope you don’t mind, Carter, but I was telling Trevor about how you’ve been doing some of your own art, and how I thought that maybe he could give you some pointers.
TREVOR: Can totally do that. I love seeing other people’s work. And seeing anything that’s being done outside these walls would be a welcome sight. Here, let me give you my number.
This really is a lot simpler than I thought. What was my excuse all this time for continuing to do something that makes me unhappy?
Emme stands back and watches as Trevor and I exchange information. I want to run over, pick her up, and give her a hug.
But there isn’t time. The cue comes up and we all take our places. Over the next thirty minutes or so, the new class is treated to performances from my peers. They shine onstage because it’s what they love. They are CPA’s finest.
And then there’s me.
I’ve wanted to blame my mom for the position I’m in, but her reaction made me realize that maybe she wasn’t the one pushing me this entire time.
I never once complained about being an actor. About going on auditions.
This was all on me.
As I take to the stage, a line from Death of a Salesman comes into my mind. Not from the part I’m going to be performing, but from Willy Loman’s son, Biff.
I look out into the audience and hear the screaming from the girls. Those words echo loudly in my head.
I realized what a ridiculous lie my whole life has been.
There is one thing I can say with certainty: I am not anywhere near the worst disaster at the freshman performance. Far from it. That honor belongs to one Carter Harrison.
We file into our first studio class for music composition after the performances. “Well, we’ve always known he hasn’t gotten by on his talent,” Jack says as he takes his usual seat in the back row.
“Be nice,” Emme scolds as she sits in front of him. Ben sits next to Jack, and I sit in front of him, next to Emme. This is pretty much how it’s been since freshman year.
“Plus,” she continues, “he’s been going through a lot. So he botched a few lines — that’s happened to all of us.” She looks directly at me.
Okay, she has a point, but Jack isn’t one to back down.
“How would you know what’s going on with him?”
Yeah, why does Emme know anything about Carter’s life? Like one after-concert talk makes them lifelong friends. It’s not as if Sophie would ever dare discuss anything that didn’t revolve around her.
“Just drop it.” She turns toward the front of the class, waiting for Mr. North to start.
The other students quickly file in and take the remaining seats. The music composition program started with eighteen students. Now there are only twelve of us left.
“Welcome, seniors!” Mr. North greets us as he walks in, sleeves rolled up, like he’s ready to dive into whatever challenge he places in front of us. “I won’t delay the torture any longer.” A nervous giggle echoes in the large studio room. “We’ve done style analysis, composing for vocal, small form, and full orchestra. This year, the focus will be on contemporary arrangement and productions, but, for the most part, you can choose which type of music to work with.”
A small victory. No more composing sonatas for seventy different orchestra members. I can stick to what I do best: four-minute-long songs that chronicle the epic disaster known as my love life.
“At the end of the year, you’ll need to submit a senior thesis project to graduate. Since many of you are applying to music colleges, most of you will be able to use your thesis for your prescreening, or what you are doing for your audition for your thesis. I
guess it depends on how on top of things you are.
“So here’s the deal: Those of you wanting to do vocal compositions, you’ll need to do a CD of original songs or a musical act that lasts at least forty minutes. Short form, three different sonatas or minuets for a total time of at least thirty minutes. And the orchestra folks, rescore a portion of a movie or television show. Again, at least thirty minutes.” He starts handing out a sheet of paper with the requirements.
The CD is perfect; we’ve already been working on recording a few songs to sell some CDs at our shows. Plus, both Emme and I need recorded songs for our pre-audition for Juilliard. They require a pre-audition to see if you are even good enough for an audition. Fortunately, the other places we’re applying to just have an audition.