Take a Bow (7 page)

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 home. 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.

T
here 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.

I say that like we are purposely applying to the same schools.

We are not.

Well, at least she isn’t. I’ll admit to looking at her list before deciding where I was going to apply.

Until recently, Emme has been my biggest rock. But the rock turned into an avalanche a few weeks ago and now I don’t know what she’s thinking.

“Which brings us to the unpleasant matter of us giving out our charity to the rest of the school. That’s right, school musical time.”

Everybody in the room lets his or her disgust be known. We’re required to perform in the orchestra of at least one all-school musical. It’s a requirement of the other music programs — brass, percussion, piano, etc. — so it was deemed fairest to make the composition students do it as well.

“The first musical,
A Little Night Music
, is at the end of October and we need —”

Before he can even get the words out, both Emme and I shoot our hands up to volunteer at the exact same moment. She looks at me and laughs.

Mr. North shakes his head. “Why am I not surprised?”

Both Emme and I agree that it’s best to get that prerequisite out of the way.

“Well, the good news is that they need two people: percussion and bass.”

Emme leans in. “I’ll flip you for percussion.”

I shake my head. “You take it.” She claps her hands together. Percussion will be the far less demanding of the two. The “real” percussion students will be assigned the drum kit and major roles. Emme will just need to fill in on a triangle or timpani if a song calls for it.

At this point, I’ll do anything to make it so she never looks at me the way she did during the summer.

Lunch starts off eerily quiet, since Jack mercifully already did his usual pseudo-documentary account of our fates. Plus, we’re all looking over our senior thesis requirements.

Jack throws the piece of paper on the table with purpose. “I know this may surprise you all, but I’m going to start working on this right away.”

Ben laughs.

“Seriously. This is exactly what I need for CalArts, combining original composition with a movie. Genius.”

Emme looks down at the table. She gets sad every time she’s reminded that Jack wants to go across the country to school. Ben’s first choice is Oberlin in Ohio. I’m the only person who’s planning on staying on the East Coast, either at Juilliard, Berklee, Boston Conservatory, or the Manhattan School of Music. Although I did apply to the San Francisco Conservatory … because Emme has it on her list.

But we both want Juilliard. I think anybody who grows up in New York City with a passion for music wants to go there. You’d be crazy not to.

“Aww, come on, Red.” Jack nudges Emme’s shoulder playfully. “You’ve got the whole year to feast your eyes on all of this.” He gestures over his body and raises his eyebrows at her.

She smiles reluctantly at him. Jack gets up and hugs Emme.

“I swear you’re like a little lost puppy, Red. Damn you and those big green eyes. They get me every time.”

Something catches Emme’s attention and she quickly excuses herself from the table. My gaze follows her across the room as she approaches Carter and gives him a little hug.

Seriously, when did they become friends? We talk every day and she hasn’t mentioned anything to me about him. I thought she told me everything, but I guess not.

Emme brings Carter over to the table. “Carter’s going to join us for lunch,” she announces. We make room for him. We’ve never had an outsider at our table before. I don’t think I like this at all. We’ve had to share Emme with Sophie all this time, and now we’ve got to fight off the Soap Stud.

“Hey, guys, you were amazing today.” He sits down and smiles at us. “Seriously, everybody in Drama was foaming at the mouth at having to compete with you guys for the Senior Showcase. You’re totally the front-runners.”

“Thanks, man.” Jack shakes Carter’s hand.

“Yeah, that’s so nice of you.” Ben tilts his head at Carter slightly.

“And I know you’re upset” — Emme rubs her hand on Carter’s back — “but you had one of the most difficult monologues to do, and I think you recovered nicely.”

What the hell is going on? They are practically falling all over this no-talent hack. Fine, I’ll give it to Emme and Ben that he’s good-looking in that overly coifed all-American kind of way, but I expected more from Jack. Considering that Jack wants to be a composer for the big screen, I guess he sees Carter as his ticket into the business or whatever.

I mean, okay, I liked the first two
Kavalier Kids
movies as a kid, but seriously …

This is so not how I pictured senior year starting off. Granted, I didn’t suddenly expect to mature completely, but how can I possibly work on my self-confidence when I’ve got Mr. Six-Pack sitting across from me? Especially when the three people most important to me are clearly enamored of this
Former
Child Star?

I don’t say anything for the rest of lunch. Not when Carter breaks out a container full of chicken breast that serves as his entire meal. Not when I notice him looking at my cheeseburger and fries in envy. (At least I’ve got something over him; I got this “body” by stuffing my face with junk food, so he can just suck on that.) Not when Emme fills him in on our senior thesis. And especially not when Jack invites him to our rehearsal this weekend
at my apartment
.

I don’t say a word.

And nobody seems to notice. Or care.

I’m ready to put this miserable day behind me when Emme approaches me with a smile on her face.

I smile back at her until she says, “Don’t hate me.” She pulls out The Calendar. I see Jack walking over, but as soon as he sees the all-too-familiar binder, he heads for the door.

“Jack’s walking away.” I rat him out.

Emme sprints to grab Jack, and he gives me the look of death as she drags him over.

“Come on, guys,” she says, “this semester is going to be extremely complicated with college auditions, the senior thesis, and the showcase. We’ve got to figure everything out.”

She opens up the color-coded weekly calendar that contains her academic assignments, her practice pieces, the band’s schedule, and all the deadlines to pretty much everything on earth. She refuses to put it on her phone. She also writes out all her music. Pretty much everybody in class uses computers to record or write songs. But Emme uses good old paper and pencil.

It’s so old-school. It’s also utterly endearing.

I love that she still does it, especially after us picking on her about it since freshman year. I’d hate for her to change that or anything else about her. Except for her opinion about me —
that
I’d love to change.

She starts quizzing us on our schedules, assignments, and projects so she can figure out a practice schedule for the band.

I may be the front man, Jack may be the charisma, Ben may be the soul, but Emme is the heart of the band.

I think back to the time when I realized how much we needed her. How much
I
needed her. It was the first official fight of the band. And, of course, I was the reason for it.

Besides being the front man, I’m the pain in the ass of the band.

Our first few performances freshman year went okay. The sound was fine — only I was having some problems being the proper “leader” of the band. I thought I was walking into a rehearsal, but I was mistaken.

I could immediately tell by the silence that greeted me when I entered the room that something was wrong.

“We’ve got to talk.” Jack gestured to the seat next to him.

I stayed standing.

Jack didn’t seem surprised. “Okay, so no offense.”

Generally speaking, when somebody starts a sentence with “no offense,” what follows is something that you will take offense at.

“I mean, you know we all love you,” Jack continued, only further delaying this awkward intervention.

I studied Ben to see if I could get a hint of what was going on, but he was just giving me a slight smile. I could tell he was smiling so the guilt wouldn’t completely ooze off his face. Emme was worse. She was looking down at the ground; she wouldn’t even look at me. She seemed even more uncomfortable than I was. And I had thought that was humanly impossible.

“Can you just get it over with?” I said with an even tone.

Jack continued to be the spokesperson of the group. “Look, you’re an amazing musician and songwriter; I mean, it kills me that you’re so talented.” Now I was the one looking down at the floor. “Thank God I have the looks, because that just wouldn’t be fair.” Once again, Jack tried to lighten the mood. “It’s just that … when you’re onstage, you look miserable. You don’t move around, you don’t engage the audience, you just close your eyes and sing. We need you to be more of a … front man.”

“Why do I have to be the front man?”

Jack threw his hands up. “Ah, because you’re the lead singer.”

“But that doesn’t mean I have to be the one to always speak?”

Jack looked at Ben and Emme. “Yeah, it does.”

“There are plenty of examples of bands that —”

Jack wouldn’t even let me finish. “We don’t really need a lesson on Rock Groups 101. It makes the most sense and, to be honest, you never freeze up like that when we rehearse.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe it is a little intimidating to have to talk in front of a crowd? How would you like to have all that attention on you?”

“I’d love it.”

“Then
you
do it.”

“I can’t really warm up the crowd when I’m behind my kit.”

My stomach started to churn. I loved playing, I loved the band, but when I was onstage, I felt self-conscious. All eyes were on me while I sang. I felt this undeniable weight on my shoulders … and a little stupid.

“Emme should be the lead singer.”

Emme finally looked up at me. The expression on her face reminded me of one of those girls in a slasher flick who’s about to be stabbed by a serial killer. “I can’t sing,” she protested.

“You
can
sing,” I argued. “You just choose not to.” She lowered her head again.

Jack came over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Look, you’re the best singer in the group. If you maybe opened your eyes every once in a while, you’d see that the girls in the audience like what they’re hearing. Don’t even pretend that you haven’t noticed that you’ve gotten more attention since you first sang in the Freshman Focus Showcase. Tell him, Red.”

Emme’s mouth dropped open. “Why would I know if girls have been talking to Ethan? And, um, aren’t we getting a little off track here?”

Thinking back to right after the showcase, I realized I
had
gotten more attention from girls. Kelsey had become really jealous, but I’d assumed it was from meeting Emme. She never liked the fact that there was a girl in our band, especially after she saw what Emme looked like.

Now there was an uncomfortable silence. I knew everybody was waiting for me to say something, but I couldn’t see how I was supposed to magically become this outgoing person onstage. I didn’t even feel comfortable talking in class, so I was sure the attention I received after the concert was from people who’d thought I was mute.