Take A Bow Part 5

Quit the soap and take art cla.s.ses.

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 cla.s.ses.

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 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.ses.

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 circ.u.mstance. 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 cla.s.ses, the selected performers wait backstage as Dr. Pafford does his usual scaring of the freshman cla.s.s. 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 cla.s.ses. 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 cla.s.s 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 w.i.l.l.y 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s, 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 a.n.a.lysis, 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 - bra.s.s, 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 ba.s.s."

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 a.s.signed 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-doc.u.mentary 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."