Take a Bow (18 page)

As soon as we get offstage, Emme whispers to me, “I botched the first verse.”

“But you killed the rest of the song,” I assure her.

She squeezes my hand. “You were really great.”

I see Jack walk away to get a hug from Chloe. Emme’s hand is still in mine.

“So were you. I didn’t know you had such a big voice.”

She blushes. “Oh, well, I figured I had to do something, so I went with loud.”

“It suits Jack well.”

She laughs. Then looks down and it seems like it’s the first time she’s noticing that she’s holding my hand.

“Oh, sorry.” She lets go.

I want to grab it back from her. I want to grab
her
. But I don’t. I can be a complete idiot at times, but I like to think that I’ve learned from the mistake of attacking her after the “Beat It” performance.

Instead I sit there silently as I watch her get approached by other students.

I hear a few words of congratulations thrown my way, but I don’t feel like celebrating.

I envisioned being done with the showcase as this momentous occasion. We’d get a standing ovation and the four of us would leave the stage and get in a group huddle. Tell each other how incredible we were and block out the rest of the world. Then when we broke up the huddle, Emme would look at me and realize how much I mean to her. I’d confess my love for her, she’d realize her true feelings for me, and we’d be together.

But instead, we’re all separated, talking to other people.

The showcase is over, my life is the same.

Nothing is going to change her feelings.

In a few short months, this part of my life will be done. We’ll all be going our separate ways.

I’m an idiot for thinking that one performance would change anything.

Maybe I should stop writing songs and start writing fiction.

I
can’t find Ethan anywhere. I’ve been searching the post-showcase reception and he’s nowhere to be found.

Last time he disappeared, he ended up in the hospital. I get out my phone to text him, when I’m approached by a balding man in a suit.

“Excuse me, young lady, you were tremendous.” He hands me his business card. “I oversee a performing arts summer camp for ages eight and up. We’re looking for counselors to do music programs.”

“Oh, thanks.” He pats me on the back before he approaches Trevor with his card out.

I text Ethan and hear Mr. North call out my name. He comes over and shakes my hand. “That was fantastic. How are you feeling?”

“Good.”

“Making any connections?”

I shake my head. “Do you know who the Juilliard and Berklee representatives are?”

“They don’t come to the reception. All the heavy hitters have left. These are people usually looking for interns, summer help, free food …”

“Dan!” A woman in a gray suit calls out to Mr. North.

“And the alumni who want to relive their glory years. Duty calls….”

He heads toward the woman, and Tyler approaches me.

“You were really great tonight.” He gives me a quick hug.

“Thanks, so were you.”

He shrugs. “Well, Sarah and I have been practicing for months on the song. So …”

We both nod and I don’t think it could be any more awkward. I want to tell him that I like him, that I’m sorry things have been crazy, but truthfully, things are going to get even worse now that college auditions are next.

I get a text on my phone and it’s from Ethan.

“Oh, I, um …”

Tyler sees my screen. “No, of course. I think I need to work this room more than you anyway. Have a good one.” He walks away from me, and I stay frozen for a few seconds. I take one more look around the reception before I head out.

Ethan is sitting on the steps outside.

“Hey.”

He looks up at me. “Hey.”

I sit down next to him. “It’s a little cold out….”

He nods.

I can tell there is something wrong with him, but I have no idea what. He did amazing tonight; he always does. He can be too critical of his performance, but I was getting the feeling he didn’t really care too much about the showcase.

“Well, tonight’s been a letdown,” I say to him.

He looks at me with a weird expression.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s just I feel the exact same way.”

“Sort of anticlimactic, huh?”

“Yeah, they’ve built up the showcase since freshman year and it’s done. And …” He lets his last word hang in the air.

“I thought we’d be swarmed by all these admissions people from Juilliard or the Manhattan School of Music. All I have is a pocket full of business cards with offers to teach music lessons. Which is a compliment, but still …”

He doesn’t respond.

“You know what I can’t help thinking about?” He stays silent. “These seashells that Sophie gives me … I guess
used to
give me every summer. Maybe we’ve been making too much out of the showcase because really our journey isn’t done yet. We’ve been focusing so much on getting there that we haven’t been enjoying the ride.”

I’m not sure I’m making any sense.

“I forget who said it, but it was something like ‘focus on the journey, not the destination.’ You know what I’m going to remember most about CPA? It’s not the showcase, it’s being with you guys, our rehearsals, Jack’s crazy tales of our ultimate demises — everything.”

Ethan nods. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We’ve all been chasing something that isn’t really there. At least I know I have.”

I don’t really know what to say. Ethan can be overly reflective at times, and now he seems somber, like he’s lost something. But we had a great evening. So we don’t have recruiters banging down our doors, but we do have something to celebrate.

I get up and hold out my hand. He stares at it and doesn’t move.

His reaction is depressing me even more. I’m so exhausted I want to just curl up in a ball and sleep for a year. But I can’t let this evening end like this.

“Ethan, it’s freezing out. Let’s get out of here. I’ll text Ben and Jack, and we can celebrate the fact that we not only survived the showcase, we rocked it. Come on, my treat! You know I couldn’t have done any of that if it wasn’t for you guys.”

He gets up, but doesn’t take my hand. He walks ahead of me and doesn’t speak the entire walk to the diner. Ben, Jack, and Chloe meet up with us, and none of us talk about the showcase. Because all along we assumed that was our challenge. That all the stress would disappear once it was over.

But it is only the beginning.

Our college auditions.

And we each have to go it alone.

T
here hasn’t been a single moment that I’ve regretted walking out of CPA’s doors. I’ll admit that the headline C
ARTER
H
ARRISON
: H
IGH
S
CHOOL
D
ROPOUT
made me cringe, but taking those weeks off with my mom in Italy was exactly what I needed. I was relaxed, I was inspired, I was plain old Carter.

But the vacation is over. I thought I’d come back and finally be able to support Emme for once as she gets ready for her college auditions. But she’s been in lockdown rehearsing and I’ve found that trying to accomplish years of work in a few months is a lot harder than I ever imagined it would be.

I’m watching my tutor look through my practice GED test. She keeps marking things up and nodding her head.

TUTOR: Okay, it’s not awful.

Well, that’s just fabulous news.

TUTOR: You did really well on the language arts sections, both the writing and reading. I guess all those years of reading scripts have paid off. What you’re having problems with is the math section, particularly with the algebra questions. You technically passed the math section, but we need to get that number up higher so your overall percentage doesn’t suffer.

She pulls out these bulky math workbooks from her bag, flips through the thin pages, and begins to mark sections with Post-it notes.

TUTOR: I want you to work on these five sections for our next meeting.

I look at the hundreds of algebra problems facing me in the next three days.

And here I thought I’d figured out the equation to my happiness.

I start going through the problems as my mom shows her out.

MOM: Do you want to get an algebra-specific tutor?

I shake my head.

MOM: You know you can take your time; you don’t have to take the exam right away.

ME: I know, but I want this to be over so I can move on to art school.

Mom sits down and pinches the upper bridge of her nose. I’ve only seen her do that a few times. The last time was when I was no longer a Kavalier Kid. That seems like a lifetime ago … probably because it was.

MOM: Honey, I’ve been doing some research and I think you’re going to have to wait until next year to apply. Most schools aren’t accepting any more applications for fall.

ME: I know.

MOM: Oh.

My mind races as to what to say. I’ve spent so much of my life hiding my feelings, it’s been harder than I thought to open up and not keep things a secret any longer. I know I don’t have to do this alone. I know that Mom is trying to help me.

And I know that I’ve got to get over it already.

ME: Yeah, sorry, Mom. I realized that when I saw I missed National Portfolio Day.

Mom looks at me blankly.

ME: Yeah, it’s this really cool thing I found online. It’s a day where representatives from colleges all over the country meet with prospective students and review their portfolios. It’s supposed to help you get a stronger portfolio for colleges. They take place in the fall, so I figured, if it’s okay with you, that I’d spend the next year taking some basic classes and get a portfolio ready for next year. I’m kinda behind as is and need the catch-up time.

Mom smiles as me. She gets up from the table and hugs me.

MOM: Of course. You’ve been working your entire life. You deserve to have a break.

I don’t know how much of a break it’s going to be. I’m going to be competing against people who’ve been studying art their whole lives. I might not have what it takes, but I’ve at least got to try. I owe myself that much.

How many times have I sat in a hallway waiting for my name to be called?

But this is entirely different. My legs shake as I sit in the office of the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan. I’ve never had anybody but my mom and my friends look at my art. I’ve never had anybody critique my work who
knew
what they were talking about — someone who wasn’t required to praise me out of the unspoken rule that you support your son or friend no matter how bad they may suck at something.

This is a stupid idea. Why on earth didn’t I go to some community art school to hear what a teacher thinks of me? Why am I about ready to enter the offices of one of the top art museums in the world to get a curator’s opinion? I know it’s something most artists could only dream of, and it’s because of who I am, and a favor from Sheila Marie, that’s gotten me in the door.

I’m shocked I don’t jump out of my skin when my name is called.

I follow a young woman in a suit down a narrow hallway. Her heels make a clicking noise as I follow her and realize that my heart is pounding in unison. She gestures to me to enter an office, and Mr. Samuels gets up from his pristine desk.

MR. SAMUELS: Mr. Harrison, so glad to meet you.

ME: Thank you so much for having me here. I don’t want to take too much of your time.

I thought I was done with acting, but I’ll need to take out everything in my bag of tricks to pretend that I’m not terrified at this very moment. I think back to the first time I was interviewed on a live morning show when I was eight. I had to get up at five in the morning to make it to the studio in time for hair and makeup. (Yep, even an eight-year-old boy needs hair and makeup early in the morning.) I remember Mom told me to smile although I was terrified. She said it would fool my brain into thinking that I was happy and relaxed.

I wonder what Mr. Samuels must be thinking of the stupid grin on my face now.

MR. SAMUELS: I don’t know if Sheila Marie told you, but my daughter is a huge fan of your
Kavalier Kids
movies. I can’t tell you how many times we watched the first movie during the summer last year.

Mr. Samuels picks up a framed photo from his desk and hands it to me. He continues to talk about his daughter and family while I politely study the smiling face of a ten-year-old girl.

MR. SAMUELS: Listen to me going on and on. What can I do for you today? I see you brought your portfolio.

ME: Yes.

My voice cracks. I cough a couple times to recover.

ME: Sorry, yes. I’m hoping to apply to art schools next year, but I haven’t had any formal training. I’m going to take some basic classes starting this summer, but since I haven’t really been critiqued by anybody, I just needed to know …

The words scare me. The thought of what I could hear frightens me.

ME: I just need to know if I have any promise at all. If there is any hope for me. And I really am looking for an honest opinion, Mr. Samuels. I understand that my art is going to be amateurish at best compared to what you see on a daily basis.

I motion toward the framed posters lining his office walls, of different exhibitions he’s curated.

ME: I’m sure you can imagine that I’ve had a lot of people sugarcoat things for me because of who I am. But none of that has helped me, so I’d really like to hear what you think of my art, where I need to improve … and if there is anything here that could possibly get me into an art school.

Mr. Samuels nods his head and unzips my portfolio. One by one he lays out my sketches and paintings on his desk and examines each piece. I decided to give him a mix of what I’ve been working on: pencil and charcoal drawings, paintings in different styles. But mostly the portfolio is filled with my sketches. Since I kept my passion for art a secret, I didn’t have the courage to really set up a painting studio until a few months ago.

Mr. Samuels places several of the paintings against a wall and steps back and examines them for what seems like an eternity. I can’t read the reaction on his face and try to not stare. The last thing I want is the man who is basically going to validate the biggest decision of my life to feel self-conscious. After all, he’s not the one being judged.

You’d think I’d be used to that by now, but in the past, I didn’t care about my acting. So the opinions didn’t matter as much as this one.

I decide to fold my shaking hands, willing them to be still. I notice a fleck of red paint on my wrist and start picking at it.

After what seems like forever (but is probably only ten minutes … ten long, agonizing minutes), Mr. Samuels sits down and takes off his glasses.

MR. SAMUELS: You wanted honest, correct? Because there is good news and there’s bad, but not uncorrectable, news.

A lump rises in my throat. What if the good news is that I can always fall back on my acting?

ME: That’s exactly what I was hoping for, sir.

He picks up two of my black-and-white charcoal sketches: one I did of Emme playing the piano and another of my mother reading.

MR. SAMUELS: Your use of light and shadow is impressive.

He traces the curve of Emme’s neck down to her hands. I remember that day because the sun was hitting the practice suite and illuminated one side of her, while the other was cast in a dark shadow.

Mr. Samuels grabbed another sketch I did in Central Park at night, right before a thunderstorm.

MR. SAMUELS: And the mood of this piece is especially foreboding and mature for someone your age.

My spirits start to lift. But I steady myself because I’m waiting for the “but” I know is coming. I’ve also noticed that he put my paintings and color sketches off to one side.

He looks up from the paintings and smiles at me.

But …

MR. SAMUELS: Tell me, Carter, how long have you been working with paint?

And here it comes.

ME: I’ve really only been working with acrylics for the last six months or so.

He nods.

MR. SAMUELS: I can see that you don’t have much control over the brush yet. That’s something that comes with time, so you might want to start off by taking some introductory painting classes. But my real concern is your lack of identity.

Tell me about it.

He lays out four of my paintings.

MR. SAMUELS: We’ve got two abstract paintings, realism, and pointillism. Different styles by the same artist. While I’m seeing a lot of versatility — and don’t get me wrong, that can be a good thing — there’s no consistency. Something that tells me I’m looking at something by
you
. I don’t really see
you
in these pieces. What kind of statement do
you
want to make with your art? What is it that
you
are trying to tell us?

I guess that has been the real question all along.

MR. SAMUELS: While you can learn about proper brush technique and color theory, you can’t be schooled in what makes you want to create. Some artists spend their entire lives searching for their identity, so don’t let this discourage you. Because there is talent in here, true talent. And that, Mr. Harrison, can’t be taught at even the best schools.

I feel myself exhale. Mr. Samuels continues to give me advice and I automatically write down notes, but one thought goes through my mind:
I am, once and for all, on the right track.

I’ve been staring at different blue paints for so long, they all look the same. After my meeting with Mr. Samuels, I felt inspired. It wasn’t that I didn’t have enough to work on, but that I had some promise. That’s all I was looking for. A chance that I could possibly get into art school.

I look over the acrylic section at my favorite art supply store. I want to get right to work on painting more.

A familiar voice calls out my name. I turn around and see the last person I thought I’d see here.

ME: Sophie?

She approaches me and looks tired. I haven’t seen her since our breakup and everything that went down between her and Emme.

SOPHIE: Hey, I guess I’d ask you what you’re doing here, but …