Take a Bow (19 page)

She gestures at my basket full of acrylic paint and brushes.

SOPHIE: I’m just picking up some supplies for a costume I’m making for an audition.

She holds up a bag with sequined stars.

SOPHIE: It’s for an off-Broadway show. I’ve pretty much given up on CPA stuff. I can’t wait for graduation.

I nod at her. I guess after all this time, we still have something in common.

ME: Well, good luck. I guess …

My mind races for something more to say to her, someone who was a huge part of my life, but I come up with nothing.

SOPHIE: Yeah, thanks …

She turns around and hesitates. For a moment, I’m unsure if she’s going to run for the exit or do an impromptu concert like she did at one of the store openings we went to when we first dated. She turns back on her heels and faces me.

SOPHIE: I just need to know … How could you throw it all away?

ME: Sophie, things weren’t working out with us.

SOPHIE: I’m not talking about us.

ME: Well, things weren’t working out between me and CPA either.

She shakes her head.

SOPHIE: Not that, your career. You had everything. Most people would kill to be in your position. The money, the fame … And you turn your back on it. I don’t understand. Do you not have any clue how incredibly lucky you were?

I take a moment to process everything she’s said. I guess from the outside, my life seems storybook to some (at least those who think hitting your peak at ten is enviable). But Sophie should know better — she’s seen the hours I’ve had to work, how invasive the press can be. And, yes, I’ve been lucky. Incredibly lucky. But that and some hard work were all that I had. Not talent. Not passion.

And suddenly it dawns on me. Sophie has had success at CPA even though she doesn’t think she has. She’s been part of every production. Granted, most of the time it was as a background player, but she still got in. But she was never happy unless she was a star. I think of Emme happily strumming in the background.

ME: Sophie, did I ever tell you about the background artist I became friends with on the
Kids
set?

She stares at me blankly.

ME: He was this really great guy named Bill. He came in every day, sat with the other extras, and never complained. Extras hardly get paid, they don’t get any glamour, not to mention lines. They work long hours for no glory. But Bill always had a smile on his face.

I can tell Sophie is getting bored. But I don’t care; I think this could help her.

ME: So one day, I went up to him because I wanted to know his story. I found out that he works at a grocery store to help pay the bills, but he’d always loved movies as a kid. So his dream was to spend time on a movie set. He didn’t look at the work as being beneath him; he was happy just to be there.

SOPHIE: So what, he turned out to be some famous actor? Or are you saying that I need to think that being stuck in a chorus isn’t beneath me?

ME: I’m just saying that if all you want out of a career is money and fame, you’re never going to be happy. Not once did you ever show any interest in the ins and outs of my job — you were only interested in the spotlight. You’re only happy if you’re getting attention, but you aren’t going to start at the top. Very few make it, and I’m proof that it doesn’t last long. But if you’re going to spend your whole life chasing fame, you’re going to be a very unhappy person. With everything I’ve been through, I’ve learned this one thing: Fame and money aren’t worth it if you have nothing else in your life.

I turn my back on her and head for the register. Maybe it’s easy for me to tell others that money doesn’t matter. I have plenty of it, but I know that no matter what my financial situation was, I’d paint. Even if I was living in a dirty studio apartment and eating instant soup, I’d paint.

Because that’s what makes me happy. And I deserve to be happy. Everybody does, even Sophie. But it’s up to each of us to find our own way.

I feel like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I spend my mornings studying language arts, social studies, and science. The afternoon, I tackle math. But at night, I paint.

I think all the studying has freed up my painting, and the meeting with Mr. Samuels has given me the confidence to know that I’m moving in the right direction. I’m no longer fixed on getting everything “right” or being precise. I guess spending all day staring at textbooks has, in a weird way, made me looser.

I think of all the personas I’ve had: Child Actor, Washed-Up Child Actor, Teen Semi-Heartthrob, High School Student…. But with the paintbrush in my hand and my mind clear, for the first time I feel like Carter Harrison: Artist. And that fact doesn’t embarrass or scare me.

The red paint I’ve dipped my brush in starts to drip and I let some of the paint go on the canvas. I’m not sure what direction this painting is going, but it’s kind of like my life right now.

A work in progress.

And the possibilities are endless.

A
fter weeks — okay, months, maybe even years — of practicing, it’s finally time.

My Berklee audition is first. I’m somewhat grateful since Berklee has an acceptance rate of thirty-five percent, compared to Juilliard’s eight percent. Like either of those odds are in anybody’s favor.

I decided to do the audition in New York instead of heading up to the Boston campus. While I’m used to sitting in the hallway, waiting for my name to be called out, the nerves are stronger than anything that I experienced at CPA.

I think about how much easier it would be if the guys were here.

I think about Ben, who doesn’t have to deal with auditions anymore.

I think about Jack, who is auditioning for CalArts today.

I think about Ethan, who had his Berklee audition yesterday.

I think about Carter, who is spending the weekend taking the GED.

What I don’t want to think about is next weekend. Doing this all over again, but at Juilliard. And then doing it again for Boston Conservatory, the Manhattan School of Music, and the San Francisco Conservatory.

Fortunately, most of the schools I applied to were part of the Unified Application for Music and Performing Arts Schools, so I only had to do one application for them. But there are auditions for each one.

Maybe by the end, I’ll no longer get nervous.

“Emme Connelly.”

My name is called out and the taste of bile stings my throat.

Or not.

The school week flies by. I don’t think about anything but the Juilliard audition. My audition is a little over two hours after Ethan’s. We go to a café near Lincoln Center for breakfast, but I can’t eat. Every time I try to put something in my stomach, it either comes back up or tastes like dust.

I annoy the waitress by asking for my eighth glass of water. I push my plate of eggs toward Ethan and he dives in. I wish I could be as confident as him, shoveling in food like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Thanks for coming early for me,” he says as he scrapes the plate clean.

“Thanks for staying late for me.”

We go to Juilliard and check in. We get our information packet and head to the practice rooms. We both go over our songs until it’s Ethan’s turn.

He looks at me expectantly. “Good luck. I know you don’t need it, but you’re going to be fabulous.” I give him a hug and he holds me tight. Maybe he’s a little nervous. I’m sure he’s been hiding it because if I knew he was nervous, I’d be even more of a wreck.

It feels like he’s been gone an eternity. I play through my songs so much that my hands are starting to get sore.

Finally, he opens the door. “How did it go?” I ask, throwing my arms around him. I think I need the hug more than he does.

“Good. The songs were the songs. I don’t know how I did during the interview portion — you know I’m not that good with stuff like that.”

Ethan can charm any audience. We once had an unruly crowd when we were opening for a metal band. These big, intimidating guys were not fans of ours. But Ethan gave as good as we got, and by the time the featured band was on, the guys were buying Ethan shots. He was fifteen.

We spend the time before my audition going over the interview questions. I’ve already practiced my answers on Ethan, who would never criticize me, so I don’t know if the answers are as good as he says.

All I know is that when my name is called out, my body goes numb. I say something to Ethan, but spend all my energy focusing on walking to the piano onstage.

“This is Emme Connelly and she is applying to the composition program,” a man in the audience says over the microphone. I decide to not look at the panel sitting in the audience. I look straight ahead, but something catches my eye. I look over to the side of the stage and see Ethan’s head barely poking out. I quickly glance at the panel and they don’t see him. But I can.

“Miss Connelly, can you tell us about the first song you will be performing for us?”

Ethan smiles at me and nods for me to continue.

“Yes, it is called ‘Defying Chance,’ and it’s a recent song I wrote about the chances we take in life … and how sometimes you’ve got to forget about chances and believe in yourself.”

“Okay, please begin when you are ready.”

I take a deep breath but quickly glance at Ethan, who’s beaming at me. I play the introduction and start to sing. I keep my eyes closed the entire time, only opening them up every once in a while to steal a look at Ethan.

I play the guitar for my second song, wanting to showcase my versatility with instruments. I can’t see Ethan, since I have to face the panel. But I can sense that he’s here with me.

I’m relieved only for a moment after my song ends, because now it’s my interview time.

“Can you tell us why you wish to get a degree in composition?”

“Yes. Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a special connection to music. I would spend hours listening to the radio or watching concerts on TV. When I started to take piano lessons, my teacher would get annoyed with me because I’d change the melodies of songs since I wanted them to sound like songs that I had in my head. For so long I thought it was a bad thing to do because I’d always get in trouble. She’d tell me, ‘That’s not what’s written on the page.’ I was getting so upset because I wanted to do my own songs, but then when I was six, I got a new teacher who encouraged me to write my own music.

“I love starting with a blank piece of paper and making a new song from scratch. There are many times when I step away from the end of a long day of composing and I’m surprised about how much I did. Like it was coming from someplace else. All I know is that I have this need to create music. And if I don’t get into any music programs, I’m still going to do it for as long as I breathe.”

I resist the urge to bite my lip. I wish I hadn’t said anything about not getting into school like it wouldn’t be a big deal. But it’s the truth. If I don’t make it to a music program, I’ll reapply next year to schools for education or business. But music will always be a part of who I am.

“Favorite composers?”

“Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, Rachmaninoff, Gershwin, Lennon/McCartney.”

There is some laughter at the last comment. But I write mostly pop/rock songs, so I’d be an idiot if I omitted probably the biggest musical influence of the past few decades.

“Can you tell us about a challenge you’ve had to face and how you’ve grown from it?”

Besides this audition?

“To be honest, being here, onstage, is a challenge. I’ve never been the kind of person who has a desire to be in the spotlight. What inspires me is the writing, not necessarily performing in front of an audience. Most of the music students I know enjoy seeing their name in lights and being onstage. But that’s always been my least favorite part. So standing up here having to sing for you, to have the confidence it requires to be an entertainer, that’s been a real challenge.

“However, this experience has really taught me a lot about myself. It’s wonderful to have people believe in you, but if you don’t believe in yourself, you really can’t accomplish much. So the fact that I’m standing here, and I’ll be able to walk out that door and be proud of what I’ve done, is an unbelievable accomplishment. It makes we wonder what else I’m capable of.”

I begin to feel a sting come from behind my eyes. I will not cry during my Juilliard audition. I meant every word of what I said. I’m really proud of myself. Every time I thought I would fall on my face, I rose to the occasion. And for the first time, I actually believe that I belong here.

“Why Juilliard?”

“Because it’s Juilliard,” I blurt out. Apparently I’ve become too comfortable onstage….

More laughter comes from below.

I try to recover. “I’m from Brooklyn. New York City is part of who I am. I attend the New York City High School of the Creative and Performing Arts, mainly because of its proximity to Juilliard. This has been my dream for so long, I think it would be more difficult for me to answer ‘Why would anybody choose
not
to go to Juilliard?’”

There is some whispering among the judges.

“Thank you.”

I’m startled. It’s over? That’s all they’re asking me? This is not a good sign. They talked to Ethan for nearly twenty minutes. I got maybe five.

“Thank you so much for your time,” I say before I head back to the hallway.

I open the door and see Ethan waiting for me.

He envelops me in his arms. “You were wonderful, the best I’ve ever heard you.”

“Thanks. How did you sneak in?”

“I’ve got my ways….”

“Did you hear my interview?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to get caught, so I left once you couldn’t see me anymore.”

“They only asked me four questions.”

For a second, a look of worry crosses Ethan’s face, but he quickly disguises it.

“Emme, I think they only have those interviews to make sure you can string a few words together. Please don’t let this ruin the day. We are finished with our auditions. Flippin’ Juilliard!”

He’s right. It’s over. There’s nothing I can do now. The chances of me getting in are … well, eight percent. But I had the opportunity. I’ve got my other schools, I’ve got the guys. All will be well.

I hear a rumbling coming from my stomach.

“I’m starving.”

Ethan puts his arm around me and leads me out of the building. “It’s about time. Let’s get some food in you.”

I may have annoyed the waitress this morning with my repeated refills of water, but the older gentleman who is waiting on us at the Italian restaurant seems impressed by the amount of food I just packed away.

“Such a skinny girl. You eat more?”

“I think I’m done.” I push away my empty plate of chicken parm (which joined my empty plates of bruschetta, mozzarella sticks, and penne alla vodka).

Ethan smiles at me. “That was impressive.”

“Ugh. I’m so full. Why did you let me keep ordering?”

“Because you haven’t eaten a full meal in weeks.”

I rub my belly. “Can we walk through the park? I need to digest this food.”

“I think we’d have to walk around the entire isle of Manhattan for that.”

I throw my napkin at him. We get up and head east to Central Park. I wrap my scarf around me since all the blood has rushed to my stomach.

We head to the Imagine mosaic near Strawberry Fields. Ethan reassures me for the third time that my Lennon/McCartney answer was good.

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

I look over at Ethan and realize that he’s been there with me through everything. He’s gone above and beyond more times than I deserve. I haven’t even missed Sophie at all, because once she went away, I realized that she didn’t ever really have an impact on me as a friend. Because she wasn’t a friend. Not like Ethan.

I study the Imagine mosaic. The small white and black stones together form a beautiful tribute to one of the greatest songwriters of all time. I see Ethan looking down as well. He’s a huge part of my life. If my world was a mosaic, Ethan would be one of the most significant pieces in it.

“Ethan.” He looks at me. “I know I say this a lot, but thank you. Truly
thank you
.” I feel a lump in my throat. “You have been so kind and generous to me since the day we met. I hope you know that I realize how much you do for me. You really mean the world to me. Seeing you there today made everything better. I couldn’t have done this, or a lot of things, without you.”

Ethan’s leg has been shaking since I began talking. He crosses his arms and takes a deep breath.

“Ethan? Are you okay?”

He looks at me with a serious look that I’ve never seen before.

“I have to tell you something.”

I don’t know if it is the food I ate, but I feel sick to my stomach. I’m not sure I can handle Ethan making another confession to me about girls or drinking or even worse. I, more than anything, want to believe that he’s stopped with his self-destructive antics.

“Emme, I am deeply and madly in love with you.”