Take a Bow
Page 14
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 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.
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 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.
