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.

After 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.