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 class 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 Willy 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 class 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 class, 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 analysis, 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 — brass, 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 bass.”

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 assigned 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-documentary 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.”

Ben laughs.

“Seriously. This is exactly what I need for CalArts, combining original composition with a movie. Genius.”

Emme looks down at the table. She gets sad every time she’s reminded that Jack wants to go across the country to school. Ben’s first choice is Oberlin in Ohio. I’m the only person who’s planning on staying on the East Coast, either at Juilliard, Berklee, Boston Conservatory, or the Manhattan School of Music. Although I did apply to the San Francisco Conservatory … because Emme has it on her list.

But we both want Juilliard. I think anybody who grows up in New York City with a passion for music wants to go there. You’d be crazy not to.

“Aww, come on, Red.” Jack nudges Emme’s shoulder playfully. “You’ve got the whole year to feast your eyes on all of this.” He gestures over his body and raises his eyebrows at her.