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.