My heart raced as I walked toward the bulletin board. I was certain she said that the cast list would go up on Thursday. It was Thursday, wasn’t it? Did I forget what day it was again? I had already done a casual stroll by the board when I first got to school. It wasn’t up yet. No need to worry, it was unrealistic to think it would be posted by 7:30 a.m. It was lunchtime now, though. Surely that was enough time for the director to post the list. It would be an exercise in cruelty to not have it up by lunchtime. As I got closer, I noticed a yellow piece of paper stapled to the corkboard that was definitely not there earlier in the day. Don’t run, I told myself. Act cool. Be normal. 

I did my best impression of a normal person as I got to that yellow piece of paper. I scanned the hallway. There was no one around but I thought it best practice to maintain the “normal person” persona. At the top of that sheet of paper in big black lettering was written: Charlie Brown Cast List. My eyes scrolled down. Underneath that, in a smaller font, were the roles. The first role, not surprisingly, was Charlie Brown. My finger traced the page. Right across from his name was my name. I got it! I was going to play the lead in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. It was my freshman year of high school.

Later that night I laid in bed not bothering with sleep. This was going to be big. This was going to be scary. I didn’t get bogged down with the practical fears of being on stage, in my very first musical, as the lead. I was, instead, bogged down with the impractical. 

Laying in bed, I saw myself rehearsing the show on stage. It was a small cast, some of whom I had worked with the previous semester on a one-act play. I was certain the musical was going to be a bear of a production with hours and hours of rehearsal each week. Fortunately, I knew the soundtrack by heart and felt that there was no one else who could play Charlie Brown quite like me. This was destiny. The director made the right choice.

The Kite Song was going to be a big number, my big number. It was a solo song. Nothing and no one else on stage other than me and an unruly, albeit invisible, kite. It happens early in the first act. I knew this would have to be my moment. This was the point in the show where I would gently put the audience directly into my pocket. I would own them with that song. My feet started moving subtly under my covers as I thought of being on stage. 

One day I would be rehearsing The Kite Song, pouring my voice and body, tears and sweat, into it. There’s only one way to sing about kites and that’s with your whole being. I would land on the final sustained note, giving it my all. The director would yell “Cut!” (or whatever theatre directors yell) as I would nearly collapse onto the floor from exhaustion. She would come over to the stage, beaming, and tell me to take a break. Everyone else was phoning it in at this particular rehearsal, but not me. I’d humbly walk out into the audience to get some water. 

“That was quite impressive,” the voice behind me would say, startling me. I reply with a polite but distant “thanks,” as I look over my lines for the next scene. He introduces himself as Chad. He tells me he’s a movie producer. He’s there to meet with the principal about using the school as a location for his next film. Apparently, he tells me, on his way to that meeting he heard my singing outside the theatre and was lured in. 

“When I heard your voice, I just had to come see who was singing,” Chad tells me. I’m intrigued but still skeptical of this grown-up just hanging around a high school theatre. Even as a freshman, I’m savvy.

Chad goes on to ask a lot of questions. What’s my name, how’d I learn to sing like that, where am I from. I give him monosyllabic answers in the hopes that he’ll take the hint I’m not in the mood to talk. I only have 5 minutes of break and I’d like to use them wisely. Artists need quiet time to recharge.

“Would you like to be in a movie?” he asks, a bell goes off in my head. Here we go, the reveal. I do my best to cover a laugh. Of course every idiot would jump at the chance to be in a movie. Clearly this guy is a pedophile or a scammer or both. I knew enough about the world to know a scammer when I saw a scammer. Chad senses my apprehension but calmly hands me a business card. “Have your parents give me a call,” he says in all manner of coolness. He then strides out of the theatre while I stare back in bewilderment. 

Later that night my parents call. Chad is, in fact, a real time movie producer. His next feature is filming in Atlanta. He’d love for me to come down to the set and meet with the director. My parents were, of course, invited. 

The three of us, me, Mom, and Dad, sat at the dinner table and talked about whether to go. As can be the case sometimes, this needed to be a family decision. I wanted to go but was still suspicious of the whole thing. I also didn’t want some movie to conflict with Charlie Brown. My dad figured it couldn’t hurt to go down and meet with some movie people. Mom agreed. If anything seemed fishy or suspect, we’d just leave, no harm no foul. 

The next day, Dad and I go down to the movie set to meet with Chad and the director. Chad was just as slick as the day before, dressed in a suit with no tie. He did seem more at home, less out of place than at the high school. A movie producer belongs on a movie set, I thought. The director was young, another observation I had. He’s in his late 20’s and wears a dark hoodie even though it’s warm outside. 

My dad is almost immediately impressed by Chad because Chad almost immediately starts talking about a sailboat he owns back in California. After nearly 30 minutes of chit-chat, where I’m mostly an observer, Chad asks me to sing a little of The Kite Songfor the young, hoodied director. I’m kind of embarrassed because there are about 30 crew members walking around with walkie-talkies and carrying important-looking pieces of equipment. Nevertheless, I start singing some of the song. My voice is exceptionally clear and strong, maybe it’s the acoustics. Maybe it was my fuck-it attitude. 

Fast forward a week and I’m on set of this movie in full wardrobe and makeup. My song impressed the director so much that he wrote a few scenes for me. It was a small role, the nephew of the lead character but I got to sing. I was so nervous going into my first take. I had never been on a movie set, much less had to act on screen. Would it be different than being on stage? The young director yells “Action!” (or whatever film directors yell) and we go into my first scene. It goes pretty well. In fact, it goes really well. My scene partner and I share one last breathtaking moment together, time suspended, everyone holds their breath. “Cut!” the director yells and everyone, the entire cast and crew, bursts into applause. I give a nervous smile. Apparently, I did a good job. The lead actor gives me a wink.

When the movie comes out, it gets a decent critical reception. I don’t do any of the red-carpet events or press for the movie. Again, it was small role. However almost every single review mentions my performance as a standout moment. My mom can’t help but to scour the internet and magazines for my name. She collects newspaper clippings like it’s a part-time job. I’ve settled back into my life in Atlanta, but everyone senses that this movie will take me places.

One day, shortly after the film comes out, I get a call from an agent at CAA. Then I get a call from an agent at William Morris. And then comes United Artists. Then comes APA. I get courted by nearly every large agency in Los Angeles. Lots of small boutique agents come out of the woodwork too. It seems everyone is clambering to sign me. There’s even an article in The Hollywood Reporter about it. 

With my parents’ guidance, I sign with one of the bigger agencies. It feels like the right move. Again, Dad was in the meeting with me when I signed the paperwork. Given that I’m a minor, he needed to sign things too. Movie offers come rolling in almost instantly. It’s hard to keep up. Most of them are leading roles. Many of them have me singing. Television comes for me as well. Big contracts are negotiated. Money starts pouring in from all sides. Endorsements are discussed. I’m travelling back and forth between Atlanta and Los Angeles. I’m 16 the first time I see my face on a billboard. I get to see the world. 

That’s what I saw as I stared at that yellow piece of paper stapled to a corkboard bulletin in the hallway of Druid Hills High School. The stellar performance, Chad, the director, my first movie role, signing with a major agency, bursting forth onto the world stage, all of it, was planted as a small kernel, the humblest of beginnings, right then and there. When my mom picked me up later that afternoon, I only told her about being cast as Charlie Brown, not the other stuff. She was excited.

That’s the thing about bending and playing with the future, it’s safe. Its pliability is the best part. Whole entire universes need only a small seedling of reality, if that, in order to spring to life. If you manipulate the past, you’re crazy. If you manipulate the present, you’re delusional. But to manipulate the future makes you a dreamer. 

At this very moment, I have the tiniest kernel of a real-life opportunity. It’s a creative endeavor (hear: job) that randomly stumbled onto my path. If this thing becomes a reality, and that’s a really big if, it could be a big deal. However, there about 1,346 steps between here and there. Nevertheless, here I stand, as a 30-year-old man, right back in front of that yellow piece of paper. Not much has changed since I was a freshman in high school, I suppose. All I have right now is a seed, that tiniest of beginnings, which I’ve grabbed onto. I’ve already started using it to whip and shape the future to my will. It’s a terrifying prospect, having a dream come true. It’s also a terrifying prospect, having a dream not come true. But that’s where I am. Worst case scenario and this real-life opportunity goes nowhere, at least I’m having a moment with my 14-year-old self standing in front of a bulletin board searching for my name. 

Check out this week’s photo contributors: 

Ammar Ahmed