I Represent Sean Rosen, page 3
“Oh, good. Pour one for me, too.” She had her hospital clothes on, and she looked pretty tired, so I didn’t pretend to drink from the carton just to be funny. And I didn’t try to convince her to do the pouring. Being a nurse seems like it’s really tiring, but my mom likes it.
She thinks she and my dad have the easiest jobs of all their friends, because when they come home, they’re done working. No one’s texting them or e-mailing them all night. I know what she’s saying, but I don’t agree. My dad gets calls at the craziest times for plumbing emergencies. Someone was doing laundry at four in the morning and there was a flood. You’d be surprised how often that happens.
And some days when my mom takes care of someone who’s really sick, she worries about them while she’s at home. Sometimes she even calls the hospital to see how they’re doing. I guess I can pour her a glass of lemonade.
I wanted to rush upstairs to see if Martin Manager wrote back, but I felt like the longer I could make myself wait, the better my chances were that he did. I have no idea if that’s true. In a math way, I mean. I lasted about eighty seconds, then I ran upstairs.
I always go two steps at a time, but when I’m in a hurry, I think I can go three steps at a time. I can’t. My mom heard the crash and yelled, “Are you okay?”
I can’t believe it. He wrote back. It’s so strange. It was the main thing I was thinking about, but I wasn’t ready for it. I actually started shivering. This sounds crazy, but before I opened the e-mail, I took a picture of my inbox on the computer screen. Actually, it’s a picture of me next to my inbox.
Then I thought about how I would feel if it was just another stupid letter from a lawyer. If that happens, I’ll delete the photo.
To: Sean Rosen
From: Martin Manager
Dear Sean,
You certainly write a good letter. I admire your ambition and your confidence. I’m not going to represent you right now, but I’ll be watching the trades to see how you do with _________ (my first-choice company).
As you proceed, if you have a specific business question I might be able to answer, try me.
Best,
Martin
Wow. He’s telling me no, but I actually feel great. I feel like this is all going to work out. In case you don’t know, when he said he’d be watching the trades, he meant he’d be looking in The Hollywood Reporter and Variety to see if there’s an article about me and my idea. Variety is the other show business magazine. I’d get them both, but they’re very expensive. The Hollywood Reporter has more pages and more pictures.
That’s so cool that he just signed it “Martin.” Like we’re already friends. And that he ended the e-mail with “Best.” He didn’t say Best what, but I like the way it sounds.
I’m not going to e-mail him again until I have a really important question. But it’s so great that he said I can. And he said he won’t represent me right now, but he didn’t say not ever. He didn’t even say not soon.
Obviously, I’m not going to delete the photo I took.
I decided to take the rest of the day off from trying to get an agent or a manager. You know, to celebrate. Plus, I have to get to work on my podcast. I recorded it last Saturday at a donut place, but I still have to finish the song, and editing takes hours and hours and hours if you want to get it right.
You can start working on it right after dinner, and the next time you look, it’s ten o’clock. Or eleven. Or twelve. Time goes really fast. It’s like the opposite of school.
I could tell you about my podcast, and maybe sometime I will, but it’s better if you just take a look. If I tell you about it, you’ll imagine what it’s going to be like. Then when you finally see it, you’ll just compare what you imagined to what it actually is. Here’s one you might like: www.SeanRosen.com/hair.
This week’s podcast is a little more complicated than usual. Someone said something in her interview that I think she might not want everyone in the world to hear. I’m not saying that everyone in the world watches my podcasts, but they can. Anyway, I don’t want to get her in trouble.
She said something about the donut place that isn’t very nice. I went back to ask her if it’s okay if I use her interview. I brought it with me so she could hear it. People sometimes forget they said certain things.
She wasn’t there. She doesn’t work there anymore. I guess either she or her boss figured out that she didn’t like her job. I decided not to use her interview.
I finished editing a few minutes before midnight. My parents don’t like me staying up that late on a school night, but when I turned thirteen they said, “We’re not going to be the Bedtime Police anymore.” I’m happy with the podcast. It makes me want a donut, but I’m too tired to get one.
chapter 8
Something funny happened at school today. It was about halfway through history. Some years I like history, but this year is really boring. You won’t believe it, but Mr. Knapp, my history teacher, was also my mom’s history teacher. I guess he wasn’t all that interesting back then either. She calls him “The Appropriately Named Mr. Knapp.”
I was looking out the window thinking how cool it was that Martin Manager said I write a good letter, when I heard, “Sean Rosen!” From the way he said my name, it was probably the second or third time. “Perhaps we could interrupt your reverie to hear your assessment of the failures of Reconstruction.”
I tried reading that chapter last night after I finished my podcast. I started it and I woke up with the book on my chest. I didn’t even make it through the first paragraph. “Yes. The failures . . . The failures of Reconstruction. Well . . .”
Just then a light started flashing and a very annoying buzzer started buzzing. Fire drill! Or who knows, maybe a real fire. Right then I didn’t care which. Mr. Knapp didn’t look happy. “Perhaps Mr. Rosen will share some of his vast knowledge when we return.”
We walked single-file out of the classroom. Javier was right in front of me. We’re not supposed to talk during a fire drill, but everyone does. “Javi, do you know?”
“No, mi amigo.”
We got outside and stood on the grass. We’re not supposed to take anything with us, but Brianna had her bag. “Like I’m gonna leave a Prada bag sitting in a classroom.”
I asked Brianna if she knew about the failures of Reconstruction. She pulled out her phone. It’s some kind of superphone that’s still being beta tested. She typed something in, waited one second, then pushed a button and out came a little piece of paper. She handed it to me.
FAILURES OF RECONSTRUCTION
• Status of former slaves didn’t improve.
• Economy of South didn’t recover.
• Division between North and South didn’t heal.
Then we heard a long, loud beep. The fire drill was over. The assistant principal came on the loudspeaker. “Evacuation time: three minutes and twenty-six seconds. If this had been a real fire, we could have had some badly burned students. We can do better, people.” She definitely doesn’t want us to burn, but she also wants to break the county record.
By the time we were back in our seats, I had the Failures of Reconstruction memorized. Mr. Knapp was just about to call on me when Mademoiselle Fou stuck her head into the classroom.
What is she doing here? Is this some kind of meeting of the Sean Rosen Non-Fan Club? They stood near the door and kept whispering to each other. Break it up! We’re trying to learn some history here!
Then the bell rang. Oh well.
When I got home, I changed. I don’t care much about clothes, but after wearing something all day at school, I want to feel like I’m not there anymore. I have history homework, and since we probably won’t have another fire drill tomorrow, I better do it. Soon. But not yet.
I can’t stop thinking about sending another e-mail to Martin Manager. He’s my only friend in show business. I know, he’s not exactly my friend. But compared to everyone else, he is.
I’m not sure if anyone else does this, but sometimes I practice what I’m going to say to someone. Like if I’m nervous about it. I don’t actually say it out loud. I just say it in my head. Then I keep going over and over it. I don’t want to, but I can’t stop.
I know I shouldn’t write to Martin until I have something important to say. And after hearing what I was going to say about 600 times, I was sure it wasn’t important.
I don’t know what to do next. You’d think that getting such a quick answer from Martin Manager would make me want to try another manager, but it doesn’t. If I’m going to have a manager, I want Martin.
When my Dad came home from work, he said, “Seany . . . I met a guy who knows a guy who might be able to help you.”
Someone whose toilet my dad fixed has a brother-in-law who’s a producer. One of the things my dad loves about his job is that he gets to work with all kinds of people. “That’s the beauty of it, Seany. Sooner or later in life, everybody needs a plumber.”
My dad didn’t ask the producer’s name, so I couldn’t Google him. But the guy with the toilet said his brother-in-law is always looking for projects.
A project is show-business language for anything you’re trying to get started—a movie, a TV show, a book. My idea, the one I want to work on with my first-choice company, isn’t actually a project. It’s more like an idea you would use on a lot of different projects. I don’t think there’s a show-business name yet for my kind of idea.
So even though I don’t exactly have a project and I’m not exactly looking for a producer, my dad was so excited about helping me that I let him plan a meeting for me with this guy whose name he doesn’t know.
chapter 9
Here’s what happened at my first show-business meeting. It was a few days later at a restaurant. My dad drove me there in his van. The producer and I went to a table near the back. My dad sat at the counter.
I wasn’t sure if the producer noticed my digital voice recorder on the table. It kind of looks like a phone, especially when it’s upside down and you can’t see the red light that tells you it’s recording.
PRODUCER:
So you’re the little genius.
ME:
Um . . . I’m not exactly little.
PRODUCER:
Don’t fight it, kid. It’s your gimmick. Work it. In fact, can we say you’re twelve?
ME:
No. Say it to who?
PRODUCER:
Whoever we pitch to.
“Pitching” in show-business language means telling someone about your project so they’ll want to buy it.
WAITRESS:
What can I get you two?
PRODUCER:
Coffee. Black.
ME:
I’ll have a chocolate shake.
PRODUCER:
You know how to live.
The waitress left.
ME:
What have you actually produced?
PRODUCER:
Movies, TV, you name it.
ME:
Um . . . Why don’t you name it. I mean the things you produced.
PRODUCER:
Cocky little kid. I like it.
He named three things I never heard of.
ME:
Have you worked with any of the really big companies?
PRODUCER:
Trust me, they’re all the same. So what’s your idea?
ME:
Really? You want to work with me?
PRODUCER:
I’m here, aren’t I?
ME:
Why? I’m your brother-in-law’s plumber’s son.
PRODUCER:
This is what producers do. We look for projects.
ME:
How many projects do you have?
PRODUCER:
Who the hell knows? Does it matter?
ME:
Like three? Like thirty?
PRODUCER:
Between three and thirty. You’re worse than the IRS.
The waitress brought his coffee and my shake.
ME:
Do you have a lot of people working for you?
PRODUCER:
A lot? No. Most of the time you’re just waiting. Waiting for someone to read a script. Waiting for someone to come up with the money.
ME:
Speaking of money, how does that work?
PRODUCER:
Tell me your idea, and I’ll lay it all out for you.
ME:
If I tell you my idea, do you pay me?
PRODUCER:
Are you kidding me? You should pay me. I’m the guy with the connections. But I’ll take this on out of the goodness of my heart. When I sell it, you’ll get paid.
ME:
How much?
PRODUCER:
I don’t know. I don’t even know what we’re talking about here. What’s this big idea?
ME:
An agent gets 10 percent. A manager gets 15 percent. What do you get?
PRODUCER:
You’re very suspicious, kid. It’s kind of a turnoff. Don’t worry about me. You’ll get yours and I’ll get mine.
I never told him my idea. He didn’t want to pay for my shake, but he did.
I decided not to play the recording of the meeting for my dad. I don’t want him to feel bad. I know he was happy he could help me meet this producer, but he wasn’t surprised I don’t want to work with him.
“To tell you the truth, Seany, that guy seemed a little oily.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but he did have very shiny hair. I told my dad that the producer said he would work with me out of the goodness of his heart. My dad said, “That clinches it. If his heart was any good, he wouldn’t say that. I should’ve charged his brother-in-law more for the toilet.”
chapter 10
I know I complain about school, but there is one class I like. English is almost always fun for me. I like to read and I like to write, and we have a very fun English teacher this year.
Miss Meglis LOVES her job. She loves almost every book we read, and if she doesn’t, she loves talking about why not. She’s young and she has so much energy that I wish I had her after lunch, instead of . . . yawn . . . Snore. . . . Sorry. I took a Knapp just thinking about him.
“Okay, laddies and lassies . . .” (We just finished a book that takes place in Ireland.) “For Wednesday, you, working in teams of two, will pick up where the author left off.”
In the book, a brother and sister are separated when they’re little, and they finally find each other again in the last chapter.
“I know we were all rooting for this reunion, but real life is complicated. What do you think took place the day after the book ended? Each team will write a short scene and act it out for the edification and gratification of the class.”
She loves to make us look up words.
I usually hate working on group projects. I hate the part where you pick the people you’re going to work with. I hate deciding who’s going to do what. I hate worrying if the other people are actually going to do what they’re supposed to. I hate when I don’t like what they did. I never know what to do. Should I try to fix it? If I don’t fix it, will the teacher blame me for the parts I hate?
It’s a little better when it’s just two people. Brianna and I figured out how we like to work together. You wouldn’t think the two of us would even get along. We’re so different. She always looks perfect, and I look like . . . well . . . me.
Brianna and I went to different elementary schools. That’s why we didn’t meet until Le Bistro. Where we live, there’s one part of town where all the big expensive houses are. That’s where Brianna lives. And that’s where we had our meeting yesterday for this English project.
Brianna’s house is huge. I always get lost when I’m there, and there’s never anyone around to ask directions. Her dad travels a lot, and her mom is either out or in some part of the house I’ve never been to. One of her brothers lives there, but you never see him. I think he has his own entrance. The other brother refuses to live in the house. He has an apartment somewhere.
Brianna offered me a snack. I was hungry, but I don’t like the food they have there. It’s all either diet or healthy. She had some kind of green juice and rice cakes. No thanks.
Brianna said, “Did you read the book?”
“Yeah. Did you?”
“Mostly. Remind me how it ends.”
“Really?”
“Come on, Sean, I only have an hour. Let’s not waste time. Do you have an idea?”
“I do, actually.”
“Good. Do you want to write it?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want me to help?”
“Not really.”
“Okay. Tell me when you’re done.”
We sat there together. I wrote the scene for the brother and sister, and Brianna texted with her friends. She has a lot of friends, and each time she got a text, I forgot what I was writing.
“Can you turn off the sound on that thing?”
She looked at me for a second. “Only for you, Sean.” Brianna doesn’t like people to tell her what to do, which is something we have in common. But she thinks I’m creative, so when it comes to things like this, she listens to me.
Brianna was actually the first person to see one of my podcasts. She says she loves them. I don’t tell many people at my school about my podcasts. They’re not about school, and I’m sure some kids would think they’re weird or stupid. I don’t want to have to hear about it.
