Sean Rosen Is Not for Sale

by Jeff Baron

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my readers,

  and to Sean Rosen, who makes my job so easy.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  I’m late.

  Buzz wanted to check out a new keyboard at the music store, and I wanted a donut, so we decided to meet in fifteen minutes. That was twenty minutes ago.

  I had my donut (Boston cream—so good) and got one for Buzz, but then I had five minutes left, which felt like long enough to look around the used bookstore.

  Unfortunately, the lady there recognized me.

  “Hey, you’re the boy who was looking for a book about movies.”

  “About making movies.”

  “Right. Make any movies yet?”

  I haven’t made any movies yet. But one of the big Hollywood studios did want to buy my movie idea. Seriously. They sent me a contract. 10,000 dollars right away, and 40,000 more if the movie got made.

  You might think I’m crazy, but I said no. Which means now I have to try not to think about what I would do if I had the money. The new phone I would have, the new computer, the iPad. See? It’s not easy. But I think I made the right decision.

  For the next five minutes, the used-book lady told me a lot of things about growing zucchini. She’s one of those people who doesn’t stop between sentences. You never get a chance to say, “I have to go.”

  Finally someone came into the store and I could leave. I texted Buzz that I was on my way. I hate to be late.

  ME: Here’s your donut. Sorry I’m late.

  BUZZ: You’re not late.

  ME: Yes I am.

  BUZZ: No. You’re not late until five minutes after the time.

  ME: I never heard of that. Are you sure?

  BUZZ: You didn’t have to text me. I saw you coming.

  ME: How could you see me? I was two blocks away.

  BUZZ: No one else walks like that.

  ME: Like what? I was hurrying.

  BUZZ: You’re always hurrying.

  ME: No I’m not.

  BUZZ: Right. Sometimes you stop and just stand there.

  ME: Because I’m thinking. Why? Do you always walk the same speed?

  The next day after school, Ethan and I were standing outside on the steps. Well, on different steps. Ethan is about two feet taller than me, and it’s a lot easier to talk this way.

  “Do I walk funny?”

  He thought about it for a second.

  “Yeah.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah. So do I. So does everyone. Look.”

  He’s right. Everyone has a funny walk. Everyone’s arms look funny when they swing. That kid walks like he’s in a race, possibly a race to the bathroom. That girl is walking and texting. She’s approaching a tree. Look up! Look up! Ow.

  She’s okay. She’s picking up her phone. She’s walking. She’s finishing her text.

  “Thanks, Ethan.”

  Good. I’m too busy to worry about how I look when I walk. I have to get home and work on my screenplay for A Week with Your Grandparents. That’s the movie I decided not to sell to Hollywood.

  It’s about this brother and sister, Chris and Chloe. He’s fifteen and she’s twelve. Their parents go away and they’re stuck staying with you-know-who. Then they find out that Grandpa invented a virtual reality time machine that lets you spend time with someone on any day in their past. It’s so cool. Chris and Chloe meet their grandparents when they were teenagers. The movie is sometimes funny and sometimes scary. The reason I didn’t sell it was because I found out the studio wouldn’t let me write it. It had to be an experienced screenwriter. Even though it was my idea.

  I like most movies, but every once in a while, I hate one. I looked up some movies I hated, and guess what. They were all written by experienced screenwriters. I like this idea too much to let it be a movie I might hate.

  I got home, and the painters were getting ready to leave. They’ve been painting the inside of our house. My parents are both at work, so the painter gave me our key.

  “Here you go. All done. We left all the windows open in the family room. Stay out of there for a couple of hours. It’ll be dry by then.”

  “Okay.”

  I stood in the kitchen and looked at the family room. They painted it last because we couldn’t decide on a color. My dad wanted Club Room. You have no idea what color that is, right? How could you? It’s dark green. I didn’t like it. Neither did my mom.

  She wanted Blush. She kept telling my dad and me, “It isn’t pink. It’s more of a . . . peach.” First of all, I wouldn’t call peach “not pink.” Second, I don’t want a pink family room. Neither does my dad.

  I wanted it to be blue. I showed them seventeen blues that I liked. Any one of them would have been fine. But my mom and dad aren’t “whatever Sean wants” kind of parents. I get one vote, just like everyone else. Blue got a total of one vote.

  “Club Room wins. It’s a combination of your two colors.”

  “Sorry, Dad. Green is not a combination of blue and pink.”

  “Blush isn’t pink.”

  We ended up with Biscuit. It’s light tan. I’m looking at it right now. It looks good. Thank goodness.

  I dropped off my books upstairs. I thought about doing my homework, but I really want to see what happens next in my screenplay. That’s what writing it feels like. Like I’m at the movies seeing it, then I just write down what I see. I don’t know how it works, but I’m glad it does.

  The place I like to work on my screenplay is the family room. Especially when no one else is there. When I write down what the people in the movie are saying, I actually say it out loud. If someone else is in the room, they think I’m talking to them, and they answer. It’s distracting.

  My parents don’t know about this screenplay. They know I’m sort of creative. They know about my podcasts. They’re the ones who pay for my subscription to The Hollywood Reporter. But they don’t know I already started my career in show business. I thought about asking them whether I should sell my movie idea, but I didn’t. They don’t know the business. My dad is a plumber and my mom is a nurse. Dan Welch thinks I can write the screenplay. He’s my manager.

  I brought my laptop downstairs and took another look at the family room. I saw that I could definitely make it to the sofa without touching any walls. I did make it. I sat on the sofa and wrote for about a half hour.

  I
don’t know why, but writing always makes me hungry. I got up and went to the kitchen to get a snack. I was still thinking about the screenplay, and I suddenly knew what happens next.

  I turned to go back to my laptop to write it down, and a rug was where it usually isn’t. I slipped and grabbed the wall so I wouldn’t fall. He was right. The paint is still wet.

  Now right in the middle of our beautiful new wall painted Biscuit is a perfect outline of my hand. If this was a TV detective show, it would be over in twenty seconds.

  I wonder if I can fix it. I went to the garage, and I found a can of Biscuit the painters left. Maybe I can put my hand in the paint, then press it on the handprint on the wall.

  Maybe not.

  My parents still have a paper address book. I looked under P and found the painter’s number. I called him and told him what happened. I said I would pay him if he could come over and fix it before my parents got home. He said okay. I hope I have enough money.

  He got here, looked at the wall, and got to work. I kept thinking of different ways to say “I’m sorry,” but they all sounded stupid, so I didn’t say anything. Also, I don’t want to interrupt him. He probably gets paid by the hour.

  It took him about twenty minutes. It looks perfect. I finally got the courage to say, “How much?”

  “Are you going to listen next time when I tell you to stay out of the room?”

  “Yes.” I actually think I will.

  “Okay. Yesterday you offered me lemonade without anyone telling you to. We’re even.”

  Chapter 2

  My parents got home, and they both like the color of the family room. I didn’t tell them about my little accident, but I also didn’t try to stand in front of the place on the wall where my hand landed. We decided to go out for supper, because my mom said, “Anything we eat here is going to taste like paint. Not Biscuits.”

  I heard that I got a text during dinner, but we have a “no devices at the table” rule in our family, so I waited until we got back into the car to look.

  Dug wants 2 no wot dave mots sez

  It’s Buzz. And it’s not just texting language. Buzz can’t spell. He’s telling me that Doug (not Dug), who plays drums in Buzz’s band, wants to know what Dave Motts (not Mots) thinks about the band’s MP3.

  If I heard anything from Dave Motts, I would have told them. Buzz knows that. I’m sure Doug made him send that text.

  Doug and I used to be friends, but then he did something really mean to me, and a year later, I did something really mean to him. Then we didn’t really talk anymore. Well, I didn’t talk. He kept saying nasty things to me, which was actually a little scary. Doug was always one of the biggest kids, and last year he suddenly got a lot bigger.

  But lately Doug has been acting a lot nicer to me. He thinks I can help the band. The band, for some strange reason, is called Taxadurmee. I asked Buzz about it.

  ME: Why did you pick that name? It’s creepy.

  BUZZ: No it’s not. It’s cool.

  ME: Do you know what it means?

  BUZZ: No. No one does.

  ME: I do. It means stuffing dead animals so you can put them on your wall.

  BUZZ: No it doesn’t.

  ME: Look it up.

  BUZZ: You look it up.

  Anyway, Taxadurmee recorded two songs (that’s all they have so far), and they sent me the MP3 to give to Dave Motts. They‘re hoping he’ll like the songs, want to be their manager, get them a record contract, and make them rich and famous.

  Dave Motts isn’t a real person. Well, there may be a real person named Dave Motts, but the Dave Motts that Taxadurmee is waiting to hear from doesn’t exactly exist. It’s a long story.

  It started when I tried to tell Buzz about the big movie studio wanting to buy my movie. That was a disaster. First, Buzz never heard of the studio, which is impossible. If you ever watched TV or ever went to the movies, you’ve heard of this studio. Seriously, everyone knows them.

  I also told him about my manager, Dan Welch. I even said, “Welch, like the grape juice.” Then, even though I told Buzz not to tell anyone about the movie or Dan Welch, he told Doug, except he said my manager’s name is Dave (not Dan) Motts (like the apple juice). Anyway, now Buzz and Doug want “Dave Motts” to listen to their songs, so maybe he’ll want to manage them too.

  You’re probably thinking Buzz is kind of dumb. He actually isn’t. He just doesn’t really pay attention. It’s like his songs are playing in his head all the time, so he can’t really hear anything else, including my manager’s name.

  Dan Welch . . . Dave Motts. It doesn’t actually matter. Neither one of them is going to listen to that MP3. They can’t. Neither of them is a real person.

  I had to make up Dan Welch. The big companies in Hollywood won’t even talk to you unless you have an agent or a manager. I learned this the hard way. I wrote a letter to one of the big studios, and their legal department sent me a six-page letter telling me to stay away from them until I have an agent or a manager.

  I tried to get an agent. I tried to get a manager. I couldn’t. No one wanted to represent me. Then I thought up Dan Welch. His name came from our refrigerator. Dan from Dannon yogurt and Welch from Welch’s grape juice.

  I got him an email address, and when Dan Welch wrote to that same gigantic Hollywood studio that wouldn’t talk to me, suddenly they wanted to talk to me. Soon they wanted to buy my movie idea. He turned out to be a very good manager.

  I know it’s me who actually writes Dan Welch’s emails and chats, but even to me he feels like a separate person. I don’t know what he looks like, but I know he’s a little older than my parents, and he has kids.

  He and I are so completely different. He never acts like a thirteen-year-old. Unfortunately, I usually do. His feelings don’t get hurt as easily as mine. And he can say nice things about me that I would never say about myself.

  Wait. I’ll give you an example. Here’s the email Dan Welch sent to Hank Hollywood (not his real name), the Chairman of the huge entertainment company that I want to work with on this other idea of mine. I think they’re the best company for it, because they’re in so many different parts of the entertainment business. By the way, Chairman is actually a higher job than President. Hank Hollywood’s company has a bunch of different Presidents.

  To: Hank Hollywood

  From: Dan Welch Management

  Dear Hank,

  I represent Sean Rosen. He recently turned down an offer from Stefanie V. President (not her real name) at __________ (the name of her studio) to buy his movie A Week with Your Grandparents. Sean is currently writing the screenplay.

  You may be familiar with Sean’s podcasts, which he writes and produces. Some of them are available online. He’s accomplished a lot for a thirteen-year-old.

  Sean asked me to contact you because he has a very interesting idea. It’s not an idea for a movie or a TV show. It’s a whole new way of making and selling movies and TV shows, as well as games and theater. As Sean puts it, “I think it will change the way people think about entertainment.”

  I know that’s hard to picture, but it was also hard to picture a major Hollywood studio wanting to buy a movie idea from a kid they never heard of before.

  Sean has a lot of respect for your company, and you‘re his first choice for working together on his big idea. If you‘re interested, please let me know, and I’ll be glad to set up a meeting for you and Sean on Skype.

  Best,

  Dan

  I couldn’t have written that letter for myself. I’d be too nervous. I would never say, “You may be familiar with Sean’s podcasts.” I know Hank Hollywood has never seen my podcasts. Why would he just decide one day to go to www.SeanRosen.com or YouTube and watch podcasts by some kid he never heard of? Dan Welch said that so Hank Hollywood would want to watch them.

  By the way, Dan Welch used Stefanie V. President’s real name and her studio’s name in the actual letter. They all know each other out there, or at least that’s what i
t feels like when you see them on award shows and talk shows.

  You probably want to know what my idea is. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you. Yet. I will, I promise. Or else you’ll just hear about it and start using it, because Hank Hollywood’s company decided to take it. But I can’t tell you now, because I think it’s worth a lot of money, and even if you didn’t try to steal it, it’s such a cool idea that you’d definitely tell someone about it, and that person might steal it.

  I had this idea, my big idea, before I ever thought of A Week with Your Grandparents. Dan Welch and I were just practicing on Stefanie’s studio with a movie idea. But then when they actually wanted to buy it, we stopped working on the big idea. I’m not sorry we did that, because I think we learned a lot about the business.

  Anyway, while I write the screenplay, Dan Welch can concentrate on the big idea. I want to get it sold before someone else thinks of it. I’m actually surprised that didn’t happen yet.

  That’s why I got a separate email address for Dave Motts. Dave can work on music while Dan Welch helps me sell the big idea. I don’t exactly know how Dave Motts is going to work on music, but I’ll figure it out. I have to. Doug isn’t going to be nice to me forever.

  Now if you were Hank Hollywood and you got that letter from Dan Welch . . . wouldn’t you want to know who Sean Rosen is, and what his big idea is? Why didn’t he write back? Doesn’t the Chairman usually want his company to make more money? I’m sure he’s busy, but it’s been five whole days.

  Chapter 3

  I think I’m on the school track team. I always thought if you wanted to be on a team, you had to try out. I didn’t have to. Today, at the end of phys ed, Mr. Obester stopped me on the way to the locker room. I thought he was going to yell at me because I didn’t play rugby. There are a couple of places in our gym where you can hide, and usually they’re taken, but today I got one.

  “Sean, I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Sorry about rugby today, but—”

  “This isn’t about rugby. I need you on my track team.”

  “Me? Need?”

  “Yeah, I saw how you aced the mile in the President’s Challenge. You’re going to be my new miler. Big meet next week.”