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.”