I Represent Sean Rosen (6 page)

People are curious about my dad. Most people don't know any Jewish plumbers. I guess most plumbers have fathers and grandfathers who were also plumbers. My dad had a father who wore a tie every day and worked in a nice office. I don't know much about it, but I know things didn't turn out so great for Grandpa.

I already told my dad I'm not going into the plumbing business with him. He laughed and said, “I know, Seany.” Anyway, he's not going to be my agent.

I went online and found out that even if I wanted him to be, my dad
can't
be my agent. He doesn't have a license. Well, he does, but it's a plumbing license. My mom actually has a license, too. I understand why you want your nurse or your plumber to have a license. You want to know they went to school and they know what they're doing.

I guess you want your agent to know what he's doing, too. Since none of the agents with licenses will even talk to me, I started thinking about managers again, because managers don't need a license.

I remember when I started out, I sat around deciding what I wanted—an agent or a manager or both. I actually thought they would all want to work with me.

When you're sitting alone at home with your idea, you imagine the finished thing that everyone is going to see. You don't know all the things you have to do to get to the finished thing.

The other part I never thought about when I started was how it sounds when you tell someone you have an amazing idea. Probably everyone thinks their own ideas are amazing. No offense, but a lot of them aren't.

That's why it's good to hear from another person that something is great. That's what my manager can do. And even though people will know he works for me, it's a lot better than hearing
me
say it.

“Sean! Dinner. Now.”

I was on my way downstairs when I heard my phone. I knew I shouldn't but I went back to see who it was. It was a text from Brianna.

I'm going to kill my mother.

I couldn't help it. I had to text her back.

While you're in prison, can I have your phone?

F
rench today was all about
Le Bistro
. We watched the video from last year. I was actually pretty good, but the show was embarrassing. When the bell rang, I tried to hurry out, but Mademoiselle Fou stopped me. “
Eh bien?
” (“Well?”)

“I'm sorry. I can't this year. I'm in the middle of something outside of school.” Which is completely true. She looked at me and made a French sound that if you could translate it would mean, “I doubt it. I despise you. Get out of my classroom.”

When I got home from school, I went right upstairs. No snack. No anything. This is serious. I have to figure this out. How am I going to get a manager?

I kept thinking about Martin Manager. I wonder if I can beg him, in some way that doesn't sound like begging. But he's smart. He would recognize begging.

I don't like begging people to do things. Then if they say yes, they're doing you this huge favor, and you both know it. You feel like you have to keep thanking them the whole time, and they sort of want you to. I want someone who actually
wants
to work with me.

I decided to try writing the letter I would want my manager to send to the huge entertainment company I want to work with.

Dear _________,
(an important person at the company)

I'm writing to tell you about my newest client. I think you two could do amazing work together.

Sean Rosen is not only my newest client. He's my youngest. At thirteen, he's already an experienced writer and producer. I encourage you to watch some of Sean's podcasts (www.SeanRosen.com). They're uniquely entertaining.

Sean has an idea that I honestly think will blow you away. Your company is his first choice, and I would love for the two of you to get to know each other.

I really think there's something special here, or I wouldn't waste your time with this.

Best,
_________
(the manager I don't have)

I kept reading the letter. I like it. It doesn't sound like me. It sounds a little like Mr. Hollander, a math teacher at my school. I don't have him for math, but he's the advisor for the e-yearbook.

Could Mr. Hollander be my manager? He's a good guy. He isn't afraid to tell you he likes your work. And you believe him because he tells you exactly what he likes about it. When he told me I was going to be an editor this year, he actually said, “I'm a fan.”

But even if Mr. Hollander ever wanted to be my manager, I don't really want this to be a school thing. Like I said, I don't love school. So why am I a yearbook editor? It's fun, it gets me out of classes sometimes, and it helps me pretend that I don't
go
to that school. I'm just working on a
book
about that school.

Maybe my mom's friend Debbie could be my manager. My mom knows her from when they were in sixth grade. They love to tell me that for some reason.

Debbie never stops working. She sometimes pretends she's relaxing, like on a weekend, but she never is. I don't feel sorry for her. She actually likes working all the time. I want a manager who works as hard as Debbie does.

But Debbie can't be my manager. She's known me since I was born. She always brings up things I might not want everyone in the world to know. I'm thirteen years old and she's still telling the diaper story.

I read the letter again. What if instead of a blank line at the bottom, it had a name. A name I made up.

I pictured the important person at the big company getting it. Let's say he's the Vice President of New Projects. I don't know if there's actually a job called that, but let's say there is and he gets this letter. He would probably think, “Whoever this Sean Rosen is, he must be good if he's only thirteen and he already has a manager who really believes in him.”

Then he would think, “But I never heard of this manager.” Then he would think, “But with a company as big as mine, and all these projects I'm in charge of, how can I know every single manager?” Managers don't have websites, so if you got an e-mail from a manager you didn't know, you wouldn't be able to find out much about him. Or her.

Maybe I can have an imaginary manager.

Maybe I can. I like the way he writes letters.

I guess he's a he.

What would he need? Just an e-mail address. No one really calls anyone anymore, except when they're bored.

I can get him an e-mail address. Anyone can get an e-mail address. I have two. I only use one of them. The first one got so crowded with e-mails that I stopped going there. It was my fault. Every time a website asked for my e-mail address to send me “special offers only available online,” I gave it to them.

Okay, I'll get him an e-mail account. What should his e-mail address be? Sean'sManager@_________.com? No. That sounds like I have a thirteen-year-old manager.

Maybe just his name. What is his name?

I went to the kitchen. Maybe I can get some ideas there. Or at least something to eat. I stood in front of the refrigerator. It's pretty full. Everyone in my family likes to eat, and whenever someone is near a store they call whoever's home to see what we need. I'm glad we do that. Some people, even people who have a lot of money, never have any food in the house.

I'm hungry, but I don't know what I want. There's a bowl of little carrots, so I started eating them while I looked for something better. I don't mind carrots, but no matter how hard you try, you can't pretend they're potato chips. I looked around the refrigerator to see if there are any good names for my manager. Kraft Tropicana? No. Heinz Dannon? No. Dannon Heinz? That's not bad. I like the first name Dannon. He would say, “Yes. Like the yogurt. You can call me Dan.”

I'm not sure about Heinz. I looked in some cabinets. Now I want potato chips, but unfortunately we don't have any. What else could his name be? Dannon Pepperidge? No. Dannon Ronzoni? No. I went back to the refrigerator.

Dan Welch. Not Dannon, just Dan. Dan Welch. “Yes. Like the grape juice.”
Best, Dan Welch.
I like it.

I ran back upstairs. My e-mail company already has a DanWelch. They say that DanWelch7 is available. I don't think my manager wants anyone to think he's the seventh anything. Dan.Welch? Someone has it. I tried DanWelchManagement. It's available. We grabbed it.

Wait a minute. I just said “we.” “We,” as in me and Dan. Dan and me. Dan and I? Whatever, he's only been around for a half hour, and Dan Welch already feels like a real person. A real person with an e-mail address.

Did you ever hear someone say, “I'm going to sleep on it”? It's like deciding not to decide something until the next day. It was tempting to use Dan's e-mail address right away, but this idea is so weird that I thought I should sleep on it.

I
woke up feeling good. I have a manager. I don't know why, but I actually believe it. It was even a good day at school. Until lunchtime.

There's nothing I like about my school cafeteria. I don't like the way it looks, I don't like the way it smells, I don't like how noisy it is. And the food? No.

I avoid going there. Sometimes I go to the Publication Room (it helps to be an editor). Sometimes I volunteer to help Trish, the principal's assistant. I have a few other hiding places around school that I can't tell you about, because they only fit one person.

I bring my own lunch. My dad or my mom used to put my lunch together for me, and they're both actually good at it. I got some ideas from them, but now I like to do it myself. I made a really good lunch today. A perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a little bag of pretzels, the exact drink I wanted, the cookie I wanted, and an orange, which makes my whole lunch bag smell good.

After a morning of half paying attention to geometry and earth science and half thinking about Dan Welch, I couldn't wait to bite into that sandwich. I opened my locker and I didn't see my lunch bag. I don't have the world's neatest locker, so it took me a minute to be absolutely sure it wasn't in there somewhere. But then I hit
in my brain, and I saw how I forgot it.

Right as I was leaving the house, I got this crazy thought. “What if someone already wrote to Dan Welch?” No one but me ever heard of Dan Welch. No one has his e-mail address. I was already late. Still, I ran up the stairs (missed one, crashed), checked Dan Welch's e-mail, saw the number “3” in the inbox, got excited, opened the inbox, found three “Welcome!” e-mails from the e-mail company, looked at the clock, saw how late I was
now
, ran out of the house, and left my lunch sitting on the kitchen counter.

I'm hungry! I want my delicious lunch! I felt like crying, but I was standing next to my locker in a busy hallway. I actually don't mind crying. What I don't like is crying in front of other people. Or when other people cry in front of me. You never know what to do.

Anyway, I didn't cry. I went to the cafeteria. Unfortunately, it was exactly like I remembered it.

One of the cafeteria ladies recognized me. She might have been one of the den mothers when I was in the Cub Scouts for two months. She gave me an extra big piece of something they're calling “pizza.”

I paid, then I walked out and looked around the room. Brianna had a big table of girls listening to her. She saw me and waved. I looked down at the “pizza” and made a funny face.

I saw a table where Ethan, the new kid, was sitting by himself. I walked over and he looked down at the table.

“Okay if I sit here?”

First, he shrugged, kind of like, “I don't decide who sits where in this place.” Then he sort of nodded, like, “It's a free country. If you want to sit here, sit here.” But not in a mean way.

“Okay. Thanks.”

Ethan didn't say anything the whole time. I didn't either. I actually like it that way. I eat lunch by myself most days, so I'm used to it being quiet. The cafeteria was as noisy as usual, but not our table. The pizza wasn't as gross as it looked. Lunch actually turned out okay.

When I got home, I put Dan Welch's name at the bottom of the letter to my first-choice company.