Chapter 19: School and the Phone Call.
St. John's Elementary was like most American schools—small classes with only about a dozen kids each. Ryan sat in the very back corner, pen flying across the page as he wrote. Whatever the teacher was saying up front had nothing to do with him.
"Ryan!" Mr. Bartok had apparently asked a question and noticed the boy wasn't paying attention. "Ryan Jenkins!"
"Huh?" Ryan finally looked up, scratched his head, and said without the slightest shame, "Sorry, Mr. Bartok. I zoned out."
Mr. Bartok sighed—he had heard that excuse many times before—and simply repeated the question. "Which four presidents' faces are carved on Mount Rushmore?"
Mount Rushmore? Ryan thought for a second. It definitely wasn't the same as Capitol Hill. Since they were carving presidents there, they had to be famous ones. "George Washington, Abraham Lincoln…"
Mr. Bartok gave a small nod, so Ryan grew a little more confident. The American presidents he actually knew were either the really famous ones or the ones who had been assassinated. "Franklin Roosevelt."
Mr. Bartok's brow furrowed.
"Oh, I remember now—John Kennedy and George Bush."
The moment the last name left his mouth, a few classmates started snickering. Ryan's own mouth twitched; in his panic he had blurted out the cowboy president's name.
Thankfully the bell rang, ending his embarrassment. For once Mr. Bartok didn't say anything else. He just gathered his books and left the classroom.
It was already April. The Los Angeles sky was bright blue and the sun was shining. The second afternoon class was PE. Here there were no boring drills—just fun introductory games and sports like baseball and basketball.
Of course, football was the most popular, but the school had age restrictions on it.
"Ryan, don't you get bored? Want to play baseball with us?" The speaker was the tallest kid in class besides him—Jerry, same name as the famous mouse.
This wasn't the first time Jerry had invited him. Like any new transfer student, Ryan had run into a little trouble at first, but after he dropped the big sixth-grader who came looking for a fight with one punch, everyone's attitude toward him changed. Now several of the cliques in his grade wanted him to join.
"Well… okay." Ryan nodded. Jerry and the guys around him were a little childish, but they were decent kids.
After a quick warm-up, Ryan took the kid-sized bat and copied the stance he had seen professional players use on TV.
"Wow, Ryan, you look like a pro," Peter, the catcher behind him, tried to distract him.
Jerry tossed the ball up lightly, full of confidence. Right as Peter spoke, he faked once and threw.
Crack!
To Ryan the fastball looked ridiculously slow. He swung hard and smashed the ball.
Whoosh! The ball shot into the sky, flying dozens of feet before it dropped.
"Wow—Ryan, nice!" The kids watching on the sidelines cheered louder than he did.
"That's a home run!"
Jerry blinked, completely stunned. After a long moment he said, "Ryan, you should join our baseball team!"
"No way, Jerry. You know I'm busy." Ryan turned him down without thinking.
"Yeah, we all know you're busy, but nobody knows what you're busy with. Ryan, what do you write every day?" Jerry pressed. From the small outdoor basketball court separated by a chain-link fence, someone else shouted, "Hey, can you throw the basketball back?"
Somehow those guys had managed to knock their ball all the way over here.
Ryan stepped forward, trapped the bouncing ball under his foot, and flicked it up with his toe. Almost on instinct he started doing fancy keepy-uppies—more than a dozen in a row.
He hadn't played much in this life, but the skills from his past life as Alex were still burned into his muscle memory.
"Hey, Ryan, hurry up and give it back!"
They were getting impatient. Ryan flicked the ball high, and as it came down he whipped his right foot and struck it cleanly with the outside of his instep.
He had only meant to kick it back over the fence. Instead, to everyone's astonishment, the ball traced a perfect arc, slammed into the backboard with a loud bang, and dropped straight through the hoop.
Everyone—including Ryan—stood there staring at each other. What the hell?
Amid a chorus of gasps, Ryan could only scratch his head. Even David Beckham probably couldn't have nailed that on purpose. Okay, he admitted it—his footwork from his past life had been decent for a fan, but this shot was pure luck. He doubted he could do it again in a hundred tries, let alone a thousand.
"Hey, Ryan, wait up!"
Ryan was walking toward the school gate with his backpack when Jerry and the others caught up. "You heading home? Want to hang out?"
"Sorry, Jerry." Outside the gate Ryan pointed at the black Audi waiting by the curb. "My ride's here. Maybe another day."
As Ryan climbed into the car with the tall, elegant woman, Peter asked, "Is that Ryan's mom? She's really pretty."
"Nah, I heard she's his sister or guardian or something," Jerry said, looking thoughtful. "She's even prettier than the stars on TV."
Back at the apartment, Nicole checked the time. They were running late. She pulled Ryan's formal outfit from the closet.
"Ryan, hurry—can you dress yourself?"
"No problem, easy." He took the clothes and headed to his room.
White dress shirt, deep navy tuxedo jacket, matching bow tie. It was a little fiddly, but after a year of proper British etiquette lessons, it wasn't hard at all.
He had grown quite a bit since filming The Sixth Sense. His once-scrawny body now showed the first hints of muscle—months of steady exercise were finally paying off.
"Ryan, the phone's ringing—can you get it?"
Getting a woman ready always took forever. Ryan quickly straightened his clothes and ran to the living room.
"Hello, this is Ryan Jenkins and Nicole Kidman's residence!"
"Ryan, you jerk! You lied to me!" The voice on the other end belonged to a very familiar girl.
"Nat?" Ryan guessed.
"Yes, it's me. Ryan, is the little boy on the Sixth Sense poster you?"
"Uh… yeah."
"Then why did you lie and say you only had a tiny role with no lines?"
Ryan blinked. She's turning this around on me. "Hey, Nat, I remember it very clearly—you're the one who said that!"
"Really?" Natalie seemed to be thinking back. After a pause she still sounded stubborn. "But you didn't deny it!"
"But I never admitted it either!" Just like every other phone call, they started arguing within seconds.
"And the name Ryan Jenkins listed under 'screenplay'—that's you too?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me? I thought you were my friend! You lied, Ryan!"
"Hey, Nat, you never asked! Was I supposed to jump in front of you and announce, 'Dear Nat, I wrote a screenplay and I'm playing one of the lead roles'?"
"You talked about movies with me in letters for months and never once mentioned it."
"I didn't mention it because I was afraid it would crush your tiny fragile heart." Since they were already arguing, Ryan went full troll mode.
"You think something that small could hurt me?" Natalie's voice came through the receiver, fierce and threatening. "Just wait, Ryan. Next time I see you I'm going to make you pay."
"I'll be waiting."
After their usual round of bickering, both of them calmed down. Once they had caught up on each other's lives, Ryan asked, "Are you going to see the movie, Nat?"
"Of course. Mom already bought tickets."
"Great. Say hi to Mr. Avner and Mrs. Sherry for me."
It was the first weekend in April. The Sixth Sense—post-production long finished—had gone through its publicity rounds and was finally about to open. Twenty million dollars was a big investment for Miramax at the time.
Since the money was already spent, a proper premiere made perfect sense.
As both the screenwriter and one of the lead actors, Ryan had received his invitation from Harvey Weinstein weeks ago. At his age he could have made an excuse to skip it, but he had already decided his future was in this industry. With more and more of his work coming out, attending premieres was inevitable.
Besides, every circle had its own rules, and people who broke them were never welcome.
He and Harvey had already agreed on several publicity details anyway.
In Ryan's mind it was the same either way—might as well use the opportunity to squeeze out every possible advantage.