Sean Rosen Is Not for Sale Read online

  TRISH: Hey, Sean. How was your day?

  ME: Oh. Pretty good. You know . . .

  TRISH: No. I don’t know. Tell me.

  ME: Oh. It’s just that I’m supposed to go to this . . . track team practice.

  TRISH: You’re supposed to?

  ME: Yeah. I mean I’m actually going. I think. I’m just a little nervous.

  TRISH: That’s good. You’ll run better. Get going.

  So I did.

  Chapter 6

  I got to the locker room. They give us a little locker where we can keep our gym clothes. There are signs all over the locker room that say WASH YOUR GYM CLOTHES. I do wash them, or actually my mom does, whenever I bring them home. But maybe it’s been a few weeks.

  When Mr. Obester told me I was on the team, I didn’t have time to come to the gym to see how they smell. So I brought other stuff just in case. My gym clothes smell okay. Not great. I guess I’ll wear the ones I brought. As I was changing, some other kids came in. I can’t tell if they’re here for track practice or for some other team. I sort of know a lot of the kids in my school because of the yearbook. I’m there when they get their picture taken, then I do layouts of their pictures in the actual e-yearbook.

  A few people said hi to me, but they had this look on their faces like “What are you doing here?” No one actually said that, but I could tell, because I was thinking the same thing. About myself, I mean.

  I went out the door everyone else was going out, which takes you outside. Mr. Obester was there with about 25 kids, all boys. He blew his whistle, but not so it hurt your ears. Just loud enough for everyone to hear. I never heard anyone do that before.

  “Guys . . . this is Sean Rosen.” He took the permission slip I was holding and looked at it for a second. “He’s our new miler. Okay, let’s go.”

  Suddenly everyone started running around the track. Every single kid except me. Then Mr. Obester did another one of those quiet whistles. He pointed to the track, and I started running after everybody.

  I caught up to them pretty quickly, then I started passing a lot of kids. I guess I actually am a good runner. It was exciting. I was just passing another kid when I heard him say, “Warm-up run.” Oh. This isn’t a race.

  I like this track. It’s made of something like rubber, so it’s bouncy when you run. You feel like if you jumped, you might be able to fly up in the air and land in front of everyone else. I wanted to try it, even if this isn’t a race, but I decided not to.

  We made it around the track once, then Mr. Obester said, “Runners keep going.” Some of the kids stopped running, and I actually felt like stopping too, but I guess I’m a runner now, so I kept going. I was still next to the kid who told me it was only a warm-up run. I think his name is Brandon, but I’m not sure.

  “How many more times do we have to do this?”

  “Too many times.” Then we ran a little more. “You’re a miler, so you have to do even more laps than me.”

  “What are you?”

  “I’m a sprinter.”

  I started thinking about asking Mr. Obester if I could be a sprinter instead of a miler, but then I thought I better ask Might-Be-Brandon another question.

  “What do the sprinters have to do?”

  “Sprints and sprints and more sprints. It’s killer.”

  “How long does practice actually last?”

  “We have a big meet next week, so he’ll keep us here right until five.”

  “Another hour and fifteen minutes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is there like a rest period?”

  “Not really.”

  “Mr. Obester said part of practice was playing a game.”

  “I hope not. The games are the worst.”

  I was starting to get a little tired and a little bored. I thought about sitting on the couch in my family room drinking lemonade and working on my screenplay. That’s what I would be doing right now if I wasn’t on the track team.

  When am I going to work on my screenplay? I want to finish it while Stefanie V. President still loves the idea. If I have to run like this every day after school, I won’t have time. I’ll come home from track, eat supper, do my homework, and fall asleep. I feel like sleeping right now.

  But I’m the new miler. Coach wants me on the track team. He needs me. I see him working with some of the other kids. They’re doing pushups. Is that next?

  We got back to where we started, and Mr. Obester yelled, “Sprinters, come with me. Everyone else, keep going.”

  Might-Be-Brandon and some other kids stopped, and six of us kept going. Well, five of us. I stopped and walked over to Mr. Obester.

  “One more lap, Sean.”

  “Mr. Obester . . . can I talk to you for a second?”

  “Sure. Call me Coach.”

  “Coach . . . I really want to be your miler.”

  “You are my miler. You’re gonna be great.”

  “Well, I hope so. When’s that big meet?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Okay. Good. Tuesday is good. Would it be okay if . . . between now and Tuesday . . . I just . . . sort of practice on my own?”

  “You mean do some extra running on the weekend?”

  “Well . . .”

  “I like your dedication, but trust me, you’ll get enough miles in practice. Give yourself the weekend off.”

  “Okay. But what I actually meant was, I don’t think I can keep coming to track practice.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just a little too . . . I don’t know. . . .”

  “It gets easier. It really does.”

  Might-Be-Brandon made it sound like it really doesn’t.

  “I just don’t think I can.”

  “You can if you want to.” I didn’t know what to say. “You want to leave now?”

  “Actually, yeah. But I promise to be there on Tuesday.”

  “For what?”

  “To run the mile.”

  Mr. Obester didn’t say anything. He looked at me for a really long time. The looks on his face kept changing. Some of them were a little scary. Then he smiled.

  “Sorry, Sean. It doesn’t work that way. It wouldn’t be fair to the other guys.”

  “Okay. Thanks for asking me to run.”

  “Hit the road.”

  Fortunately, he was still smiling.

  Chapter 7

  Walking home after track practice, I thought about all the people I’d have to tell that I’m not on the track team anymore.

  Javier. He’ll feel bad. “¿Por qué, mi amigo?” (“Why, my friend?”)

  Doug. He’ll try not to laugh. He’ll think of the mean thing he wants to say to me, but he won’t say it. I don’t know how long that’s going to last. If I don’t get Dave Motts to listen to that MP3, Doug might actually explode.

  What’s that smell? Oh. It’s my gym clothes. The ones I had in my locker. Maybe they were there a little longer than a few weeks. I left the ones I wore today in my locker. They were only a little sweaty.

  Who else? Trish. I only see her once in a while. But she remembers everything. So she’ll ask me about the track team, she’ll be disappointed for two seconds, then she’ll say something that makes me feel good.

  Mom and Dad. I guess I’ll tell them at dinner. What will I say? “So . . . I decided not to be on the track team.” They’ll ask me why. They’ll remind me that sometimes with new things, I think I don’t like it, but then after a little while, I do. That’s actually true, but I’ll tell them that with this, I’m sure, and that will be it.

  I know my parents think I’m a good kid. They trust me. I’m not saying they never get mad at me. They do. And when they do, I don’t blame them. I’d be mad at me too.

  But if my grades aren’t the best or if I don’t like the same things they like, they don’t make me feel bad. They don’t compare me to other kids. They’re proud of me. They like that I just started doing my podcasts on my own and that I keep doing them.

  It
would have been nice to let them be proud of me for something normal. They could have said, “Hey! Guess what? Sean’s on the track team. He’s running the mile in a big meet on Tuesday.” Except he’s not.

  I was feeling a little sad as I turned the corner onto my street. Then Baxter saw me and started barking. Baxter is my neighbors’ dog. He loves me and I love him. I went over to say hi, and he jumped on me and licked my face.

  We don’t have a dog, and I want one, but my mom doesn’t. She won’t try to talk me into going to track practice tomorrow, and I don’t try to talk her into getting a dog. Well, I did for about five years, but then I figured out that if she ever changes her mind, she’ll tell me.

  I played with Baxter for a little while, then I went home and had a snack. I looked at the clock in the kitchen. It’s 4:30. If I was at practice, I’d still be running or doing pushups or something like that. I’m going to use the time I saved to work on my screenplay.

  I went upstairs to get my laptop. Before getting to work, I checked Dan Welch’s email to see if anything came from Hank Hollywood. Something came, but not the way I thought it would.

  When I made up the name Dan Welch, I never thought there was someone whose actual name is Dan Welch. This other Dan Welch found my Dan Welch’s email address on my website when he was Googling himself. Then he just started writing to my Dan Welch, trying to sell him collectibles and saying nice things about my podcasts.

  To: Dan Welch Management

  From: Dan Welch

  Hey, Dan Welch! Its Dan Welch again. Hows it hangin buddy? You never told me what you want me to call you. DW? Danny Boy? Welchie? I been called all those and worse. I got more nicknames than barfing, but I still dont know yours.

  Now that I’m thinking about it, you never did write back to me, did you. R u there Dan Welch?

  The reason I’m asking is I got a email that might be for you. Some showbiz thing about your boy Sean Rosen. Tell him i keep checking back for new podcasts. That kids got something. I never went to a Bar Mitts-fa before his Bar Mitts-fa podcast.

  Hey! Did you check out my website yet? You remember. UNameItIGotIt.com. I just got in a bunch of cool new collectibles. I don’t know how old you are Mr Welch (is THAT what I should call you??), but if your close to my age you defenitely want the original Farrah Fawcett poster. You know the one. With the teeth and the hair and the rest. I wouldn’t of made it thru jr high without sweet Farrah on my wall. I just found 2 in mint condition. I’m keeping one, but if you need the other one (YOU DO), you can have it for less than what I’m asking for it on the website. Its the Dan Welch discount, Dan Welch!

  Okay. Gotta go. Get back to me and tell me your the right guy and I’ll send you that email about Sean Rosen.

  Hey, if Sean is still in touch with the guy in his post office podcast who bought the Willie Mays card, tell him to tell that guy I got some A-Mays-ing Willie merch, and I dont charge as much as whoever he bought that card from.

  The Other Dan Welch

  I didn’t know what a Farrah Fawcett was, but I looked it up and it’s a person. She was a pretty actress, and I found the poster Collectibles Dan Welch is talking about. I see what he means.

  I wonder who wrote to Collectibles about me. Not Stefanie. She knows Dan Welch’s email address.

  Could it be Hank Hollywood? He knows Dan Welch’s email address too. He has it on the email Dan sent him about my big idea. Wouldn’t he just hit reply?

  Is it from someone who saw my podcasts and wants me to do something else, or wants to use “I Want a Donut!” for a commercial? No. Because they’d have the right Dan Welch’s email address too, from my website.

  Did Collectibles just make something up about me so Dan Welch would finally write back to him? Why would he? Maybe he’s lonely.

  Now I can’t work on my screenplay. If I don’t find out what that email is about, I’m just going to think about it all the time. I mean all the time. Which would be even more distracting than getting more emails from Collectibles Dan Welch.

  I’ll let my manager handle this.

  From: Dan Welch Management

  To: Dan Welch

  Dear Dan,

  Good to hear from you. I’m glad you like Sean’s podcasts. I do too.

  Yes, please forward that email to me at this address.

  Best,

  Dan

  Chapter 8

  After school today I got a text from Brianna.

  B: We’re going to band practice tonight.

  S: Who’s we?

  B: You and me.

  S: We are?

  B: Yes. We’ll pick you up at 7.

  S: Who’s we?

  B: My mom. Unless you think we should take a taxi.

  S: My parents are not letting me get in a taxi.

  B: Good. Have one of them drive you to my house. We can walk to Buzz’s from here.

  S: Really?

  B: What part doesn’t sound real?

  S: Do they even want us there?

  B: Trust me. The two people in the world they want there are you and me.

  I had to think about that. They want me there, because I’m the one who knows Dave Motts, the guy they think is going to make them rich and famous.

  B: For different reasons, of course.

  Brianna likes Buzz, and she’s pretty sure Buzz likes her. She wants me to ask him, but I won’t. I don’t want to get in the middle of this. Brianna and Buzz are both my friends, and it’s weird enough that they might like each other. Don’t make me help.

  This started when Taxadurmee did a concert at our school. We never have bands for assembly programs, and then when they turned out to be good, everyone was excited about them. Brianna never saw Buzz before that, because he goes to a different school. I think that’s part of what she likes about him. She thinks it’s cool to like a boy who doesn’t go to our school. He’s a year older than us, which she also likes. He’s in seventh grade like we are, but he keeps changing schools, and in one of those changes, they made him do a grade over again.

  I don’t know if I want to go to band practice. I don’t like to watch people practice things. I’d rather see it when they’re done practicing.

  Also, it might make me feel bad. Brianna doesn’t know this, but when Buzz first started the band, he asked me to be in it. He wanted me to be the singer, or as he said in his text, the “singger.”

  I was actually thinking about doing it, but when I heard that Doug was in the band, I said no. Why would I want to spend time with someone who’s usually mean to me?

  The other reason is that I’m actually not good enough to be in that band. I like to sing, but I’m just okay at it. I couldn’t really sing Buzz’s songs. Buzz should sing them. He has the right voice for his songs.

  Why am I wasting time deciding if I want to go to band practice? I’m going. Brianna will make me.

  My mom called Buzz’s mom to make sure an adult will be in the house. My mom doesn’t really get Buzz’s mom. In fact, when my mom asked if an adult was going to be there, I don’t think she was counting Buzz’s mom as an adult.

  But my mom likes Buzz (even though she doesn’t get him either), and she likes that I have friends who want me to come over, plus it’s not a school night, so she drove me to Brianna’s. She made me put my phone on vibrate so it doesn’t interrupt the music, then she made me move it to a pocket where I’ll actually feel it when it vibrates. She waited until Brianna opened the door. Then I waved and she drove away.

  Brianna came to the door wearing very, very tight jeans, a sparkly T-shirt, and a vest over the T-shirt.

  “Are you auditioning for the band?”

  She ran upstairs to change and left me at the front door. I didn’t know what to do. This is my first time at the house since that time with Brianna’s dad. I wonder if he’s home.

  “Are there more of you coming?” It’s him. What does he mean? “Why else would you leave the door open?”

  “Oh. No. I didn’t. Brianna did.”

 
“But you could have closed it.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” If I closed it, he’d probably yell at me for touching his door.

  “Am I supposed to drive you two somewhere?”

  “No. We don’t need a ride. It’s close. Thanks anyway.”

  He walked away.

  Walking down Buzz’s street, you can hear the thumping and guitar sounds of Taxadurmee coming out of his garage. I talked Brianna into waiting until the song was over before going in.

  Everyone said hi to us, then Buzz wanted to play that same song again. I’m not sure if he wanted to work on it some more or just do it again so we could hear it. Doug, who plays the drums, looked like he didn’t want to play it again, but he didn’t say anything. I think it’s Buzz’s band more than Doug’s, and it’s definitely Buzz’s garage.

  You could tell they were all a little nervous about playing for us, and I don’t mean because they think Dave Motts can help them. It’s just different doing something for an audience.

  Like my podcasts. I can work for ten hours on a one-minute podcast. I’ll put it together and I’ll watch it over and over and over again and keep making little changes until I think it’s perfect.

  Then I show it to someone. It doesn’t even matter who. Because as soon as someone else is there, you see it the way they’re seeing it. Even before they tell you what they think, you know. The middle part is boring. You have to fix it.

  I like this song. So does Brianna, from the look on her face. Buzz is singing it right to her. Well, we’re all in the garage together, and the band is facing us, and there are only two of us in the audience. But trust me, he’s singing to her.

  I don’t know what this song is about, but I think sometimes that doesn’t matter so much with songs. I’ve downloaded some songs and listened to them like a hundred times, and even though I know every word, I still don’t know what they’re supposed to be about. I just like them.

  My songs, the ones on my podcast I mean, are the opposite of this. You always know exactly what they’re about. This one’s about dogs. This one’s about donuts. This one’s about my cousin’s bar mitzvah. That’s what’s so great about music. You can like Buzz’s songs and you can like my songs, and you can also like the songs your parents liked when they were teenagers. You don’t have to choose. Whatever you like, you just like.