STS Ch-58

“I’ll miss you.” Daisy hugged me tightly for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, her fingers bunching into the back of my jacket as if she could anchor me in place. “Why do you have to go back at all?”

“It’s just for a few months,” I assured her, rubbing her back gently. The airport moved around us with rolling suitcases and distant boarding announcements, but in that moment, it felt strangely quiet. “Once I’m done shooting that film, I’ll be back in LA, and this time for good. And the best part? Dad’s coming along with me.”

Daisy’s eyes lit up at that. She pulled back, smiling despite the faint sheen of tears. “Okay. That part doesn’t suck.”

As soon as I turned toward Zach, he took an exaggerated step back, raising both hands in defense. “Hell no. You’re not hugging me again.”

I chuckled and stepped forward anyway, ruffling his hair despite his protests. “Alright, alright. No hugs. Just take care of Daisy, okay?”

Daisy scoffed, crossing her arms. “As if I can’t take care of myself. And Zach would take care of me when he’s free from tonguing his girlfriend.”

“What!?” Mom exclaimed, her eyes widening in horror as a couple passing by glanced in our direction.

“You’re dead,” Zach muttered, shooting Daisy a murderous glare before turning to me. His ears were already turning red. “I’m not tonguing anyone. Jocelyn’s just my classmate. We study together sometimes. That’s all.”

I tilted my head, fighting back a grin. “But you’d like to tongue her, wouldn’t you?”

Zach looked absolutely mortified, which told me everything I needed to know. I didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what he wanted from that fledgling relationship of his.

“You’re an ass,” he grumbled. “I don’t know why Jocelyn and all those other girls are going crazy for you.”

“I know,” Daisy chimed in sweetly. “It’s because Noah, the ass, flashed his very ass to all those girls.”

“And his dick,” Zach added, a wicked grin replacing his embarrassment. “I think we have an exhibitionist for a brother.”

“I think we do,” Daisy agreed solemnly, nodding as if they’d just reached a serious conclusion.

I blinked at the twins ganging up on me, but a small part of me felt relieved. I’d been worried they wouldn’t settle into LA, especially Zach. He’d never been much of a social butterfly, unlike Daisy, who could make friends in a checkout line. Seeing him loosen up like this, teasing and taking shots at me, was oddly comforting.

Laughing, I grabbed Zach and pulled him into a noogie, grinding my knuckles against his head. “If you think that would bother me, you’re dead wrong, little bro. I’ve got much thicker skin. Guess I’ll have to let that information sink into that brain of yours.”

“Hey! That’s unfair!” he protested, squirming under my grip. “Daisy teased you too.”

“Yeah, but she’s a girl,” I shot back. “I can’t mess up her hair in public.”

“Damn right you can’t,” Daisy said imperiously, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

I finally released Zach just as another boarding announcement echoed through the terminal, this one for first class passengers. The words felt strange, still not quite belonging to me.

I turned to Frank, who’d been watching the chaos with an amused expression. “Thanks for the upgrade from economy to first class. I would’ve managed the economy, though.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” he replied immediately, his tone firm. “You’re a celebrity now, Noah. People look up to you. You can’t just travel in economy. Worst case scenario, if you’re surrounded by fans, the crew’s more likely to step in quickly if you’re in first class.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “I think you’re overestimating my fame. No one gives a shit about a guy like me.”

Frank gave me a knowing look. “You’d be surprised how much people give a shit about any celebrity. Even the ones they don’t recognize right away.”

I waved off his concerns. “When it comes to fame, I’m on the lowest rung right now, so I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Just then, another announcement rang out for first class passengers. Frank gave me a pointed look and gestured toward the gate. “Go. Or you’ll miss your flight.”

With one last lingering hug for the twins and a shorter, hesitant one for Mom, I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed to the boarding area. I didn’t look back again. If I did, I might not have boarded at all.

Boarding was as uneventful as I’d predicted. No double takes. No whispers. Just the routine of consultants and other rich folk flying to New York from LA, as flight attendants prepared for departure. I found my seat, stowed my bag, and exhaled quietly. Frank had definitely overestimated my fame.

That is, until the flight took off and the man beside me decided to start a conversation with me.

“Have I seen you somewhere?”

He leaned over in my direction with open curiosity. He looked to be in his late tweinties, clean-shaven, with sharp eyes that studied my face like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “I swear you look like someone famous.”

I chuckled and shook my head lightly. “I’m an actor. I just did a film, so maybe you’ve seen me there.”

He blinked for a few seconds, then his expression shifted as if a metaphorical bulb had lit up over his head. “Of course! [The Blue Lagoon], right?”

I inclined my head. “Guilty.”

“I didn’t recognize you without that God-awful perm and, you know, actual clothes on your body.” He stuck out his hand. “Bob.”

The comment grated on my nerves, but I didn’t want to come off as a snobby celebrity. I shook his hand. “Noah.”

We sat in relative silence for a few minutes, until the sign to take off our seatbelts went off. I did exactly that to relax myself some more. Just as I had almost forgotten about the man beside me, he turned to me again.

“Can I be honest with you, Noah?” he asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued, “[The Blue Lagoon] was a terrible movie. You looked great in it, but that’s about it. It was shallow, and I personally think the director could’ve done a much better job getting a stronger performance out of you.”

I resisted the urge to get out of my seat and move. First class was practically empty. I could’ve relocated without much fuss. For some reason, I didn’t.

“Thank you for that review,” I said evenly, though I could hear the tightness in my own voice.

He must’ve noticed it too.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he added quickly. “I actually think you were the strongest part of the movie. The critics seem to prefer your female co-star, but believe me, you were the one who kept me watching.”

And yet he hadn’t recognized me at first glance. I didn’t entirely buy what he was selling.

“I’m a screenwriter and filmmaker, actually,” Bob went on after a pause, when I didn’t respond. “I wrote Steven Spielberg’s war comedy, [1941], last year.”

That caught my attention.

“I’ve seen that film,” I said after a moment, searching my memory. “And you’re calling [The Blue Lagoon] bad?”

He laughed, a surprisingly self-aware sound. “Fair enough. I probably deserve that. The problem with that film was that Steven isn’t very good at comedy. He made a lot of last-minute changes to the script, and the result is what you saw.”

I studied him for a second. “So you’re not mad about that?”

He shrugged easily. “Not really. The film still made enough money, and he vouched for me when I went to the studios asking for financing for my next project.”

I was intrigued despite myself. “Tell me more about this film of yours. What’s it about?”

“It’s called [Used Cars],” Bob replied casually. “Starring Kurt Russell. It’s about a slick car salesman who…”

He launched into a detailed description, hands moving animatedly as he spoke. He outlined rival dealerships, absurd marketing stunts, corrupt politicians, and a kind of chaotic moral center buried beneath all the cynicism. His eyes gleamed the entire time. Whatever flaws the film might eventually have, his enthusiasm was infectious.

Even if it bombed financially, I could already tell he’d be proud of it for years.

“That’s a good story,” I said honestly when he finished. “I’ve written and shot a film of my own, so I can imagine how hard it must’ve been to get yours made.”

He blinked, clearly thrown. “Wait. You made a film? As in, directed it?”

“Yup.” I nodded, keeping my tone light. “In fact, I’m going to New York because I’m starring in my next film that I wrote myself. But I wasn’t satisfied with that. I want to move behind the camera as a director. Unfortunately, no studio was going to hand a budget to a teenager, so I used most of my own money. Cast myself in the lead, too. I like to think it turned out great.”

Bob leaned back in his seat, studying me again, but this time with genuine interest. The earlier condescension was gone.

“So what’s it about? Your film?”

I hesitated.

Bob had a confident grin on his face that suggested he was used to getting what he wanted. Plenty of people had warned me about this exact situation. The man who inspired me to start writing scripts, Douglas Day-Stewart. My stepfather Frank. Even my agent, Claudia. Hollywood ran on stolen ideas and polite smiles.

“Oh, come on,” he pressed. “You’ve already made it. It’d take me at least a year to copy it, if that’s what I wanted to do. By then, your movie would already be out. And we’ve got a long flight ahead of us. I could use the entertainment.”

That was true. Before leaving, I’d had a final meeting with Claudia, giving her precise instructions on how to proceed with my film, [See You Yesterday], once James Horner finished scoring it. If everything stayed on schedule, it could be out in six months. I wasn’t exactly unprotected.

“Alright,” I said after a moment. “It’s about time travel, but not in the traditional sense. It’s more about reliving the same day over and over until you get it right.”

As I laid out the premise, explaining the looping structure, the emotional arc, the slow transformation of the protagonist from selfish to self-aware, I watched Bob’s expression shift. His eyes widened incrementally, his grin fading into something sharper.

When I finished, there was a beat of silence.

He stared at me in disbelief for a few seconds before saying, “You won’t believe me, but I’ve written a time travel story too.”

Anger surged through me instantly, hot and blinding.

I wasn’t naïve. I knew this tactic. Plant the seed now. Establish prior claim. Later, if something similar came out, call it coincidence.

Fucking asshole.

I turned to him slowly. “Of course you’ve written a similar story. That’s exactly why I was hesitant to share it.” My voice dropped, losing all trace of friendliness. “Believe me, pal, I’ll sue the fuck out of you if you so much as think about turning it into a movie.”

The man raised his hands defensively. “No, no, you misunderstand. The two stories are nothing alike. At all. I’ll tell you what I have so far to prove it. It’s about a teenage boy who has a friend, this old scientist, who creates a time machine.”

The moment I heard that opening line, I knew exactly what film he was talking about.

And just like that, I felt stupid.

Wait.

Was this man…?

“Hey, Bob,” I said carefully once he finished outlining the rest of the premise. “What’s your full name?”

“Robert Zemeckis.”

Of course he was.

The man who would go on to create films like [Forrest Gump], [Cast Away], and [The Polar Express]. And the series that would define his filmography for decades, [Back to the Future].

Marty McFly and Doc Brown were one of my favorite duos in cinema history. I’d watched those films more times than I could count. Perfect trilogies were rare, but [Back to the Future], [The Lord of the Rings], and [The Dark Knight Trilogy] were about as close as it got.

I exhaled slowly. “I’m really sorry for accusing you of plagiarism. You’re right. These stories have nothing in common.”

He nodded, clearly relieved. “Glad we cleared that up.”

“I couldn’t help but notice that the ending of the film…” I trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Is bad?” he supplied dryly. “Terrible? Sucks ass? I know. My writing partner, Bob Gale, and I have been trying to crack it, but nothing works. We even talked to Spielberg about it, and even his ideas don’t quite land the way we want.”

I nodded thoughtfully.

“What if you make the ending a little ambiguous?” I suggested.

“Ambiguous how?”

I rubbed my hands together, leaning closer, unable to hide my excitement. Then I laid out what I already knew would work. The DeLorean lifting off to go to the future. Which was perfect to keep the audience hooked after giving them a perfect ending. The promise of more adventures without spelling them out.

He stared at me in stunned silence.

“You’re a genius, Noah,” he finally said. “Them flying to the future makes perfect sense. It leaves it open, lets the audience imagine what’s next.”

I inclined my head modestly. “I’ve got more ideas where that came from. If you want, we could sit down one weekend and work it out properly.”

“I’d like that,” he said, grinning. “I’d like that a lot.”

(Break)

Claudia sat at the back of the screening room, flanked by her bosses at CAA, Michael Ovitz and Ron Meyer. The glow from the screen flickered across their faces as they observed the audience as closely as the film itself.

About a hundred regular moviegoers had been invited for the test screening. Mixed among them were studio executives from the Big Six, along with several key players from mid-major studios. The air in the room felt electric, charged with quiet anticipation.

It didn’t take long to read the sentiment.

The audience was glued to their seats. They laughed loudly at the jokes, clapped at the emotional high points, and even cheered during one of the film’s final sequences. No one checked their watches. No one walked out.

“They’re liking it,” Claudia whispered, barely containing her smile.

“Liking it?” Ron Meyer murmured, eyes still fixed on the crowd. “They’re loving it. And of course they are. This is a great crowd pleaser of a film.”

On screen, another punchline landed to roaring laughter.

Ron leaned back slightly, a satisfied look settling over his face. “Those idiot studio execs are going to be lining up with their best offers the second this screening ends.”

Claudia snorted softly, but she couldn’t deny what Ron was saying. The film really was exceptional. Sometimes she still struggled to wrap her head around the fact that a teenager had made something this good.

[See You Yesterday] was leagues ahead of the glossy, hollow spectacle that was [The Blue Lagoon].

Of course, had it been directed by someone seasoned like Steven Spielberg or John Carpenter, the material might’ve been elevated even further. A veteran’s touch could’ve deepened certain emotional beats and sharpened a few transitions. But for a first-time director? It was remarkable.

Most new directors made the same mistake. They tried too hard to prove how profound they were. They drowned their stories in symbolism and forgot that movies were meant to entertain.

Noah hadn’t forgotten.

He understood his audience. He’d built the film with them in mind. Kids would love the chaos and physical comedy. Teenagers would connect with the romance and frustration. Adults would appreciate the emotional undercurrent beneath the time loop premise, especially Noah’s relationship with his Dad. And across all age groups, there was the undeniable pleasure of watching Noah’s character slowly unravel as the same day reset again and again.

Most importantly, the concept was fresh. There hadn’t been anything quite like it on screen before. The audience wasn’t just reacting to the humor. They were reacting to the novelty.

So when the credits rolled and the test audience rose to their feet in applause, Claudia wasn’t surprised. The clapping was loud, sustained, genuine. They had just watched a great movie for free and before the rest of the world, and they knew it.

“Thank you all for coming,” Claudia’s assistant announced once the applause finally died down. “As a reminder, you’ve all signed NDAs, so please don’t share any information about the film. Before you leave, kindly fill out the survey. Rate the movie, and let us know what you liked and what you didn’t.”

The audience began filling out the forms, chattering with excitement.

Michael Ovitz leaned slightly toward Claudia. “What do you think? Who’ll be the first to make an offer?”

“I can’t say for sure,” she replied calmly. “But I know Columbia won’t be bidding.”

“Then they’re idiots,” Ron Meyer muttered.

As if on cue, the first studio executive approached them. He wore the confident smile of someone who thought he was about to close a smart deal.

“Ron, Mike, Claudia,” he greeted warmly. “That was a terrific film. Universal would be very interested in distributing it. We’ll offer one million upfront, plus five percent of the profits.”

Ron inclined his head politely, then smiled thinly. “That’s not a good offer. After the success of [The Blue Lagoon], any film featuring those two leads would command close to a million just in their acting salaries. And after the reaction we just witnessed?”

He shook his head slowly.

Before the Universal executive could respond, another figure stepped in.

“MGM can do better than that,” the man announced confidently. “1.5 million upfront, and five percent of gross studio earnings, not the profits.”

The air shifted immediately.

Within minutes, representatives from multiple studios joined the circle. Offers began climbing. Voices overlapped. Assistants scribbled numbers. Polite smiles sharpened into competitive ones.

Claudia had handled successful films before, but she’d never seen a bidding war escalate this quickly.

When the number crossed three million dollars, she allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.

This was going to be a very good year for her with a big commission coming her way very soon.

And she had Noah to thank for it.