Chapter 62: Accidental Break

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BHHS had appeared on camera more times than most schools had appeared in yearbooks.

Teen dramas, music videos, commercials, prestige productions looking for a polished Los Angeles campus, all of them had come through at one point or another. Anyone who wanted to shoot there had to pay the proper fees, follow school rules, and, most important, receive the principal’s approval.

Luckily, after the Burbank game, Principal John Walsh had given Nolan both his office number and his private number.

"Twenty-four hours," Walsh had said. "For you, the phone stays on."

He kept that promise. When Nolan called at eleven-thirty that night, Walsh did not sound irritated.

"A music-video crew?" Walsh asked. "Why are you asking about that? Nolan, tell me you are not thinking about dropping football for Hollywood. That would be a terrible decision."

Because BHHS had so many ties to nearby productions, plenty of students dreamed of becoming extras or actors. For a rising football star, that temptation worried Walsh for obvious reasons.

"I swear I’m not trying to become an actor," Nolan said. "Not right now."

That was true. He had no real hunger to act. Aside from his looks, he did not think he had a gift for it. What interested him more was the path Lisa had mentioned: management, packaging, finding talent early, standing behind the screen while future memory quietly turned into leverage.

Hollywood could become a side business that did not devour his attention.

The charity sales, the commercial sales, the money moving through Murphey, all of that was side cash. His GPA still had to rise. Football still had to carry him forward.

For now, that was the plan.

"I admire David Fincher," Nolan said. "I want to meet him in person."

Walsh relaxed a little.

"The school signed a location agreement with Propaganda Films for the day after tomorrow," he said. "Two to six in the afternoon. Their crew is cleared to be on campus during that window."

One crew would be there for the Crazy video. Another smaller Propaganda unit was tied to David Fincher.

"If you want to see him, go early," Walsh added. "Music-video crews move fast. Sometimes they are gone before you realize they were here."

Before hanging up, Walsh also reminded Nolan to be careful with taxes on the charity sales. He clearly knew Nolan was making money that way. As long as the school benefited on paper, he was choosing not to look too closely.

The next afternoon, Nolan went to BHHS.

"What are you doing here?" Liv Tyler asked. She had just changed into costume and looked confused to see him.

"I’m here for David Fincher. Where is he?"

Nolan’s gaze took in her outfit as she pointed him toward a nearby classroom.

The wardrobe was deliberately classic: black shoes, a wide pleated skirt, white socks, and a white blouse. It gave her a clean campus look, open and young without needing to push anything. Her large eyes made the whole thing feel almost innocent, which was precisely what the video seemed to want from her.

"Are you auditioning too?" Liv asked.

"No. Something else."

Nolan carried the script with him.

Following Liv’s directions, he walked into the room and saw David Fincher in person.

Compared with the bearded director Nolan remembered from the future, this Fincher looked younger and rounder, with a broad forehead and small eyes that made him seem less dangerous than his work would later become. It was hard to believe this was the same man who would one day build so many cold, black films.

Right now, he looked like someone stuck in the low point of his life.

He was distracted because the male extras he had just seen did not fit the video. He wanted a physically striking young man, the kind who could take his shirt off on camera and make the scene land in one glance.

Then he noticed Nolan at the back of the line.

"You. In the back. Come up here."

Fincher’s eyes sharpened instantly.

Nolan had not intended to interrupt the audition, but the director had already seen him: blue eyes, blond hair, a clean face, and the hard, athletic build that football had carved into him.

"Sorry," Nolan said. "I’m not here to audition for the video. I go to school here."

"I’m casting a student," Fincher said. "That’s the point. I need someone who still has that young campus edge."

He studied Nolan’s shoulders.

"Can you take off your shirt?"

"I’m on the football team," Nolan said. "I have training."

"Not today. Tomorrow. We shoot outside the city. Half a day, transportation included. Two hundred dollars."

That was decent money for a featured extra.

Nolan thought about it.

"For that?" he said. "You’ll have to add money."

Half a day would not hurt training.

Fincher considered it.

"Three hundred."

"Deal."

Nolan took off his shirt.

Fincher’s expression changed at once.

"Look at that," he muttered, fascinated. "Can you move a little?"

The tone was so intense Nolan almost laughed.

When Nolan did as asked, Fincher dismissed the rest of the candidates.

"We’re done for the male cameo. Thank you, everyone."

After they discussed the video requirements, Nolan reached into his bag and took out a thick stack of copied pages.

Fincher frowned.

"What’s this?"

"The real reason I’m here," Nolan said. "I’m a fan of your work. I have a script, and I think you’re the only director who can find the soul of it."

"Do not joke with me." Fincher’s face shut down. "I may never direct another feature in my life."

"Read it before you say that. This script will make you want a camera in your hands again."

For a moment, Fincher froze.

Then he waved it off.

"The audition is over. I have a video to shoot. We are not discussing anything except the video."

"Then promise you’ll read it."

Fincher stared at him, annoyed and trapped.

"Fine. You win. Now please leave."

Nolan left the copied script on the table. He would be on set the next day anyway. He could ask for the answer then.

The next morning, at the pickup point, Fincher arrived in person to drive him.

"Hey, kid," Fincher said with a strained smile. "Sleep well? You look good. Still annoyingly handsome."

The change in attitude had only one explanation.

He had read the script.

He liked its darkness, its control, and the ugly pressure coiled under every scene. More important, he saw a way back into features.

Nolan slid into the passenger seat and buckled in.

"Want to talk about the script?"

"Obviously," Fincher said. "Broadly, I like it. But it needs work before it can be a movie. I could buy it outright, reshape it, and we can discuss credit. Who is Mia Callahan?"

"How much are you offering?"

"Ten thousand," Fincher said. "Fair for a new writer. Most first sales are only a few thousand."

Nolan did not answer.

"Fifteen," Fincher added.

"Do you know Lisa Virgil?" Nolan asked. "She’s helping me sell it too. She’s a friend of my mother’s. A video distributor offered one hundred fifty thousand, but Mia does not want it turned into cheap splatter."

Fincher’s mouth tightened.

"One hundred fifty is too high. I cannot afford that. One hundred thousand is my ceiling."

The script mattered to him. Nolan could see it. The price hurt, but not as much as losing the chance hurt.

They drove toward Santa Clarita, passing vans, trucks, camera rigs, and equipment vehicles heading for the shoot. Santa Clarita’s ranches, fields, and hills were everywhere in Hollywood work for a reason.

"Why not fight for your future?" Nolan asked, looking through the window. "Do you want to spend the rest of your life making music videos? This may be the cleanest door you get."

After the car passed the Welcome to Santa Clarita sign, Fincher pulled onto the shoulder.

"You win," he said. "I’ll go higher. I want it."

"Then buy it."

"I need a producer to come in with me. Give me three days."

"Two hundred thousand," Nolan said. "Answer today. The other side is waiting."

"Two hundred?" Fincher barked. "Why not just rob me?"

Nolan stepped out of the car and went to makeup.

For a music video, the production was not small. The crew had spent the night carving an enormous cursive "crazy" into a field for an aerial shot. A helicopter would capture it later.

Nolan’s job was simple: take off his shirt and look like the kind of young farmhand a camera would remember.

The makeup artist darkened his exposed skin with waterproof bronze makeup, then added oil so the muscles caught the light.

Halfway through, the two performers arrived: Liv Tyler and a blonde named Alicia. In the video, they played a young Thelma-and-Louise pair, skipping school, buying clothes, wandering into a bar, driving nowhere in particular, and picking up a shirtless farm boy on a tractor.

The boy got into their car. They swam with him in a river. Then the girls ditched him and he chased the Mustang half-dressed through the dust.

No one came to a music video for dramatic subtlety. It was a bridge for young performers and a machine for selling youth, rhythm, and camera-friendly energy.

The afternoon passed quickly. Only the final shot remained.

Nolan’s farm boy caught the 1990 Mustang convertible, jumped into the passenger seat, and tussled playfully with Liv’s character. The blocking was physical but scripted, the kind of messy contact music videos used as shorthand for flirtation.

Nolan stayed professional and followed the directions exactly.

The problem was Liv. She was stiff at first, then visibly uncomfortable after several resets. Fincher finally snapped that she needed to commit to the scene. Liv swallowed her irritation and pushed through.

When the take finally ended, Nolan went to her at once.

"Are you okay? I’m sorry. The blocking was written that way, and I could not stop the take."

The meaning was clear: anything that felt intrusive had come from the scene, not from him inventing more.

Liv shook her head. She had been upset, but Nolan sounded sincere enough that anger did not quite stick.

"It’s fine," she said. "Shooting is like that. I just wasn’t ready for it."

"Good. Otherwise I would have no idea how to survive the next video."

"There is a next one?"

"Of course. Tons of kissing. Didn’t the director tell you?"

"What?"

Then she saw his smile.

"You’re awful," she said, half laughing despite herself. She remembered the river scene and how chaotic the underwater blocking had been. "I’m telling Katherine you bullied me."

She raised a hand as if to hit him.

Fincher walked over before she could.

Liv lowered her hand, expecting direction from him.

Instead, Fincher went straight to Nolan.

"The script," he said. "We’re buying it. Two hundred thousand. We can sign the rights transfer tonight."

Liv froze.

The director was buying a script from Nolan. For two hundred thousand dollars.

Nolan nodded and confirmed details. Fincher hurried away to handle the next problem.

"I did not realize you were a professional screenwriter," Liv said.

In her mind, built athletes were supposed to be simple. Nolan was not. Aside from being too bold during the shoot, she could not find an obvious flaw in him.

Even that boldness felt less threatening once he faced it directly. Men often wanted things without admitting them. Nolan at least behaved like someone real.

"For the next video," Liv said suddenly, "I could suggest you to my father."

She paused, then smiled awkwardly.

"If there is kissing, I think you would be better than a stranger."

Nolan gave her the same answer he had given Fincher.

"Then they’ll have to add money."

After the shoot, Nolan returned to heavy football training. The official invitation from High School Sports Magazine arrived soon after, formally naming him to the All-Star Game.

The script sale also closed. Two hundred thousand dollars, not a cent less. Lisa did not use a Writers Guild template. She drafted the agreement through a limited partnership that held and exploited the rights. Mia transferred the script to the company, then received her share as partnership profit.

Taxes still existed.

The difference was how much of the money survived them.

A week later, Nolan left for Orlando with Lisa and Susan.

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