"No," I shook my head, firm but calm. "I have no intention of hiding my revenue. I'll talk to an accountant, or maybe a tax lawyer, to structure my income better, but definitely not hiding from the IRS."
Michael leaned back on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the side as he shrugged. "Everybody does it, Noah," he said in a casual tone. "That's how all these Hollywood stars live their luxurious lives despite earning millions."
I frowned, mulling over his words for a bit.
The truth was, I was still in shock. I'd landed a role for which thousands of boys had auditioned, and Columbia had actually agreed to pay me $75,000 for it. It felt surreal. It may not seem like a lot of money, but it was a substantial sum for 1979. The numbers for the second and third movies were decent too, but I knew those were more for the studio's peace of mind than mine. The contract clearly said they could renegotiate or even slash the amount if the first film flopped.
And given that there was no underage actress to create a controversy, I wasn't even sure if the film would be a hit or not.
Barely had I come to terms with the casting before I found myself staring down a mountain of financial responsibility.
A memory flickered, one from my first life. A news piece about how the U.S. government had finally nailed a powerful organized crime boss, not for murder or racketeering, but for tax evasion. That lesson had stuck with me: no one, not even the most powerful man, was beyond the reach of the IRS. It was better to play smart than play dirty. At best, you could do some grey-area tax planning.
So I conveyed the same to Michael.
"I can help you there as well," Michael offered, his voice confident, almost smug. "I know all the loopholes to reroute your expenses. All you have to do is buy a house. Put down, say, $25k, and take a loan for the rest. Then show paper losses on the rental. Inflate the maintenance costs a little more than the rent you receive. All in cash. No one from the IRS will verify that. And if they do, we'll have a paper trail ready for them. That way, you can lower your taxable income significantly. We could also put your friends or family on the payroll. Only the ones you trust completely, of course."
I blinked, processing the idea. That… was actually kind of genius. My siblings were unemployed. I could pay each of them a $5k salary, and with deductions, they'd hardly owe any taxes.
"Alright," I said, nodding slowly. "I'll hire my siblings. It won't be an issue if I hire a minor, right?"
Michael shook his head, brushing invisible lint off his jeans. "As long as they're at least fourteen."
Damn. The twins were thirteen.
"What other options do I have?" I asked, my tone turning more serious.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully before answering. "Besides buying a rental house, you can register as a corporation to save taxes. Then make all your personal expenses from your corporate bank account. Pay a small salary to yourself, out of which you can invest some in a retirement fund. It won't eliminate taxes, but it'll defer them."
That was a good overall strategy. I knew the Reagan administration was going to slash taxes in the coming years, so I wasn't too concerned about sky-high taxes for long. And when the taxes were low, I would cash out all my retirement funds. Of all the ideas he had suggested, putting money into a retirement fund was the safest (and most legal) option I had, so I was definitely using that one.
"Fine," I agreed, folding my arms over my chest. "Let's talk about your fees for managing all that. The retirement fund, running a rental business, setting up a company, all of it."
Michael's grin spread across his face like a kid in a candy store. He didn't even need to speak. His expression said everything about how much he was looking forward to this part of the conversation.
(Break)
"Cheers!" I raised a glass of champagne, the delicate bubbles rising to the surface as I toasted in the softly lit restaurant I'd booked for the occasion.
"Cheers!" echoed around the table as Zach, Daisy, Lola, Jordan, Michelle, Peter, Lenny, and Ash lifted their own glasses. Zach and Daisy, both still underage, had Coke instead, while the rest had taken to champagne like pros. The drinking age in the entirety of the U.S. would be raised to 21 in a few years, but for now, 18 was enough to allow a little indulgence. At least in New York.
Back when I was just an athlete, I avoided alcohol completely. Part discipline, part habit. But ever since I regained my memories, I realized it didn't really matter. When I had a literal god's blessings with me, it didn't matter if I had a drink every now and then.
One person was missing from the celebration, though: Dad. I had deliberated about inviting him, hoping for a proper conversation, maybe a chance to bury the hatchet before I left for Fiji to start filming. But in the end, I didn't. Still, I took some comfort in knowing he'd at least let my siblings come. Small mercies.
"Dude!" Peter, my best friend since we were ten and my long-time swim buddy, exclaimed. "This champagne is so good."
Lenny, never one to be impressed easily, jumped in with a smirk. "It's alright, I guess. I've had better. In fact, my dad—"
"Take that stick out of your ass, Lenny," Lola interrupted, her tone sugary but cutting. "No one wants to hear where your dad finds his fancy booze."
"Hear, hear!" Ashton added, raising his glass. "Grow up, man. This is Noah's day."
"Oh, piss off," Lenny snapped at them, his voice rising. "All I was saying is that my dad could get you this bottle for half the price this place is charging. So next time, ask me."
"Thank you, Lenny, for the offer," I said quickly, stepping in before the bickering escalated. "And thank you, Lola and Ash, for valiantly defending my honor."
"Hah! Honor?" Peter gave me a playful elbow in the ribs. "Don't tell me you're playing a damsel in distress in this film, waiting for your knight in shining armor."
"Fuck off, Peter," I replied with all the eloquence the moment deserved, earning a round of laughter from everyone at the table.
"That is a good question, though," Lenny said, leaning forward. "You never told us what role you're playing in this supposed film."
I kept my expression neutral, though a flicker of frustration buzzed beneath the surface. I hadn't told them for a reason. The role was…more than a little embarrassing. I could already hear the relentless teasing, the jokes that wouldn't die for years. They'd find out next year when the movie hit theaters, but for now, I wanted to delay the inevitable as much as possible.
"I can't tell you," I said, taking a casual sip of champagne to mask the lie. "I'm under a non-disclosure agreement until the film is ready for release."
Lenny furrowed his brows. "But wouldn't it be better for their publicity if they told everyone you're doing this film?"
"Not necessarily," Michelle chimed in. As my acting coach and the one at the table with the most experience dealing with studios, her words carried weight. "Studios don't announce unknown actors until after filming is complete. Let's say they announce Noah, but then he ends up being unsuitable for the role, or backs out for any reason. That opens a can of worms with the media. That's why the NDA exists. Sure, they probably won't sue him if it leaks, but it's there to prevent complications."
Everyone turned toward me again, eyes wide with curiosity. I could feel the pressure rising, but I just shook my head.
"I'm not taking that chance," I said resolutely. "If I could lose tens of thousands of dollars over one little secret, I'm keeping it sealed."
I barely got the words out before Lola and Daisy both started to protest, their voices overlapping in loud, dramatic outrage. I could already tell an argument was brewing until Jordan, the quietest authority in the room, spoke up.
"Give the man a break," he said evenly. "He invited you all here because you mean something to him. Don't give him a reason to leave you out next time."
That shut everyone up. Jordan had a way of doing that, not with volume, but with his presence. And in the same breath, he changed the topic like it had been his plan all along.
"So," he asked, turning to me, "when are you leaving for Fiji, Noah?"
"February 10," I replied. "They'll start shooting a few days after I arrive."
Jordan nodded thoughtfully, tapping a finger on the stem of his glass. "That gives you… sixteen days here. I might have some more work for you. Would you be willing?"
I leaned back slightly, considering it. "Hmmm…" I pretended to think it over, then gave him a small nod. "Sure. I've paused my swim training to focus on preparing for the movie, so I'll have time. I won't mind a little side work."
Of course, "preparing" for the movie wasn't your standard actor's boot camp. One of the weirder instructions I'd received from the director, Randal Kleiser, was to tan daily, completely nude. Two hours a day, one hour front, one hour back. Apparently, it was important for the film's aesthetic. The problem was that it was January in New York. Sunlight was more theory than reality. Luckily, or unluckily, depending on how you looked at it, Randal had offered the use of his personal tanning bed. I didn't ask why he had one. I didn't want to know.
Suddenly, a sharp jab to my ribs pulled me out of my thoughts.
"Noah!" Lola hissed beside me, her elbow digging into my side. "Stop zoning out and pay attention."
"Sorry," I muttered, blinking myself back into the moment. "What were you saying?"
She gave me a look before launching back into conversation, but my mind was already splitting in two. I kept nodding, kept answering, all polite and present on the outside, but internally, my thoughts were miles away.
There was still so much to do before I left for Fiji.
Michael had made sure my financial and business affairs were in order, but that wasn't the part weighing on me. It was the personal stuff.
Like Dad.
I know that postponing that conversation wouldn't solve our differences, but I didn't want to take the first step when Dad hadn't tried to approach me directly either. And maybe that said everything.
I also had to think about real estate, part of the tax strategy Michael had suggested. Property values in New York had been dipping over the past few years, mostly due to the rising crime rate. But I knew, with the clarity of someone who had seen an alternate future, that prices would eventually soar. I wanted to lock in a good-sized house while the market was down, something I could rent out now to offset taxes, and move into later after graduating from Harvard.
But that plan would have to wait until I got back from Fiji. I simply didn't have the time to go house-hunting right now.
Time. That was the real currency I was running short on. I found myself wishing, more than once lately, that there were more hours in the day. I needed to train, prepare, make arrangements, and manage a dozen other things all at once.
And then it hit me, something I'd nearly forgotten. There was a clause in my contract that allowed me to hire someone. My eyes scanned the group at the dinner table. A small idea took root in my mind. Yes... that would do nicely.
Once the dinner wound down and everyone had said their goodnights, I caught up with Michelle as she was heading out. I touched her arm lightly and motioned for her to step aside with me.
"Here," I said, pulling an envelope from my coat pocket and offering it to her. "This is the check I owe you."
She looked at it, then at me, brows pinched. "You didn't have to."
"I did," I replied, shaking my head. "You gave me your time and expertise. This is what you earned fair and square."
Thanks to my contract with Columbia, I'd already received a signing bonus—15% of my $75,000 salary, which came out to $11,250. Michael had moved quickly and set up a company in my name, so I'd decided to pay Michelle through that. Better she get the money than Uncle Sam.
She finally took the envelope and opened it. As she unfolded the check and saw the amount, her eyes widened.
"That much?" she said, clearly startled. "That's twice what you owe me."
I gave her a casual shrug. "I promised you a bonus if I landed the role. Well… I did."
She stared at the check for a few more seconds, her fingers tightening around it. Then she looked up at me, eyes sharp and focused now.
"You're coming over to my place tomorrow," she said firmly. "And every day after that until you leave for Fiji. And you're not paying me a single dime for it. You might've landed a big role, Noah, but you've still got a lot of work to do to become a good actor."
There was something in her expression, unyielding, almost maternal, that told me she'd throw the check back at me if I refused. I hesitated for only a second before nodding in acceptance.
"Good," she said, her voice softening. "See you tomorrow, then."
(Break)
The following days turned out exactly as I'd predicted: completely hectic. My mornings were packed with workouts. Even though I'd hit pause on my Olympic swimming goals, I still had to stay in peak physical shape. My contract explicitly mentioned physical appearance, and the studio wasn't taking any chances. They'd assigned me a personal trainer and given me access to one of the best gyms in Los Angeles.
Not that it mattered much since it was only for two weeks.
Once my morning workout wrapped up, I'd head over to Michelle's place for acting lessons. Now that I had the role secured, she began expanding my training beyond The Blue Lagoon. We dug into character work, improvisation, and emotional recall. Honestly, I was enjoying it more now. The pressure was still there, but it had shifted, less about landing the role, more about proving I deserved it.
In the afternoons, I'd go to Randal's townhouse. We'd rehearse our scenes and take turns on his indoor tanning bed—something I never imagined I'd need in January, but apparently, it was a crucial part of the job. The character had to look sun-kissed, after all.
The first time I visited, I was struck by how grand the place was. Nestled right in the heart of Manhattan, it looked more like a museum than a home—tall ceilings, massive windows, shiny wooden floors. Randal must've been very well-compensated to afford something like this.
"There you are, Noah," Randal greeted me warmly, pulling me into a hug the second I stepped in.
I wasn't much of a hugger, but I patted his back awkwardly, not wanting to offend him. He eventually let go and stepped back with a grin.
"And right on time," he said. "Julie has finished tanning. She's in the sitting room. Go ahead and say hello. I'll be back in a few."
I nodded and followed the hallway to a wide, sunlit room where Julie was seated across from an older man on an oversized leather couch. They were deep in conversation, and I paused near the doorway, hesitant to interrupt.
Julie's skin had taken on a noticeably darker tone, warm and even, like polished bronze.
"...it just doesn't make sense why my character would do that," she was saying, her voice firm but thoughtful. "Yes, she's young and inexperienced, but this move feels out of character for her."
The man across from her nodded, his expression calm and analytical. "I see your point. How about we adjust the dialogue to soften the transition? Maybe we show more hesitation in the scene."
Just then, he noticed me standing nearby. A smile broke across his face, and he stood up smoothly.
"Douglas Day Stewart," he said, offering his hand. "You must be Noah."
"Yeah," I replied, shaking his hand. His name clicked instantly, written on the cover page of The Blue Lagoon script in bold font. "Nice to meet you, Douglas."
His grip was firm, his presence measured, like someone who knew exactly how much weight his words carried.
I exchanged a quick hug with Julie before settling beside her on the couch. Doug, who had insisted I call him that, not Douglas, sat across from us, his script already open and marked with scribbles in every margin.
"Julie and I were just going over the script," he said, gesturing to the pages. "I take a different approach from most writers. I don't believe in handing down dialogue from on high. I like input from the actors, especially those who actually inhabit these characters. My goal is to shape something three-dimensional, not just words on a page. So if you've got notes, don't hold back. I don't care that you're both new to the industry."
I nodded slowly, but inside, I was a little conflicted. I had a lot of notes. Honestly, I hated the entire premise of the film. But obviously, I couldn't say that outright. Doug had just given me the green light to be honest, but there were still lines you didn't cross, especially with people who controlled your paycheck.
At that moment, Randal walked in and took the empty seat beside Doug, giving us all an affable smile.
"So," Doug turned to me, folding his hands, "Julie's already gone over her big concerns. We won't use everything she suggested, but some of it's definitely going in. How about you? What do you want to change?"
I took a deep breath. "I have a question before that. Were you trying to be funny with some of the dialogue between Richard and Emmeline? Because, no offense, it reads more awkward than witty."
Doug raised an eyebrow, interested. "Which part are you talking about?"
I flipped open my marked-up copy of the script and pointed to a particular page. "For example, this one here. Emmeline says: 'Richard, what's a pregnant?' and Richard replies: 'I don't know, but I think you are one.'"
I looked up. Doug's expression was unreadable. Then I glanced at Randal, who had one hand clamped over his mouth, clearly suppressing laughter.
"I told you it was a terrible line!" Randal burst out a second later. "Please, for the love of cinema, change it already."
Doug groaned, but it was more playful than defensive. "I was trying to show their naivety," he said, with mock exasperation. Then louder, "Fine, I'll change it. Happy now?"
"Ecstatic," I replied dryly.
Doug leaned back and made a few notes in the margins. "Alright then, what else?"
Something told me this was going to take a lot longer than the couple of hours I had initially blocked off.
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AN: Read up to 40 advanced chapters on my website, or check out my other story, Dreams of Stardom.
Link: www(dot)fablefic(dot)com