# Chapter 8: The Audition
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Michael gripped the steering wheel of his Honda Civic, knuckles white as he navigated through Hollywood traffic.
The meeting was in twenty minutes. Crossroads Entertainment, a mid-sized production company with offices on Sunset Boulevard. Jennifer Walsh, the producer who'd actually expressed interest despite his non-negotiable condition.
*They want to meet in person*, she'd said on Friday's call. *Bring your audition reel. We want to see what you can do.*
Michael had barely slept last night. He'd run through his scenes a dozen more times, watched his compilation reel until he had it memorized, practiced his pitch in the mirror like a lunatic.
This was it. His shot.
But what if they said no? What if they watched his reel, nodded politely, and told him he was talented but they needed a name actor? What if this was just another rejection dressed up as a courtesy meeting?
*Stop*, Michael told himself firmly. *You know you're good enough. You've prepared. Just show them what you can do.*
He pulled into the parking structure adjacent to the Crossroads Entertainment building—a sleek glass structure that screamed "moderately successful indie production company." Not Warner Bros or Paramount money, but respectable.
Michael checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. Clean button-down shirt, dark jeans, his hair styled but not overly so. Professional but approachable. The blue eyes stared back at him with determination.
"You've got this," he told his reflection.
Then he grabbed his messenger bag with the DVD of his audition reel and headed inside.
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The lobby was all modern minimalism—white walls, abstract art, a receptionist behind a glass desk who looked like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine.
"Michael Carter for Jennifer Walsh," he said, proud that his voice didn't shake.
She checked her computer. "Yes, Mr. Carter. They're expecting you. Fifth floor, conference room B. Elevators are to your left."
"Thank you."
The elevator ride felt like it took an hour. Michael watched the numbers climb—2, 3, 4, 5—and tried to keep his breathing steady.
The doors opened to a hallway with framed movie posters. Some films Michael recognized from his original timeline, others he didn't. Crossroads had produced a mix of mid-budget comedies and dramas, nothing huge but nothing embarrassing either.
Conference room B was at the end of the hall, door slightly ajar.
Michael knocked.
"Come in!" a woman's voice called.
He pushed the door open and stopped short.
Five people sat around a large conference table. Jennifer Walsh—he recognized her from the professional headshot on the company website—sat at the head. Mid-forties, sharp suit, the kind of woman who radiated competence.
But it was the man sitting to her right that made Michael's heart skip.
Shawn Levy.
Even in 2006, before *Night at the Museum* or *Real Steel* or any of the massive hits that would define his career, Michael recognized him. That face, those eyes, the way he sat with casual confidence.
In Michael's original timeline, Shawn Levy had directed *Date Night*, *Free Guy*, worked on *Stranger Things*. He was a hitmaker, someone with an instinct for commercial storytelling that connected with audiences.
And he was sitting right there, looking at Michael with open curiosity.
"Mr. Carter," Jennifer stood, extending her hand. "Thank you for coming. Let me introduce everyone."
She went around the table. Shawn Levy, director. Two studio executives from the company financing the project. And another producer Michael didn't recognize.
Michael shook hands with everyone, trying not to seem starstruck.
"Have a seat," Jennifer gestured to an empty chair across from Shawn.
Michael sat, placing his messenger bag carefully beside him.
One of the executives—older guy, gray hair, expensive watch—leaned forward. "Look, Mr. Carter, let's be direct. We've read your script. It's good. Really good. High concept, emotional core, commercially viable. We've had a lot of conversations about this project over the past few days."
"Thank you," Michael said carefully.
"But," the executive continued, "we need to address the elephant in the room. You want to star in this film. That's... unusual. You're eighteen, you have no professional credits, and frankly, studios don't greenlight multi-million dollar comedies with unknown leads."
"I understand that," Michael said evenly. "But I wrote this role for myself. I know this character inside and out."
"Knowing a character and being able to perform it on screen are two different things," the other executive—younger, sharper suit—interjected. "No offense, but we've seen plenty of writers who think they can act. It rarely works out."
Jennifer held up a hand. "Which is why we're giving you a chance to prove it. We're offering you a single audition. Right here, right now. You perform a scene from your script—your choice—and we'll evaluate whether you can actually pull this off."
She paused, her expression serious. "But if you fuck this up, you need to be ready to sell us the script and step aside for an actor we choose. Is that clear?"
Michael's throat was dry, but he nodded. "Clear."
"Good." Jennifer gestured to the empty space near the window. "Take your time. When you're ready, show us what you've got."
Michael stood, his heart pounding. This was it. Everything came down to the next few minutes.
He'd chosen the scene weeks ago. The moment where adult Mike—trapped in his teenage body—confronts his daughter Maggie at school, trying to connect with her without revealing who he really is. It was emotional, funny, desperate—everything the film needed to be in one scene.
Michael closed his eyes, took a breath, and let Michael O'Donnell take over.
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When he opened his eyes, he wasn't in a conference room anymore. He was in a high school hallway, watching his daughter walk away from him, desperate to tell her he loved her, that he was proud of her, that he was sorry for all the years of being a shitty father.
The words came naturally. The emotion was real. Michael moved through the scene like he'd lived it—because in a way, he had. He'd watched this movie a dozen times in his original timeline, studied Zac Efron's performance, understood every beat.
But this wasn't imitation. This was his own interpretation, filtered through his understanding of the character, his own experiences with loss and regret and second chances.
When he finished—voice cracking on the final line, hand reaching out toward an imaginary daughter—there was silence in the room.
Michael blinked, coming back to himself. Five faces stared at him.
"That was..." Jennifer started, then stopped.
Shawn Levy was smiling. Actually smiling. "That was really good. Like, surprisingly good for someone your age."
The older executive nodded slowly. "I'll admit, I wasn't expecting that."
"It's one scene," the younger executive said, but he sounded less certain now. "We'd need to see more range, more—"
"He's got the reel," Jennifer reminded them, gesturing to Michael's bag. "Let's watch it."
Michael handed over the DVD with shaking hands. Jennifer loaded it into the player, and they all watched in silence as his compilation reel played on the conference room screen.
Ten minutes of his best work. Comedy, drama, anger, heartbreak. Every emotional color the role required.
When it finished, Shawn spoke first. "He can do this. I mean it—he's actually good enough to carry this film."
"He's also a complete unknown," the younger executive countered. "New face, no track record. That's a risk."
"Everything in this business is a risk," the other producer finally spoke up—a woman Michael hadn't caught the name of. "But we really don't have many options here. The investors are already pressuring us. They want this project moving, and we've been spinning our wheels trying to find the right lead."
"Because every established actor we've approached wants too much money or isn't available," Jennifer added. "We've been stuck for months."
The older executive sighed. "But we can't gamble this movie's future on an eighteen-year-old nobody. What if he freezes on set? What if he can't handle a full shoot schedule?"
"Like I said," the woman repeated, "we don't have a choice. He's made it clear—he won't sell us the script unless he stars in it. And we all agree the script is worth making."
"Let's vote," Jennifer said decisively. "All in favor of casting Michael Carter as the lead, raise your hand."
Michael held his breath.
Jennifer's hand went up immediately. Shawn raised his next, looking certain. The woman producer followed.
Three votes.
The two executives looked at each other. The older one shook his head. The younger one hesitated, then reluctantly kept his hand down.
Three to two.
"Alright," Jennifer said. "Motion carries. Michael, step outside for a moment while we discuss terms."
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The waiting was torture.
Michael sat in a chair outside the conference room, leg bouncing nervously. He could hear muffled voices through the door but couldn't make out words.
Twenty minutes felt like twenty hours.
Finally, the door opened. Jennifer gestured him back inside.
Everyone was seated again, expressions unreadable.
Michael sat down, trying to keep his face neutral.
Shawn spoke first, his tone warm. "I want to start by saying—that was a really good script, Michael. And genuinely impressive acting for someone your age. You've got real talent."
"Thank you," Michael managed.
"Let's cut to the chase," the older executive said, not unkindly. "You're selected to act in this movie. Congratulations."
Relief flooded through Michael so powerfully he almost laughed.
"Now let's talk about your fee," Jennifer continued, pulling out some papers. "Standard rates for a first-time screenwriter on a project like this would be around $100,000 for the script. For the acting role, given that you're unproven, we're offering $50,000. Total package: $150,000."
It was more money than Michael had ever imagined having. More than his book advance, more than—
Wait.
Michael's mind was racing. This was a negotiation. And he had leverage he hadn't had before—they'd voted to cast him. They *wanted* him now.
More importantly, he knew something they didn't: this movie would be a massive hit. In his original timeline, *17 Again* had made $136 million worldwide. Even accounting for butterfly effects and changes, a well-made body-swap comedy with heart would perform.
"Can I make a counter-offer?" Michael asked.
The younger executive raised an eyebrow. "You can try."
"You're all taking a risk on me, right? An unknown actor, unproven commodity. That's the concern."
"That's correct," Jennifer said carefully.
"So why don't I take that risk with you?" Michael leaned forward. "I don't have any immediate need for a large upfront payment. I'm willing to take a nominal fee—say, $2,000 total—and instead take percentage points on the backend."
The room went silent.
"Percentage points?" the older executive repeated slowly.
"Two percent of domestic box office for my acting fee. Half a percent for the screenplay. Total of 2.5% of domestic theatrical revenue."
The younger executive actually laughed. "Are you Tom Cruise or something? Don't push your luck, boy."
But Michael wasn't done. "With one condition: these percentages only kick in if the film passes $100 million domestic. If it doesn't hit that number, I get nothing beyond the $2,000 nominal fee. But if it does..." He let the implication hang.
Jennifer was staring at him like he'd grown a second head. "You're willing to gamble everything on this film making over $100 million?"
"I believe in the script. I believe in what we can make together." Michael met her eyes. "I'm willing to bet on myself. Are you willing to bet on me?"
Shawn was grinning now, shaking his head in disbelief. "That's either the most confident thing I've ever heard or the most naive."
The older executive did the math out loud. "If the film makes $100 million domestic, 2.5% would be $2.5 million. If it makes more..."
"It's insane," the younger executive said flatly. "No studio agrees to those terms for an unknown."
"Actually," the woman producer said thoughtfully, "it's brilliant from our perspective. We save $148,000 upfront. If the film flops, we've saved a fortune. If it's a massive hit, we can afford to pay him out."
"It's a win-win," Jennifer agreed, looking at Michael with new respect. "You're taking all the risk."
"I know what I'm worth," Michael said simply.
The older executive studied him for a long moment, then laughed—a genuine, appreciative laugh. "You've got balls, kid. I'll give you that." He looked at Jennifer. "I say we take the deal. Worst case, we save money. Best case, the film's successful enough that paying him out is a non-issue."
"Agreed," Jennifer said. She extended her hand to Michael. "You've got yourself a deal, Mr. Carter. Welcome to *17 Again*."
Michael shook her hand, trying not to let his relief show.
"Don't come crying to me later, boy," the older executive said, but he was smiling. "When you realize you could've had $150,000 guaranteed."
*Let's see who's laughing at the end*, Michael thought.
Out loud, he just said: "I won't."
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**END CHAPTER 8**