Aside from filming and developing his character, Ryan also had to endure the torment of a private tutor. Since it wasn't the time for location shoots and he had become quite famous, he naturally attracted the attention of the Children's Association. They sent someone to inspect almost every week. If the production team didn't want trouble, they had no choice but to follow the rules.
Fortunately, the private tutor wasn't a rigid-minded person. Although she maintained the required three hours of instruction daily, after Ryan asked her some questions, it turned into something like a school classroom—she lectured, and Ryan went about his own tasks.
When will this kind of life ever end? Changing out of his costume, Ryan looked at himself in the mirror and sighed repeatedly.
To be fair, he had grown quite a bit over the past six months. Even when sleeping, he felt as if his body was making creaking sounds from growing.
Moreover, ever since being adopted by Nicole, nutrition was no longer an issue. After last year, his once frail body had significantly improved—he was stronger and taller than other kids his age.
But even so, Ryan still complained that he wasn't growing fast enough. He truly wished he could become an adult in the blink of an eye.
Leaving the soundstage, he saw no electric carts passing by, so he decided to walk to the main gate. The production's rented Stage 19 wasn't far from the gate, but halfway there, he suddenly remembered he had left too early today and forgot to notify Kinsley.
Looking at the equal distance between the gate and the soundstage, Ryan felt too lazy to turn back and continued forward. Still, he thought he should get a mobile phone or find an assistant or something. Otherwise, constantly making Kinsley juggle being both his agent and babysitter would affect her work.
It would be fine if he were her only client, but she was also Nicole's agent. If she missed anything important with Nicole because of picking him up, that would be a problem.
"Pat? It's Ryan. Yeah, filming ended early today—I forgot to tell you. I'll just take a cab back... Alright then, I'll wait for you at the studio gate."
After using the studio phone to call Kinsley, Ryan turned to the middle-aged security guard at the gate and said, "Thanks, Wood."
"You're welcome." Wood smiled a bit sheepishly. "Ryan, mind telling me—when will Harry Potter part three be released? Don't get me wrong, I'm not asking on behalf of reporters. My son and daughter both love the book. They know I work here, so..."
"Sorry, Wood." Ryan smiled helplessly. "It probably won't happen this year."
"That's not great news." Wood chuckled as well.
Ever since the media reported his role in Home Alone, talk about him once again flooded the newspapers. This boosted sales of the two Harry Potter books, which were already doing well. Not only was the publisher Alien Form calling constantly, but even many parents were urging him to release the next volume quickly.
Let's wait a while longer, Ryan thought as he walked out of the studio. Just as he was lost in thought, flashes suddenly went off in front of him, followed by the sound of camera shutters clicking. Before he could turn around, several microphones and mini recorders were shoved in his face.
"Ryan, it's said that you personally wrote the script for Home Alone. Is the story the same as the original?"
Hearing this, Ryan wanted to ask the reporter if he was an idiot. If a movie adaptation followed the original story exactly, wouldn't that be suicide?
"The Sixth Sense grossed $290 million at the North American box office. Do you think Home Alone can reach that number?"
"It's said Disney has scheduled the movie from Thanksgiving to Christmas. Can such a short time produce a high-quality film?"
"You'll have to ask Touchstone Pictures, not me," Ryan said, trying to turn back toward the studio. But of course, these guys weren't about to let him go so easily.
"I'm Cowell from World News Weekly. Since becoming famous, you've never returned to the Northdon Welfare Center. Can this be seen as lacking basic gratitude? Also, did Miss Nicole Kidman adopt you because she could profit hugely from your works?"
Ryan wanted to spit in his face. Truly worthy of being a reporter from the world's most "conscientious" media—paparazzi who only viewed others with the most malicious, despicable, and shameless eyes. As for these utterly ridiculous questions, Ryan didn't even bother responding and turned to leave.
However, he was still a minor. Although the reporters kept a certain distance, they had surrounded him in a ring, clearly not planning to let him go unless he answered.
In his previous life, Ryan had seen this kind of scene online. Child stars often got so scared by the media that they babbled nonsense, allowing these guys to seize on a slip of the tongue and blow it out of proportion.
Ryan didn't care. At his age, he had the advantage. No matter how crazy these guys got, they wouldn't dare go too far. In the U.S., after all, violating a minor was a serious crime.
"Ryan, are you staying silent because you feel guilty?" the paparazzo shouted defiantly. "In just four years, you've written so many works. Did someone ghostwrite them for you?"
Ryan calmly took out a pair of headphones and slowly put them on. In full view of the reporters, he pulled out a sleek silver mini music player from his backpack, switched it on, plugged in the earphones, and ever so slowly turned the volume up to max.
"小爷我今天还就以小卖小了!"
("Today, this little master is selling small with small!")
Ryan muttered in Chinese—not quietly—yet none of them could understand a word.
The reporters were dumbfounded. They had interviewed many child stars—even the famously smart Jodie Foster had never faced the media with such leisure and composure. This kid was treating them like air.
Exactly. If it were an adult celebrity, they would have shoved microphones in his mouth and drowned him in spit. But he was only ten. In front of so many people, if they tried something rough, losing their jobs would be the least of it—they might even face jail time.
"Don't linger on weekends late at night,
Come to Apple Paradise,
Welcoming all wandering children…"
Then came something even more baffling—Ryan started singing, leisurely, in a language they didn't understand. Unfortunately, his voice was so awful it made wolf howls on the Montana prairie sound pleasant in comparison.
Ryan knew full well that it was important to maintain a good relationship with the media. The reason he acted this way was because he had already spotted their name tags—none were from major newspapers. More precisely, they were all paparazzi.
Do paparazzi have consciences? Would they appreciate kindness? Please. If that were true, the Chinese national soccer team would've already won the World Cup.
What's more, ever since he became famous, these tabloids had attacked him nonstop—especially the notoriously scummy New York Post and World News Weekly. Ryan wasn't the type to turn the other cheek after being slapped on one.
He also knew that behind America's most rampant tabloids stood a giant—News Corporation. There was no way he could fight them. So, his best option was nonviolent noncooperation. One day, he'd pay them back with interest. In front of that notorious couple in the future, he'd make sure to recite the phrase:
"A pear blossom presses down the crabapple tree."
(a poetic Chinese expression implying an older man seducing a young woman—or vice versa.)
The standoff lasted nearly five minutes before Wood at the studio gate finally recognized who was being mobbed. He quickly called over a few coworkers and forced their way through the crowd, escorting Ryan back inside. In the process, someone's hat got knocked askew, someone lost a shoe, and someone's hair turned into a bird's nest.
Wood even "accidentally" knocked over a few recording devices and microphones. Ryan, with his quick reflexes, made sure to step right on those gadgets as he dashed back in. This wasn't the era of omnipresent video surveillance—no one could say for sure whose foot had crushed the gear.
"My recorder!"
"My microphone!"
The paparazzi shouted furiously behind them as they entered the studio. But studios were well-guarded against fire, theft, and—especially—reporters. Getting inside wouldn't be easy for those guys.
"Thanks, everyone! Afternoon tea is on me!"
Because Ryan never acted stuck-up and always greeted the gatekeepers and staff, they had been willing to help him. If he had been someone like Tom Cruise, even if he were getting beaten by paparazzi, these people wouldn't lift a finger—might even sell the story the next day.
It didn't cost much—just a cup of coffee per person. No doubt, the lessons Ryan learned in his past life helped him a lot in this one. After all, arrogant people aren't welcome anywhere.
When Ryan got into Kinsley's car and drove off, the near-insane reporters plastered themselves to the car windows, snapping photos like mad. Unfortunately for them, the window tint was specially treated—they couldn't see a thing.
"What's gotten into them? Don't they worry I'll go to court and file an injunction?" Kinsley was puzzled.
"It's nothing. Just some minor damage." Ryan explained everything simply. "Right now, I've got the age advantage. A few years from now, these guys will be even more shameless."
Kinsley couldn't help but laugh. She didn't entirely approve of the boy's methods, but there was no denying that he knew how to use his current strengths to the fullest—and how to win people over. He really couldn't be treated like an ordinary kid.
"Don't worry, Pat. I know what I'm doing. These are just tabloid paparazzi. Even if I treat them nicely, do you think they'll say anything good about me?"
"All right then, Ryan."
"Pat, I think I need an assistant now. Ideally, someone who can also drive and act as a bodyguard." Ryan had started daydreaming again.
Kinsley:" I'll look into it. "