September 15, 1999
By the mid of September, the madness had finally begun to cool.
The tours were over — or at least his part of them. The rest of the crew had flown off to London and Toronto for the international campaign. Studio called it "global exposure," but to Neil it sounded "jetlag and blindness."
Because he was still a minor, every contract, every interview, every city had to be signed off by his guardians.
The lawyers and producers had learned quickly that crossing California's Coogan laws wasn't worth it, so his official appearances were restricted to Los Angeles and New York where he had his family—a sweet little loophole.
And so, while the studio's plane cut across the Atlantic, Neil sat quietly in his room on the first floor of the Dunphy House, the echo of screaming fans from last night still buzzing in his ears — girls yelling "Cole!" and shoving photos of Bruce in his face.
For a boy who once wrote code in silence, this world of applause and obsession was intoxicating… and truly terrifying. Neil quickly realized that he was loving the attention and that awareness had calmed the running horses in his heart.
He had faced cameras, critics, his director's temper, and crazy fan — but none of them frightened him more than the next challenge on his computer screen.
Because now that The Sixth Sense had finished changing cinema, Neil had to figure out how to explain the extra two million dollars to his parents.
---
September 28, 1999
It was hard to remember that just eight weeks ago, this same movie had been the underdog.
In early August, it had quietly released in 2,100 theaters, later increased to 2400 — sandwiched between the tailwinds of The Blair Witch Project, and Runaway Bride. And trailing the giant of Disney The Tarzan.
Each one a massive project in their own rights. However, on its second day alone; The Sixth Sense has shown all the major studio houses that it was a juggernaut.
By the second weekend, everything changed.
One by one, the competition folded. Studio executives watched their weekend numbers drop like corpses in a horror script.
Smaller thrillers and romantic comedies were pulled early. Big-budget productions delayed their releases by a month — no one wanted to compete with the ghost boy who saw dead people.
Disney executives joked that the film was haunting not just theaters but other movies' release calendars.
By late September, domestic gross crossed $350 million, and international sales surged past $400 million.
Even with screens dropping from over 2,000 to barely 1,000 due to entry of new underdog in town — The American Beauty.
Neil estimated it would pull another thirty to forty million before the end of its theatrical run — a full hundred and ten million dollars more than the original version of $620 million from his previous life.
He didn't need a crystal ball to know why. He had planned most of it. Although, he couldn't have expected the slow-burn movie to go so big within first two months.
It wasn't just the twist ending that worked this time around — it was the pop-culture conversation due to LetterBox, the second-watch effect because of fan theories, the post-credit scene he'd written, and the ridiculous memes that fans started spreading online about his "arrogant smirk" from interviews and "perfectly villainous nose."
@FiloFan; his one of the craziest fan on the LetterBox even called Neil a "Blue eyed white dragon".
'Its only been a year since the anime's release. Even I haven't watched the first season yet. Were there anime fans so early in America?' Neil thought.
He'd seen one fan art that showed "Cole" turning into a ghost just to watch his own movie's success.
Hailey had laughed so hard at the painting, she almost dropped her juice box. Almost re-creating the first viral scene.
However, the success and the laughter couldn't drown the unease growing inside him as he sat in his room in front of his computer.
The numbers were too big. I should have told them two weeks ago when it was still two million.
Everywhere he looked — his career, the stock tickers, even the new servers humming in the Letter Box office — there was growth; unstoppable and terrifying.
And somewhere in the middle of that chaos sat a six-year-old with a brokerage account holding $6.6 million dollars.
---
For the Dunphy and Pritchett's household it had started as a joke. A $700 account to play with as a Christmas gift; to learn the market as I was so obsessed with morning business shows at the time.
His parents hadn't cared; back then, their own Cisco shares were worth hundred times that already.
Phil had called it "Neil's little college fund." Claire, although worried, had nodded, proud that her son "understood savings and investing at the age of four."
No one ever checked his brokerage account; or even asked him how he was doing. They were so occupied in the extreme changes his presence brought to their life, that they forgot that little details.
They didn't notice when the account number changed, when the password was reset, or when Neil quietly switched the contact email to a private mailbox he'd created through a forum admin in early 1998.
They didn't know that when Jay bragged about Pritchett's Closets being "the next big family empire," Neil had already wired $150,000 from his first Cisco sell into LetterBox's early server infrastructure and marketing.
Six point six million.
That was the current balance — if he liquidated it today.
At six years old, he had become the single largest private retail investor in his extended family.
And he couldn't tell a soul. Not yet.
He thought about telling Claire once, two weeks ago, maybe as a test. But she would panic.
She would audit every penny, bring in Jay, and the next thing he knew, his family would think he'd robbed a bank.
So he sat on the secret, carrying a fortune like a ticking bomb.
He turned his gaze back to the charts. June's split still felt like yesterday.
After the 2-for-1 split that month, the family's portfolios had doubled:
Jay's 13,089 shares, worth $458,115 at the post-split $35.
Claire's 4,500 shares, worth $157,500.
Phil's 6,543 shares, $228,905.
Mitchell's 4,500, $157,500.
Combined, their Cisco 28,632 shares wealth had passed the million-dollar mark for the first time.
And now, by the end of September, with the stock hovering around $44, those same numbers gleamed brighter:
Jay's shares had risen to about $575,000. Phil's, nearly $288,000. Claire and Mitchell each sat around $198,000 each.
A total of $1.25 million.
And it would only increase further to $2.04 million by the time family starts closing their position in January at $70.
They celebrated quietly, believing the stock had reached its peak; but Neil had convinced them to hold longer.
Telling them that as per Cindy's internal source another split was coming next year.
The greed was evident in each family member. Especially Claire and Mitchell who had the least number of shares.
Neil didn't celebrate though.
He stared at his own position — 1.2 million shares: 6000 contracts with turned into 1.2 million; Locked at a $38.50 strike — and watched the difference between market price and strike spread like a crack in a dam.
At $44, that meant $5.50 per share($44 (current) - $38.50 (strike)), or $6.6 million in intrinsic value.
He should've been happy.
He should've been ecstatic.
Instead, he felt small. Powerless.
When he had first bought those options, he'd imagined a modest gamble — something worth bragging about to himself. Maybe two, three million if he timed it perfectly.
He hadn't imagined $37.80 million(1.2 million at $70 goal as planned from the beginning.)
"How could I forget the 2-for-1 split. I was holding options worth 600,000 SHARES!!."
He hadn't imagined holding a weapon that could create a small dip in the chart if he sold. He rubbed his temples, whispering into the dark, "I was supposed to be clever, not a calamity."
If he sold too early, he'd lose potential millions.
If he sold too late, the market would crash.
If he didn't sell at all ... he'll lose a $100k.
He closed the monitor, the green glow fading from his eyes, and whispered again.
"I can delay a lie, but I can't delay the dotcom crash. I can already imagine it will be hours of hearing."
The ghost boy of Hollywood was rich enough to buy a skyscraper. But all Neil Dunphy wanted that night was a way to stay invisible.
---
Oct 3, 1999 — The formalities
Fame had its perks. But being famous and six years old was its own weird genre of horror.
For the first time since the summer whirlwind began, Neil had an actual weekend without red carpets, interviews, or weird old men telling him he was "the next Haley Joel Osment." Haley was a child celebrity in his own rights: The Forrest Gump, Pizza Hut commercials, and a TV Show.
The irony of that particular compliment always made him laugh quietly — "If only you knew."
However, now the one challenge he couldn't avoid was waiting patiently at the dining table.
"Monday," Claire said, tapping her planner like a gavel. "Monday, you're going back to school."
Phil: "He isn't going back, he is going to school. For the first time. Buddy! Are you excited to make new friends? Show em' the Dunphy Charm!!"
Neil froze mid-bite of cereal. "School…?"
"Yes. School. You know — that thing normal children go to."
"I've been busy," he said, seriously. "Saving cinema."
Phil leaned over the paper with a grin. "Buddy, you've saved cinema, now go save your sister from bullies. It is time to take on the duties of elder brother."
He groaned. "Hailey doesn't need saving. If something, those poor kids need to be saved from her pranks. That poor kid wet his pants in school because of her burst vein make up."
Truth be told, he'd delayed school for as long as he could. Two full weeks already. Every day came with a new excuse — "Press interviews," "fan mail backlog," or his favorite, "I think my autograph hand is sprained."
But the Dunphy machination had reached its limit.
Claire wanted her house quiet again. Phil wanted dinner stories that didn't involve film directors and Charlie Chaplin collections. And Jay had declared, in typical strict Pritchett fashion, "If he's old enough to negotiate contracts, he is old enough for Grade 2."
Neil (inner): "grandpa, at least hide your smug smile. I know you just want me to go back to swimming."
'So, Monday it is.'
---
Hailey had been counting down like it was Christmas Eve. She'd even made a glittery banner that read WELCOME BACK, COLE.
Neil pretended to hate it. Secretly, he thought it was adorable.
She was especially proud because she'd been telling all her classmates that her "famous little brother" was joining their school. Apparently, it had caused chaos in the cafeteria.
"Dakota's been dying to meet you," Hailey said, stretching the word dying like she'd been waiting her whole life to use it.
"Is she another fan?" Neil asked. Amused.
"She's a huge fan! She watched The Sixth Sense twice. She said you're, like, creepy and cute."
Neil raised an eyebrow. "A six-year-old watched a PG-13 psychological horror? Twice?"
Hailey shrugged. "She said child actors should have the privilege; otherwise, how else they would learn. Bro. We don't scare easy."
He chuckled. "Right. Because normal kids don't go around drawing zombie's severed heads in Grade 2."
"Hey! Not zombies." she protested, smacking his arm. "I only watched your movie it to see my ghosts! You know how hard I worked on the ghost make up."
That was true. Hailey had spent three whole days in the makeup van with the special effects team, learning how to paint fake wounds and glue tissue "scars."
She called it art. According to dad, She'd cheered in the theater when her "zombie ghost" appeared for three whole seconds — and screamed at the top of her lungs when it disappeared.
She didn't even understand the plot. She thought Bruce Willis was just "a tired dad helping a sad boy find ghosts."
When the big twist hit, she'd leaned over in the theater and whispered, "Wait, is he… dead? Like, dead dead?" And then she'd cried. Not because of the twist, but because her popcorn fell.
Neil smiled at the story at dinning table—sad to miss those moments. Watching her bounce around the living room now, packing pencils and lip gloss like both would be equally useful in second grade; Neil was reminded of what was the more important thing in his life.
Maybe school wouldn't be so bad. At least he'd have Hailey to have fun with.
And maybe, just maybe, being surrounded by normal kids would help him forget — even for a little while — that he had six million reasons to panic.
He leaned back on the couch, flipping through a comic book Hailey had thrown at him. The panels were about a boy who could see ghosts but wanted to go to space instead. He smiled. "They're getting faster at this parody thing," he thought.
From the kitchen, Claire called, "Neil! Don't forget to pack your lunch this time! You won't have Cindy to take care of you there."
"Can't I just trade one of my Cisco shares for cafeteria credit?"
"Neil!"
"Fine, fine!"
He sighed, closing the comic with a soft grin.
The world outside was still dizzy with movie posters, box office records, and LetterBox traffic graphs.
But in here, on the couch, with cereal milk drying on his sleeve and Hailey twirling with her backpack, it almost felt normal again.
Almost.
"Back to school," he muttered to himself.
"The true sequel nobody asked for."