Chapter Two
Revisions
I ducked into the magazine publications office during last period study hall and opened my manuscript folder on the hard drive. When I clicked on the file, “Aliens,” sure enough - the Baker Street Irregulars turned up.
I’d done the final revisions at school, instead of home - big mistake. I meant to go over the story the morning it was due, but I got in late and only had time to print it and paper clip it together. I didn’t even look at it, just printed it out. No one would have gone into my document folder and messed with my manuscripts - except Keisha.
I grabbed the pad of sticky notes beside the monitor and scribbled angrily, “I know you did it!” Then I stuck the note to her backup storage disc in the file box. How would she like it if I trashed her backups? I almost did just that - but instead I shut down the computer and stalked out, cutting the rest of last period.
At home, I booted up my computer and slipped my backup CD into the disc drive. There it was - the rough draft of my aliens story. Unpolished, but unmistakably mine. Good characters, especially the kid who solved the mystery of the alien. Bryan was serious, like me. Even the alien was serious.
I wished I had a friend who could read the manuscript, someone who could make suggestions that might help me improve it, even maybe add a little humor. But world-famous novelists have to go it alone. I revised until Mom came home, then saved the new version and printed it out while I did my math homework.
Mom wanted to know about my day, but I didn’t feel like sharing the bad news. She kept saying she’d be happy whether I turned out to be a famous novelist or a teacher or a handyman, just as long as I was happy, but I knew she would be distinctly unhappy over a C- grade. I just told her I was working on a story as an excuse for not being very talkative. And then I had a great idea about Bryan’s discovery of the sand castle, so I skipped dessert to write it immediately.
But when I sat down in front of my monitor, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Hey, guv’nor!” Foster cried. If he talked like the others, maybe the great detective would accept him.
“I’ve found Wiggins, sir! ’E’s by the docks--out cold!”
I never wrote that! I was doing boring math homework after printing my story.
But Keisha sure didn’t sneak into my bedroom and write it, either.
Then who?
“Zach,” Mom called. “Telephone!”
I grabbed my extension, eyes still glued to the black letters floating on the white “page” of my monitor, while my mind raced. Foster was the character from my C- paper, but the action here was different, like it was another story - or maybe a revision.
“Hello?”
“What was that nastygram supposed to mean?” Keisha demanded.
I cradled the receiver between ear and shoulder, and read as Foster tugged on the great detective’s sleeve. I scrolled to the next page. London fog, hansom cabs, Sherlock Holmes - where had all this come from?
“Keisha -” I croaked, then cleared my throat. “Um, sorry. That note - I didn’t - it was a mistake.”
“It sure was,” Keisha said, but her voice had lost its sharpness.
I stared at the monitor, trying to think what to say. Then she asked, “Hey, Zach, is something wrong?” She sounded like she actually cared.
I wished I hadn’t left that note. I wished my alien story were still on the screen, even if it needed work. I wished I were already a world-famous novelist with an agent who could sell my stories and an editor who would figure out where the humorous stuff needed to go.
But if Keisha hadn’t sabotaged my story, then maybe something similar had happened to her, too. Maybe it was someone who had it in for both magazine editors. But my computer at home wasn’t even hooked up to the internet - how could anyone have gotten this Foster/Sherlock story into it?
– End Chapter Two –
