Chapter Nine
Ghostwriters
I stared at Dave’s message, feeling Keisha leaning over me. her long hair brushing my cheek. I kind of liked its silky feel. All of a sudden I wasn’t so cold. I read Dave’s question again.
Will you publish it in the magazine?
Then I typed:
Yes. I promise.
Keisha shook her head, and her hair flicked my ear sharply. “You are going to get into so much trouble....”
I looked at her, surprised. “Why?”
“How are you going to explain it to Mr. Myers?”
I rolled the mouse around the pad, thinking - plotting. “Well, he already thinks I’m crazy, so that should help.” Then I smiled. “Seriously, I’ll tell him I kept hunting around for the computer glitch, and I found the manuscript in the computer files, and felt bad because we never published Dave while he was alive.”
Keisha looked skeptical. “He’ll know that androids and computer codes weren’t Dave’s style.”
I grinned. “That’s the best part - it’s all Dave’s idea, isn’t it? And we won’t write it for him - he doesn’t want that. We’ll just help him revise. I’ll tell Mr. Myers we were working together after Dave quit the class - that’s true! But I’ll say I didn’t know what happened to his stories until I found them in the computer.”
“It’ll never work.” Despite her objections, Keisha was smiling as I turned back to the keyboard.
But you have to play fair, Dave—you have to let me write sometimes, too. Let’s make a deal, okay? If I help you with your stories, you can help me with mine. You know—tell me what you think works and what doesn’t.
After a pause, I got an answer.
You’re not joking?
It would probably take him a while to forgive me. But we had plenty of time.
No joke—every writer needs a friend to critique his manuscripts.
The computer whirred for a long moment.
Okay then. It’s a deal. And—thanks.
Keisha said, “You know, Zach, you’re a lot nicer than you seem.”
I felt my cheeks burn. “Nah - you wait and see. My stories are going to get so much better with feedback from Dave. No one’s going to question who’s the best writer anymore.”
“You say!” Keisha sounded more like herself.
“Unless,” I said slowly, “you want to join our new critique group. Maybe it could help your writing improve, too.”
She studied me, her lips curving upward in a smile. “Is that an invitation or a joke?”
“An invitation,” I told her. “You know I haven’t got a sense of humor.”
– End of Ghostwriters –
