Kathleen S. Allen
Kathleen started writing when she was eight years old and
self-published her first book of poems. She has been writing
ever since. She has published in various publications including
Boston Literary, flashesinthedark.com, the 34th Parallel, The
Rose and Thorn eZine, Cardinal Sins, The Offbeat, Ann Arbor
Observer, Six Sentences, Tea A Magazine and Calliope. She has a
MA in Children’s Literature with an emphasis in creative
writing for Young Adults from Eastern Michigan University. Look
for her books online and in print.
I am an urban faerie born without wings but I fly on the wings
of imagination tethered to this mortal coil. Moonlight sustains
me and sunlight devours me. Stars swim in my eyes and my soul
bleeds on a daily basis. I am a writer.
Congrats to Kathleen for placing in the Top Ten in the
Preditors and Editors Young Adult Category for How to be
Almost Famous in Ten Days.
New Title(s) from Kathleen S Allen
Click on the thumbnail(s) above to learn more about the book(s) listed.
|Mel is having a bad year. First she gets shot on the job
and has to go on disability because she has a bullet wedged
near her spine. She is in constant pain and now has to use a
cane to walk. She is no longer a cop. Her boyfriend cop
moved out because she asked him to. Her best friend since
college calls her in the middle of the night; her youngest
daughter, Jessie, is missing. Can Mel find her? A body found
at the bottom of a tall building is discovered to be Jessie.
The cops think it's suicide but Cindy, her mother, thinks
she was pushed off the building. Will Mel figure out who
killed Jessie and not die in the process?
Word Count: 42023
Pages to Print:
File Format: PDF
|Former cop turned PI, Mel Thompson is on another
case. The fashion world is an alien one to Mel, but she's eager to learn
so she's working as an intern to a fashion designer in order to figure
out who killed an up and coming designer. The designer just happens to
be the sister of the fashion house manager and a member of the richest
family in town. Mel plans on being an intern for a few weeks, getting
the information she needs and getting out. She doesn't plan on actually
liking the people in the fashion house and she doesn't plan on being in
harms way, again.
Word Count: 55522
Pages to Print: 189
File Format: PDF
|Seventeen-year-old Cassie Cee feels invisible
because she’s a double-digit size. She finds a book in a secondhand
bookstore that she hopes will change her life. Her best friend’s brother
wants to make vlogs about how she is following the ten rules she found
in the book, why she is doing it, and how she feels about being
invisible for his school project. She agrees, but only if he promises no
one but his college advisor will see the vlogs. He promises, but a
friend of his posts them online and they go viral. When one of the
"famous rules" puts her best friend, Rachel in a dangerous situation,
Cassie makes one last vlog and Chuck posts it online. But emails begin
arriving from other girls who have felt invisible, and she realizes she
has to own up to being "the real Cassie Cee."
Word Count: 42000
Pages to Print: 145
File Format: PDF
If It's Monday
|The jangling ringtone of Creedence
Clearwater Revival’s Bad Moon Rising woke me from a sound sleep.
I froze, watching the phone jiggle across my bedside table.
Either someone was hurt or dead. A phone call in the middle of
the night was never a good thing. I fumbled for the phone, but
in my haste, managed to dump my uncapped water bottle onto the
paperback book I had been reading. And me. “Shit!” I yelled,
grabbing the phone before it got drenched, too. I wiped it on my
nightshirt before answering.
Now fully awake, I dabbed at the water with my pillowcase, and
then limped barefoot to the bathroom to turn on the light and
get a towel, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder.
“Mel? Jessie is missing. I’ve called her cell so many times her
Voice Mail is full. No one has seen her in days. She was
supposed to come home tonight; I expected her at seven. It’s now
after midnight, and she’s not here. Can you help?”
“Have you called the police?” I asked, attempting to sop up the
rest of the water.
My nightshirt had a huge wet spot. Now I’d have to change. I
threw the pillow, with its wet case, at the laundry basket. It
landed on top of the pile, making it wobble precariously. I
shifted the phone to the other hand, got the wet nightshirt off,
switched hands again and stood shivering in the night breeze
from the open window.
“Yes, I called the police,” Cindy said. She enunciated each word
slowly as if I would not be capable of understanding speech,
then she launched into frantic again. “They told me she had to
be missing for two days before we could file a missing persons
report! One of the cops told me she probably went away for a
long weekend with her boyfriend. She doesn’t even have a
boyfriend!” Cindy sobbed the last words.
Moving with what I call panther stealth, I tiptoe-limped to the
closet and opened the door to get a robe out. Quietly shutting
the door, I slipped the robe on, switched the phone to my other
ear and sat back down on the bed. The end of the bed wasn’t wet.
I listened, but there was only silence.
“Hello? Cindy? You there?”
“Yes, where else would I be? What were you doing . . . sneaking
around your bedroom?”
“I had to put a robe on, my nightshirt was wet.” I said; then
trying to sound comforting, added, “Try not to worry. We’ll find
“Your nightshirt is wet. I’m not going to go there.” Then she
sucked in a breath, “Are you alone? Oh my God, I forgot to ask
if Byron was there. I’m just so . . .” she let the words trail
“No, Byron is not here. I told you we broke up right after I
left the Force. Look, let me make a couple of calls and get back
to you. Call me immediately if Jessie comes home or contacts
“Okay; thanks, Mel. I need to call John, Joan, and Joey to let
them know she’s missing. I should’ve called them first, I guess.
It’s just that you being a cop and all . . .” she let her voice
trail off again.
“Former cop,” I said. “You haven’t called them yet?” Partial
relief washed over me. “She’s probably with one of them; call me
right back after you talk to them.” I crossed my fingers for
luck. Not that I had much. Luck, that is.
“You’re right, I bet she went out to San Francisco to visit
Joey; you know how well they get along. I’ll call you back.”
She hung up and so did I. Jessie is a smart girl; she wouldn’t
just take off without telling someone. I hoped that someone was
one of her siblings. But I had a gut feeling. Not one I liked. A
hunch. I got them as a cop, and I was always right. This time I
hoped I wasn’t.
Using the stairway railing, I padded downstairs sans cane.
Yawning, I looked at the clock; after one in the morning—too
late to make any calls tonight. Popping a pain pill, I headed
back upstairs; then paused on the stairs, taking deep breaths
until the spasms in my leg subsided. Hoping the pain pill would
work a miracle and actually allow me to sleep pain-free, I
climbed the stairs, pausing on each step
I hoped Cindy found Jessie safe and sound, I really did. Poor
Cindy: first her husband died; then Jessie was in trouble, and
now this. Her luck is worse than mine.
Leaning my leg against the side of the bed I changed the sheets
before I laid down on my left side, pulling my knees up to my
chest—the only position that allowed me any relief. I lay
thinking about Jessie, waiting for the pain to dissipate and
sleep to come; wanting Jessie to be okay. I wanted to go back a
year ago, before the shooting. I wanted Byron back in my bed and
in my life. Closing my eyes, I drifted off. The next thing I
knew it was morning and for one shining moment I felt at peace.
Then all hell broke loose. Pounding on my front door.
I got up too quickly; a wave of dizziness assaulted me as I held
onto the nightstand waiting for it to pass. The pounding
continued. “Mel? Let me in, Mel!”
Cindy. I had fallen asleep wearing my robe, so I pulled it
tighter as I made my way down the stairs, gripping the railing
and trying not to favor my leg. Taking the chain off, I unlocked
the door and opened it. Cindy stood there crying. She shoved
something at me as she pushed past me, coming inside.
Looking out, I noticed the neighbors getting ready to start
their day. Rob, dressed in his banking suit, waved at me from
across the way as his garage doors opened; Maureen in her green
scrubs nodded as she got into her car. I waved back. Sighing, I
shut the door and limped to where Cindy stood. I unfolded the
newspaper she handed me.
Student Jumps to Death—read the headline.
Oh, no! It can’t be Jessie!
My heart sank as I skimmed the article, making my way to the
sofa and gesturing for Cindy to sit, too. She perched on the
edge of a chair, still crying, but softly, as a wounded animal
might cry. At one point I looked up, but she pointed to the
article in my hand.
“No, read it. All of it, then we can talk.” I longed for a cup
of coffee. No, two. Two cups of coffee and a bagel is my usual
breakfast fare. One of my medications made me so sleepy I needed
extra caffeine just to function like a normal person. Trying to
focus, I read the article.
College student Jessie Lewis was found at the bottom of the
Tower Building earlier today. Sources close to her say she was
despondent after learning her grades were not as high as she
wanted. According to the same sources, she was having boyfriend
troubles, but they refused to elaborate further. Funeral
arrangements are pending.
Glancing up at Cindy, I made eye contact with her.
“Mel! She didn’t jump!” She took a deep breath. “She’d never
jump. She’d never go up to the roof of a building. She hated to
stand on a step ladder. Someone forced her up there. Someone
pushed her off!”
“Oh, Cindy, this is terrible. I’m so sorry.”
Back to If It's Monday It Must be
It's Tuesday It Must be Trouble
I looked at the calendar on my Smartphone. Three months to the
day. I shuddered, thinking about how close I came to never
waking up again. As a cop I’d been in dangerous situations and I
never thought about dying until the day I was shot. Two years
ago. I flexed my left leg. The surgery on my back had helped the
pain, but the leg was still stiff at times—especially on a day
like today, with rain coming down. Yesterday had been beautiful,
one of those days that promised warm days ahead with plenty of
sunshine and blue skies abounding. Well, that was yesterday.
Today the gloomy skies put me in a bad mood. At least it’s not
snowing again. I limped to the closet, opened it and rummaged
inside for a T-shirt that read: FRODO LIVES, and a long denim
skirt. I spotted my cane propped up in the corner and shook my
head at it.
“No, you are not seeing the light of day ever again!” I told it,
slamming the closet door shut.
“Who you talking to, Mel?” Byron came into the bedroom, two mugs
of coffee in his hands. His caramel-colored skin glowed with
health. I gritted my teeth. Sometimes it was difficult to be
around non-disabled people, even if one of those people was your
cop boyfriend, who lived with you.
“No one, thanks for the coffee.”
He pointed to the T-shirt. “Nice shirt; not sure it’ll make the
right impression on the loo though.”
“What are you talking about?” I heard the snappish tone in my
voice, but chose to ignore it.
“Don’t you have an appointment with Lieutenant Fitzpatrick this
morning to talk about being a cop again?”
“I did.” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I took a sip of
coffee and nodded to show my approval of the strength of it.
Byron tended to make his coffee too weak.
“Glad you like the coffee, I had to water mine down with lots of
cream and sugar to drink it.” He eyed me. His brown eyes were
full of concern. I looked away from his stare. The one thing I
hated more than anything was pity. I wouldn’t tolerate that from
“Tell me, Mel.”
A shrug. “I canceled the appointment. I’m not ready to go back
yet.” I don’t know if I will ever be ready.
He reached for my hand, but I pulled away, cupping both hands
around my mug. I stared out at the rain dripping down the
upstairs window. The sky is crying.
“I thought you were looking forward to getting back in uniform.”
Byron stood up, putting his mug on the dresser as he opened one
drawer after another, obviously looking for something.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“My blue socks, they go with my shirt,” he said.
I pointed to the top drawer. “You are the only one I know who
matches his socks to his shirt.” He opened the drawer, rooted
around and found the pair he wanted. He held them up like they
were a prize.
He sat down at the bench situated at the end of the bed to put
the socks on. “I like to be color-coordinated—gives a more
“You mean, unlike me?” I snarled. I was aching for a fight, a
knock-down, drag-out of a fight. Anything to stop this hole I
felt myself sliding into.
“Mel, what’s up?” He came over and sat next to me. He put an arm
around my shoulders. “Are you upset about your leg not being
I swallowed before answering. “It was better right after the
surgery. I thought—I thought I could do PT and then I’d get my
old life back. But it’s been three months since the surgery and
I still have a limp.” I sat up straighter. “And on days like
this—rainy, damp days—the pain is there.”
He looked worried, his dark brows knitted together as he
I shook my head. “No, it’s not bad pain, not like before. It’s
like a toothache that never ends.” I turned my face away,
staring at the carpet. “I have to face reality, Byron. I’m never
going to be a cop again.”
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” He gathered me in his arms. I wanted
to give in to my emotions, to cry on his shoulder; but I
wouldn’t allow myself to.
I broke out of the hug. “Aren’t you going to be late for work?”
I pointed at the digital clock on the nightstand.
“Yeah, I guess I better go. Want me to try and break away for
“No, I’ll be fine. There’s tuna, I can make a sandwich if
“There is.” Since Byron moved in I have things in my condo I’ve
never had before, like clean socks and bread. I had yet to get
used to living like this.
“Promise me you’ll rest, Mel. You’re still recovering from being
in the Intensive Care Unit.”
“You mean from last December? It’s March now, if you haven’t
“Just rest, Mel. Take it easy. Read a book.” Byron was doing
what I called his mother hen act.
“I know. I will. You better go. Thanks for the coffee.” I pasted
on a fake smile. He frowned, but gave me a kiss before heading
down the stairs. I sat cradling the mug. In a few moments I
heard him yell, “‘Bye,” before the sound of the front door
I got up and wandered downstairs. Bryon left me a bagel on the
counter, so I popped it in the toaster, sipping the coffee as I
waited for it to pop back up. I buttered it and took it and the
mug over to the kitchen table where my laptop sat. I took a bite
of bagel before opening up the computer.
I had one email from my best friend, Cindy. Cindy’s daughter,
Jessie had been murdered last year, and I had volunteered to
find out what happened. In the course of the investigation I was
nearly killed. She and her ex-husband, AJ, got remarried right
How ya doing? This morning sickness is worse than any I ever had
with any of the other three. LOL. Good luck at your interview
Yeah. Good luck.
The other email was from someone I didn’t know. A woman named
Dear Miz Thompson,
I saw in the newspaper you helped solve a murder a few months
ago. I need your help. My sister Ruth is missing. The police
won’t help me; they said since she’s an adult she’s allowed to
go days without calling anyone, including me, if she wants. But
she calls me every day and I haven’t heard from her for two
days. Please email me to set up an appointment.
My fifteen minutes of fame. What the heck, I need the money. I
Call my phone and I can set up an appointment to chat with you.
This doesn’t mean I am taking the case; only that I want more
I typed my phone number at the bottom of the email.
The phone rang a few minutes later.
“Is this Mel Thompson Investigations?” Right before Cindy’s
daughter Jessie was murdered I got my private dick license. It
meant I was a full-fledged private eye. Big whoop.
“May I speak to Mel? My name is Rachel Smythe.”
“This is Mel.”
“Oh, thank you for responding to my email. I’d like to meet you
as soon as possible in your office.”
I hesitated. It wasn’t that I didn’t want the job, necessarily;
but I hated for clients, even potential ones, to see where I
lived. I was very protective of my space.
“I’m, er, redecorating my office right now. Why don’t we meet at
the campus Starbucks near downtown? Know the one?” I dipped a
finger in the butter dripping off the bagel.
“I do. What time?”
“I’m free whenever.”
“Now? I mean, in about twenty minutes?” Rachel asked.
“See you then. I’ll be the one in a T-shirt and long jeans
skirt.” I hung up before the woman could say anything more. I
hope she’s not a loon.
If It's Tuesday It Must be Trouble
How to be Almost Famous in Ten
The Games Begin
My fingertips drifted across the dusty books stacked haphazardly
on the shelf. I wasn’t looking for any particular book
title—just wasting time while Rachel searched for a book in the
romance section. I walked around the secondhand books piled in
haphazard stacks on the faded brown carpet in search of a
science fiction. Closing my eyes as my fingers flitted over the
books, I played a game I used to play when I was younger. If
some book wanted me to read it, I’d know by the feeling the book
gave me. Forgetting about the piles everywhere I ran into one—or
two, I’m not sure—I opened my eyes just as I fell, sending the
piles sprawling across the floor. Which, by the way, smelled and
looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in centuries.
Rachel called out, “You okay, Cassie?”
“Yes,” I mumbled, sitting up.
No clerk came to my rescue, so I began to restack the books. My
elbow was a bit scraped, but otherwise no damage. Sighing, I
continued piling up the books until a small yellow book caught
“How to Be Famous in Ten Days,” I read aloud.
“What?” Rachel asked from the other side of the aisle.
“I found a book,” I yelled back.
I flipped through the pages. It appeared to be a fairly recent
publication, despite the faded cover. Each
chapter heading had a rule. I flipped to the introduction. The
first line read: Find your passion and follow it.
That’s my problem. I have no passion. None. I’ve tried to think
of what I want to do when I get done with high school, but so
far I’ve come up with zilch. You know those stupid career
interest tests they make you take your freshman year? Yeah. My
ideal job was either truck driver, because I like to work alone,
or zookeeper—I like animals, but not that much. Rachel, my best
friend since kindergarten, came out with doctor or scientist,
both of which she wants to be. With her grades, I’m sure any
medical school would love to have her. My grades are always on
the borderline between complete failure and not living up to my
full potential. I read until Rachel’s pink and blue tennies came
close to my knee.
“Are you ready to go yet? I found tons of books I want to read
over the summer.”
She had her arms full.
I read one of the titles out loud, “In the Arms of Love.”
Yeah, they were all like that. Rachel dreams of the day she’ll
meet her soulmate; she ignored most of the boys in our school.
They were too immature for Rachel; she was waiting for the
college boys. I got up. My knee hurt, along with my ankle and my
scraped elbow. I looked at Rachel with what I call my puppy dog
She shook her head and rolled her eyes at me. “Let me guess, you
want to borrow some money?”
“I spent my allowance and I haven’t been able to find a summer
job yet. Please?”
She sighed, then held out her hand. “Give it here; I’ll put it
on my card. You owe me a Starbucks.”
“Thanks, Rach.”I stood in line with her, scrolling through my
iPhone. I wanted to find what year that book had been written,
but I couldn’t find it at all. Guess it’s out of print. Rachel
put her stack of books on the counter. The clerk rang them up.
“That’ll be twenty dollars and seven cents. Want a bag?” he
“Sure, thanks.” Rachel handed him her credit card. He swiped and
handed back her card, she signed the slip.
He handed her the bag. “Uh, could you put your phone number on
the slip?” He smiled at her. He was cute in a nerdy sort of way.
“Why?” Rachel asked. “Is there something wrong with my card?”
“No, I thought I might give you a call sometime.” Oh. I
should’ve known. Rachel gets asked out by guys on a regular
basis. It doesn’t affect her in the least. I’d be thrilled if
some guy asked me out, even if he was creepy.
“Are you in college?” Rachel asked.
He shook his head. “No, I’m a senior in high school, why?”
“Sorry, I only go out with college guys,” she said, tossing her
shiny blue-black down-to-the-waist hair behind her. She grabbed
the bag. “Let’s go, Cass.” I hunched down, trying not to make
eye contact with the clerk as we left the store.
“Why do guys ask you out all the time?” As if I had to ask. She
was model-gorgeous, she was short like Asian girls tend to be,
had a tiny waist, and that hair. Her dark brown eyes were the
color of milk chocolate; unless she was pissed. Then they looked
more like dark chocolate.
“How do I know why guys ask me out? Guys are guys. No one can
figure them out.” She shrugged.
“Why are you my friend?” I asked, slipping down into my usual
“What do you mean?” She put on designer shades that made her
look mysterious and cool. The peach-colored spaghetti strapped
sundress with a coral hem contrasted against her skin and
floated around her knees. Matching peach flip-flops held a silk
flower with peach-colored petals and a bright yellow strap
between the toes. Her toenails were painted pale peach, matching
“You know what I mean. Look at you; you are one of the most, if
not the most, beautiful girls at Longfellow High.”
“So?” She continued to stride down the sidewalk with me trying
to keep up with her.
“Look at me, no . . . really look at me.”
She stopped. She gazed at me. “I’m looking, Cass. Now what?”
“You don’t see it, do you?”
“That I am a mess! Next to you I look like—what’s the name of
that guy that follows Dracula around? The one that eats bugs?”
“Igor,” she said. We were at an intersection. She began to cross
as soon as the light changed.
“Right, Igor. I’m him. I’m Igor.”
“Let’s go in here,” she said pointing to a storefront. No.
Absolutely not. No way. It was one of those stores that catered
to teeny, tiny girls. Like Rachel. Not like lumbering oxen like
me. Every time she dragged me into one of those stores I got
frosty looks from the clerks as if they were saying, “Who let
you in?” I shook my head. She ignored me, like she usually did,
and pushed open the door. Sighing, I followed her. She handed me
the bag of books to hold before heading over to a rack of tank
tops. I stood near the entrance, in case I wanted to make a
Rachel beckoned me over with a crooked finger. “Look at this.
How do you think it’d look on me?” she asked, holding up a
sparkly blue tank top. Gorgeous. Everything looked gorgeous on
her. A paper bag would look gorgeous on her.
“It would look great,” I remarked.
“Help you?” It was one of those frosty clerks. She wrinkled her
nose as if she smelled something rotten. Maybe she did. I
sniffed my underarm. Nope, deodorant is working.
She looked me up and down. “I’m not sure we carry your size,”
she said. I pointed to Rachel, who was oohing and ahhing over
something she had found. The salesclerk brightened. Turning on
her heel she marched over to Rachel with a huge smile on her
face. “May I help you find something in your size? Let me
guess.” She looked Rachel up and down. “A size 4?”
“Nope, size 2.”
The salesclerk giggled. “Of course.” She began riffling through
the tops gathering size 2 tanks for Rachel.
“Got anything for my friend by the door?” Rachel asked. I wished
she wouldn’t go there. The salesclerk glanced my way for a
moment. Her nose wrinkling again.
“We don’t carry double digits here,” she said with a dismissive
Before Rachel could protest, I said, “Look Rachel, meet me at
the Starbucks around the corner. Take your time.” I left,
lugging the bag of books with me. My insides churned. Either the
clerks stared at me as if they couldn’t believe someone like me
would dare walk in their store or they ignored me entirely. Like
the rest of the world. “I’m a person,” I yelled as I crossed the
street. A homeless guy pushing a cart full of junk gave me a
scared look. Great. Now I’m scaring the homeless. Nice job,
Cassie. At least he noticed me.
At Starbucks, I ordered a Caramel Macchiato with extra caramel
for myself and a non-fat latte for Rachel. I stood waiting for
the order. The guy at the counter was a lean, romantic poet,
curly-haired—oh my Gawd—his green eyes hidden behind
tortoiseshell glasses that kept slipping down his nose—way cute.
I chewed on my lower lip. Should I ask him out? I took a deep
“Hi, I’m Cassie,” I said. “What’s your major?” Great opening
line, Cass. Original. I felt my cheeks get hot as he handed me
“English. I’m a poet.” I knew it! “I’m Blake. What about you?”
“Creative writing, fiction,” I lied.
“Cool.” Now’s my chance. Go for it.
“I . . .” But before I could say more Rachel walked up to me.
She gave me one of her brilliant two hundred watt smiles,
whipping off her glasses with a fluid motion. “Great, you got me
a coffee, thanks.” She smiled again, this time at Blake. He
looked stunned. “Hi,” she said, being her usual friendly self.
“Hi,” he said, looking as if he would faint dead on the spot
that someone like Rachel would deign to talk to him. She grabbed
her coffee and turned around.
“Wait,” he said. I knew what was coming.
“What?” she asked.
“Could I have your number?”
“You in college?” she asked, scrutinizing him. He nodded.
“Great, got your phone? I’ll put it in for you.” She reached out
as he handed her his iPhone, and punched in her number and
handed it back.
“All set. What’s your name?”
“Blake, Blake Carrlington.”
“Hi, Blake, I’m Rachel Song.” She took my arm, steering me away
from the counter to a table. “Wait until you see what I bought,
it’ll be perfect for my date with Brad.”
“Blake,” I said with a dejected tone.
“Whatever.” She waved a hand in the air. Blake waved back,
thinking she’d waved at him. She turned her chair so she faced
the window overlooking the street. “I hope he’s not going to be
one of the needy ones.” I glanced back over at him. He was my
type, not hers. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think she was
doing it on purpose. I sighed loudly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, brushing her hair behind her right
ear. I shook my head, rummaging in the bag for my book. I took
it out. Rachel did the same, taking out a romance book with a
half-naked man adorning the gaudy red and pink cover. Jeez. We
both became engrossed in our books. After a few minutes, I got
an epiphany. A big one. I slammed my book down on the table,
which would’ve been more impressive had the book not been so
“Shit, you scared me,” Rachel said.
“This is it,” I said. “This is my purpose in life.”
“What is?” Rachel’s eyes went back to her book. She’d heard it
all before from me. At various times in my life, I wanted to be
a ballerina—too short and I’ve never taken ballet—a pastry
chef—can’t cook, an astronomer—failed Calculus—twice, a
biologist—can’t see a thing in those microscopes, or any number
of other careers I fancied at the time. My new career choice was
to be a writer. I’d written poetry and short stories, but never
felt confident enough to try and get anything published. Still,
it was the one that had stuck the longest so far.
“This is. Rach, pay attention.” I tapped the book to get her
interest. Her glance drifted over to me.
She was already lost in whatever romantic world the writer had
given her. “I am. What?”
“I am going to do what this book says.”
“What does it say?” She glanced at her book. She wanted to get
back to reading it.
“About becoming famous in ten days. I’m starting tomorrow. In
less than two weeks, everyone will know my name.”
“Okay,” she said, picking up her book again. She took a sip of
I pulled a half torn Post-it pad from my bag. I scribbled notes
on it as I opened the book again. I couldn’t wait to get home
and set out on my path to becoming famous.
How to be Almost Famous in Ten Days