The Fantastic Fable of Peter Able
Page 19
“Tabatha got word that another author was releasing a book about the detective Randy Potts with a whole lot of the same characters. Now that wouldn’t have been so bad, but the bizarre endings to these two books turned out to be exactly the same!” a source close to Christine tells us.
After a bit of digging around, we managed to “uncover” the author of this upcoming Randy Potts book, aptly titled The Adventures of Randy Potts, Detective. Though she/he would like to remain anonymous, she/he was willing to speak to our reporter.
“It was the weirdest thing. I thought these ideas were completely original, completely inspired, but then Christine’s agent tells mine that we’ve basically written the same book, at the same time! Well, it was either get into it legally with one of the most famous writers in the world, or cut my losses, and nix the project.”
Cut his (or her) losses indeed! With the publicity that these identical books are bound to generate, neither this author nor Christine will be struggling to find readers.
“People are going to want to know: What was this mysterious ending? How could they possibly have thought of it at the same time?” says Fictional Professor of Fiction Marty Banks.
“Unless, of course, Peter inspires yet another story with his heroism. And who knows? Maybe he already has.”
I tossed the paper onto the kitchen table and snorted.
“‘Maybe he already has,’” Jenny laughed from beside me at the table. “Ohh, Peter, what should we call your story? What about The Timeless Tale of Peter Able? Or, no, how about The Actual Account of Peter Able? Or we could be really lame and call it something like The Fantastic Fable of Peter Able.” Randy was sitting across the table, and he chuckled behind his section of the paper.
I rolled my eyes and walked across the black-and-white tile, which I was growing quite fond of actually, and into the newly renovated pantry to get my eggs. As I loaded my plate with them, Jenny went on, clearly enjoying the article more than I was.
“The trick is going to be finding someone Out There who is bored enough to tell your whole crazy story, ‘bizarre’ ending or not. I mean, no offense, but ever since your series ended, you’ve been through some . . . interesting stuff . . . I bet if you were inspiring an author Out There, she’d just think she was going crazy.”
I nodded as I sat back down and immediately stuffed a forkful of eggs into my mouth to avoid a response. I hadn’t talked much to Jenny or Randy about my suspicion of another story being written—that feeling of Something Bigger. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure what I thought anymore.
“Don’t you mean he or she?” Randy asked from behind the paper, interrupting my spiraling thoughts.
Jenny rolled her eyes and leaned her head against my shoulder. She still smelled like cinnamon, and with the warm light filtering into the room, despite the chill outside, and despite my brief existential moment, I felt truly content.
Exams were over; I had actually resolved my conflict (I’d survived); Jenny had resolved hers as well (obviously); and Randy was starting to get over the whole my-wife-left my-family-to-become-an-assassin-and-kill-my-best-friend thing. It was still a struggle for him, knowing that she was so close, but with our help, and a new, reliable support group, he seemed to be doing well. Yes, Randy had become a proud member of the surprisingly huge ERMLA group (Ex Ruined My Life Anonymous). He was starting to come to terms with the fact that the Gail he knew was not the real Gail, not the Gail locked in the school’s dungeon. In fact, that very day Randy was going to pick up his children from Boarmoles to spend a long weekend with them in the Symbolic Slopes. The Symbolic Slopes were far up north near the children’s school, amongst the Metaphorical Mountains, and were not in fact slopes at all, but merely representations of slopes. Perfect for the amateur skier.
Their mother, on the other hand, was not faring so well. Gail would not be spending her vacation on the slopes, symbolic or otherwise. She would not have a vacation at all, ever again. Like I said, she would remain locked in the cold dungeon at school, only to be brought out when the very vilest of roles needed to be filled. The last I’d seen Gail, she was playing the part of a socially inept slug in an upcoming children’s book. She’s squashed in the end, but don’t worry, she survives.
As for Pen, she was still said to be too unbalanced to come out of the dungeon, even to play a guest role. Professor Uk, who’d taken on the part of their unofficial caregiver, stopped me just after class and told me he wasn’t sure what to do, and asked if she’d mentioned anything to me about something called “Puff.”
“She just rocks back and forth down there, saying she misses Puff—and fresh tuna. If she doesn’t snap out of it soon, we might have to send her over to Psychology in Nonfiction.”
I shuddered at the thought. I’d never heard of anyone venturing into the exotic world of Nonfiction, or the “far east,” as it’s sometimes called, other than to be described briefly in a character essay or book report. But they’d always come back. If Pen was sent to Psychology, she might never return. And what would that mean for her publishing house?
I pushed the thoughts from my mind and focused on more pleasant things: the warm sun on my neck; the sweet, spicy smell coming from Jenny’s hair; vague plans of meeting up later that afternoon with Bob and a new Fig Tree he’d met at the dance; and the image of Gail the Slug being squashed by a large boot. I realized, perhaps for the first time, how happy I was. Not just because of the thought of squashed-slug-Gail (which was nice, don’t get me wrong), but because things seemed to finally be working out for me, and I thought Beth would be proud. See, whether or not I was being written didn’t really matter. I had finally managed to create my own relationships, my own tale, and even my very own, very bizarre happily ever after.
.
.
.
.
.
Wait, is this a series?