Page 50 of Reading Between the Lines
Loyal tipped his head at Chett as the waitress arrived with their food. I regretfully stepped back so she could deliver the plates. Once she left, I pointed at their meals. “Remember. You give me useable information, and I pick up the tab for your breakfast.”
“What’s the definition of ‘useable’ exactly?” Loyal asked. “I mean, we could answer all your questions and be as cooperative as possible but still get stiffed because you don’t think it’s ‘useable.’”
“Facts of life, kid.”
“I’m still not clear what you want to know?” Chett said, unfolding his breakfast wrap to squeeze a line of ketchup on the inside.
“Tell me about the club. How does it work? What do you do?”
Loyal stabbed his home fries, filling a fork. “Well, it’s awritingclub, so wewritestories. Shocking, I know, but that’s the long and the short of it.”
Noel giggled.
“I think we have enough cocky attitudes on this side of the table.” I gestured to the silent and smug Atlas. “Are you trying to outdo your buddy?”
Loyal wasn’t fazed, and my position, hovering above them all, did nothing to intimidate him. The teen reminded me of Tallus—oozing confidence and not easily shaken—but he had a lot of growing up to do.
Loyal chewed and swallowed before elaborating. “We talk about plot devices, discuss characterization, and break down strengths and weaknesses. Learn to outline. Talk about story beats, how to build suspense, and what to do if your ideas aren’t coming together how you hoped. We examine the different genres of literature and study sections of the classics to determine what made them classics.” He shrugged. “That’s it.It’s like a modified English class only more fun, or we wouldn’t go.”
“Do you read each other’s work?”
“That’s kind of the point. How else do we improve?”
I cracked my knuckles, unsure how much longer I could keep my cool when every cell in my body wanted to knock his too-perfect teeth out of his face.
Tallus jumped in, likely sensing my shortening fuse. “Was Weston a good writer?”
“Yeah. The guy was top-notch,” Chett said. “It’s what he wanted to do.”
“I thought he wanted to be a journalist.”
“He wasn’t top-notch.” Noel huffed, stirring the yogurt bowl she’d ordered that was full of berries and granola. “Maybe with nonfiction, but with creative writing, he was a cheater. He couldn’t come up with an original plot to save his life. He was always stealing my ideas.”
“He was not,” Chett argued.
“Yes, he was. Whenever we used prompts and brainstormed as a group, he stole my ideas for his writing.”
Chett slapped the table. “You’re such a fucking liar.”
The two continued to argue, and I pinched the bridge of my nose. Lowering my voice, I asked Tallus to run to the Jeep to grab the folder of Weston’s stories. We hadn’t brought it into the diner, not anticipating running into a group of teens.
“Promise not to kill anyone?” he asked when he stood.
“No.”
“They can’t help us if they’re dead.”
I growled. “If you aren’t back in ten seconds, I’m going to start breaking fingers if they don’t give me straight answers.”
Amused, Tallus took the Jeep keys and hustled out the door.
“Hey.” I raised my voice, drawing the attention of more than one customer. “Shut the fuck up and stop fighting or you won’tget your free food. I need to know if you could identify Weston’s writing?”
“Sure,” Duke said.
“Probably,” Chett said.
“Not necessarily,” Loyal said.
