Jaine Austen 8 - Killer Cruise by Laura Levine Read Free Book Online Page A

adage, urging them to go for specific memories rather than sweeping generalities.
    “Just remember,” I said, winding up my little chat, “what you write doesn’t have to be perfect. Just keep writing. If you have difficulty, pretend you’re writing a letter to a friend. Now let’s get started. Everybody take out your pads.”
    “I don’t have a pad,” Kenny, my teen angel, sulked.
    “I don’t either,” Max chimed in.
    “I do,” Rita said, with a virtuous sniff. “I always come prepared.”
    “You can write on the back of these,” I said, tossing Max and Kenny some of my extra handouts.
    Then, just as I was about to give them their first writing exercise, a tiny, white-haired woman drifted into the room. In her hands she carried a tote bag almost as big as she was.
    “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said in a whispery voice.
    “That’s perfectly all right,” I said, grateful for another mate on my motley crew. “What’s your name?”
    “I’m Amanda.”
    “Take a seat, Amanda. Here’s a handout. We’re just about to get started.”
    She sat down next to Max and smiled up at me. Thank heavens this one seemed pleasant.
    “Now I want each of you to write about a first in your life. Your first date. Your first job. Your first day at school—”
    “Can I write about my first colonoscopy?” Max asked. “It’s where I met my second wife.”
    Talk about your love connections.
    “That’s fine,” I said.
    “Wait a minute,” Rita piped up, poking a finger through her wiry curls to scratch her scalp. “Aren’t you going to talk about your books?”
    I refrained from telling her that, aside from You and Your Garbage Disposal , I had no books to talk about.
    “No, Rita, I’m afraid not.”
    “But Mary Higgins Clark told us all about her books,” she pouted.
    “She sold her first book,” she said, turning to the others to spread the news, “when she was widowed with five children!”
    “How interesting.” I forced myself to keep smiling. “But as I’ve already explained, this is a writing course.”
    “But I thought we’d be hearing stories,” Rita whined.
    “The only stories in this class will be yours,” I said firmly. “Now, let’s start writing, shall we?”
    Rita’s hand shot up.
    “Are we going to be graded on penmanship?”
    “There are no grades. Just write.”
    By now, I was thisclose to giving her a wedgie.
    Nancy and David, the married couple, picked up their pens and started writing with gusto. The others were a tad less enthused. A lot of ceiling-staring and what I suspect was doodling ensued. But at last I saw pens crawling across paper. The writing process had begun.
    The only one who wasn’t writing was the old lady who’d come in after the class began. Instead, she’d taken a pair of knitting needles from her tote bag and was clacking away at what looked like an argyle sweater.
    “Aren’t you going to write anything, Amanda?” I asked. “It’s fun once you get started. Just pretend you’re writing a letter to a friend.”
    “Oh, no thank you, dear.” Another sweet smile. “I’ve already written postcards to my friends back home.”
    “Don’t you want to write about your life?”
    “Oh, no, dear. Living it was enough for me.”
    Clearly the woman was not operating with a full deck, but I didn’t care. I was just happy to see a smiling face.
    For the next hour I continued to swim upstream with this bunch. Rita kept punctuating every assignment with tidbits from the Mary Higgins Clark files. In a stage whisper that could be heard all the way to Cabo San Lucas, she kept up a running commentary on how much more famous and entertaining Mary Higgins Clark was than yours truly.
    At first I was gratified to see Kenny, the teenager, writing industriously, but when I peeked over his shoulder I realized he’d been busy perfecting his pornographic cartoon skills.
    Max nodded off somewhere during the second writing assignment, his jackhammer snores echoing in