everything. Mason, what can they find that is so monumental and terrible that it changes everything?”
“True love?” Chloe smiled.
“It’s not that kind of story, my dear Haiku,” Blake said with twinkling amusement. “This is a man’s story. No room in it for lurv, no matter how terrible and true. Right, cupcake?” Jumping off the rail, he jostled Hannah along the pebbles.
“Right,” she said.
Mason had new suggestions. “We found an old suitcase once. It was full of snakes. And once we found a live rabbit.”
“Yes,” Blake said. “He was delicious. But Chloe is right. We need a story, bro.” He smacked his forehead. “Got it. How about a human head in the trash?”
Chloe didn’t even blink this time. Almost as if she’d seen a human head in the trash before. “Nice,” she said. “And then?”
Blake shrugged. “Why do you care so much what happens next?” he asked.
She could tell he wasn’t taking it seriously. What the boys did for a living—that was work. Here, all they had to do was come up with a few words and place them in the sweet order that assured victory. Blake was convinced it was child’s play.
“You’re right, we’re all Philistines with our slavish devotion to plot,” Chloe said. “Be that as it may.”
“Yes. The writer drones on about what happens next and as soon as you the reader guess what’s coming, you either fall asleep or want to kill him.”
“So the trick is what? Never give the reader what she wants?”
Blake shook his head. “No. Give her what she didn’t even know she wanted.” He acted as if he knew what that was.
They turned for home. “They find a human head,” he went on, as he and Chloe ambled down the narrowing pine path leading home, Hannah and Mason behind them. A few hundred yards downhill, the dirt road tapered to one lane on which a truck or a car or people could pass—one at a time. “But not a skull.” Blake glanced back and widened his eyes at Hannah. “A head. That’s been recently separated from the body. It still has flesh on it. And they don’t know what to do. Do they investigate? Do they call the cops?”
“I think they should investigate,” Mason said, running up. “Investigations are fun.”
“There’s danger in it.”
“Danger is good,” Hannah said from behind. “Danger is story.”
No, Chloe wanted to correct her uncorrectable friend. Danger is danger. It’s not story.
Blake went on ruminating. “What if asking too many questions of the wrong people puts them in mortal danger?”
Chloe wondered if there was any other kind.
“Someone needs to shut them up. But who?”
“Obviously those who separated the head from the body.”
“But why would someone separate the head from the body?” Mason asked.
“I don’t know yet. But I really think we got us something here. Haiku, what do you think?”
“I say keep working on it.” Chloe used her most discouraging tone.
“Wait! I got it!” Blake exclaimed. “What if they find a suitcase? Yes, a mysterious suitcase! It’s blue. Oh my God, I got it. That’s my story.” Blake stopped and turned to the girls, beaming, his whole face flushed and thrilled. “The Blue Suitcase. What do you think?” He clapped. “It’s flipping awesome!”
Hannah smiled approvingly.
Chloe caught herself shrugging. “It’s a good title for a mystery,” she said. “But a title is not a story. What’s in the suitcase? Once you figure out that part, Blake, then you’ll have yourself a story.”
Blake laughed with characteristic lack of concern for details. He was a big picture guy. “James Bond always goes to a foreign country to solve mysteries and catch the bad guys,” he said. “Some fantastic exotic locale full of drink and women and danger.”
Chloe made a real effort not to rub her forehead. She had a lot of practice hiding exasperation from her mother, but this was on a different scale altogether. “James Bond is a government spy. He kills for money. He doesn’t rummage through the trash for severed heads.”
“Foreign country!” Mason exclaimed. “Blake, you’re a genius.”
Blake’s entire peacock tail opened up in kaleidoscope green.
“But wait,” Mason said. “You and I have never been to a foreign country.”
Blake blocked the girls’ way, smiling meaningfully at them. “Not yet,” he said.
The girls remained impassive. Only Chloe twitched slightly. Oh no! she thought. He doesn’t mean …
“We’ll go to Europe with you,” Blake said. “Mason’s right, I am a genius. The answer to our mysterious suitcase is in Europe. Oh man, this is going to be fantastic. And we’ve only been at it for five minutes. Imagine how good it’ll be when we spend a few days on it.” Blake thumped his flannel plaid chest. “We could win the book prize.”
“What book prize would that be, Blake?” Chloe said.
“I don’t know, Chloe. The prize they give the best book of the year. The Oscar for books. The Grammy, the Emmy.”
“The Pulitzer?”
“Whatever. That’s not the important part. To write something people will love, that’s the important part.”
Chloe leaned in to Hannah. “Did your crazy boyfriend just say he wants to go to Europe with us?”
“I’m sure that can’t be right,” Hannah, her expression frazzled, whispered back. “I’ll talk to him—”
Blake pulled Hannah away from Chloe. “Hannah, when are you two flying to Barcelona?”
“I don’t know,” Hannah replied. “Chloe, when are we flying?”
“I don’t know,” mumbled Chloe.
“Mason, that’s where we go, bro. Barcelona! Our story will climax there.” Blake laughed. The brothers high-fived and bumped shoulders.
“I thought you said it wasn’t that kind of story,” Chloe cut in.
“If it ends in Barcelona, Haiku, it’ll have to be a story for all seasons. Isn’t that where they have the running of the bulls?”
“Oh dear God. No. That’s Pamplona.”
“Wait,” Hannah said. “Blake, you’re not seriously thinking of coming with us?”
“We’re done thinking. We’re coming, baby!”
Mason looked shocked. “We’re going to Europe? You’re bullshitting me.”
“Mason, do I come up with the best ideas or what?”
Mason was at a loss for words.
“Blake …” Finally Hannah became actively engaged in the conversation. “Think about it for a minute. You’re not serious about writing a story, are you? The contest is open to all Maine residents. That’s a lot of competition. Just from our school, there’ll probably be at least a hundred entries. Everyone on our literary magazine is submitting a story.”
“Hannah, have you read the literary magazine?” said Blake, swinging his arms around, bouncing down the road. “It’s called Insanity’s Horse, for heaven’s sake.” He laughed. “Just for that title alone, those fools should be disqualified from participating. Do you remember the magazine’s April thought of the month?