Read Online The Mistaken Masterpiece by Michael D. Beil - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael D. Beil
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I’ll bring her over on Saturday morning if she’s still with me. Of course, I’ll have to check with Nate, to make sure she won’t take off or something. Losing a big movie star’s beloved dog would probably not be a great career move for me. I shudder, imagining thousands of Nate’s fangirls chasing me through Central Park with pitchforks and torches.
I’m brought back to reality by Tillie, who has stopped in her tracks with ears perked up and head tilted, first to one side, then to the other. Somewhere in the distance, something—something that my inferior human eyes and ears can’t see or hear—has suddenly become
very
interesting to her, and she starts dragging me toward it.
“Whoa, Tillie!” I yell, but she has caught me off balance, and I find myself running with her to keep from falling flat on my face. Which, considering the still-tender state of my nose, is
not
a great option.
“What are you doing?” Mom shouts. “I thought we were going to the garden.”
“I’m … Tillie heard … We’ll be right back,” I call over my shoulder at her.
Once I regain my balance, I know I could stop her—she’s not that big or strong—but I’m intrigued. When we get to the far north end of the ball fields, she stops again, all her senses on high alert. Just when I’m starting to think that whatever she’s chasing is a figment of her imagination, I faintly hear a girl’s voice shouting, “… leeeee … leeeee …”
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a flash of black, as a fugitive dog, dragging its leash, races through the trees and away from the voice as fast as its long legs can carry it.
“Woof!” says Tillie—the first non-howling sound I’ve heard from her. “Woof woof woof.”
“Hey, girl. What’s the matter?” I ask, kneeling down to pet her. “It’s just another dog.” I finally get her to calm down, and we walk back to where Mom is waiting for us.
“What was that all about?” she asks.
“I’m not really sure,” I say. “There was a dog who had gotten away from his owner, and the girl was calling him. Tillie seemed very concerned; she actually barked a few times.”
“She’s an odd dog. I think maybe the life of an actor is not really suited to pet ownership. Speaking of which, have you heard from your actor friend? Do you knowhow much longer we’re
—you’re
—going to have Miss Tillie?”
“Not yet. I’ll text him later to find out. I guess I should also ask if she has any other bad habits I should be aware of.”
Like shopping online with Mom’s credit cards. On the other hand, maybe
she
can help me with my Spanish homework.
So, who wins in a fight between a crocodile and a unicorn?
Now that we’ve finished reading
Great Expectations
in Mr. Eliot’s English class, he has us tackling a bunch of short stories. And I’ll admit that at first I wasn’t too sure how I felt about short stories. No offense to short-story writers and fans, but I’m a
book
person. I just love novels, and the longer the better. Novels that I can get totally
lost
in—know what I mean? There’s nothing like that mixture of excitement and regret when I get to the end of a book and I
almost
can’t bear to turn that last page, just knowing that it’s actually going to be over.
But lately I’m starting to appreciate the art of the short story, too. Right after we officially opened the Red Blazer Girls Detective Agency, Margaret loaned me a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories—sort of a how-to book for wannabe detectives, if ever there was one. I’ve been plowing my way through it, solving the cases along with Holmes and Watson, and you know what? Some days a few pages are just right.
The stories Mr. Eliot is giving us are different, though. We spent a lot of time talking about the conflict and irony in classics like “The Most Dangerous Game” and “How Much Land Does a Man Need?” and today we’re continuing with a
very
short story called “The
I’m brought back to reality by Tillie, who has stopped in her tracks with ears perked up and head tilted, first to one side, then to the other. Somewhere in the distance, something—something that my inferior human eyes and ears can’t see or hear—has suddenly become
very
interesting to her, and she starts dragging me toward it.
“Whoa, Tillie!” I yell, but she has caught me off balance, and I find myself running with her to keep from falling flat on my face. Which, considering the still-tender state of my nose, is
not
a great option.
“What are you doing?” Mom shouts. “I thought we were going to the garden.”
“I’m … Tillie heard … We’ll be right back,” I call over my shoulder at her.
Once I regain my balance, I know I could stop her—she’s not that big or strong—but I’m intrigued. When we get to the far north end of the ball fields, she stops again, all her senses on high alert. Just when I’m starting to think that whatever she’s chasing is a figment of her imagination, I faintly hear a girl’s voice shouting, “… leeeee … leeeee …”
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a flash of black, as a fugitive dog, dragging its leash, races through the trees and away from the voice as fast as its long legs can carry it.
“Woof!” says Tillie—the first non-howling sound I’ve heard from her. “Woof woof woof.”
“Hey, girl. What’s the matter?” I ask, kneeling down to pet her. “It’s just another dog.” I finally get her to calm down, and we walk back to where Mom is waiting for us.
“What was that all about?” she asks.
“I’m not really sure,” I say. “There was a dog who had gotten away from his owner, and the girl was calling him. Tillie seemed very concerned; she actually barked a few times.”
“She’s an odd dog. I think maybe the life of an actor is not really suited to pet ownership. Speaking of which, have you heard from your actor friend? Do you knowhow much longer we’re
—you’re
—going to have Miss Tillie?”
“Not yet. I’ll text him later to find out. I guess I should also ask if she has any other bad habits I should be aware of.”
Like shopping online with Mom’s credit cards. On the other hand, maybe
she
can help me with my Spanish homework.
So, who wins in a fight between a crocodile and a unicorn?
Now that we’ve finished reading
Great Expectations
in Mr. Eliot’s English class, he has us tackling a bunch of short stories. And I’ll admit that at first I wasn’t too sure how I felt about short stories. No offense to short-story writers and fans, but I’m a
book
person. I just love novels, and the longer the better. Novels that I can get totally
lost
in—know what I mean? There’s nothing like that mixture of excitement and regret when I get to the end of a book and I
almost
can’t bear to turn that last page, just knowing that it’s actually going to be over.
But lately I’m starting to appreciate the art of the short story, too. Right after we officially opened the Red Blazer Girls Detective Agency, Margaret loaned me a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories—sort of a how-to book for wannabe detectives, if ever there was one. I’ve been plowing my way through it, solving the cases along with Holmes and Watson, and you know what? Some days a few pages are just right.
The stories Mr. Eliot is giving us are different, though. We spent a lot of time talking about the conflict and irony in classics like “The Most Dangerous Game” and “How Much Land Does a Man Need?” and today we’re continuing with a
very
short story called “The
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