Read The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala for Free Online Page A

had a copy—and the folks at the publishing house. . . .”
    â€œA long list, in other words.”
    â€œTrue. But how many of them are here?” She left me, craning her neck and swiveling her head, as if trying to spot the traitor in the crowd coming back from the bathrooms.
    I let out a long
phew
as she bustled away. I looked around for Shannon Vela, the actor I’d hired to read the short stories. The original plan was to have the kids read their own stories, but one of the finalists was a boy with a painful stutter, and the principal had asked if, in fairness, we could find someone to read all the stories. Shannon, a decade older than me, had recently returned to Heaven from New York City, where she’d made a living as an actor, even having a Tony-nominated supporting role in a Broadway play.
    She hurried in now, svelte in slim black slacks and a matching cropped jacket over a gray cami. Black was a habit she’d picked up in Manhattan, she said, and she couldn’t afford to toss her whole wardrobe just because she’d moved back to Heaven. Her husband had gotten her a red plaid lumberjack shirt for her last birthday (I knew because I’d organized the party and been highly entertained by her expression when she unwrapped the shirt), but I had yet to see her wear it.
    â€œSorry I’m late, Amy-Faye,” Shannon said, her voice low-pitched and as smooth as molasses. “Jack picked today of all days to upchuck on the living room carpet. I had to do something about the stain before it set.”
    I couldn’t remember if Jack was her terrier or her son, so I merely said, “Yuck. Glad you made it. Are you ready?”
    She nodded, and lifted the slim blue folder she carried. “Printed out the stories this morning. My, those kids are talented, aren’t they? That vampire one—”
    I hadn’t read the stories, but I nodded, and urged her toward the stage as Gemma went to the podium to welcome the audience to the story contest. She’d be introducing Shannon in a second, using the biographical notes I’d written for her. It constantly surprised me how many people wanted the event organizer to write remarks, toasts, or introductions for them. I joked sometimes that if I ever put together a conference on weapons of mass destruction, someone would expect me to come up with a few words about anthrax and nukes. The crowd had shrunk a bit—only to be expected—but it was still a respectable gathering. I spotted the jeans-clad guy with the crew cut from Book Bliss sitting alone in the second to last row, flipping through a book’s pages. He must really be a fan of gothics. The three finalists sat at the end of the front row, two girls and a boy, the former in their Sunday best, the latter in jeans and a hoodie. They all looked nervous, with one girl clutching the armrests of her chair so hard her knuckles gleamed, the boy chewing on a hangnail, and Axie’s friend Thea swinging her foot so hard her shoe was in danger of sailing onto the stage.
    The stories were all five hundred words or less, so it didn’t take Shannon long to read the first one and then introduce its author. The teen rose, flushing, and acknowledged the applause with an embarrassed wave. Shannon embarked on the second story and I knew itwas the boy’s by the way he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and mouthed the words along with her. He raised his hands over his head like Rocky when introduced, and the crowd laughed. When Shannon started in on the third story, I noticed Thea frown and say something to the boy. He shrugged in response.
    Before I could puzzle out what was bothering her, Mary Stewart the Living stood up, arms straight down at her sides and hands fisted, and said, “Is this some kind of joke?”
    Shannon stopped speaking and peered down at Mary over the top of stylish reading glasses. “I’m sorry?”
    â€œThat’s not my