Val walked into Mrs. Brown’s room and stopped dead in her tracks. “The horror, the horror,” she gasped.
I pushed past her and stopped short myself, agape at the sight of a portly old guy sitting behind our teacher’s desk, knitting a shroud, and ignoring a random raven perched above the framed and illustrated Greek pantheon. “Where’s Mrs. Brown?” I asked.
“In a coffin, waiting to die.”
“Oh. You’re our sub?”
“Was Dimmesdale guilty?”
I rolled my eyes and plunked myself down in a chair. “Are we learning anything?”
The sub grinned at the room, now full of students, and took a swan feather from his pocket. “This,” he said, “is you writing literary fiction.” His grin grew wider and he tore the feather apart. “This is you trying to get it published.”
“Jalopies,” squawked the raven. “Jalopies, jalopies, sell them.”
“Exactly,” said our sub. “Genre fiction, that’s what you should write.”
Brad raised his hand. “So we’ll be able to sell genre fiction?”
The sub smirked and took out another swan feather. “This is you writing anything….”