Sunday, April 6, 2014

PARTY SNOOPERS Part One

Hey everybody!
Today marks the beginning of my new Sunday Serial PARTY SNOOPERS.
Here's the synopsis:

James Harshell and Kerri Benedict are the Party Snoopers, Incorporated--they plan the party (because criminals can never resist a good birthday bash), capture the crook (because the party is just a trap, after all), and collect the dough (what's hard work without a little reward?).  Join them as they tackle on their biggest case yet, involving a wedding, a couple of mischievous ring-bearers, and...rock stars?  **Told in alternating first-person perspectives

Here's the logo:





Before I give you PART ONE, I'd first like to let you know some things about this Sunday Serial. It's going to be more well-thought-out, and a bit more well written than my other Sunday Serials. Because of this, it's not always going to end in a cliffhanger, although ideally it should also make you want to read more. Also, it will run a bit longer than the previous Sunday Serials, and the parts will be shorter.  Just a heads up :)  Enjoy!

Sunday Serial Part 1
Kerri

My mom is best friends with a rock star.

Don't ask me how it happened.  I think they bonded over a love of whipped cream or something, because the next thing I knew was my mom inviting Henrietta Herscheman over for tea.
And so HerShe herself—in her six-foot, eyelinered glory—sipped Earl Grey and chatted about ReddiWip.  With my five-foot-tall blond mother.  
I guess I didn't really see their differences now, and even then it takes plenty of careful observation.  I have a busy life, a schedule.  But I have plenty of time for observation.  And inference.
I'm party-planning detective. It's kind of what I do—I plan parties and catch criminals.  Bam, wazzow.  Killer combination.

A side effect of being a party-planning detective is getting calls at two in the morning.  From your copartner, who usually has his best ideas in the wee hours of the night.
“Jaaaaaames.”  I drag the word out as long as I can to make it seem like I was asleep.  I wasn't sleeping, actually.  I'm doing math homework.  
Or trying to do math homework.
“Kerri.”  I can imagine James mock-bowing.  “How's that math homework coming along?”
He knows me so well.  “It's going good.”  Actually, I've been staring at the graphs until the lines have blurred.  “What brilliant idea have you had now?”
“Let's face it: we're bored.  We haven't had new cases in a while.”  He has kind of a nerdy edge to his voice.  “We should take the toddler case for Mrs. Allan.  At least we'd have something to do.”
“I'm not going to make sure Donnie doesn't get into the cake.”  We always get calls from mothers who want us to watch their usually-bratty children.  As if the PARTY SNOOPERS doesn't convey the meaning that we plan parties and trap criminals.  We even put WE DON'T BABYSIT on the fliers, but I guess busy mothers don't have time to read three simple words.  Either that or they just don't want to face the truth: we fourteen-year-olds do not want to watch little cakefaced kids when we could be catching criminals.
“Then what do we do?  We can't just sit around doing homework like regular kids.  That's boring.”  James hates doing regular things like homework.
Although, if you take into consideration that three-fourths of the kids at our high school don't actually do homework...
My phone vibrates.
“What was that?”  Need he even ask?  He knows who it is.  We both do.
I look at the caller ID.  “Henrietta.”  
We're used to Henrietta calling us at weird hours of the night.  She's usually in some exotic place that has a wacky time zone.  I think she's in New Zealand right now or something on tour for her latest album.
“Are you going to take it?”  His tone is guarded.
Does he want me to take it, or does he want me to perform my dutiful BEST FRIENDS spiel about how I won't hang up on him for an internationally renowned celebrity?
“I do not have the physical ability to press the Accept button.”  At this point, I want to lie down and go to sleep.  But I still have five problems left.  “What else did you want to tell me?”
“Nothing.  I just wanted to make sure you used the addition sign instead of the subtraction sign in the distance formula.”
I glare at the paper until my chicken scratch handwriting comes into focus.  
“Snap.”
“Have fun with that, then.”  He laughs, hanging up, while I mentally curse mathematics, integrity, and the world.
A text lights up my screen, and I roll my eyes.  Did he forget to tell me that two plus two equals four?
Nope.  It's from Henrietta.
TXT ME WHN UR OFF THE PHONE W UR BF.
Is she serious right now?  I hate when she does that!  Does the “BF” mean “best friend” or “boyfriend”?  She's been teasing James and me for, like, ever.  It's like all people associated with pop culture think that when a boy and a girl hang out, they're dating.
I DON'T HAVE A BF, I type back.
Two seconds later, she texts, WHAT, DID U GUYS BREAK UP?
Oh my gosh.  This is insane.  
You can break up with your best friend, or you can break up with your boyfriend.
Instead of replying, I call her.
She answers, sounding pepped up in a rock-star kind of way.  “How's the relationship going?”
“Not so great.  He's making me feel down about my mathematical skills, and I told him to go jump in the lake.”
“Good for you.”  She clucks her tongue.  “Well, anyway, I just wanted to say that I have a JOB FOR THE PARTY Snoopers!”  Her voice peters out at the end, like she ran out of caffeine to say the rest of the words.
I want to scream and shout.  “Really?!”  Sorry, Mrs. Allan, but you'll have to find yourself another bondservant.
“Don't wake up your parents with your fangirling, but Jakkab and I are going to get married.”  Henrietta's tone is weird.  She sounds happy, except...not so happy.
“I'm going to freak out.”  But to be honest, I'm too tired to.  And besides, Henrietta's voice is really spinning me in circles.  “Is something wrong?”
“You're the detective and the party planner. Yes, something is wrong.”  Henrietta sighs deeply, but it's not melodramatic—it's the kind of sigh that says, I've got something on my mind, and what do I do?
“What is it?”
“You're the detective.”
“I'm not psychic, Ms. HerShe Bar.”
“Don't call me that.”  Henrietta hates her stage name.  Her publicist made it up for her.  “But I got a note.”
So?  Being a weird person, Henrietta has had a ton of mail—and not all of them marriage proposals and rainbows.
“They threatened to take down the wedding.”  
“So?”  Probably a poser.  I've had plenty of those in my lifetime.
“We got engaged literally, like, ten minutes ago.”
“So?”
“You're the first people I've told.”

Who sent the note?  What will Kerri and James find out?

Come back next Sunday to find out!

Also, check out my new blog Rcubed's Reads and Reviews, which went public today!

No comments:

Post a Comment