My Mind is Made Up

© 2014 Mr. David R. Dorrycott

Chapter Seven

Mrs. Martin didn’t say much to me over the week, other than I needed to study History and Geology. Beyond that she ignored me like I wasn’t there, so I guess I did well enough on her tests. She was right about those two subjects, so I asked her if I could spend study period in the school library which she agreed to. I don’t know about the higher income schools but Bandal High had about as musty a stack of books as one could expect, apparently the librarian was hired to simply put the books back and check them out, not care for them. But there were maps, and a huge four foot wide globe, one that had seen better days as several places in America were worn to the substrate.

That globe though was more than enough to set me straight, in my first hour in the library I counted almost three hundred obvious impact points. I don’t mean places like Meteor Crater in Arizona, which on this globe was little more than a dot, I mean places as big as the Aral Sea to Hudson’s Bay. This planet had been pounded, pounded hard and if it had happened before, it could again. Over the next weeks I very carefully began to work on a research paper in the style of my University days.

And of course, as fate would have it Mrs. Martin come up with the ‘Yearly Science Projects,’ handing out a mimeographed page to everyone with lists of ‘suggested subjects’ to report on, investigate or model. What is Air, How does a Volcano work, Create a model of...’ Yeah, I well remembered those pages though they had been printed in a legible manner, then I came from a technology two hundred years in advance of this worlds so I would just have to accept the primitive technology and work with it. I carefully folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into my notebook, as we spent three quarters of our school day with Mrs. Martin things were a lot less hectic than the half hour courses from my Mid-School days. Then she taught a lot less subjects than I had been used to, Math, Science, History, English and such. At least it would give me good reason to go to the city library on Saturdays, though that was a five cent bus trip, both ways.

Ten cents, really doesn’t sound like much until you realize that the average income for farmers was around nine hundred dollars, a year. I was going to have to come up with that money, I was going to have to find a way and my parents dumped the entire problem on me. Yeah, on me, absolutely wonderful. So I searched the Sunday want ads, Sunday was the only paper Father ever bought and it want through everyone’s hands, becoming wrapping for lunches the next week and anything else that could be thought of. Believe me, when the next Sunday paper arrived there was no evidence of last weeks victim, Father even used it to close drafts away, after treating it with melted candle wax, candles that had burned out leaving only a little wax behind.

Sunday, nothing, Monday, searching the first section, the ‘News section, nothing. Finally by Thursday I was handed the entertainment section, movies, plays, society events and two long running serials. One aimed at boys, The Lafayette Boys being something along the ancient Hardy Boys, and one aimed at housewives, complete with suggestions on how to do things at home. There I found something interesting, a twenty dollar prize for the next serial, to replace the The Lafayette Boys serial as that writer was moving to Boston in three months. Writing, writing fiction. Oh yeah, I had done that a lot in my youth... like Hades I had. Still twenty dollars, even though I knew that I would have to give my parents half (As long as you live under this roof, half of everything you have belongs...) Writing fiction, how did one make something up that was both believable and interesting? I’d read a lot of fiction as a youth, but at a point I had to buckle down and work to escape a dying Earth so what did I know anyway?

There were thousands of adventure programs and stories in the next two hundred years, what could I use that would interest both boys and girls. Finally, Friday morning I woke from a dream and had it, a woman from another planet with greater than human powers and a lust for adventure. Not quite the near forgotten Supergirl, but based a bit on her, Shazam, Kimmie of the jungle and a dozen other ideas. At first I thought about making her an android, but something told me that this would make the character too unbelievable. Well, every hero needed a sidekick so I gave her a ‘daughter’ that was an android.

Mrs. Martin was not happy to catch me writing my ideas out during English class, she kept me over from recess, making me stand in front of her desk while she read my outline, and followed the beginnings of a detailed flowchart telling what the two could, and could not do. “And this little exercise is for what?” she asked, those dark eyes burning into me as they always did.

“The Lafayette Journal and Courier Newspaper is holding a contest to replace The Lafayette Boys serial. First prize is twenty dollars, and though mother and father would have half, it would give me the money to take the bus to the town library every Saturday for my Science Project research.”

“I see Heather, you have finally found the perfect challenge for your poor English. Yet if I may, I do have some suggestions.”

“Yes Mam?”

“First, I will send a note to your typing teacher allowing you to take one of the older machines home, a type written manuscript will be more attractive than a hand written one. Second, this daughter, if you are going to have her assisting the hero she should me a maid, or secretary of age and what is an Android anyway? Now as to...”

So it went until recess was over, true to her word Mrs. Martin gave me a note to give Miss Carter, allowing me to borrow one of the schools older typewriters. How old? It turned out to be a forgotten nearly twenty year old Underwood from the turn of the century that had issues, one being that it would make a very good boat anchor. As this was Friday I signed out the monster, a ream of paper (a true treasure) and two ribbons. I was also given a ‘kit’, small tools and a fine oil to keep the machine working. I will be honest with you, it took all of Saturday to clean the machine, oil it and carefully bend over half the typebars so that they struck correctly. Miss Carter was going to be getting back a machine in much, much better condition than she loaned it out. At least my sisters were understanding, they gave me the bedroom to myself as long as I was actually writing, not goofing off.

So I started writing, a typewriter wasn’t anything like a word processor. If I thought of something I needed to add, or I made a mistake I had to retype the entire page, so I hand wrote the submission first. Five hundred to two thousand words, the average ‘chapter’ printed each week along with an outline no more than five hundred words of where I was going with the story, all double spaced Miss Carter explained as she explained the Underwood’s few adjustment controls. “You are submitting a work to a professional publication” she continued, sketching out on a page how I was to format it. “One inch margins on all sides, half your first page will be nothing more than...”

It was daunting at first, and keeping a one inch margin on a typewriter? How could you know when you were getting close to one inch? I found out the easy way, when the paper popped free of the lower platen guide it was about one inch, so much for simply writing until you were done, then I remembered the margin locks and life became just a bit easier. I wanted a true word processor though, this thing was almost impossible.

First I created my rough outline, typed that up then went back to my notes, found a major problem and retyped my outline. It was late at night, long after supper when I finished my first story in long hand, and seven ‘outlines’ later. This writing thing on a typewriter was hard work, seriously hard work. I turned in with images of my heroine in my mind, and her maid sidekick who turned into a feline creature when they were battling crime. Seriously, I was going to have to improve my drawing ability.

Sunday was a ‘Day of Rest’ and both Mother and Grandmother were serious about that. No writing though sweeping floors, washing pots and such were not classified as ‘work’ in their minds. Writing was, and I only had until next Friday to turn my work in, though the contest had been going on a month already I barely caught it in time, even for a professional writer that was a harsh deadline and I was no professional, I guess that is why I finished on Wednesday evening.

Father gave me a well worn dime and told me to turn my story in, if I won I could pay him back, if not, I would write more. He liked it, my sisters liked it, mother shrugged her shoulders and went back to her housework. Grandmama called it the work of the devil and threw it at me, yelling that she would have no more to do with such a wilful child. In her mind I should be writing praise for that bible of hers, as if.

When I finally arrived at the Newspaper after school it was almost closing time, thankfully I was directed to the correct office where a pretty woman accepted my manuscript and outline, clipped them together and slipped them into an envelope, returning with a smile the envelope I had made out of last Sundays paper. “They will announce at the end of the month” she explained in a very sweet voice, “You will have a letter telling you if you won or lost well before the announcement. If you win then you must come in for a photograph and awards ceremony. Good luck.” I walked out shivering in excitement, win or lose I had done my best and that secretary had been very attractive, to bad about the wedding ring though.

I took the typewriter back to Miss Carter, who looked at it and shook her head no. “Heather, this is not the machine I loaned you” she told me. When I pointed out that the serial numbers were the same she was surprised, then she told me to wait at my desk and walked off. I was surprised to see the Principal Mr. Gooding come in with her just before end of class, but as I was busy transcribing my daily school text to typewritten paper I ignored him. The idea of this class was to teach us touch typing so we could make good secretaries, if we didn’t get our M.R.S. degree that was. Mr. Gooding was rumored to be a good man, at least he was married and had children but if you were called to his office, woe be to you. As I worked I wondered who was going to be asked to stay after class, it was a shock when my name was announced. Since coming back to school I’d worked as hard as I could allow ‘Heather’ to work, considering her lay-about ways before I took over.

As is normal for any class, while I waited for the room to empty there were giggles, pointed fingers and rude comments. I’d experienced this before in my last life so it didn’t bother me this time, at least not much. It was still humiliating though and honestly, I had no idea what I had done wrong.

“Heather?” Mr. Gooding asked, causing me to jerk out of my thoughts like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. He was, I realized, only a few feet away from me.

“Yes sir?” I answered, trying to act as innocent as I could, but neither Heather or I were innocent so I imagine that the act crashed like a punctured lead balloon.

“Miss Carter tells me that you returned the typewriter that you borrowed, returned it in much better condition that it was when you received it. Is this correct Heather?”

I swallowed, apparently in this world fixing something was a no-no. “Uh, yes Mr. Gooding, I did. Father has always told us to return things we borrow in the best condition that we can and I have always been very good with my hands.”

“I see” he said, his voice telling me that this was not business as usual with his students. “I also have reviewed the tests Mrs. Martin gave you, have you seen the results?”

“No sir” I had to admit, but I had been itching to know. “All she told me was that I need to study History and Geography more than I have.” I was getting uncomfortable, this was too much like the time I’d almost been thrown out of school when I was seven, that would have meant that I would never see space, never emigrate to Mars and most likely die a slow terrible death on a rapidly dying Earth before I was fifteen, not that I would ever step on Mars now. Yet the feeling of ice in my veins was exactly the same.

“All right, well then, let me see. Mrs. Martin and Miss Carter have informed me that you entered the newspaper story contest” Mr. Gooding continued, where was this going I wondered. “Yesterday the paper printed that there had been seventy three entries, what do you think of your own chances?”

I know that my face was going pale from fear so I swallowed, thought of a more pleasant thing then worked out a non-committal answer. “Better than some, worse than others sir” I explained. “This is the first time that I have attempted to put my imagination upon paper, to believe that I am better than all seventy-two other writers would be absurd, yet it did give me experience on how to format a manuscript. Experience that will help me in the future when I begin submitting stories to book publishers.” ‘There’ I thought, ‘Let him stew on that line.’

“That is actually the best answer that you could have given Heather, and considering that this contest is most likely rigged, it is good to know that you understand that your chances are vanishingly slim.” He noted the shocked look on my face at his words and smiled.

“Heather, the paper is not going to throw away a money maker, that being The Lafayette Boys, certainly not when there is a ghost writer involved, you are aware of what I am speaking about?”

“Yes sir” I admitted. “A ghost writer is someone in the background who actually writes a manuscript, usually someone for who such a public act would be seen below him or herself, or who is paid to write. Usually on a work for hire contract where the writer, or artist gives up all claim upon the work for a set fee.”

“My, you have been paying attention in class” Mr. Gooding remarked. “Then this makes it a bit easier for you, I happen to know that Mrs. Lanteen has been writing The Lafayette Boys since her husbands stroke three years ago, he had been the Ghost Writer in this case. Knowing that, and that they will most likely have a ringer in the mix, what are your plans?”

“I will have to find temporary employment of course, in order to repay father his ten cents” I answered. “I will also set my story aside for a month so that when I revisit it, it will be with fresh eyes. Any changes that I note will be done, then I will submit my story to Most Interesting Stories. Perhaps they will pick it up with a first publishing contract. I would though rather have won the contest fair and square” I finally admitted.

“I see.” Mr. Gooding seemed to think for a bit, it was really a nervous time for me, understanding that I had wasted time, effort and money for nothing was even harder. Then he looked up. “I have examined the typewriter that you borrowed, could you do the same work, for pay?”

“Clean and adjust typewriters?” I thought about it, the things were complex, yet actually simple machines. To bring the one that I had borrowed back to useful service had taken time, but in the whole had been a simple challenge. Certainly I would rather have a voc-writer from my own time, it was so much simpler for me to talk out my work than use a hammer to pound those keys, but a job. Income... “When would I be able to do this work” I asked, “And how much are you offering.”

Mr. Gooding laughed, turning to look at Miss Carter and shake his head no. “Here we thought that little Miss Heather was nothing but a layabout, she has obviously been putting the library to good use lately, we certainly don’t teach this in classes.” He nodded as Miss Carter smiled, then turned his attention back to me. “Twenty-five cents per machine, we stopped using the original repairman because he upped his prices too much. What do you say?”

I honestly had to think it over, a quarter wasn’t worth enough to stop and pick up in my time, I don’t even remember ever seeing one. In this time, on this world a quarter was a rather large sum, about equal to the income of a cafeteria cook ‘back home.’ “How many machines” I asked, “And when am I expected to work on them.”

“Two more very good questions” the Principal noted. “You really are an intelligent young woman Heather.” He turned his attention back to Miss Carter, “How many Sandra” he asked gently.

‘Sandra’ I thought, there was a friendship between these two. Probably nothing more, certainly not in a community and school this small. I listened as the two chatted, twenty-seven machines, some which were certainly beyond repair so make it twenty I caught. Twenty times twenty five cents was five dollars, more than little Heather had seen at one time in her life.

“Twenty then” Mr. Gooding decided as he turned his attention back to me. “Plus the ones in this classroom, that makes a total of forty six. I recall that your lunch break and study hall are sequential correct?”

“Yes sir, then typing class follows” I answered, still keeping my voice respectful.

“An hour and a half a day then” he decided. “We will not break into Miss Carter’s instruction time, it would not be respectful to her or you correct?”

“Yes sir” I agreed. “But it took me three hours to fix the first one, I won’t finish before school is out for the harvest.”

Both adults smiled at those words, then Miss Carter spoke. “I think that you will find that the work comes easier as you go. Shall we type up a contract then? I would be very unhappy if you completed the work to find that, without a contract Mr. Gooding does not pay you.”

So that was exactly what I did, typing while Miss Carter dictated. The entire contract took up less than a page, with room for all three of our signatures. Then I had to type it again, this time with a carbon copy. Learning curve, this new life had some very steep learning curves I thought as I completed the work. I did hope that one of them would give me an excuse slip for Mrs. Martin, I had already missed most of her mathematics period.

When I eventually returned to Mrs. Martin’s class it was with a slip signed by both Mr. Gooding and Miss Carter. Of course there were titters as I returned to my seat, there always would be but Heather had been in trouble before, mainly for sleeping in class so this really was nothing new. But I had a job, a job that if I was able to produce would give me a grand total of eleven dollars and fifty cents. Even after repaying my father his dime and giving the family fund half of it I just might be able to afford a used typewriter for myself.