Efrain's Secret - Another Excerpt

For those who are wondering why I haven't been blogging very frequently over the past few months. :)

___________
Incisive (adj.) clear, sharp, direct


When Trace lets us into the office, Nestor and I find Snipes sitting on the couch reading Sports Illustrated and smoking a cigar. He takes a swill of copper liquor in a short glass then rests it on the table in front of him. Nestor says, "What's up, Snipes?"

He looks up from his magazine and is obviously surprised to see Nes. Nevertheless, Snipes rises to his feet to shake his hand. "What's up?" Then he extends his palm to me. "How's it going, E?"

I have to smile a bit at that one. As I shake his hand, I say, "I've had better days, sir."

He chuckles as if he appreciates my honesty then motions for us to sit. "Word is one of Hinckley's boys wilded out on you, son," says Snipes. "That hothead Julian."

Nestors yells, "Yo, Snipes, he was trippin' . . ."

"I got this, man," I interrupt him. At first, I wanted Nestor here, but it looks bad for to speak for me all the damned time. "Look, I can't front, Snipes. He did wild out, but that's because I messed up." He says nothing, waiting for me to explain. "I was coming out of Floridita's when someone tried to cop from me. It totally slipped my mind I was off the block, and, you know, I got zealous. Tried to service him. So Hinckley's boy had reason step to me, but he ain't have to OD like he did. Punk crept up then raised up on me." Honestly, if Julian had just called the question, I wouldn't have known how to appease him, but I have to play this off. "Had he just stepped to me like a man, I would've owned up and compensated him, but like Nes said, he made a mountain out of a molehill."

Snipes eyeballs me. Without shifting his gaze from me, he addresses Nestor. "Is that how it went down?"

"Exactly."

"And how did y'all leave it."

Nestor waits for my cue, but just because I had to take control of the conversation doesn't mean I have to sell him out. "Nes slipped dude a fifty to let it go."

Snipes nods for a few seconds. He finally says, "Everyone, bounce for a minute while I talk to E." His boys roll out. "You, too, Nes."

Nestor hesitates but eventually gets to his feet. "I'll wait for you outside, a'ight?"

I want him to, for real, but I know that ain't the move. "Nah, kid, it's all good. I'm cool. I'll holla at you later." His face says You sure? I force myself to smile. "Remind me to tell you about that waitress I ran into at the restaurant."

Nestor runs with it. "Ah, the one with the big. . ."

"Yeah, that one."

"Yeah, man, she's fit, yo." He gives me a pound and then offers his hand to Snipes. "One, bro."

"Peace, kid." I don't know where to put my eyes until Nestor and the others leave so I pull lint off the cuff of my sweater. When the door closes, I finally look up at Snipes. He reaches toward the cigar box on the table between us. "Smoke?"

I shake my head. "Nah."

"Want a drink? A shot of rum. Some beer?"

"No, but thanks."

Snipes picks up his glass of rum, walks around the table and takes Nestor's seat beside me. "This isn't you, is it, E?" I have no idea what he means so I just shrug. He leans forward and sets his glass back on the table. "Tell me again what you're doing here."

My heart races. Snipes acts as if I have ulterior motives – like I'm fixing to sabotage him or something – yet I feel cheesy at the mere thought of telling him the truth. "Like I said, I need money."

"Yeah, I remember." I'm fraying his patience. "Nobody ever has enough. But why specifically do you need more?" When I hesitate to respond, Snipes jumps to his feet, reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wad of bills. "OK, Scout, here you go." He peels off one hundred dollar bill after the other, tossing them into a stack on the table. I count them as they pile up. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. "Is that enough for you?"

I go from embarrassed to offended. Snipes doesn't know me to rate my needs and motives in life so damned cheaply. I glance up at him and say, "Hardly."

He scoffs at me, and I look away. Snipes adds another grand in hundreds to the pile on the table. "How's that?"

"If I'm fired, just say so." My chest is on fire. "You don't have to ride me."

"I'm not riding you, Scout," says Snipes, heaping on the sarcasm. "I'm trying to help you." He whips out hundreds like an ATM until five stacks sit on the table. "You can take that and walk away, no questions asked."

I should take it, say peace out and never show my face around these parts again. But there's more at stake now than money. "I would if it were enough."

Snipes bends down and hollers in my face, "How much is enough then?"

"Thirty!" I yell back.

"For what?"

"College!"

"College?" He laughs like my name is Ernie, and I want to buy a truckload of rubber ducks. "College?"

"I didn't stutter." I'm not two feet from Cerebus, and I unleash this pent up bravado. Where was it when I was on the block?

Fat Princess

I just read the following article on Yahoo!
__________
Feminists cry foul over Fat Princess
Does Sony's cartoony castle game cross the line?

By Ben Silverman

She's plump, powerful and ready to cause more controversy than "SuperSize Me."

She's Fat Princess, the star of Sony's upcoming video game of the same name. Debuting at last week's E3 expo, the colorful Fat Princess is a capture-the-flag game with a twist: you can thwart capture attempts by locking the once-thin princess in a dungeon and stuffing her full of cake, thereby increasing her girth and making her harder for your enemies to haul back to home base.

According to popular gaming blog Joystiq, two feminist gaming sites have already voiced their displeasure with the weighty issue.

Feminist Gamer's "Mighty Ponygirl" rings in diplomatically, suggesting a new way to play the game altogether.

"Instead of running out into the forest to find cake to fatten up the princess with, why not go out and find gold (which is a lot heavier than cake) to stuff into a treasure chest. The more gold in the chest, the heavier it would be, and the harder it would be to carry," she said, before adding, "Oh, but that's not as "cute" as cake and fat chicks. Right."

Over at Shakesville, however, writer Melissa McEwan cuts to the chase, telling Sony she's "positively thrilled to see such unyielding dedication to creating a new generation of fat-hating, heteronormative ---holes."

Sony has yet to issue an official response, although Joystiq did receive a particularly informative update from James Green, Fat Princess' lead art director, who clued gamers in on the origins of the game:

"Does it make it better or worse that the concept artist (who designed the look, characters, everything) is a girl?"

Hmmm...hope the game's detractors don't mind eating a bit of crow.
____________________________
Ya know, I wasn't all that compelled to lobby a thorough critique of the game. But I couldn't let that last line slide so I pushed back at author Ben Silverman. Here's what I sent.

I don't know, Ben... just because the artist for "Fat Princess" is a girl (or she actually a woman?) shouldn't make critiques of the game "eat crow." Women are quite capable of being sexist, and what's wrong is wrong. All this proves is that the girl (or woman) behind this game has brought into some very problematic ideas about her own sex, and that's very sad. What's worse, she has decided to perpetuate them for a new generation of girls and boys instead of, say, making a game that doesn't traffick in some antiquated and hurtful ideas. As the folks at Joystiq stated, they could have gone another route without losing anything in the process. Lastly, I don't think one has to be a feminist to take issue with this game. I think many people -- heavy and thin, male and female, feminist and non-feminist -- would take issue with many aspects of "Fat Princess." The label for such folks is decent.

Want to tell Ben Silverman what you think? Here's the link to the article.
http://videogames.yahoo.com/feature/feminists-cry-foul-over-fat-princess/1232315

Reel Images: Stereotypes in Film

As I was updating my Shelfari page, I came across this video. It's a ten-minute clip of this wonderful panel I participated in sponsored by the Center for Communications in New York City called Reel Images: Stereotypes in Film. I was an honor and joy to have this conversation with some amazing talents and sharp minds. If you're in the New York metro area, definitely check out other Center programs. Shout out to Michelle Materre, Alfred Santana, Sophia Chang and, of course, my homegirl Sonia Gonzalez-Martinez for such an pleasant and inspiring night.

Appreciating Sisters Whether by Blood or Choice

My cousin Carmen sent this to me. After passing it on to a handful of close friends, I felt compelled to post it here so that other women can find and share it with the sisters in their lives. :)
__________
A young wife sat on a sofa on a hot humid day,

drinking iced tea and visiting with her Mother. As

they talked about life, about marriage, about the

responsibilities of life and the obligations of

adulthood, the mother clinked the ice cubes in her

glass thoughtfully and turned a clear, sober glance

upon her daughter.



'Don't forget your Sisters,' she advised, swirling

the tea leaves to the bottom of her glass. 'They'll

be more important as you get older. No matter how

much you love your husband, no matter how much you

love the children you may have, you are still going

to need Sisters. Remember to go places with them now

and then; do things with them.'


'Remember that 'Sisters' means ALL the women...

your girlfriends, your daughters, and all your other

women relatives too. 'You'll need other women. Women

always do.'


What a funny piece of advice!' the young woman

thought. Haven't I just gotten married?

Haven't I just joined the couple-world? I'm now a

married woman, for goodness sake! A grownup! Surely

my husband and the family we may start will be all I

need to make my life worthwhile!'


But she listened to her Mother. She kept contact

with her Sisters and made more women friends each

year. As the years tumbled by, one after another,

she gradually came to understand that her Mom really

knew; what she was talking about. As time and nature

work their changes and their mysteries upon a woman,

Sisters are the mainstays of her life.


After more than 50 years of living in this world,

here is what I've learned:


THIS SAYS IT ALL:


Time passes.

Life happens.

Distance separates.

Children grow up.

Jobs come and go.

Love waxes and wanes.

Men don't do what they're supposed to do.

Hearts break.

Parents die.

Colleagues forget favors.

Careers end.


BUT.........


Sisters are there, no matter how much time and how

many miles are between you. A girl friend is never farther away

than needing her can reach.


When you have to walk that lonesome valley and you

have to walk it by yourself, the women in your life

will be on the valley's rim, cheering you on,

praying for you, pulling for you, intervening on

your behalf, and waiting with open arms at the

valley's end.


Sometimes, they will even break the rules and walk

beside you...Or come in and carry you out.


Girlfriends, daughters, granddaughters,

daughters-in-law, sisters, sisters-in-law, Mothers,

Grandmothers, aunties, nieces, cousins, and extended

family, all bless our life!


The world wouldn't be the same without women, and

neither would I. When we began this adventure called

womanhood, we had no idea of the incredible joys or

sorrows that lay ahead. Nor did we know how much we

would need each other.


Every day, we need each other still. Pass this on

to all the women who help make your life meaningful.

I just did. Short and very sweet:


There are more than twenty angels in this world.

Ten are peacefully sleeping on clouds. Nine are

playing. And one is reading her email at this

moment.

WAM! Using Hip Hop Fiction to Incite Social Change

Watch activists and novelists E-Fierce, Jlove and myself as well as social justice educator Marcella Runell Hall as we present our groudbreaking curriculum Conscious Women Rock the Page: Using Hip Hop Fiction to Incite Social Change which is the bridge between the world of Hip Hop fiction and education for social change.

During our session at the Women, Action & Media Conference this March, we introduced attendees to the upsurge of feminist popular fiction utilizing hip hop subculture to raise substantive issues including race, class, gender, sexual orientation and culture. We read brief excerpts of our works, co-facilitate a sample activity from the curriculum and discussed how participants can exploit popular fiction to raise consciousness and promote activism, especially among young women who may not identify as either feminists or activists.

This is the first of two videos. Want to see Part 2? Visit the Conscious Women Rock the Page Myspace blog at www.myspace.com/rockthepage. :)

EFRAIN'S SECRET - Another Excerpt from My Young Adult Novel in Progress

I'm grinding away at the first draft of this manuscript, and I have to admit, a sista's tired. The closer I get to the end, the harder it is to finish, it seems. I'm that into and yet I think I need to rest my mind. I thought maybe if I shared a little bit more of it, it'd help me to return to the page. This scene takes place after Efrain's parents discover what he's been doing when he's supposed to be working a cash register at Jimmy Jazz.
__________


I treat myself to that hot shower, washing away the blood, the snot, the dirt, the street, the jail. But even though I lather twice and even wash my hair, I just can't strip the weight of what has happened. And not even holy water could dispel what is about to come. Sometimes I hear my mother and Rubio's raised voices over the hard spray of the shower. Only when I hear the apartment door slam do I turain. I towel off, change into the dingy sweats hanging behind the door and go face my mother.

She stands in the living room staring out of the window. At this hour, I don't know what there is to see. Even the bodega is closed, and Nestor's old crew is gone for the night. "Mami. . ."

My mother turns to face me with eyes swollen with exhaustion and anger. "Did you do it, Efrain? They arrested you for selling cocaine, and I need to hear the truth from you. Are you guilty?"

I knew this would be a hard conversation, but, man. . . I had no idea how deep it would cut. I don't know what hurts more: the fact that Moms still believes enough in me to grant me the benefit of the doubt or the reality of the next second in which I prove to her that I don't deserve it. "Yes."

And as if that single word gave her a push, my mother leans against the window to maintain her balance. "How long?"

I drop my head, tears stinging at the corner of my eyes. "Not long."

With threat behind every word, she presses. "How long is not long, Efrain?"

Damn, if she would just scream, and curse or even hit me, I can get through this. I can handle the rage. I want to take it. But this kind of weight? I can't carry it. I just can't. If I hurt her anymore, it will break me. "I've only been out there a few times, and I only did it to make money for college."

"Don't lie to me, Efrain. On top of everything. . ."

"That's the truth! I wasn't out there because I wanted clothes or jewelry or anything like that, and I had no plans to make it a way of life. Mami, I'm tired." I lift up my head because I know if my mother looks me in the eye, she will understand. "I'm tired of following all the rules and never winning the damn game. You don't want me to lie, OK, here's the truth. Nice guys don't finish last, Mami. Doing the right thing is supposed to be its own reward, but doing the right thing isn't going to pay my tuition. . ."

Suddenly, my mother grabs my chin like a vise. Gritting her teeth, she says, "You don't pay tuition when you go to prison." Before letting go, my mother shoves my head backwards. "And guess what, Efrain? If you get killed, soy yo que va tener que pagar. I'm the one who'll have to pay for your burial plot!"

In all my life, I have never seen my mother so enraged. No matter what he did, she never got this angry at Rubio.

Using Hip Hop Fiction Promote Social Justice: Yes, We Can!

MEDIA ANNOUNCEMENT

Conscious Women Rock the Page: Activists Team Up to Publish Curriculum that Uses Hip Hop Fiction to Explore Social Issues and Promote Political Action

WHAT:
To support educators who wish to use hip hop fiction in their classrooms to explore social issues and promote activism among their students, four women have teamed up to publish a curriculum entitled Conscious Women Rock the Page: Using Hip Hop Fiction to Incite Social Change (C♀RP.)

C♀RP is based on three hip hop novels praised for their treatment of substantive issues from race relations to dating violence in a genre often criticized for glorifying street life and perpetuating stereotypes. The curriculum contains over thirty lessons which are appropriate for use in middle school classrooms through university campuses. The novels upon which C♀RP is based are:

That White Girl, the debut novel of JLove, inspired by her own coming-of-age as a young White woman in Denver in the 80s which included becoming a graffiti artist and joining the local Crips.

The Sista Hood: On the Mic by E-Fierce is the first in a four-part series about four girls of color at a San Francisco high school who bond across their differences in race, class and sexual orientation through hip hop.

Picture Me Rollin’, the second of three novels by Black Artemis, brings a feminist twist to the “felon-come-home” tale as it follows a young Latina who is obsessed with Tupac Shakur in her uphill battle to rebuild her life.

C♀RPcontains lessons on multiple subjects and disciplines including English, social studies, ethnic studies, race relations, women’s studies, criminal justice and health and sexuality to name just a few.

WHO:
C♀RP is a collaboration among four women known in socially conscious hip hop circles: Jennifer “JLOVE” Calderón, author of That White Girl; Elisha “E-Fierce” Miranda, author of The Sista Hood; Sofía “Black Artemis” Quintero, author of Picture Me Rollin’; and Marcella Runell Hall, co-editor of The Hip Hop Education Guidebook. They have also enlisted a diverse team of activist educators to design lessons. The activities in C♀RP spark discussions on issues such as race, gender, class, sexual orientation and more.

WHEN:
Conscious Women Rock the Pagewill be available in late March 2008.

WHERE:
The creators Black Artemis, E-Fierce, JLove and Marcella will release the curriculum and demonstrate a sample lesson at the annual Women, Action and the Media Conference in Cambridge, MA, March 28-30, 2008. For more information about the conference, visit the WAM! website.

WHY:
Committed educators are always searching for ways to strike the balance between meeting students where they are yet bringing them to a higher level academically, socially and even emotionally. As a result, many are incorporating hip hop in their lessons from using rap songs to teach metaphors and similes to looking at the recording industry to impart lessons in economics.

Street lit – often called “hip hop fiction” – is immensely popular and credited for getting reluctant students to read. However, conscientious educators hesitate to use it as it frequently glorifies street life and perpetuates negative stereotypes. Whether they are middle and high school teachers, after-school program facilitators, community activists at grassroots organizations or college professors, C♀RP is a curriculum for educators who want to introduce popular media in their learning environments to engage their students on meaningful social and political issues, facilitate their empowerment, and inspire them to take action.

That White Girl, The Sista Hood and Picture Me Rollin’ each possess a commercial sensibility that will appeal to students of all backgrounds yet also raises substantive issues in a non-didactic manner. That makes these novels ideal for classroom use. C♀RP shows educators exactly how.

Sitting on the Literary Divide

Sitting on the Literary Divide

For the longest time I have been struggling with this idea that there is distinct line between commercial and literary fiction because I view my own work as a hybrid between the two. It is commercial because the genres in which I have written to date are popular, I employ a great deal of urban vernacular and my storylines are set in contemporary times among working-class characters of color living in New York City.

However, the themes I attempt to tackle and the issues I deliberately raise are the kind often confined to more literary works. Furthermore, I don't see myself just as storyteller but also a craftswoman. I believe most anyone can be an author, but only few authors are actually writers. I'm a writer.

So as the controversy over street lit rages on within the Black literary community, and lines in the sand are sharply drawn, I find myself increasingly reflective about where I stand. Or more like where I don't. Because on the one hand, I have been vocal and varied in my critique of the proliferation of street lit, and yet on the other hand, I get the distinct feeling that the literary set ain't having me.

Recently, a group of Black writers, editors and booksellers who call themselves RingShout have formed to recognize, reclaim and celebrate �excellence in contemporary literary fiction and nonfiction by black writers in the United States.� Of course, the creation of RingShout has generated numerous responses from the BackList's Felicia Pride's RingShout, Breaking Street Lit and Why Complaining Ain't Cute
to Mosaic's Ron Kavanaugh's LOVEHATE/ Old Man River to name just two. I found myself compelled to post the following comment on the RingShout blog.


Brothers and Sisters at RingShout,

As a writer and activist, I definitely support your efforts, but I do have a question, a sisterly pushback if you will.

I am one of those writers whose work lies in the middle. As an activist, I made a conscientious decision to write popular fiction as a way to raise socio-political issues among an audience of readers that might not otherwise engage them (and yet has the most to lose by their lack of engagement.) Indeed, one can employ the urban vernacular (not to be confused with the profane, least of all for its own sake) and still write deeply about the human condition. However, it is this ambition to grapple with substantive themes and a respect for craft that makes me identify with those who squarely place themselves in the literary camp. Quite frankly, I am adamant about distinguishing myself from street lit. Indeed, as a hip hop activist, it infuriates me when street lit is referred to as "hip hop fiction" in an effort to unilaterally equate hip hop with criminality and promiscuity and that criminality and promiscuity with "authentic" Blackness.

Yet I don't know if -- based on what I write alone -- if the literary crowd would embrace me. I don't know if solely based on my titles, covers, storylines and pen name, any of its members would even read a word to discover that, no, I'm not trafficking in the stereotypes and gratuitous sex and violence. That I truly am striving to meet readers where they are and take them some place better.

I can't tell you how many times I have sat on a panel with literary kin who seem just as surprised as white folks by my ability to speak the King's English and substantively even fearlessly discuss politics. Indeed, I think some of these folks have been upset with me for publicly shattering their prejudices about what a hip hop novelist is because it disrupts the false "them vs. us" dichotomy in which they are so deeply invested. One of your members, Eisa Ulen, has been a distinct exception to what has been an ongoing and increasingly disheartening experience.

Beyond the books I write, I have made genuine efforts to walk my talk on this. Currently, I have teamed up with Jennifer "JLove" Calderon, Elisha "E-Fierce" Miranda, and Marcella Runell Hall to self-publish a curriculum based on our books called CONSCIOUS WOMEN ROCK THE PAGE: USING HIP HOP FICTION TO INCITE SOCIAL CHANGE. I have worked and hope to continue to work with Felicia Pride of BackList to create discussion guides that will support educators who want to bring their students from street lit to classics. Indeed, we had decided that perhaps the best way to do this was to identify "bridge novels" from writers such as Ernesto Quinonez, Kalisha Buckhanon, Kenji Jasper and myself to name a few; work that we feel will appeal to fans of street lit, yet because of the command of craft and the depth of themes, can move them closer to the works of, say, James Baldwin or Zora Neale Hurston. Elisha Miranda and I co-founded a nonprofit organization in East Harlem to support women of color who want to seize the power of entertainment to promote social justice. (By the way, is there room for Afro-Latin@s in your cipher or is your movement only about African American literature?)

So if there is such a sharp line between the commercial and literary, where do writers like me and my peers belong? Does such a line serve any of us - writers and readers alike in general, and specifically those of us from communities that have been long underrepresented or misrepresented?

In any event, let's dialogue and make change.

Sisters Talking Politics at the Dunkin' Donuts

When I jump off the Bx4, there's no Bx19 in sight so I head into the Dunkin' Donuts on the corner of Westchester and Southern Boulevard. The middle-aged African American woman ahead of me in line sports an OBAMA '08 button on the lapel of her church-nice coat. One of the young women behind the counter - an African American in her early 20s - sports a black wrap under her Giants cap. �Yeah, you voting for Obama?� she says to the customer.

Her coworker - a fair-skinned Latina - asks, �And who're you voting for?�

�Me? Clinton, baby,� she says, wagging her finger. �Last time under Clinton, I had a good job making $52,000 a year. Then Bush comes in, and now I'm working at Dunkin' Donuts.� All of us smile appropriately. Like we understand that it's funny but not that funny. OK to smile, foul to laugh.

The older woman says, �The reason why I'm not voting for Clinton is because it's time for a change. Her husband was in there before, and so she's made connections and deals, and you know they owe people. So if Hillary gets in, she's going to be paying them back, and we don't need that. Same with Bush. First the father, then the son, the same nonsense. At least with Obama, we start fresh.�

Never thought of it that way, and I guess there's something to that. Not that Obama won't have some cronies to grease for helping him get into office if he becomes president because that's just not the way things work, but, you know. . .

�I just made up my mind last week,� I say to the woman, �and I'm supporting Obama, too.�

The cashier says, �No more Republicans.� I laugh, agreeing with that. Seems we all agree on that one. As she hands the woman in front of me her coffee and change, she adds, �They're not for us.� We all agree on that, too. �At least, the Democrats are for us.�

IIIIIIIIII don't know about all that, but I understand why she feels that way.

The woman heads for the door with her coffee and change. Before she steps out onto the street, she stops �Vote for whoever you want,�she calls over her shoulder. �Just vote.�

Ach�.

A Sad Day in the Black Literary World

I just received the following announcement.
January 22, 2008
Dear Karibu Customer,
After 15 years of service within the Washington, DC metropolitan area, Karibu Books, a Black bookstore chain will be closing its doors. We sincerely thank each and every one of you for your patronage and support. We are optimistic that our mission to empower and educate through a comprehensive selection of books by and about people of African descent will continue to resonate within the communities we proudly served.
Since 1993, we have been blessed to help thousands of local, regional and national authors share their incredible stories of faith, hope, love, peace, politics and race. We cannot begin to express our gratitude for the countless authors who have graced our six stores and enriched our customers' lives.
On Sunday, January 27th, We will be closing our Security Square (Baltimore, MD) and Forestville locations. The remaining locations, Bowie Town Center, The Mall at Prince Georges and Iverson Mall will close on Sunday, February 10th. Our Pentagon City store is already closed.
Effective immediately, all inventory at all locations will be 50% off. All fixtures will also be available for purchase on February 10th. See individual store managers for more information.
Again, we respectfully thank you for your loyalty, laughter and love. What an honor and privilege it has been to serve our community!
Sincerely,
Simba Sana
CEO
Karibu Books
Karibu Locations:Security Square Mall, 6901 Security Boulevard, Baltimore, Md 21244, 410.944.6090
Centre' at Forestville, 3289 B Donnell Drive, Forestville, Md 20747, 301.736.6170
The Mall at Prince George's, 3500 East West Hwy, Hyattsville, Md 20782, 301.559.1140
Iverson Mall, 3817 Branch Ave., Hillcrest Heights, Md. 20748, 301.899.3730
Bowie Town Center, 15624 Emerald Way, Bowie, Md 20716, 301.352.4110

I can only speculate as to why Karibu is closing, but I hope that this is not an omen of futher things to come.

Efrain's Secret - An Excerpt of My Young Adult Novel in Progress

I'm almost through the first draft of my first young adult novel Efrain's Secret which will be published under my real name by Knopf in 2009. As I grind toward deadlines, it becomes difficult to maintain the blog so I decided why not share a bit with you the project that is keeping me from posting on a regular basis. After all, it's been a minute since I dropped a novel, and while there are several in the works besides this one, this is a new direction for me. Here's a lighthearted moment between Efrain (aka Scout) with his boys. Enjoy!
__________
When I hit the block tonight, Nestor says, "Yo, E, LeRon's got something for you."

"Me?"

]"Yeah."

"What's with the big, cheesy grin?"

"Just go over there."

"Don't mess with me, Nestor."

"Go!"

So I walk over to the other corner. LeRon sees me coming, and he has on this ol' cheese face, too. A folded sweatshirt hangs over his shoulder. I get my guard up but give him a pound. "What's up, L?"

"Yo, Scout, check it." LeRon unzips his parka, and who pops out at me but Frazzle. That's right. Homeboy's wearing a sweatshirt with that muppet's bushy-eyed grill on it.

"Oh, no!" I laugh. "Where'd you get that?"

"My sister made it for me."

"That's cool though."

"I told her how y'all be calling me Frazzle and shit, and then she goes and makes me this shirt, talking 'bout how I'm just like him." LeRon starts counting the ways on his fingers. "Look like him, talk like him, act like him. . ."

"It's true, yo!" I just can't stop laughing. "All of it."
"Nigga's even afraid of the dentist like me." I really crack up at that one, but LeRon is, like, mad serious. "Yo, what you laughing at, man? Ain't you ever seen that movie Marathon Man?"
"No." I had never even heard of it until now.

"Yeah, well, peep that shit, and see if you ever want to go the dentist again."

I shake my head. "Dude, brush your damn teeth every day like you supposed to and lay off all that soda, and trust me, you won't have to be scared of going to the dentist."

"Whatever, yo." Then LeRon tosses the sweatshirt hanging over his shoulder at me. "This one's for you."

I catch the sweatshirt and unfold it. Kermit the Frog. I have to smile. At least, it ain't Elmo. LeRon is clowning me like it is though, but I don't let him phase me. "But Kermy's cool though. He writes books, does movies. . . He's a Renaissance frog."

LeRon gives me this look like we're debating capital punishment or abortion or some shit like that. "His girlfriend's a pig, yo."

OK, now I have to get a little serious, too. "Don't with play me, LeRon. You don't know my shorty. Keep her out of it."

He points at me. "Ah! You were about to wild out, weren't you? Ah, ha!"

I start to head back to my post. Halfway there I stop to yell, "Yo, Frazzle, one more thing. You need to go see the dentist before your teeth start falling out. That's the whole point."

"Yo, E, shut up and drum up some business."

"No doubt." I get to Nestor, and he's cracking up. Guess he knew about Kermit before I did. "It ain't that funny, Elmo."

"Nah, I ain't Elmo, kid."

"Yeah, you are. You Elmo."

"No, I'm not, man."

"I'm telling you, you Elmo, son. You're simple, you're ticklish, you be acting like you're three years old. . . ." As I try to think of more ways in which Nestor and Elmo are alike, he unzips his leather jacket. "Yooo. . . it's Fozzie!" I just lose it. "Man, you cats are taking me back. I forgot all about Fozzie."

"Yeah," says Nestor. "Wocka, wocka, nigga."

It's a miracle I don't piss myself, I'm laughing so hard.

Efrain's Secret - An Excerpt from My Young Adult Novel in Progress

I'm almost through the first draft of my first young adult novel Efrain's Secret which will be published under my real name by Knopf in 2009. As I grind toward deadlines, it becomes difficult to maintain the blog so I decided why not share a bit with you the project that is keeping me from posting on a regular basis. After all, it's been a minute since I dropped a novel, and while there are several in the works besides this one, this is a new direction for me. Here's a lighthearted moment between Efrain (aka Scout) with his boys. Enjoy!
__________
When I hit the block tonight, Nestor says, "Yo, E, LeRon's got something for you."
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"What's with the big, cheesy grin?"
"Just go over there."
"Don't mess with me, Nestor."
"Go!"
So I walk over to the other corner. LeRon sees me coming, and he has on this ol' cheese face, too. A folded sweatshirt hangs over his shoulder. I get my guard up but give him a pound.
"What's up, L?"
"Yo, Scout, check it." LeRon unzips his parka, and who pops out at me but Frazzle. That's right. Homeboy's wearing a sweatshirt with that muppet's bushy-eyed grill on it.
"Oh, no!" I laugh. "Where'd you get that?"
"My sister made it for me."
"That's cool though."
"I told her how y'all be calling me Frazzle and shit, and then she goes and makes me this shirt, talking 'bout how I'm just like him." LeRon starts counting the ways on his fingers. "Look like him, talk like him, act like him. . ."
"It's true, yo!" I just can't stop laughing. "All of it."
"Nigga's even afraid of the dentist like me." I really crack up at that one, but LeRon is, like, mad serious. "Yo, what you laughing at, man? Ain't you ever seen that movie Marathon Man?"
"No." I had never even heard of it until now.
"Yeah, well, peep that shit, and see if you ever want to go the dentist again."
I shake my head. "Dude, brush your damn teeth every day like you supposed to and lay off all that soda, and trust me, you won't have to be scared of going to the dentist."
"Whatever, yo." Then LeRon tosses the sweatshirt hanging over his shoulder at me. "This one's for you."
I catch the sweatshirt and unfold it. Kermit the Frog. I have to smile. At least, it ain't Elmo. LeRon is clowning me like it is though, but I don't let him phase me. "But Kermy's cool though. He writes books, does movies. . . He's a Renaissance frog."
LeRon gives me this look like we're debating capital punishment or abortion or some shit like that. "His girlfriend's a pig, yo."
OK, now I have to get a little serious, too. "Don't with play me, LeRon. You don't know my shorty. Keep her out of it."
He points at me. "Ah! You were about to wild out, weren't you? Ah, ha!"
I start to head back to my post. Halfway there I stop to yell, "Yo, Frazzle, one more thing. You need to go see the dentist before your teeth start falling out. That's the whole point."
"Yo, E, shut up and drum up some business."
"No doubt." I get to Nestor, and he's cracking up. Guess he knew about Kermit before I did. "It ain't that funny, Elmo."
"Nah, I ain't Elmo, kid."
"Yeah, you are. You Elmo."
"No, I'm not, man."
"I'm telling you, you Elmo, son. You're simple, you're ticklish, you be acting like you're three years old. . . ." As I try to think of more ways in which Nestor and Elmo are alike, he unzips his leather jacket. "Yooo. . . it's Fozzie!" I just lose it. "Man, you cats are taking me back. I forgot all about Fozzie."
"Yeah," says Nestor. "Wocka, wocka, nigga."
It's a miracle I don't piss myself, I'm laughing so hard.

Winners of Day 10 of the 12 Days of Chica Lit Blog Tour

If you're Karin Tollotsin or Patricia Cochran, then you are the winners of the prizes offered by Misa Ramirez. Contact Misa for more information.

To win the Black Artemis bundle, read my story "I.C.E." and answer the following question:

To what Brooklyn neighborhood did Nancy go for her job interview?

You can post here or at my blog on MySpace. In fact, you may want to read the story on MySpace as the formatting is better. (Blogger just won't cooperate with me.) However, correct entries both here on Blogger and on MySpace will be considered for the random drawing.

To find out if you won, tomorrow visit Toni Plummer's blog and read the last story of the tour!

Day 11 of 12 DAYS OF CHICA LIT

“Oh, my God, Nancy, I think this is the one,” sings Celestina from behind the stall. “Your brother loves green, too.”
I just mumble, “Yup, he sure does.” She swore the last three dresses she tried on were the One. My cell phone rings, indicating that I have a text message. I reach into my pocket for it and flip it open.
Have you forgotten to pay your bill? For your convenience, you can pay 24 hours online or at., . .
I slam the phone closed and shove it back into my two-year old parka.
“Is that yours or mine?” Cee asks.
“Mine,” I say. “Telemarketers.”
“Girl, you have to put your cell phone number on the Do Not Call list, too,” Celestina swears that my brother is going to propose to her at her company’s holiday party and has dragged me to three department stores from Manhattan to Westchester to find the perfect dress. I have no idea if Migs intends to pop the question. That boy doesn’t talk to me about things like that even though his girlfriend for the past three years is my best friend. Maybe that’s precisely why he doesn’t talk to me about her.
Celestina steps out of the stall wearing a strapless emerald velvet gown with a matching silk taffeta stole around the bodice. Even without a stitch of makeup and her hair pulled up in a lumpy ponytail, she looks fantastic. If he has no plans on proposing, Migs just might after one look at her in that dress.
“Wow, Cee, you’re right,” I say as I stand in amazement. “That’s the One.”
“You really think so?”
“Definitely.”
Gathering the fabric in her hands so she won’t trip over the hem, she comes over to hug me. “I can’t wait until we’re officially sisters, Nancy.”
“Me, too, Cee.” We hold each other for a second. “Cee?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we go eat now?”

************************************************************************
When I accepted Cee’s dinner invitation tonight, I knew that in exchange for the free meal, I first would have to endure at least three hours of Christmas shopping. Last year, I would’ve been all for it. This year, however, I’m so broke, my eyes have splinters. It hurts to look at anything I can’t afford which is pretty much everything. It’s so bad that despite my lack of holiday cheer, I force myself to go every holiday party I can for the free hor’deurves and liquor.
So I appreciate Celestina making dinner all about me. Cee lets me choose the restaurant, doesn’t blink an eye when I order my third margarita and lets me go on and on about how much it sucks to be so broke during Christmas because the at-home graphic design business that I quit my dull but well-paying job at a major stationery company to start is almost dead.
“The worst thing is that I’ve been so good, Cee.” I take a big gulp and polish off Margarita #3. “I mean, if I were being irresponsible with my money or slacking off, I’d admit it to you even if no one else. But I’ve been so. . . so. . . “
Cee spears a crouton on her Caesar salad. “Disciplined?”
“Sooooo disciplined, and I’ve got ssssquat to show for it.” I reach for my fork, and drop it the second I lift it off the table. OK, I’m at the edge of drunkenness. You know, that point where you’ve drunk enough to affect your speech and coordination yet sober enough to be aware and embarrassed by the slurring and the dropsies. That’s when you’re supposed to quit. “Where’s the ssserver? I need another fork. And a Cosmo.”
God bless Cee. She rolls her eyes but bites her tongue. That’s a friend. Instead she says, “Oh, before I forget. Santa dropped this off for you at our place.” She reaches down into one of her shopping bags and pulls out a gift-wrapped box.
I stare at the box. “Oh, my God, Cee, you didn’t. . . “I finally accept it and unwrap it. She bought me the latest BlackBerry which does everything – makes calls, sends email, plays music, washes dishes. . . No wonder it costs almost four hundred dollars without a service plan.
Cee smiles. “Well, I didn’t. I mean, that’s from both your brother and me. You’re an entrepreneur, Nancy, and every entrepreneur needs a PDA.”
Only if she’s successful. I know Migs and she meant nothing but the best, but the extravagant gift makes me feel worse. No one – not even my parents and nieces in Florida – is getting a thing from me this Christmas except cards which I’ve been too depressed to even send.
And as if she can read my mind, Cee says, “We just loved the card you made for us, Nancy. Instead of hanging it along with the rest of the cards we received, Migs framed it and hung it on the wall. You’re so talented, Nancy.”
After such tremendous generosity, I don’t know if I have the heart to tell Cee that I can barely keep my current cellular phone service never mind switch to. . .
“Wait a minute. . .” I reach for my jacket and pat down the pockets. Then I start to panic. “Oh, shit! Cee, I lost my cell phone.”
Cee laughs and raises her glass. “You don’t need it anymore!”
I grab my purse and scour through it. “What do you mean I don’t need it? It’s the only telephone I have. My entire address book is in there.” I hadn’t told her that the telephone company disconnected the outgoing service on my landline because my account is sixty days overdue. If I don’t pay before the year is out, they’re going to cut my incoming service, too. “And what if a potential client calls me, and I can’t get back to them.” Never mind that for the past three months the only business calls I get are about my outstanding invoices with Yahoo! and Staples. “The last thing I need right now, Celestina, is for some pendejo to rack up calls on my phone and send my bill soaring through the roof!”
“OK, OK, OK, Nancy, calm down.” Cee should know better than to say that to me. I slam my head down on the table and start to cry. “C’mon, you’re getting garlic sauce in your hair.”
That works. I don’t want to walk around smelling like tilapia. Although at the rate I’m going, that will be inevitable since I’m also behind in my rent. I lift my head, but bury my face in my sleeve. “This is the worst Christmas I’ve had in my entire life.”
Cee reaches over with a napkin to wipe garlic sauce out of my split ends because it’s been six months since I’ve gotten a trim never mind gotten my hair done. “Look, we’ll head back to Nordstrom. How much you wanna bet it’s in the dressing room? That’s where you used it last, right?” I nod like an unconvinced toddler. “Let’s just get the check and go back. They’re probably holding it for you.”
She summons the server for the check, and we head back to mall. On the way, Cee even calls the store and asks if anyone found my phone. Two seconds after she asks, the look on her face gives away the answer.
“Let’s go anyway and look for ourselves,” says Cee. Then she starts scanning the sidewalk like a Basset hound. “We’ll retrace our steps and. . .”
“If I dropped the phone between Nordstrom’s and PF Chang’s, forget it. It’s gone. If someone didn’t kick it into traffic, and it got smashed by a truck, they picked it up and are singing Feliz Navidad to their abuelita a million miles away.”
“C’mon, Nancy, let’s at least go back to Nordstrom. Just because the girl who answered the phone didn’t see it doesn’t mean no one else there did. You never know.”
“No, Cee, I just want to go home.”
“OK.”
Cee drives us back from White Plains to the Bronx, allowing me to brood in silence and changing the radio station every time the DJ decides to play a holiday jingle. Only when she finally pulls off the exit and heads toward our neighborhood does she speak “Why don’t you come by our place for a bit?” says Cee. “Your brother’s been asking for you. I’m sure he’d like to see you.
Translation: Migs wants to be sure you’re not going to ruin our holidays by hanging yourself with the Christmas lights. “Some other time, Cee, OK?”
“OK.” She gives me a hug, reminds me not to forget my new BlackBerry and tells me she’ll call me later. Once I get back to my studio, I fling myself across the futon and cry myself to sleep.

************************************************************************
I wake up around ten the next morning in the same exact position where I crashed. Slowly but surely, I get myself up. That’s when I notice the light blinking on my telephone. When I came to accept that the only calls I was going to get were from collection departments and not potential clients, I shut off the ringer on the telephone and turned down the volume on the answering machine. Since I feel bad about being such a grinch, I turn up the volume and play my messages just in case I received a call from Cee or Migs or some other relative. Maybe just maybe, a long lost friend that I had blown off one time too many while starting my soon-to-be defunct graphic design business is feeling charitable this season and has decided to give me one last chance. So I hit play and listen while pressing my fingers into my face trying to iron out the sleep wrinkles embedded in my right cheek.
The first message is from that same chick with the thick accent. This is Kathleen from Universal Fidelity calling Nancy Aguire. Miss Aguire, this is not a telemarketing call, and I need. . .”
“It’s Aguirre, ¡idiota! Ah-GHEE-reh not Uh-GWY-er!” I yell at the machine. “That’s why I’m not going to call you back never mind pay you.” I glance at the caller ID window on the machine. Area code 281. Isn’t that freakin’ Texas? Then she really should know better. Any excuse, right? I hit delete, realizing that if I had had ordered voicemail service through my telephone company instead of splurging almost two hundred dollars on this home office system, good ol’ Kathleen from Universal Fidelity wouldn’t be breathing down my neck right now because Verizon would’ve cut off the voicemail. I can’t even screw up right.
“Nancy? It’s Migs. Yo, Nancy, pick up. Look, mama, I know things are real tough right now for you, and I just want you to know I’ve got your back, OK? I’ll help you best as I can even though I’m not exactly rolling in it since. . .” He lowers his voice into a whisper. Well, as close to a whisper as a Puerto Rican six-foot-two, muscle-bound correction officer raised in a South Bronx housing project can manage. I just bought Celestina an engagement ring, OK, and, so help me God, you best not breathe a word to her. You hear me, Nancy? I don’t care if she is your best friend. If you say anything to her, I’ma go over there and kick your ass. I swear, Nancy, as I live and breathe. . . In the background, I hear Cee enter the room and ask if my brother if he reached me. So if push comes to shove, and you need to stay with us until you get back on your feet, you know, you can. OK, mama? I’ll try you again later.
Despite the threat to do me bodily harm if I spoil his proposal, I’m moved by my brother’s offer. I know it’s sincere and had nothing to do with Cee’s prodding. I’d just rather pitch a tent underneath a bypass of the Bronx River Parkway than move in on two newlyweds. I put the volume on maximum, skip to the next message and head over to the kitchen to make myself some coffee.
Nancy. . . It’s Jay. Wow, it’s been what? Definitely more than a year. Even though my refrigerator is in my living room, I spin around and run back to the phone. Listen, a little bird told me that you lost your cell phone at Nordstrom’s. No, the bird’s name is not Celestina who I’m sure was with you at the time buying out the place. Anyway, if you want to find out how I know and to make arrangements to get your phone back, give me a shout. My cell’s the same. . . It’ll be good to hear your voice… you know, in person. Well, not in person, but. . . you know what I mean. Looking forward to talking to you, Nancy. Bye.
How on earth did the ex-boyfriend that I haven’t spoken to in over a year get his hands on the cell phone I lost in White Plains?
Although Jay and I parted on good terms, I feel nervous as I dial his new number. The last time we saw each other. . . I can’t even remember. After we broke up, we made a genuine effort to remain friends and even got together for coffee two or three times. But I was knee-deep in building my own business, and he was trying to get his doctorate in psychology. Once I cancelled dinner to take on a last-minute rush job that would have brought me some desperately needed income. We rescheduled for lunch two weeks later only for Jay to bail because his advisor gave him a break-neck deadline to revise a chapter of his dissertation. I’m not sure, but I think he was supposed to call me to reschedule but never did, and so we just fell out of touch. Until now.
I’m sorry. Your call cannot be completed. Please call. . .
“Shit!” In my surprise over Jay’s call, I forgot that I had no outgoing service. I pull on my jacket and walk the five blocks to Celestina and Miguel’s apartment.

************************************************************************
As I dial Jay’s number from the telephone in my brother’s bedroom, I feel like a linebacker with Celestina sitting on my neck like a huge shoulder pad. I look over to her and mouth His voicemail. Cee sucks her teeth and backs off me a bit.
But then I realize that I’m not prepared for this call at all.Just as the beep sounds, I hang up. Celestina gives me a questioning look. “Cee, why did Jay and I break up again?” I ask, “I mean, I remember all the damned fighting. But what was it the hell about. I can’t remember.”
Cee shrugs. “Everything. Stupid shit. All that fighting about nothing, that’s why you had to break up.”
I nod, but I’m not satisfied. It makes sense, and yet it doesn’t. “Oh, what’s the big deal?” I finally say as I dial Jay’s number for the second time. “Hey, Jay, it’s Nancy. What a nice surprise to hear your voice after all this time! Yes, I’m super curious to hear how you got your hands on my cell phone which I do need back right away so. . .” For a second, I’m lost for words. Celestina puts her hand to her ear as if she’s making a call. . . “. . . uh, yeah, call me back. Youhavethenumbersothanksbye!” I disconnect the call. I don’t know where that sudden wave of anxiety came from.
“You should’ve left him this number, too, you know, and hang out for a bit in case he calls back.”
“What for?” Before she can even answer that, I say, “Besides, it’s bad enough my broke-ass is going to have to see him to get my phone back, I don’t need him calling here looking for me.”
“Why not? What’s so terrible about seeing Jay?”
“It’s not Jay. It’s me. I don’t want him to see me like this.”
Cee looks me up and down. “OK, so you need a trim and the highlights haven’t grown out, but so what? You put your hair up. A little makeup, a nice outfit. . .”
“Cee, it’s not the way I look.” I throw myself backwards on her bed and stare up at her ceiling. “It’s the way I am. If you were in my shoes, would you want an ex-boyfriend to see you this way?”
“What are you going to do?” Cee’s upside down face pops over mine. “Wait until your life is perfect before you meet the guy to get your phone back?”
“No,” I say. “But I should at least get a damn job.”
Migs comes into the bedroom with his Love you but get out face so I head home.

************************************************************************
Who happens to call me while I was walking the five blocks?
Nancy! Where are you? You just called me. Probably at some party rubbing elbows with other artsy types. Hope you’re having a good time. Anyway, I’ll be up pretty late so if you want to find out how I got your phoooone, call me back when you get in.
Shit! Why doesn’t the man just tell me? No way in hell am I heading back to Cee’s to return his call. Besides Jay thinks I have a life. Let him. I’ll go get one tomorrow and then call him back.

************************************************************************
With a batch of quarters in my purse and my resume on a flash drive, I go to the neighborhood library so I can search for a job. I’m not above getting a customer service gig at a department store just to keep myself afloat, but what’s the point? The holiday season is underway so there’s probably no work in retail to be had. Better to invest my time in finding something more permanent.
When I feel my resume is in decent shape, I take a break to call Jay on the pay phone. The library is virtually empty during a cold weekday so the conditions are ideal. Having done something to better my situation, I feel ready to speak directly to him.
I take a deep breath and dial only to get his voicemail.
Tag, you’re it. . . I give a small laugh. You know what, Joaquín? I’m starting to wonder if you truly want to return my phone. Don’t let me find out you’re using up all my minutes. Whoa, where did that come from? I sound way too flirty. I hit three on the keypad so I can erase and rerecord my message. I wait for the cue, but it never comes. Only then I remember that feature only works on my phone. ¡Que estupida! I immediately slam the receiver down and back away from the phone as if it were possessed. Should I call back and apologize for the obnoxious beep I left on Jay’s voicemail? No, that would be even more pathetic.
Instead I head back to my job search. I keep it at for a few hours not stopping until my eyes blur and my stomach growls. Do I save time and grab fast (and not inexpensive) food near the library or do I save money and walk the three blocks back to my apartment and make myself a (free) meal? I decide it’s best to go home.

************************************************************************
Waiting for me are five messages. Four are about overdue accounts including one from the telephone company. The last, of course, is from Jay and starts with a husky laugh.
Don’t worry, Nancy. I’m not using up your minutes. Damn, you called me Joaquín, too? You must mean business. Now what if I were using your phone? What were you going to do about it? Spank me? He laughs again and then hangs up.
I laugh like I haven’t in weeks. One of the things Jay used to do to crack me up was that silly spank-the-booty dance. Whenever I had an unproductive day and refused to cheer up, he’d just start galloping around and smacking his own ass just to make me laugh. It never failed. Once we had a big argument about something before meeting Cee and Migs at the movies for a double date. I was behind on a job, he was stuck on a chapter. . . I don’t think either of us really wanted to go out, but somehow we got started on each other. Right there in the middle of the multiplex lobby, Jay starts to gallop, and I just couldn’t stay mad at him. It takes guts for a man to do that in public, especially in front of his girlfriend’s muy macho older brother.
While waiting for my griddle cheese sandwich to heat, I scour through my jar of loose change for more quarters. I toss them in my purse, wrap my sandwich in a paper towel and walk back to the library, eating along the way. I even stop at a bakery and splurge on a large cup of hot chocolate.

************************************************************************
Before I settle in front of a computer at the library, I head over to the pay phone and call back Jay. Once again, I get his voicemail, and I don’t mind. I decide to play with him just a little. Spank you? From what I remember, you’d like that. A lot. Now me? All I want for Christmas is my phone so would you pretty please let me know when and where we can meet? I’m pretty flexible. From what I remember, you liked that, too.
Whoa, I didn’t mean to go that far! What’s gotten into me? Well, what’s done is done. And what’s a little flirtation between exes turned friends? It’s sweet even if it’s going nowhere.

************************************************************************
Over the next few days, Jay and I compare schedules and make a date via telephone tag. Not once does he ask me why I never call him from my home number, and I stop asking him how he wound up with my cell phone. He flirts up a storm, and while I can’t deny it puts a smile on my face, I do my best not to give him the impression I’m interested. Still I tease him a little so as not to hurt his feelings.
So you’re still flexible, huh? Well, then we should get together soon.
Real soon. Like tomorrow night. How ‘bout Café Sevilla’s at six?
Hi, Jay. Café Sevilla, yes. Tomorrow night, no. Migs and Cee are insisting I go to her office Christmas party because he’s going to pop the question. Migs has no clue that she sees it coming, Cee doesn’t know that I know he bought the ring, they both need me for moral support. You know how it goes. I’d like to invite you, but I don’t know. . . I’m starting to think you’re a figment of my imagination. You know, an eggnog mirage. Like Santa, I’ma need to see you to believe you. Byyye!
Misss Nancelot! You know, I almost took you up on your invitation to Cee’s office party, but I decided I want you to myself. And by the way, I known you know I’m real. You know how I know? I’ll tell you when I see you. Sevilla’s on Friday?
J-Real, so we be chillin’ at Sevilla’s on Friday, but can we make it seven, babe? I have an appointment in Brooklyn at four. Don’t want to be late lest you get it twisted. I ain’t skeered of you.

************************************************************************
The interview I scored at the up and coming design boutique in Williamsburg goes so well, I lose track of time. I had applied only because I had no choice but to go back into the traditional workforce, but fifteen minutes after I arrive, I decide I really want this job. The pay is much less than I made at the stationery company since it’s a mom-and-pop shop – or maybe I should say a papi-y-papi shop since my bosses are two older Latino gay men – but the job requires true creativity. Not only will I gain new skills, I’ll also learn about the business. I can see myself happily making the hour-and-half commute every day for several years until I either become a partner or strike out on my own again with a real shot at making it.
I leave the loft knowing that the reference check is just a formality, and I can’t wait to see Jay and tell him all about it. I glance at the clock in the lobby. It’s five-thirty. I’ll be cutting it close, but I should make it to Café Sevilla’s on time, especially since it’s rush hour. And first chance I get, I’ll switch to the express. On my way to the subway station, it starts to flurry, and the holiday spirit just grabs me. I even start humming Sleigh Ride. When I realize how corny I’m being, I actually start to sing.

************************************************************************
Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a problem with the train in front of us. As soon as we can, we will be moving. We apologize for the inconvenience and appreciate your patience.
Liar! We have moved, like, seven inches in the last half-hour. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t bother me. I’m a native New Yorker, and like it or not, these unforeseen delays happen, and I can take them in stride. But not today, damn it! For the past year and a half I’ve been working from home with only rare occasion to go into Manhattan, and now the subway wants to act up?
It wouldn’t be so bad if my train at least had paused in a station. That way I could just get off, find a pay phone and let Jay know that I’m running late. But we’re stuck underground where I couldn’t even get a signal if I had my cell phone.
The train finally crawls into the next station, making me a half-hour late. At least now I can do something besides sit and wait. I paw my way through the rush-hour crowd – thicker with the holiday shopping bags – and onto the platform. I practically have to walk to the other end to find a pay phone.
I lose a dollar and watch my train leave the station before I realize that bastard doesn’t work. But I keep my cool. It’s not like that train is going to pick up speed and make up time. I look at the system map and see that another subway line is not far. I’ll just walk to it and stop at a pay phone to call Jay on the way.

************************************************************************
Damn it, I forgot how deceivingly close things seem on a Metropolitan Transit Authority map. Not to mention how a working pay phone in New York City is much like Santa Claus and Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer – something that ceased to exist in my universe once I turned ten.
I walk at least a mile in my interview pumps and lose several more dollars at five pay phones before I reach the next subway line. I imagine Jay sitting at Sevilla’s, checking his watch and wondering if I stood him up. Having used my cell phone instead of wearing a watch for years, I have no idea what time it is until I get to the station. It’s now a quarter after six. I can forget about getting there by seven. At best, I’ll make it by seven-thirty. That is, if nothing else goes wrong.
Jay will give me until seven-thirty. He knows I’d call him if I could. I mean, the man knows I have no phone. Well, at least no mobile phone. He has my cell phone. So he’ll cut me some slack and give me until seven-thirty.
Won’t he?
I mean, he’s been flirting with me for over a week. Surely, Jay’s not going to jump ship at the first misunderstanding, is he?
Then again, why shouldn’t he? Especially since I’ve been playing hard to get. Well, not playing, but. . .
I have to do something. Last night I swallowed my pride and asked Cee to lend me a few bucks. Despite all his flirtation, I didn’t want to risk that Jay would offer to treat me to dinner. Even if he did, I planned to insist on paying for myself. The way I see it, I have two choices.
One, I could just stick with public transportation with the hope that Jay is still waiting for me at the restaurant. Once there I then could recover a modicum of pride by paying for my own meal. And I would never have to reveal just how much life has sucked for the past few months.
Two, I could use the cash I have to take a cab, perhaps get there only fashionably late and confess my poverty to Jay when it came time to order.
“Taxi!”

************************************************************************
Those damned flurries I had been serenading just hours before become the bane of my existence. They contribute to a three car fender-bender on the FDR Drive. I arrive at Café Sevilla’s at ten after eight. As I run from the cab to the entrance, I keep telling myself that Jay’s still there. Of course, he’s there. Jay’s here.
But he isn’t.
At least, I have enough cash left for a margarita. Reluctant to head home to an answering machine of messages from collection agencies threatening to keep me out of heaven, Cee dying to know how my momentous day went, and Jay sparing the fewest words to let me know that my cell phone is in the mail, I sidle up to the bar. I ask the bartender to bring me a margarita. As he prepares it, I reach into my purse to pay only to
realize that the bill I thought was a twenty is actually only a five.
I would’ve burst into tears if Jay didn’t fly through the door that second. “Nancy!” He’s adorably messy, and I find myself wondering – hoping – that I look the same to him.
“Joaquín!” We give each other a hug, and I get a whiff of his cologne. I have to smile because Jay never wears cologne.
“Thank God, you’re still here.” He exhales and plops onto the barstool next to me. “You wouldn’t believe how bad traffic was.”
I laugh. “Try me.”
He seems relieved that I’m not pissed. “And I couldn’t call you. . .”
“. . . because you have my phone.” I wait for Jay to order himself a Scotch and soda. “Speaking of which. . .”
He grins at me. “I got your phone because the sales clerk at Nordstrom who found it called me. So I drove to White Plains to pick it up.”
He pauses to sip his drink as if that’s all there is to it. “Why of all people in my address book would she call you, Jay? It’s not like you were one of my recent calls. We haven’t spoken in over a year.”
Jay reaches into his pocket and pulls out my cell phone. He opens it up and scrolls through it. “Because I’m still your primary I.C.E.,” he says as he finally returns my telephone.
I take it from him. In my address book, he has highlighted I.C.E. #1- Jay. I.C.E #2 says Miguel and I.C.E. #3, of course, is Celestina.
Now it makes sense. When we moved in together, I made Jay my primary In Case of Emergency contact, and after all this time, I never changed it. To think that there was a time Jay outranked my older brother and best friend. That’s how much he meant to me.
And he still does, I realize. That’s why I snapped out of my whiny funk when Jay reappeared in my life. That’s why I had to get to Sevilla’s before he could leave. That’s how Jay knows that I know he’s real.
I feel Jay’s hand brushing my hair off my face in a way that tells me he hasn’t noticed the split ends or the dulling highlights. He asks, “I’ve missed you so much, Nancy.”
“Even after all the fighting over nothing?”
“But it wasn’t over nothing. You were starting the business, I was trying to finish my dissertation, and those things became more important than our relationship. We were drifting apart.” Jay takes my hands in his. “I used to think that was the reason why were starting arguments with each other over the stupidest thing. That that’s why the best thing was to break up.”
“So did I.”
“Well, now I understand that sometimes people who love each other fight as a way to connect. Or in our case, stay connected. I like to think that if we had known that then, we would’ve found a way to work it out.”
“New psychological insight, huh?” I lean forward to press my forehead against Jay’s chin. I wait for him to kiss my forehead and then pull back to look into his eyes. “Hey, you’re Dr. Ocasio now, aren’t you?” In the year and half since we were together, Jay must have completed and defended his dissertation. I reach for my margarita. “We have to celebrate.”
Jay’s eyes flutter. “Not quite. . .” He tries to laugh off the embarrassment of not having yet earned his doctorate. “Let’s stay positive. Tell me how’s the business going.”
“Oh. It’s going.” I roll my eyes. “Going, going, gone.” Jay and I laugh. “I guess this wasn’t our year, Jay.” I raise my glass in a toast. “To next year.”
Jay lifts his Scotch and soda. “Our year.”
We tap our glasses, but instead of taking sips, we kiss.

************************************************************************

Want to win not one, not two, but all three Black Artemis novels I've written to date? Then post your answer to this question below before midnight: What Brooklyn neighborhood did Nancy go to for her job interview? A random winner will be selected from all the correct entries and tomorrow the winner's name will posted on Toni Plummer's blog along with the last story of the tour. Enjoy and Good

An Author's Holiday Wish List

If you're a reader, you're probably giving more thoughts to book now that the holiday season is underway. You're thinking about books you'd like to receive as presents, books you'd like to give as gifts, books you'd like to read over the holidays and the like. If you are or have a writer in your life, you may have considered what you can treat yourself or that person to in an effort to keep the words flowing. (Friend and author Mary Castillo has some cool ideas on her blog called Mary's Favorite Things.)

During this season of generosity and giving, I'd like to humbly request that you bestow a present on your favorite author. As much as we love it, the writing life is hard. Along with the magic of being creative comes the challenge of staying in business. Publishing is an increasingly difficult industry, complicated by the mystery of how it actually does and does not work to our readers. That is, the folks who may appreciate us the most tend to know the least about what we go through to get that book into your hands. As a result, sometimes our biggest fans do things – or fail to do things – that hurt our ability to get that next book to you.

So in this season of giving, I'd like to recommend to book lovers things you can do before the end of 2007 to be sure that your favorite author can continue to serve your entertainment and/or enlightenment needs in 2008 and beyond. They cost little to no time or money, and make all the difference. Here's what's on my holiday wish list.

Buy your copy. To properly feed you favorite author, you must buy the book, LOL! Seriously, it's that simple. If you borrow if from your friend and then pass it on to your cousin, of course, we're flattered. But we're also in trouble. The biggest thing that makes the publishing house think, "This is an author we should keep publishing," is book sales. Word of mouth only helps an author if it translates into more books sold not borrowed. There's no way to track borrowed books so please, if you can afford it, buy our books rather than borrow them from someone else.

Buy the book for someone else. In general, books are fantastic gifts because there's one for every person, even the one who hates to read. Now to give back specifically to your favorite author, buy the book you love most and give it to someone else who you think will love it, too. Don't just tell him or her, "You have to read this," and hope they do. And because it bears repeating, certainly don't give that person your copy, LOL! Buy the book for them. If you can get it autographed, that's a special touch, and most authors love to oblige if you're cover the postage and give us enough time. Chances are that if you go to such a length to stand by your recommendation, the person will actually make the time to read it. There's no better way for a fan of an author to show his or her appreciation than by recruiting new readers to our work. J

Ask for it at the library. Not all people who love to read can afford to buy books, but you can still support your favorite author through your local public library. Simply ask the librarian to order copies of our books if the neighborhood branch doesn't already have them. In their diligent effort to serve you, librarians do keep track of such requests as well as monitor which books are borrowed most frequently. Get your favorite author on your librarian's radar, and you have done an incredibly helpful thing.

Write a review. We don't care if it's on Amazon, your personal blog or an email you send to some friends. If you love what we've done, put it in writing so that others can see it. Especially the people who have the capacity to keep us in business. J

Tell us if no one else. Even if you're hesitant about posting your opinion of our work on the internet, at least consider letting us know how you feel. I have a folder called Besos where I keep all my fan e-mail forever! When a reviewer chops me up, I don't get that grant I was so confident about or just am having a hard time showing up to the page, I look through that folder for inspiration and motivation. I know other authors who do the same. We may not always answer (especially if your note comes when we're under deadline), but we ALWAYS appreciate it and read it over and over again! J If you do nothing else this holiday season, write a few lines to your favorite author telling them that you enjoyed their last book and are looking forward to the next one. That's it. You don't have to prove to us that you caught every nuance or read every title. We don't care about your spelling, grammar or punctuation. We only care that you exist.

If we disappoint you, nicely pull us aside. Now I don't suggest you do this during the holiday season, but. . . There's always room to grow, and every artist needs people – especially fans who truly wish us continued success – to tell us how. If for some reason, our latest work was not up to your expectations, we don't mind if you tell us. To be in this business, we have to have thick skins. Just take care to put more emphasis on love than on tough, and we'll know that you're criticism comes from a good place and take it seriously. Don't blast us on Amazon. Tell us nicely in a private email, "This didn't work for me because. . ." Be specific and constructive. Remember that we are human beings who make mistakes, have flaws and possess feelings. We know the difference between an honest but compassionate appraisal from a supporter that should be considered and an attack from a hater with a dubious agenda that should be ignored (or sometimes even checked or maybe that's just me who does that, LOL!)

Limit the request on freebies. Many authors love to meet with their fans be it at book signings, club meetings, online chats and teleconferences. Some of us can command sizable fees to speak to a group (and we must to survive despite the pervasive myth that getting published renders an author into an overnight millionaire.) Despite the need to supplement our writing income, we will often meet with a local book club for no cost. The way we see it is that you have supported us by buying the books, and we are glad to reciprocate with a few hours of our time. We also see it as an opportunity to say thanks for the support as well as to discover what resonates (or not) with our readers. I find this especially true of young adult authors who will gladly give of their time to visit schools and centers in their community.

However, if you're going to ask a local author to donate his or her time, don't ask for free books, too. Too many times schools, centers and organizations will ask an author to come speak (sometimes even teach!) when they haven't even purchased copies of the book for the library. ??? We know that public institutions and nonprofit organizations are underbudgeted. But so is your average novelist! An author cannot live to write another day when (1) s/he is volunteering her time to meet with your group in person that could be spent working on her next project yet (2) also constantly give away books for free. The cliché that time is money and money is time is true here. Please ask for volunteer time or request books but understand why we cannot always give you both.

These small efforts are the gift that keeps on giving because they help keep us in the business of writing stories that you love to read. Promise to do one of the above for just one author this holiday season. It makes a difference not only spiritually but materially, too.

Can I get an amen from some other authors out there? Additions are welcomed, too. Just remember to keep them low on cost and time.

12 Days of Chica Lit Starts Today: Here's the Lineup & Schedule

Every day starting today 12/11 through 12/23, travel from blog to blog to read great holiday stories, discover tasty recipes and have chances to win awesome prizes.

12.11.07: Mary Castillo, Author of Switchcraft

12.12.07: Berta Platas, author of Cinderella Lopez

12.13.07: Mayra Calvani, author of Dark Lullaby

12.14.07: Caridad Pineiro, author of Holiday With A Vampire: Christmas Cravings\Fate Calls (Silhouette Nocturne)

12.15.07: Lara Rios, author of Becoming Americana

12.16.07: Caridad Ferrer, author of It's Not About the Accent

12.17.07: Margo Candela, author of Life Over Easy

12.18.07: Kathy Cano Murillo, author of
Crafty Chica's Art de la Soul: Glittery Ideas to Liven Up Your Life

12.19.07: Tracy Montoya, author of Telling Secrets (Harlequin Intrigue Series)

12.20.07: Jamie Martinez Wood, author of Latino Writers And Journalists (A to Z of Latino Americans)

12.21.07: Misa Ramirez, author of Lola PI: Living La Vida Lola coming soon in 2009 from St. Martin's Press

12.22.07: Sofia Quintero, author of Divas Don't Yield: A Novel (Many Cultures, One World)

12.23.07: Toni Margarita Plummer, author and editor