Lone Star Legend (11 page)

“No, I don’t know those people,” she sighed into the phone. “They’re just random people who read the site. Some of them are
crazy, I guess.”

“God, Sandy. Don’t you worry about them seeing you on the videos and maybe stalking you or whatever?”

“No.” Sandy took a long pull of water to counteract the dehydration caused by her hangover and espresso, and considered the
question. “No. I mean, what’s a stalker going to do? Follow me back and forth to work? Watch me type stuff on my laptop? He’d
get bored after a while and go back home.”

“I
guess
,” Veronica said again. “What about your blog, though?”

“What about it?”

“Don’t you worry that people will find out that it’s you writing it, and they’ll—I don’t know—get jealous and kill Daniel
or something?”

Sandy laughed. “Not even.” But it made her stop, again, and imagine the potentials. “Why would anybody do that? They wouldn’t
even be able to figure out Daniel’s real name, first of all. And I don’t even talk about him that much. If anything, I’d be
worried that a stranger would take pity on me and call my mom to tell her to get off my back.” She laughed again at this thought.

“Well, I saw that you’re not mad at Danny Boy anymore. That’s good, huh?”

“You read that on my blog?” Sandy couldn’t keep from sounding surprised. Veronica never mentioned her blog.

“Yeah. You know how I read Nacho Papi every morning, right after I read Hate-O-Rama. Then, after that, I like to go check
on your blog and see if anything you’re saying there relates to what you said on Nacho Papi. Kind of like getting the inside
scoop, you know?”

“Well, you already have the inside scoop, right? Since you’re my friend in real life and all?” Sandy didn’t know whether to
be amused or annoyed. It sounded as if Veronica hadn’t been interested in her writing until it’d been validated with Hate-O-Rama’s
stamp of approval.

Veronica laughed. “Well, yeah, of course. But you know what I mean.”

Sandy didn’t, exactly, but she decided to let it go. She was probably overreacting because of the hangover, she told herself.
So what if Veronica had only started reading her personal blog recently? At least she was reading it, which was more than
Sandy could say for her other friends.

“Oh, hey, I wanted to tell you. I have a huge show coming up. June ninth. Can you come?”

“That’s two months from now,” Sandy pointed out. There was a pause, and Sandy realized that Veronica was expecting her simply
to say yes. “I mean, yeah. I’ll be there. Where’s it going to be?” Most of Veronica’s shows were at restaurants and coffee
shops. They’d let her display her art there, usually with other people’s, and then hold little “openings” that were basically
excuses to sell food and coffee to the artists and their friends. It wasn’t exactly the big time, but Veronica had sold a
few of her collages at those things and was gradually building a fan base in the Dallas area.

“This is a really
big
show. There’s a new gallery opening up in Oak Cliff, and my boss knows the owner, and he got me in!” Her voice pitched higher
again. “It’s a real gallery, Sandy! With real art! I get to show my stuff there for six weeks!”

Veronica’s enthusiasm was contagious. Sandy was glad to hear she was finally catching a good break. “That’s awesome, V. That
rocks. I can’t wait.”

Sandy made a mental note. She’d put Veronica’s show on her calendar first thing, then cross her fingers that Angelica wouldn’t
have something more important for her to do that night.

Post from Nacho Papi’s Web Site

by Sandy S.

Shawna Douglas has just joined the list of undercover Latinas who’ve decided to come out of the closet in the hope of making
money. On the cover of her new reggaeton [This should be italicized, I think—DT] album, “Todo Mi Cuerpo,” [This should be
italicized as well as in quotes—DT] Douglas writes:

The album title means All of My Body, but I want this album to reflect all of my mind and soul, too. Not just the black part
of me but my Ecuadorian heritage, as well, which I have always cherished but which my fans haven’t yet gotten to appreciate.
I hope you enjoy this new me.
[This quote is a little vapid and doesn’t present the subject in a flattering light. Maybe find another quote?—DT]

Bravissima, Shawna. Way to cash in. Not since Linda Ronstadt’s “Canciones de Mi Padre” (which translates to “Finally, Being
Mexican is Marketable”) has anyone so blatantly de-cloaked for dollars. [On the whole, this piece is clearly written, but
slightly inflammatory. Watch tone.—DT]

T
hey were back at Samurai Noodles, but this time Sandy was trying the tuna and Daniel was eating a bowl of fried rice. He picked
out and set aside everything in his bowl except the rice itself while waiting for her to read the edits he’d made on her post.
He kept grinning at her, as if he were being an especially good boyfriend who deserved some recognition, if not an outright
reward.

Sandy read the first few pages—there were about ten, total—and then had to stop because her temper was rising. “I don’t get
it.”

“What? The part about the tone being inflammatory?”

“No.” Sandy felt herself losing patience. “That’s the part
you
didn’t get. The tone of the whole site is inflammatory. It’s supposed to be. That’s what readers expect from us. Didn’t you
read their comments on this piece?”

“No. I didn’t have time to read the comments. I only printed and read your posts.” He added in a defensive murmur, “I barely
had time to do that.”

“Well, I don’t know what you expect me to do with this. The piece has been online for a week, and, last time I checked it
had almost thirty comments from people who obviously enjoyed reading it. You didn’t see that my tone is right in line with
the rest of Nacho Papi, and you didn’t notice that we don’t italicize Spanish on the site at all because it’s supposed to
be bilingual. You didn’t even say whether you
liked
the piece.” The words came hurtling out of Sandy’s mouth. She paused for breath, then added, “You know what, Daniel? If you
couldn’t say something nice, maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all.”

Daniel sat up indignantly, spilling a little rice from his fork onto his shirt in the process. “Oh, right, I shouldn’t have
said anything. Sure. With you giving me the silent treatment for weeks now, and then oh-so-casually asking if I’ve read your
latest post, every time we talk? You know, Sandy, I’m really busy at the university. I know you don’t think so, because you
don’t really take an interest in what I do there, but you could at least appreciate that I took the time to comment on your
work. That”—he pointed to the pages in her hands—“is more than I’d do for my best students.”

“Oh, so you spend more time on me than you spend on your best students? Wow, Daniel, that’s great. I would
think
you’d spend more time on your own girlfriend. What’d you do—stay home one night from drinking beer with your friends?” Sandy
felt her blood race hot and saw that diners around them were starting to glance in their direction. But she couldn’t stop.
She had more to say, built up for a long time now. “You know, when I think of all the times I read your work and strained
myself to come up with constructive comments on the spur of the moment… And now you’re acting like it’s some big sacrifice
to return the favor. That’s really selfish of you, Daniel. Really self-centered.”

Daniel never got hot-angry, like she sometimes did. Instead, he got cold-angry. He had the cold expression on his face now.
When he spoke, calmly and quietly, she could tell he was also somewhat hurt. “I didn’t realize it was such a ‘strain’ for
you to read my work. I apologize for that. I won’t put you through the trouble anymore. But I hope you understand that my
writing is my career, so it’s a little different.”

At this, Sandy became so upset that she literally bit into her tongue trying to keep from yelling at him outright while everyone
at Samurai Noodles watched. Instead she stood and said, “Well, my writing is my career, too, whether you think it’s as important
as yours or not.”

With that, she gathered her things and left, leaving his printed pages behind her.

T
HE LAST THING
Sandy was in the mood for, when she got home that day, was a long conversation with, and questions from, her mother. And
yet that’s what she got.

“Oh, Sandy, guess what.” Mrs. Saavedra apprehended Sandy as she emerged from her car with purse and work bag dangling from
her shoulders. Sandy only raised her eyebrows in answer. She was too tired to respond, having spent the five hours since her
argument with Daniel sitting in the Nacho Papi office maniacally typing toward deadlines. Her mother continued talking, oblivious.
“It turns out Aunt Ruby does know about this Tío Jaime, after all. She said she’s met him a couple of times, but do you know
that Aunt Linda would never say what was going on between them? Can you imagine? Isn’t that crazy?”

“Yeah.” Sandy was relieved to hear that her other great-aunt knew Tío Jaime. Somehow that made him almost family. Therefore,
he’d be willing to help her out with her work by consenting to be interviewed. She wouldn’t have to worry, then, about the
possibility of him refusing to sign the release form. At least that’s what she hoped her mother’s words meant.

Sandy turned to the garage stairs and the relative serenity of her apartment, but her mother protested. “Aren’t you going
to come in for a little bit?”

Sandy sighed. “Can I go up and change first? I’m really tired.”

“Why, what happened?” her mother was quick to ask. “Did anything happen at work today? Did your father call you?”

“What?” At this unexpected question Sandy turned back to her mother. “No. Why? Did he call you?”

“He left me a voice mail. I guess you know that he’s finally gotten engaged to that skinny girlfriend of his.”

“What?” Sandy practically bellowed. She hadn’t known. She’d had no idea.

“Oh,” said her mother, whose distaste-filled expression stood in sharp contrast to Sandy’s surprise. “Well, sorry. Why don’t
you call him tonight, in that case? Then come down and tell me everything he says. I can’t believe he’s doing this. He’s such
a bastard.”

Sandy turned and hit the garage stairs with a stomp. But it wasn’t the phone that she turned to when she got to her room.

Blog entry from My Modern TragiComedy, Sunday, April 9

The last time I posted here, I retracted the ranting I’d done about my boyfriend.

But now I see that I was right the first time, and that he’s the wrong man for me. It is with regret that I inform you that
HeartThrob GeekBoy and I are through. I just can’t deal with it anymore.

to another one that’s just as annoying, actually. My mother has pissed me off so badly that I don’t even know what to do about
it, short of moving to another city.

And you know what? My father’s pissing me off, too. He’s getting re-married and didn’t see fit to tell me. My mother told
me, but in terms of how embarrassing it was to her, not with any consideration of how I might feel, seeing as how I’m his
daughter and—hello!—as previously explained, he didn’t tell me.

I’m tired of the two of them living in their own petty worlds, doing things to spite each other and never worrying about the
effect it might have on their own daughter. I don’t know why it surprises me every time, though, seeing as how that’s how
they behaved when they were married and all throughout their divorce. But it still hurts. It makes me feel like I’m nothing.
You know? Like I can only rely on myself.

Luckily, I know that I am more than just nothing. I have my writing career and all the success that’s come with it lately,
even if my parents and my boyfriend are too self-involved to notice or care.

It’s just you and me, then, readers. Thanks for being here for me for so long.

Love,

Miss TragiComic Texas

T
wo nights later, Sandy waited in Daniel’s bedroom while he went to get her a glass of water. She hadn’t actually wanted anything,
but she’d accepted his offer so that, while he was in the kitchen, she’d have more time to plan what she was about to say.
She hadn’t expected his housemate to be home, either. Matt was watching television in their shared living room, which left
Sandy to do her talking in Daniel’s bedroom—not the ideal place for a breakup. But it was now or never. She’d already said
on her blog that it was over, and now she had to follow through.

He walked in carrying the University of Texas Longhorns coffee mug she’d always hated, not saying anything or even looking
at her as she stood by his bed. “Would you close the door behind you?” she said.

He did and then set the mug on his nightstand, using a folded envelope for a coaster. He looked nervous. Sandy wondered if
he knew what was coming.

“Daniel, we need to talk.”

“I know. That’s what you said on the phone. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” His testy tone made her suspect more than ever
that he already knew.

“Well, I guess you realize that things between us have been kind of… strained lately.”

“Is that was it is? Strained?” He practically snarled it at her. This was going to be difficult, Sandy thought. He knew, and
he was upset. She hadn’t exactly pictured an ideal way to do this, but in her imagination he’d been more shocked and sad and
less obviously angry.

“Yes. All we do lately is argue, or else try to avoid arguing. And… I just feel like, ever since I’ve started this new writing
job…”

“What? I haven’t been supportive enough?” Daniel crossed his arms and took what Sandy couldn’t help but see as a childishly
defensive stance. He acted like he already knew what she was going to say even before she did, and yet he was ready to deny
it. She wanted to take a step back, but couldn’t because she was already standing against his twin bed. If she hadn’t been
the one caught in this situation, it might have been funny, it was so ridiculous.