Both pieces are aimed a girls and young women and both spoke to me both as the young girl I once was and as the parent I am now.

Fair warning, I kind of suck at editorial/opinion pieces—there’s a reason I’m a novelist and not a journalist—my type of rambliness lends itself so much more effectively to fictional narrative than fact-based or opinion pieces, so if you continue reading, my apologies.

As an preteen/adolescent, I desperately wanted to conform… I thought. I blame ABC’s Afterschool Specials and McDonald’s commercials. While the Afterschool specials themselves were a little too preachy/Very Special Message for me, the McDonald’s commercials were like crack. They portrayed these groups of carefree, homogeneous kids (the 70s equivalent of the Abercrombie & Fitch “ideal”) cavorting along safe, autumn-leaf-strewn streets in some ubiquitous New England or Midwest Small Town on their way to share a bag of fries while sipping creamy shakes.

I grew up in Miami. Palm fronds, not autumn leaves were my norm. I was the only Cuban girl in my (then) white, middle-class neighborhood. My education, while typically public school for the 70s/80s, was differentiated by the fact that I was designated “gifted” and singled out to attend special classes twice a week. I was painfully shy and bookish and didn’t make friends easily.

But I had a McDonald’s.

So I’d hie myself off to Mickey D’s a couple times a week and pretend I was with a group of carefree friends with whom I could share my fries and cavort down autumn-leaf strewn streets. (First sign, maybe, that I was maybe destined to become a writer, but of course I didn’t recognize it back then.) I so desperately wanted to conform and be like everyone else— in a way, it was an expectation desired of me by my parents as well. After all, they were both immigrants and wanted the American Dream for their kids—one reason we lived in a white middle-class neighborhood in North Dade, rather than in the Cuban enclaves of Hialeah or South Miami which would have demanded a different sort of conformity.

At the same time, however, my mother, in particular, always made a point of stressing how different I was. How special. How I shouldn’t want to be like anyone else. Mixed messages, much? (Especially since “different” for her came with rules. It had to be “different” the way she wanted, not necessarily the way I actually was.) Ultimately, though, she wasn’t wrong. I really wasn’t like others and even as a kid, as much as I thought I wanted to conform, as much effort as I made at times, there was still an insidious voice within me whispering how it wasn’t me. Factors I had no control over, such as my ethnicity, my physical build, my intellect, coupled with my own personal interests and the pursuits I chose for myself (drum corps, classically trained pianist , figure skating) conspired to keep me just outside the norm. All through high school and even into college, I was at war with myself—fighting to be like everyone else while my natural inclinations led me down wildly divergent paths.

It resulted in a deeply unhappy and wildly insecure adolescence and young adulthood. I couldn’t help but make the choices I made yet found myself incredibly defensive and embarrassed about having to defend them.

I’m 45 now. I’ve lived in the Midwest and experienced those small towns with their autumn leaf strewn streets. I’ve done conventional in that I got the sort of college degree I thought I should. I realized, after a lot of trial and error how very not conventional and ordinary I am. I have reached a somewhat uneasy peace with my intellect. I have come to far more comfortable terms with my rebellious nature. I’m angry about all the time wasted as an adolescent and young adult; time spent chasing a concept fed to me as an ideal that took me a long time to realize wasn’t my ideal.

I wonder what I could have been, had I been more confident and less susceptible to all those images flashed before me during all those Afterschool Specials and McDonald’s commercials. Had I not had Brooke Shields and her slim-hipped 5’11″ body telling us there was nothing between her and her Calvins.

On the other hand, having had the experiences I had—even the educational background I have—did give me the confidence to make choices for my own kids I might not have been capable of making otherwise. I was able to recognize their differences very early on and rather than simply declare “Oh, you’re different, revel in it,” and expect that to be enough, I went out of my way to give them the tools to cope with their unique gifts. (Yes, all kids are unique & wonderful & mine aren’t necessarily Special Snowflakes, but they’re my Special Snowflakes, dammit.)

Because I saw in them shades of how I was as a student and because of my background in education, I was able to recognize that a standardized public school education wasn’t going to cut it for either of them. While it was important for them to grow up around family during formative years, we knew staying in Florida for the long haul wouldn’t be healthy for them, so we moved to Seattle where they would have greater freedom to explore who they are and who they want to be and where we’d have better educational opportunities for them.

The only conformity I wanted for them was to who they are.

I look at them now, at 16 and 15 and see the people they’re growing up into and while I still feel vestiges of anger for all the time I wasted trying to be someone I wasn’t—someone the ads and popular culture and even my teachers tried to tell me I should be—at the same time if it’s allowed me the perspective by which I can give my kids greater confidence and freedom to discover who they are, well then, I guess I’d attempt to conform all over again.

Because in the end, the rebel in me always wins.

The easy answer is, why not?

The harder answer is, as you might guess, a bit more complicated. Let me see if I can bullet point this into something that makes some sense.

1. As I said, the manuscript is complete. *waits to hear cries of “But Barb, don’t you want to sell it?* Well, d’uh, of course I’d love to sell the thing. But it’s one of Those Manuscripts. The kind that has no real definition in terms of genre. It’s not YA or New Adult or romance or literary or… I mean, the closest you could come to calling it is maybe a commercial women’s fiction, but it’s not contemporary. It’s set squarely in the 1960s and it’s a bit of a coming-of-age story and…Well… you see what I mean about undefinable? This is the sort of manuscript that’s difficult to sell, especially when you don’t have a track record in said undefinable genre. And aren’t Nicholas Sparks (not that I’m bitter or anything…). It’s the sort of thing that because I don’t have an established audience, I suspect would make it difficult to self-publish, especially with my self-admitted suckagetude at self-pimpery. Y’all know how very, very bad I am at promo. Even this blog post is taxing my ability to jump up and down and say, “Heeeeeeyyyyyyy!! Look at meeeeeeeeeee!!! Pay attention to meeeeeeeeeee!!!! Love meeeeeeeeeeee!!!“
2. Another reason is because among my work, not just the YA, but the adult stories—let’s call it eleven completed manuscripts and probably a half dozen more in various stages of completion—this manuscript stands alone as its own beast. By which I mean it’s completely unlike anything I’ve written before and it’s unlike anything on which I’m currently working. Something else that makes it a harder conventional sell.
3. It’s a safe experiment. There are those who would say it’s a risk—what if the story’s not as good as I think it is or if I turn off readers or… Screw it. No risk, no reward, right? I’m tired of being a coward, y’all. I write. I want to show that I’m not just a one-trick pony. I can write something other than multicultural YA and if publishing won’t give me the opportunity to show that right now, then it’s up to me to show off what I’m capable of.
4.  I like this damned story. A lot. I’d love to know if other people like it as well. And being one who lives in her writing cave most of the time, it’s a way by which to get some immediate feedback. Okay, admittedly, I haven’t gotten a lot yet, but still, it’s feedback I didn’t have before.
5.  But perhaps most importantly, I’m doing this because I’m a storyteller. I had this story I wanted to tell and so I did and now I want to share it.

Is it the best novel I’ve ever written? I have no measure by which to decide, really. I certainly think there are elements that are among the best I’ve written. There are probably places it could be better, but I could say that about everything I’ve ever written, published or not. Maybe even especially the published works.

What it comes down to is I really, really like this story and I wanted to share it. I chose Wattpad as my “publishing” platform, even though I’m not necessarily the site’s target demographic or write in what’s considered a popular genre for the site, because it’s basically idiot-proof. It’s a glorified blog with the novelization formatting built in, which makes it an easy task for me to post the chapters so it doesn’t wind up feeling like a chore or obligation. It’s fun. The most work I did was putting together a cover which, if I do say so myself, I think I did a reasonably nice job on.

So there you have it. Complete story. A 100K word book up for free. There’s drama and adventure and self-actualization and romance and more drama all set around the turbulence of the mid-1960s.

Between Here & Gone

In 1959 Cuba, seventeen-year-old Natalia San Martín was nothing short of a princess, sheltered, pampered, and courted by her very own prince, a childhood friend turned lifelong love. She and Nicolas made grand plans to study abroad and travel the world, secure in the knowledge their tropical paradise—the home they loved above all others—would always be there for them. All that changed on the fateful New Year’s Eve when Fidel Castro and his followers seized control of the island, with tragic consequences for not only the island, but for Natalia herself.

Five years later, it’s the fall of 1964—the U.S. is a country hovering on a precipice of massive change. The halcyon days of the Kennedy Administration have begun fading into memory, as the ongoing Cold War, the escalating conflict in Vietnam, and racial unrest at home begin to erode the sense of purpose and innocence that had gripped the country for three short years.

None of which really matters much to Natalia. For her, purpose and innocence disappeared five years ago; these days, she merely suffers her new existence as Natalie Martin, firmly leaving her past where it belongs—until the moment it all catches up to her and forces her to face the choices she’s made.

Those of you who know me, know how difficult it is for me to pimp myself out, but here I am, donning the Purple Hat of Pimpitude: please, RT, share, babble, whatever floats your boat if you feel as if I’ve written something that maybe has/deserves an audience. I will forever love you (well, more than I already do) and if you’re really nice, I might even give you my firstborn.

Anyhow, I digress, but not really, since this is all Very Important Information leading up to my part in the madness.

So Janice was passing time tweeting and she happened to mention what a fabulous cheerleader James had been throughout the whole process, from encouraging her to sign up for an audition to helping her figure out what to sing. Which, of course, led to envisioning James in cheerleading drag. Which begat envisioning his costar Dulé Hill in cheerleading drag. Which begat envisioning their costar Tim Omundson in cheerleading drag. (I know, I know, but look, my only defense is that we were trying to distract Janice and keep her somewhat mellow prior to the audition.)

At any rate, the madness culminated with Janice proclaiming this was all starting to edge toward fanfic territory. To which I responded if she made it through her audition, I’d write her a wee little psych-fic with Shawn, Gus, and Lassie as cheerleaders. Because c’mon, just having the guts to do what she did deserves some sort of reward, right?

Maybe chocolates would’ve been better.

But because writing is what I do and Janice did make it through her audition, I wrote this wee little tale—after I sent it to her, she asked if I would be willing to share with you lovelies online as a Valentine’s Day gift and because I adore Janice and I adore all of you, I said sure (and promptly downed a handful of Tums).

Now, because I am a professional writer and I’m sensitive to these sorts of things, the standard

 Disclaimer: Psych and its characters belong to Steve Franks & Co., NBC/Universal, and pretty much anyone else who isn’t me. This work of fiction has been produced solely for entertainment purposes, no infringement intended.

And if the Intellectual Property/Copyright Police come after me, I will take this down, no questions asked.

So without further ado, I give you…

Shawn & the Valentine’s Pyramid o’Doom

Barbara Caridad Ferrer 

For Janice Whaley whose talent, guts, and good humor are a constant inspiration

 ©2013

One

“Lassie, my long cool lanky drink of water—”

Too accustomed to the wild gibberings for more than token annoyance, Lassiter replied, “Words I never want to hear emerge from that gaping piehole you call a mouth—ever.”

“What? That you’re long, cool, and lanky?” Shawn paused, brows drawn together as if in thought.

Carlton knew better.

“Okay, so you’re not really cool, per se—at least, not in this universe.” He paused again, pursing his lips. “Or any other, come to think of it, but you are lanky and as far as the long goes, in the spirit of using it as a metaphor for tall, well yeah. Any other possible iterations we’re not in any position to say and honestly, don’t really wanna contemplate—”

While Spencer babbled, Lassiter closed his eyes and counted to three. Amended it to ten. Added another five and a pair of Hail Marys for good measure. “Spencer—”

“But we do want to see you.”

“No, no we really do not.” Guster stared at Carlton with that familiar Bambi-trapped-in-the-headlights gaze. “Lassiter, you have to say no.”

“I don’t even know what inanity he’s about to spew forth and I was already going to say no.” He took a sip of coffee, wishing like hell he wasn’t on the clock and that it wasn’t too early to lace it with a shot of bourbon. “So let me save you the time and trouble—no.”

“But it’s for Jules.”

“And it’s ridiculous,” Gus protested.

“It’s for Valentine’s.”

“And it’s ridiculous.”

Carlton sighed. “Entertaining as this really isn’t, the adults have work to do, so why don’t the two of you just run along and go play in traffic or find a juice box somewhere.”

“Juice boxes?” Spencer’s eyes brightened, inspiring faint hope that the idiot’s ADHD would kick in and he’d wander off to play In Search Of…

“Down in Strode’s lab,” he offered helpfully. Or not. He didn’t have a damned clue if the space cadet masquerading as a coroner had juice boxes but a) it wouldn’t surprise him if he did and b) the likelihood that Woody and Spencer would venture off on some conversational tangent that had nothing to do with either juice boxes or anything, you know, sane, was reasonably high. Either way, it would get Spencer out of his hair.

Guster, clearly of a similar let’s-distract-Shawn mindset, tried to herd him in the direction of the stairs. “C’mon—last time we were in the lab, Woody had Thin Mints.”

“In a minute, Gus.”

Desperation laced the cajoling tone of Guster’s voice as he sing-songed, “A whole case.”

“In a minute.”

Lassiter had to—grudgingly—admit to being intrigued. For Spencer to so cavalierly dismiss the promise of Thin Mints…

“Shawn, I’m serious—this is so not a good idea.” Gus tugged at Spencer’s sleeve, but the man-child was as immovable as an oversized garden gnome.

“Gus, Gus, Gus—don’t be the Mentos in the Diet Coke.”

Intrigue faded in light of the advent of the incessant throbbing behind his eyeballs that a case of Excedrin Migraine couldn’t alleviate. Carlton rubbed his temples as the ever-familiar scrim of red obscured his vision.

“Guster, you appear to have a modicum of sense left as well as a healthy survival instinct—”

“You know that’s right,” he muttered.

“Get your idiot best friend out of here before I shoot both of you.”

See, Shawn?”

“Pfft, he’s not gonna shoot us.”

“I, for one, am not willing to take that risk—” Guster’s eyes widened far enough to reveal a full ring of white around the irises. “Especially with the way his hand’s already on his weapon.”

“Empty threat at best—the Chief tends to get cranky when Lassie discharges his weapon in the building.”

“Not if it’s against a threat to public safety.”

“Lassie, would you just untwist your dainties for a second and listen? It’s for Jules.”

Carlton sighed and released his sidearm in favor of rubbing his temples again. It was for Valentine’s. And it was for O’Hara. Even a hardened cynic such as himself could appreciate that Spencer, in his own bent, nonsensical way was trying. As opposed to just simply trying. And it had to beat a bounce house. But what in God’s name could the man have in mind that would need not just Guster’s assistance—a given, when one took into consideration who possessed the positive credit limit—but his own as well?

Really, what sort of Valentine’s-themed stunt could possibly require three men for one woman?

Carlton gaped at Spencer in horror.

“Dear God, Spencer, please tell me you don’t have some bad erotica-inspired escapade in mind.”

His mother had sent him the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy for Christmas, suggesting it might help him spice up his sex life. The receipt of which had very nearly driven him to alert the bomb squad to come remove the damned thing. And consider filing a restraining order on his mother. He’d settled for downing a double of Jack and calling a therapist for the first time in three years.

“What? No.” Shawn pulled a face then spluttered as Guster pounded him on the back. “Dude, what was that for?”

Guster blinked. “Wanted to see if your face would freeze like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.” Guster pulled a credible approximation of the face, then ducked as Spencer heaved a swing an arthritic old lady with severely compromised vision could have avoided. “Stop it!”

Spencer continued girl-slapping at Guster. “You stop it.”

Guster girl-slapped back. “You stop it.”

“No, you.”

“You.”

Fighting the impulse to bang his head on the desk—repeatedly—because could. Not. Show. Weakness. Carlton snapped, “Phineas—Ferb—both of you—shut the hell up. Better still, get the hell out.”

“What?” Spencer froze mid-swat, clearly attempting to recall the conversation’s former point.

As if there had ever been one to begin with.

The asshat’s expression cleared. “Right—erotic shenanigans.”

Carlton sighed. Again. At his last annual the doctor had noted with considerable amazement his remarkable lung capacity.

“Okay, first off, ew. Second, ew. And third and most importantly, ewww.” The last accompanied by a full-body shudder Carlton might have enjoyed more if not for the fact that Spencer and Guster were still standing there. In front of his desk. And showing no signs of leaving without being forcibly removed at gunpoint. A tactic against which he had no objection employing except it tended to annoy O’Hara.

And an annoyed O’Hara was nothing to be trifled with.

There was only one way to end this—at least, without bloodshed. Besides, he reasoned with himself, how bad could it possibly be? Participants notwithstanding.

He’d faced down hardened criminals.

Had survived multiple attempts on his life.

Had  survived his mother and his ex-wife.

Perhaps most relevant to his current situation, had tap-danced in public with eight-year-olds.

Seriously.

How bad could it possibly be?

Two

How bad could it possibly be?

The phrase, “famous last words” did come to mind.

“Detective Lassiter, I’m sure you’ll understand why I have to ask this, but have you by any chance taken up drinking on the job?”

“Don’t think I haven’t been tempted,” Carlton muttered, then winced as he shifted.

A single eyebrow rose as Karen crossed her arms and hit him with a patented Chief Vick glare. “Excuse me?”

He briefly closed his eyes then met her gaze. “No, Chief,” he enunciated as clearly and distinctly as he could manage. “Despite any evidence to the contrary, I have not taken up drinking on the job.”

“Suffered a crippling blow to the head, then?” The second eyebrow rose to join the first as her expression shifted to something trapped between confusion and alarm. “Because honestly, no matter from what angle I consider this current situation, those are really my only two viable options.”

Carlton would have rolled his eyes except a) he couldn’t blame her one damned bit and b) it hurt too freakin’ much. Everything hurt too freakin’ much.

“Look, the idiot wanted to do something nice for O’Hara for Valentine’s and I, in a moment of weakness that I can assure you will never again be repeated, agreed to help.”

“You… agreed to help Mr. Spencer?” Karen spoke slowly, each word more disbelieving than the last. “You?”

“Yes.”

“Voluntarily?”

He slouched back against the pillow in resigned defeat. “Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed into a suspicious stare. “I’m not buying it. He’s got to have something on you. Something big.”

Before Carlton could formulate a response, the cubicle’s curtain was swept back by a nurse, revealing the rest of the E.R., humming with activity as medical personnel sought to repair the carnage from Spencer’s Valentine stunt.

The should have been simple, straightforward cheerleading pyramid that Spencer had roped Carlton and Guster into helping him perform. Ridiculous, Carlton had thought, but a typically Spencer-sort of ridiculous, therefore, he’d imagined himself prepared and so with an atypical naiveté had agreed to help. The plan had been he would form one of the two bases of the pyramid along with Guster after which Spencer would clamber onto their backs with a sign reading Dear Jules, Be My Valentine.

Say it again—ridiculous—but even Carlton could admit it was a… charming sort of ridiculous. Heartwarming, even.

Maybe he had suffered a heretofore unrealized blow to the head.

Because his mistake—his big, enormous, what-in-the-ever-loving-hell-had-he-been-thinking mistake— had been in not realizing—still—that there was no such thing as “typically” Spencer-sort of ridiculous. Because once one was lulled into the false sense of security of imagining there was no further level of ridiculous to which Spencer could sink, the pineapple-scented nimrod somehow always found a way to shatter those illusions.

Generally with life-threatening consequences.

His first sign should have been the cheerleaders’ uniforms. The no doubt stolen Leland Bosseigh High School cheerleader uniforms. Carlton had made a mental note to cite Spencer for theft and had the good sense—and firepower—to absolutely refuse to put the damned thing on. Especially once they were revealed to be girls’ uniforms, short skirts and all. Not Spencer’s, though—Spencer’s uniform had pants because “Really, dudes, you don’t expect me to be getting up on your backs and exposing these shapely stems to the world, do you? It’d be like Tom Jones meets the Beatles meets Joe Biden—make it impossible to control the rush of lust-crazed women.”

Guster, on the other hand, despite repeated imprecations and mutterings of “You must be out of your damned mind,” had exhibited his usual overcooked spaghetti sense of resolve where Spencer was concerned and found himself clad in full cheerleader drag. At least the short skirt made fitting him with his new cumbersome leg brace an easier task. Why he continued to wear the platinum blonde ponytail wig, on the other hand…

Adding to the mayhem had been the springboard and vault—the inclusion of which Spencer had conveniently neglected to mention to either Carlton or Guster. Apparently at some point the idiot savant had come to the conclusion that wouldn’t it be just nifty if he leapt onto their backs?

After somersaulting through a flaming hoop.

While the Leland Bosseigh High School Marching Sabercats serenaded O’Hara with a spirited rendition of “an eighties’ classic and arguably one of the greatest love songs ever composed,” Tears For Fears’ “Head Over Heels.”

And the Sabercats’ mascot shot off a cannon’s worth of streamers and sparkly confetti.

All taking place in the wide curving driveway of the Santa Barbara Police Department, for maximum effect, of course.

Without so much as a single run through.

Or warning to the public at large.

Needless to say, it had not… gone well.

“My dear Detective Lassiter!”

“Son of a bitch.” Carlton groaned as Woody Strode’s preternaturally cheerful face hove into view. “Strode, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m on call for emergencies when the hospital’s staff is overtaxed due to natural disasters.”

“I’d say that adequately describes Mr. Spencer.” Karen’s tone was dry.

“Such a lovely gesture, wouldn’t you say?” Woody gifted them with such an innocent, beneficent smile, Carlton could almost see wings sprouting from the gangly coroner’s back, the chart in his hand replaced by bow and arrow.

Oblivious as ever, Woody added, “Truly, Detective O’Hara is a fortunate woman.”

Stunned, Carlton muttered, “Jesus Christ, maybe I really did suffer a blow to the head.”

Karen met his gaze with a wide-eyed one of her own. “Maybe I did too.”

Once again, Carlton took stock of the E.R., littered with scores of marching band members, innocent bystanders, and one Sabercat mascot—battered, bruised, and more than a little singed from the unfortunate collision between highly flammable confetti and blazing ring of fire.

“Oh, no, Detective—” Woody’s eerie Pennywise smile faded as he studied the chart in his hand while Carlton prayed the man’s medical degree wasn’t the product of a mail-in coupon from the back of a comic book.

“No blow to the head as far as I can tell. Just a broken clavicle, for which I see you’ve already received your sling and a nasty second-degree burn to your left posterior—”

“I know where it’s at, Strode.”

Carlton shifted further to his right, attempting to relieve the pressure on his left posterior… well, where the flaming baton had landed.

“I’ve prescribed a ten-day course of an antibiotic ointment. If you like, I could assist with the—”

“Lassiter, you cannot discharge your weapon in a hospital.”

Agitated, Carlton pulled free from Karen’s firm hold in favor of shaking the tubing leading from his I.V. drip, desperately hoping it would send the meds coursing through his system that much faster. Then maybe he’d be able to dismiss this entire misbegotten escapade as the byproduct of nothing more than heavy-duty psychotropic drugs.

Of course, it would still leave him with the issue of explaining the scars. Perhaps he could make up a story about singlehandedly taking down a pack of rabid honey badgers.

Or a rabid Honey Boo-Boo. Whatever the hell that was.

“Oh my God, Carlton, are you okay?”

He glanced up from the I.V. to find O’Hara anxiously hovering beside the bed, shaking her head as she surveyed the madness. Uncomfortable, he tugged the blankets up further. No need for her to see the full extent of the damage.

“I’m fine, O’Hara.”

She released a relieved breath. “Oh, thank God.”

Well, at least she wasn’t pissed at him. Small favors.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Ow—” He rubbed the back of his head where she’d landed a sharp blow. “What the hell, O’Hara? Why am I the one getting the abuse? It was your boyfriend’s harebrained idea. Everything you see here before you is his fault.”

“But you’re supposed to be the adult.”

She crossed her arms and glared. At him. Was she serious?

“You’re the one dating him.”

Her brows lowered and her voice dropped a notch to a dangerous register. “I’m also the one with whom you spend upwards of twelve hours a day so I’d tread carefully, Lassiter.”

Dammit. She had a point. Not to mention, scores that rivaled his at the gun range.

Gesturing helplessly at the surrounding chaos including the unfortunate sousaphone player staggering past, his instrument a blackened, twisted mass of metal, feathers on his hat still smoldering, she said, “You couldn’t have just suggested he get some nice chocolates?”

“Oh puh-leeze. And what makes you believe he wouldn’t have interpreted that to mean a bubbling chocolate fountain with himself as the centerpiece? In all likelihood, nude?”

She cringed. “Oh, God.”

“And I repeat, you’re the one dating him.”

A moment later, the asshat of the hour sauntered up, pink-tinged smoothie in one hand, idly twirling a thankfully-not-flaming baton in the other. Completely unscathed, of course, because he’d had Carlton and Guster to cushion his fall. Even his hair remained perfectly coiffed, nary a hair out of place in his jaunty fauxhawk.

“Hey, Lassie—how’s the arm?”

“Clavicle,” he snapped.

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

Carlton resisted the urge to go for his weapon. “And what do you think? It hurts.”

“That’s nice.” Spencer nodded absently as he took a noisy slurp. “And Jules… my sweet, sweet Valentine—strawberry-pineapple smoothie?”

He offered the drink with what Carlton was absolutely certain the man thought was a winsome smile. Why in the name of Sweet Lady Justice a man in his thirties imagined he needed to be winsome was beyond him, but then again, why Spencer did anything was beyond him.

“No. I do not want a smoothie. God, Shawn—”

Every line of O’Hara’s body language screamed stunned incredulity.

Carlton could relate.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“Jules, I’m beyond delighted you asked.” With a sleight-of-hand flourish worthy of the finest magician—or con artist—Spencer produced a drum major’s whistle.

Instantly horrified, Carlton reached for a nearby tray and handed it to Vick.

Confused she took it. “What the—?”

“Karen, I suggest you duck.”

Fade to black…

There was a lot of channeling going on this year. A lot of channeling.

Claire Danes channeled Gwyneth, Isla Fisher channeled Kate Winslet, Katharine McPhee channeled JLo, Alyssa Milano channeled a NYC Cab…

Lucy Liu clearly took her inspiration from Carol Burnett as Scarlett O’Hara, except she opted to skin the parlor sofa rather than the drapes. Her hair also looked as if she’d reconstructed her braid after a quickie in the back of the limo.

Moving along, it appeared that many of the actresses in attendance were extremely jealous of Angelina’s Leg and were desperate to inspire parody Twitter accounts for their own legs. I can only hope they were all wearing underwear, as high up as some of these slits went. (Too many to mention but any other fashion gallery will show many examples, I’m sure.)

I will give you one example of The Leg Thing, if only because she was such a huge offender from another standpoint. Halle, you’ve got great legs, we get it. More importantly, however. for the love of all that’s good and holy, don’t do that to The Girls. I mean, did she piss off her stylist or what? Did she actually think this looked good? (And watch—she’ll show up on all the Best Dressed Lists, just because she’s Halle.)

There were a few gowns I liked—while I wasn’t crazy about the cut/fit of the bodice, I did rather like Jennifer Lawrence’s red ballgown and Naomi Watts’ claret sheath with the train. (Actually, Naomi’s is one that the longer I consider it, the more I like it.

My favorite of the night, however, probably was Tina Fey’s gown from the early part of the ceremony itself—love the color, her hair, and of course, the sassy lady wearing it.

Here’s hoping the Oscars bring some better selections overall (and more time).

*Images courtesy of People Magazine & Huffington Post Style. 

So I’m taking a page from Pop My Culture’s year-end two-part podcast and doing a Top 5/Bottom 5 list, a resolution (or as I like to call them, “revolution”), & Song of the Year. Why? Well, because the podcast was awesome (seriously, go listen, it’s brilliant) and more importantly, I’m sitting here, waiting for my hair to finish processing color and I’m bored. (And hoping I don’t come out looking like the victim of nuclear fallout.)

So, without further ado, we’ll start with the Bottom 5- in no particular order:

Rejection. As in, rejection letters from editors. They suck. Nearly 15 years in the business & they still suck. A lot.

In that vein, not yet selling an adult novel. Not adult as in X-rated, you pervs, but adult, as in a novel/story intended for adults. It’s what I started out with the intent to publish, and it’s still my first love. I have some really good manuscripts still waiting for their turn. Hopefully, someday, they’ll get it. In the meantime, I keep creating new ones. (More on that later)

Fifty Shades of Grey I’m sorry. I try very hard not to badmouth other writers and or books but the manner in which this book made its way to publication and the level of popularity its achieved is just mind-boggling to me. And I’m sorry—it’s just a badly-written book whose characters were blatantly ripped off from another franchise (what I think of that one is a different topic altogether). What really pisses me off is how so many friends of mine who write really fine erotica/erotic romance are being accused of “jumping on the bandwagon.” On the other hand, it’s also served as a windfall for them, so that’s been a positive.

Ignorance/Intolerance. Sadly, this one carries over from year to year, but it seems to become especially prevalent during election years. I’m very live and let live—I have friends across the entirety of the belief spectrum, albeit leaning a bit more toward the left, but my staunchly-held belief system is one should educate oneself, should stand firm in one’s beliefs and grant me the respect of allowing me the same. You come at me with ignorance and intolerance and I have no use for you.

Taylor Swift/Justin Beiber/et al They just set my teeth on edge. Luckily, my kids have never gone for super lightweight pop music, so I’ve been able to escape most of it.

Okay, Top Five, also in no particular order:

Being approached by Harlequin out of the blue to write two young adult novellas. Especially amazing considering when my agent made the offer my response was, “But… I don’t have any novella proposals.” They simply liked how I wrote and wanted me to come up with something for them. Which I am in the process of doing.

Television I’m such a workaholic, I don’t get out as often as I should to movies, so I make up for it by having a cable package with every channel known to man. And even so, I don’t see the movies I miss in theatres because there are so many good television shows going on that are just smart and engrossing and fabulous examples of storytelling. Copper, Longmire, Mad Men, Justified, Vegas—and as a corollary to that, watching TV with my kids. It’s been so much fun to introduce them to old favorites and to discover new ones together—Firefly, Farscape, BSG, Dr. Who, Sherlock, Person of Interest, various anime programs. They’re so smart and it’s a blast to get their impressions and opinions. (And oh my, are they opinionated. Can’t imagine where they got that from…)

Music Also a constant from year to year, but the things that made it wonderful this year was discovering new artists via satellite radio and the Shazam app (As my husband says, “For a free app, it’s cost me a metric assload of money. Can’t say he’s wrong.) New artists discovered this year: Delta Rae, Z.Z. Ward, honey honey, Michael Kiwanuka, The Last Bison, Audra Mae & the Almighty Sound, Amy Stroup, The Head and the Heart, the Lumineers, Clairy Browne & the Bangin’ Rockettes—the list just goes on and on, really…  (Go on, look surprised. I dare you.)

Twitter 2012 was my year of rediscovering Twitter. I had joined in 2009, somewhat grudgingly in that “It’s something I’m supposed to do for self-promo,” which most people who know me know I hate with the heat of a thousand suns, but after STARS released in late 2010, I got so sick of myself, I went on nearly ten-month twitter hiatus. I made a cautious return in late 2011 and slowly began restructuring my follow lists. Rather than solely publishing people I started following people in other artistic mediums and from there, just people whom I found interesting. I started actually enjoying Twitter as a social interaction tool—it’s actually a perfect method by which a shy, introvert can get to know people and ultimately, it’s allowed me to befriend and meet in real space, some fabulous people I absolutely adore, including Vanessa Ragland, one of the co-hosts of Pop My Culture which of course, prompted this rambly post. Cole, you’re next. It’s okay. I’m reasonably harmless.

Ballroom Dance What started out as research for STARS has turned into a hobby/exercise regime at which it turns out, I’m pretty good. It feeds into my artistic/creative/competitive sides and frees up the lizard brain to mull over the writing.

Writing Yes, I know this makes it six, but I’ll be the first to say I suck at math. Besides, it’s my list. 2012 returned to me the joy in writing. I didn’t finish any manuscripts this year, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t write, because oh my goodness I wrote. I wrote so very much that won’t ever see the light of day and I’m okay with that, because I wrote simply for myself, no expectations, no rules, just wrote for me and it was fun and it fed my soul and reminded me why I do this. Because I have to.

One more, because again, my list, and well, it needs to be added: Twenty. 2012 marked twenty years of being married to my best friend. I initially hesitated to include this, not because it’s not important (d’uh) but because I actually tend to keep my personal life more to the background. But hell, twenty years is pretty freakin’ remarkable, if I do say so myself. We went to Hawaii and fell in love with it, so that was another thing that was great about 2012, which I suppose technically makes it eight things.

Yeah, I really suck at math.

Resolution/Revolution Oy, I hate making these because it’s inevitably setting oneself up for failure, but I’ll give it a go: this year, I’ll finish Dorian, my adult horror suspense. There.

Song of the Year This is both an oldie and newbie: The Boxer by Mumford & Sons and featuring Jerry Douglas and Paul Simon. First off, The Boxer is one of my favorite songs of all time. You have to understand—I’m a musician’s musician. I always glom onto music/melody first before lyrics. I can hear a song once and repeat the melody back to you, but there are songs I’ve known for thirty years where the lyrics will escape me (weird for a writer, right?). But The Boxer has always been one of those rare exceptions. Those lyrics have just always hit me straight in the gut and always seem relevant to some aspect of my life. The final verse, in particular, seemed to really reflect this past year for me: 

In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down
And cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame
I am leaving I am leaving but the fighter still remains

I mean, if that isn’t just the biggest “fuck you, you can knock me down, but I ain’t ever giving up,” ever, I don’t know what is—and as beautifully as Simon & Garfunkel sang it, there’s something so stunningly perfect about Mumford & Sons’ interpretation. The harmonies are as glorious as anything Paul and Art ever sang, but when it comes to the lead vocals, Marcus Mumford is just raw and gritty and he sings the lyrics with the sort of raw anger they seem to demand. Add in that Paul Simon contributes to the vocals and lap steel guitar legend Jerry Douglas adds his own unique sound to the mix and it’s the perfect marriage of old and new and goes to show how a great song remains timeless.

Not to mention, Marcus’ voice does funny things to my ladybits.

I guess all in all, 2012 wasn’t too terrible, although honestly, the Mayans were more than welcome to its remains.

So with that, I bid 2012 adieu.

Which just goes to show, the darlings, they can be killed at any point in the process and as an author, you have to be prepared to deal. Unless, of course, you’re one of those speshul snowflakes who exists in a vacuum and has reached a point where people are afraid/don’t bother to edit you any longer. In which case, I feel sorry for you because everyone can stand editing.

But that’s a post for another day. Today it’s about killing darlings and while I’m not prepared to share from the new story just yet (mostly because it’s really such a little thing and not much of a darling to kill anyway), I am willing to share one of my absolute favorite darlings from Dorian. 

Oh, how I love this scene. Like BURNING, I love it. I knew when I first wrote it that it was a hell of a scene. When my first readers started telling me that good as it was, it maybe wasn’t going to work, I rebelled. It was such a good scene, dammit. How could it not work? I moved it around in the narrative—I even tried making it the opening scene—but eventually, I had to acknowledge defeat and the fact that my readers, with the distance they had from the story, were right.

Great scene. Just not working for the story as a whole. Out it goes. But I still love it and pull it out from time to time to remind myself what I’m capable of producing.

***

The French Quarter, New Orleans

November 2005

Gabriel clenched one end of the tourniquet between his teeth and pulled tight, rapidly opening and closing his left fist and slapping the fingers of his right hand along the crook of his elbow, pausing only to feel for the telltale rise of the vein.  Praying for it to come up faster, sooner…

There… there—

He unclenched his jaw, the filled syringe he’d been holding between his teeth dropping into his palm.  Quickly, he adjusted his grip and plunged the needle into the vein, his head dropping back against the weathered brick wall of the alley as the juice burned through his bloodstream and the familiar euphoria washed over him, ebbing and flowing in time with the rowdy strains of “Iko Iko” that drifted from some nearby club.

Look at my king all dressed in red

Iko iko an nay

“I bet you five dollars he’ll kill you dead,” he sang along in his head—he thought—until he heard the cheer and answering chant of “Jockomo feena nay!” from the group weaving through the lights glowing at the far end of the alley, pointing the way toward the noise and rowdiness of Bourbon.  A little more subdued, maybe, but signs of life were evident, the parties of the Quarter staging a return.  Celebrating survival.  Shooting a big, civic finger at that fucking storm.  That mean-assed bitch had blown into town, done her damage, then left them scrabbling in her left-behind shit like the goddamned Lord of the Flies.  But she could just go fuck herself—she’d been banished and they were still here.  Still here and not going anywhere.  Not anytime soon, no sir.

Sweat trailed along his scalp and around his ear, cold and sinuous as a snake.  No… no…  He fucking hated snakes.  Blinking rapidly, he tried to dispel the image, rubbing his back against the rough bricks to get rid of the feeling of something dark slithering down his neck and along his arm, leaving a dank, clammy trail in its wake, like it’d just come sliding up from the bayou.

The syringe dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers to join the rest of the crap littering the narrow alley—this sliver between two ancient buildings just wide enough to trap the shadows.  Perfect for a quickie, whether it was with someone—or something—you wouldn’t normally be caught dead with out there, even in the hedonistic surroundings of the Quarter.  Their remains lay underfoot: the mélange of cigarette butts and crushed go-cups, used syringes and condoms that had a way of tripping up tourists stupid enough to try to use the alley as a shortcut. 

Why was he thinking of all this shit?  He was trying to forget the bad.  Forget the sting of cold water against his face—cold that was alien to New Orleans in August.  Forget fighting against the wind and rain, trying to convince folks to leave, that he’d drive them to the Dome, to the Convention Center, to anywhere that wasn’t where the storm was trying to beat her way into their house… the House of the Rising Sun, the Crescent City, the Big Easy…

So easy… It had once been so easy.  It needed to be easy again. 

He never used to trust easy.  Easy was for suckers and the lazy.  Live long enough in New Orleans, though, and a body eventually succumbed.  Easy was their way of life after all.  Even when working hard, there was a welcome, sugar-drenched easiness about everything that made it home.

A screaming trumpet line wailed through the heavy, humid air bathing him in the soothing warmth of home.  So warm, even late, late at night, with the shadows and ghosts as his only company.  Just like he liked it.

The familiar lethargy began claiming him, sweet and relaxing, from his fingertips through his muscles and all the way down to his bones, making him feel as if he was sinking right into the weathered bricks, merging with the building.  So perfect.  He could be a sentry, standing guard, watching everyone go about their business… doing the things they did, good and bad, that gave the city a richness like sweet cream, that kept folks coming back, even now.  She was like a lady past her prime, ragged round the edges but still damned fine enough to attract all the boys and knowing it.

He smiled, rubbing his palms over the rough surface beneath them, caressing life back into the old girl, letting her know he thought she was still hot.  He’d never leave her for any of those sleeker, bigger cities with their promise of shiny and new.  Hell, why would he leave?  All that sleek shininess, it was bullshit—a smokescreen hiding all the same sorts of darkness.  At least New Orleans, she was honest and true. 

Rolling his head to the side, he peered down the tunnel-like expanse of the alley, the dark length lithe and supple, his beautiful girl reaching out to embrace him.  Slowly, he began making his way toward the movement—so fucking beautiful, bodies moving together, then apart then together again, a long, graceful arm reaching out to him, imploring, beseeching—

“Please—”

He blinked again, smiled at her request, tried to move a few steps closer, stumbling as muscle and bone rebelled, wanting to stay, the weathered bricks tightening their embrace as if wanting him to sink into every pore and crack.

“Help me, please—”

It was the darkest part of the alley and he was still too far away.  Too far and getting further, as the long arm reached out once more then fell away, the once-graceful fingers grasping at thin air, desperate for purchase.  Adrenaline surged through his system, fighting through the junk holding his body hostage.

He blinked furiously trying to separate reality and the fantasy—what if it was all a fantasy?  What if it was all real? 

What the hell was real?

“Please—“

He groped at the small of his back for his piece with one hand—reached into his pocket with the other.  Braced his legs.  Lifted the gun in what should’ve been a practiced grip.

Sweated as it trembled.

“Police—”  He flashed his badge.  “Step away and show me your hands.  Now!”

Except there was nothing there.  Nothing more than the stink of piss and illicit sex and the distant wail of a trumpet that sounded like laughter on the night air.

From A Tempestuous Noise

© 2012 Barbara Caridad Ferrer

I returned from a wildly successful and incredibly entertaining weekend at the Surrey International Writers Conference (writers, seriously, go to this conference. I cannot recommend it highly enough) to find that shenanigans were afoot.

What shenanigans, you ask? (Or maybe you didn’t, but I’m going to tell you anyway.)

Turns out that Lovely Agent had been working her beautiful magic, communicating with an editor at one of the Harlequin imprints who apparently is rather fond of my work (yay for editors being fond of work!). She’d sent my current available material and was waiting to hear back.

Well…

Haunted, the ghost/sci fi YA they couldn’t figure out how to make fit within their lines.

Breathe, the cancer spouse/love affair was perhaps a bit too darkly emotional for what they were looking for (but more on that later).

Dorian was just flat out too dark (yeah… that’s not a surprise and those who have read the partial will understand why I say that).

But Lovely Editor wanted to work with me so on Wednesday (The Diva’s 15th birthday as it happens), Lovely Agent called and said, “Hey, they have slots in a couple upcoming anthologies for which they want you to write a couple of novellas. You game?”

To which I replied, “Um… D’UH.”

Seriously—I’m a writer. Give me something I can work with and I’m a very happy camper and this… this is something with which I can work. The anthologies will be released through Harl’s Kimani TRU line, which is the multicultural YA imprint, for holiday 2013 and spring 2014. Totally in my wheelhouse and moreover, sounds like FUN, which is something that has been in short supply lately.

And in the meantime, new Lovely Editor has yet another proposal of mine in hand, which was one I came up with back in the day as an option book that never seemed to jibe with TPTB, but that I hope will work this time around. It’s a fun story, set in a fashion design school and deals with body image and perspective and presciently enough, kind of ties into the whole “New Adult” wave that’s going around.

And also in the meantime, remember that splendid time I said I had at Surrey? Well, I met another Lovely Editor, also from Harlequin, yet another arm of the company, to whom I pitched BREATHE. (For those of you new to these parts, this is That Book. The one I can’t let go of, because I believe in it So Damned Hard.) This particular imprint is one that I actually feel is rather well suited to a story like BREATHE, that’s a little outside the box and defies some traditional story tropes, yet is still deeply emotional and real and moreover, I really, really liked this editor a great deal and feel as if she’s also someone I could work well with.

So… I sit back and wait. (Story of my life.) But at least now I have something with which to keep myself busy. Already the ideas are percolating and I can’t wait for characters to reveal themselves although they better do it quick—proposal deadline is November 14th. My sister’s birthday, another lucky day.

And because I’m me, I celebrated by buying these. Go on… look surprised. I dare you. 

Bitch, please.

Obviously, we don’t know all the facts, but of the authors cited, at least one of them delivered a completely fabricated tale under the guise of memoir. Gee, sounds like grounds for recouping a sizable advance to me.  Regardless, here’s what I know as fact:

Fact: Most contracts have provisions/failsafes written in to protect the publisher when an author fails to produce a manuscript (what they define as “failing to produce a manuscript” can be called into interpretation, which we’ll get to in a minute).

Fact: Every author who writes a book for a publisher, signs a contract.

Fact: It doesn’t have to be that you haven’t delivered the book—it can be that the book delivered wasn’t what was promised.

Fact: It could be that the publisher decides for whatever reason strikes their fancy, they no longer want the book, and they are well within their legal rights to do so, no matter how shitty and wrongheaded they are.

How do I know this? (And Lordy, I hate, hate, hate resurrecting this, but dammit, sometimes, it’s just necessary.)

Thank you and thanks to Barb for your patience as [Publisher] and I have taken more time to consider SO SHE DANCES. I’m sorry to send the news now that we’ve decided we can’t proceed with the publication. As personally committed to the project as I am and as much as I wish I could continue working with Barb on the book, I’m afraid it’s just too far from working as a [Publisher] book. By that I mean that, first and foremost, the characters aren’t developed fully enough, apart from Soledad herself, who is not coming across as a likable heroine to root for. Further, the style is overly wordy throughout, thus the story pace is slow.

I had hoped that [Publisher] and the other editors here would agree that further revision could bring the novel the necessary depth and emotional involvement, but unfortunately the group is unanimous in feeling that too much revision is required. And so we will have to cancel the contract now, with the provision that Barb will repay her on-signing advance if and when she sells the project elsewhere.

I’m so sorry to have to say goodbye to this novel. It’s painful to do so, but I’m hopeful that you’ll be able to find a home for the book on an adult- or paperback-original list. Please let me know if you’d like me to put [name redacted] in touch with you to discuss this further.

Yeah, the “Barb” in question was me. That was a letter I received nearly four years ago on a project I had sold nearly sixteen months earlier. Sixteen months of working on a manuscript, sixteen months of having more than one editor tell me how much they “loved it,” but when it finally went up to the final arbiter, the publisher, she decided she didn’t care for it and that, as they say, was that.

And because I had signed the contract, she was well within her rights to do so. And so, I had to sign a letter that read:

“The Publisher hereby exercises its option to terminate the Agreement based on an unsatisfactory manuscript delivered by the Author.

The book in question?

WHEN THE STARS GO BLUE.

Yeah. That one. The same book that wound up winning the International Latino Book Award as Best Young Adult Novel was the same manuscript deemed “unsatisfactory” (or in the parlance of my contract, “an unpublishable product.”)

I gave it one more revision pass on my own, basically to take out a few things I hadn’t agreed with at the time, but that I had put in to appease the publisher, and changed the title, but by and large, the book published by St. Martin’s as WHEN THE STARS GO BLUE was the same manuscript turned down the aforementioned publisher.

I won’t lie. That was the single, shittiest, lowest moment I have ever had in publishing. (And trust me when I say I’ve had more than my fair share of shitty moments at publishing’s hands.) To this day, it continues to fuck with my confidence, because by signing that letter, it was like a public acknowledgement that they were right, even though I knew (and still know) better. However, the simple fact is, I signed the contract that gave the publisher the right to cancel the contract and demand I pay them back.

Was it unfair?

Oh, hell yes.

Was it an abuse of their power?

Obviously, I believe so. The amount of the advance was an absolutely paltry sum (seriously, really paltry) by publishing standards and considering the amount of work I’d put in over sixteen months, never being late with a deadline, essentially being a Good Little Author, I thought it rather churlish of them to demand I repay, especially when you consider the amounts publishers (including this one) have let slide in the past.

However

They had every right to do so because I signed the damned contract.

The clause wasn’t a surprise—I was fully aware of its existence because I read my contracts beginning to end and ask about what I don’t understand. And it’s not an easy clause to have removed—trust me. I just never imagined it was a clause that would ever be invoked because honestly—the language: “unpublishable product,” seemed unthinkable. I’d already had two books published—had received critical acclaim and won awards—had proven I could produce a publishable product, so no… the idea that I could have a contract canceled because of that particular clause was near laughable.

*cue Fate laughing her snarky ass off*

See, here’s the thing— a term such as “unpublishable product” is an amorphous term—subject to interpretation. For that publisher, their opinion was that I had given them an “unpublishable product” and in retrospect, maybe I had, because that particular imprint certainly didn’t have anything like STARS among their titles or other acquisitions. Look at the editorial letter—they basically said they maybe thought it could find a home as an adult title.

My counterargument would be that they had contracted a book that was an interpretation of Bizet’s Carmen—did they honestly think they were going to get light and fluffy?

The truth is, that particular imprint should never have bought the manuscript. Because in terms of story structure, tone, and execution, I never wavered from the proposal I gave them, nor was it appreciably different from my previous novels. They knew what they were getting—or should have.

I will forever maintain that the bulk of error rests on their shoulders, but in the end, it doesn’t really matter.

Because I signed the damned contract.

And here endeth the lesson.

***

**

*

So. You see what good can come from never, ever, don’t-even-consider-it, throwing away any bit of your writing? I mean, you just never know. As for myself, I’ve long been a proponent of the school of There’s No Such Thing As Wasted Writing. Because again, you just never know. So in that vein, I decided to go digging into my own vaults and pull out a piece of writing I love (of which I have many) that fits nowhere in particular (much like Jenn’s) but that I absolutely love and that I can’t seem to let go. I completed this entire manuscript but as Lovely Agent kindly put it, it read like two different books—the first half vastly different from the second.

She’s… not wrong. So it lives on my hard drive, waiting for me to decide how best to revise, but in the meantime, I still think the first chapter, which I dashed off in literally a couple hours when the idea hit, still remains one of my favorite pieces of writing that I’ve ever committed to (virtual) paper. So I decided to share it.

And I hope you like it.

Chapter One of my 1960s-set story, Between Here & Gone

© 2012 Barbara Ferrer

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

CROWD HAILS CASTRO AS HE REACHES U.S.  FOR AN 11-DAY VISIT

The New York Times

April 16,1959

One

April 1959

“Talia, I’m going to be sick.”

“Oh, no.  Otra vez?  How can you even have anything left?”

But Carlito was already leaning against me, the harsh, dry rattle of his heaves contrasting with the cold wet sounds of the waves slapping against the sides of the boat.  While he gagged and jackknifed into my lap, I desperately groped for the bowl we’d tried to keep handy ever since we ran out of the Coca-Colas that we’d saved for him and his delicate stomach.

I was too late.  He was losing what little remained, nothing but bile at this point, soaking through my skirt, hot and smelling acidic and faintly, ridiculously, of maduros.  Probably nothing more than a product of exhausted and overwrought imagination.  Wistful memory of the meal served at home before we left, colluding with the future.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Everything out of the ordinary.

None of the servants any the wiser that it would be the last time they’d be cooking for us, serving us, cleaning up after us.

Or maybe they’d known.  No one could trust anyone else any longer.  I wonder how many of them at least suspected?  Might have been watching, waiting… Papi must have sensed it was close.

We should have just flown.  We should have left—long before this.  I tried telling them.  I had desperately wanted to leave.  Almost as much as I wanted to stay.  Wanted things to be the way they’d been, childish pipe dream that it was.  Wanted to curl up and die.

But Papi insisted that not only could we bring more with us on the boat, but that it would also serve us well in bringing extra money since we’d be leaving almost everything behind.  What we still possessed was tied to the country in ways that would all too easily rouse suspicion if we tried to make substantial changes.   Another reason we’d taken so long to leave.  Gathering money and items in small increments, all very cloak and dagger in a way that might have been thrilling and exciting if not for the sheer terror overlaying every step or word.

So not only was La Damisela a beautiful cruiser, meticulously maintained, but for los americanos—they would appreciate not only the beauty and craftsmanship, but also find the notoriety of what it represented entirely too delicious to resist.  All certain to add up to a nice sum.  Not that he directly said so.  At least, not to me.  Just la niña—la princessa—no need to worry my precious little head with such trivialities.

What a joke.  Everything was already different.

Yet so typical that he’d still think of me in such a way.  Attempting to keep me locked away and preserved in some airtight box.  Even after all that had already happened.  So willfully blind to the fact that I’d left innocence behind in one shattering moment weeks ago.  Although how could he be so callous?  Who knew?  Perhaps it was for his own benefit.  Protecting himself.

Mami and Abuela had always said it wasn’t that the men in our lives didn’t care or weren’t aware.  Just simply that they couldn’t handle our pain.  It overwhelmed them.  So instead they focused on pretending we were delicate flowers requiring protection.  That we were the ones who didn’t understand.  Even when they knew better.

Cause for more wisdom from Mami and Abuela—that, of all things, we were the ones who had to be strong.  For them.

I wasn’t sure I could do it.  I didn’t want to be strong.  I wanted to howl and scratch and spit and rip flesh from bones and rail at the inhumane unfairness of it all.  Perhaps I was better at this pretending than even I had imagined.  Because they—Papi, Mami, Abuela, Carlito—every one of them thought I was strong enough to cope.

Using a clean section of my skirt, I wiped Carlito’s mouth, dabbed the perspiration off his sweet face, trapped in that shimmering moment somewhere between boy and man.  Pobrecito—there was so much he’d be missing.  So much he should be experiencing that wasn’t this hell.

“Let me get you some water, hermanito.“

“Don’t go.” His voice cracked.  Definitely more boy there, as his arms tightened around my waist—afraid I’d leave.

“But it’ll make you feel better.”

“It’ll make me throw up again.” Shades of a deeper tone.  A surety.  Almost against my will I smiled.  So stubborn, my little brother.  Since the cradle no one had known him as well as he knew himself—as he took every opportunity to remind us.

But I not only wanted to get him water, I wanted to change my clothes.  Get out of this dress with its soaked, filthy skirt.  Never mind that in sacrificing clothes in order to leave room for other items and the fact that this wasn’t the first time that I’d held Carlito through a bout of nausea, I didn’t have much left.  At the very least, I could always borrow a pair of Carlito’s pants and a shirt.  Anything would be better than sitting around in sodden, smelly cotton, clinging to my thighs, bare, since I’d discarded my girdle the first hour out.  It was just too damp to be wearing the close-fitting torture device.  Besides, clinging to social niceties was a waste of time.

“Carlito, m’ijo, I have to change my clothes.“

“Stay.” A command, coming easily from the young prince accustomed to getting his way, easy for me to ignore until his gaze fixed itself on my face, eyes enormous dark smudges in the pale oval of his face.  So deceptive, since those eyes, in the light of day, were the same pale, brilliant green as Papi’s.  The “eyes of the San Martín men” as Abuelita proclaimed time and again from her spot of honor at the foot of the French mahogany table.  But in the dark, the color was inconsequential—overwhelmed by fear.  Ignoring the wet and the stink and my own terror and fury, I gathered him close, my little brother, taller than me now, the future man of the family, forever the baby, holding him as the yacht bobbed quietly along the waves.  We were saving our last bit of gas, I knew.  For when we got close.

I closed my eyes and turned my face into the breeze drifting through the cabin’s open door, breathing deep—sea air always helped.  Even under these circumstances.

“Natalia—”

I blinked, not sure if I’d drifted or not.  But I must have, because where before there had been nothing but endless dark—

Lights.

Through the window—tiny pinpricks of light in the distance, piercing the dark, gracias a Dios.

Finally.

Lights that appeared to be standing still, only their reflections bobbing and weaving the slightest bit on the dark water.  Looking like fireflies.  Difficult, but not impossible to catch.

Beneath the smooth leather soles of my shoes, I felt the engines rumble to life, the distant lights continuing to beckon, reaching out, guiding us in.

“We’re here,” Carlito whispered, struggling to sit straighter.  “Natalia, we’re here.”

“Yo se,” I whispered absently.  But where?

My stare never strayed from the lights that drew closer, closer… so close I could practically touch them, then—gone, my hip stinging, fingers digging into the padded cushions of the bench as I struggled to regain my balance, to sit up, shaking my head to clear it of the buzzing whine.

“Vamos, niños.”

That came through loud and clear.  I hadn’t hit my head.  But it felt like it as I stared at Abuelita who was tugging at my arm with one hand, pushing Carlito towards the cabin door with the other.  “¡Ahora!“

“But Abuelita—where?” Carlito was already on his feet, one hand blindly reaching out to help me up as he stared through the door at the lights.

“Tirate—into the water!” she ordered, pushing past us and onto the deck, unfolding the hinged wood ladder bolted to the back of the boat.  No.  Just… no.  That ladder—the center of each step worn several shades lighter—it was meant for sunny days and jumping into clear turquoise waters.  Not desperate, nighttime tumbles into an inky, terrifying mystery.

“Your father hit something.  He doesn’t know what.  It was too dark.”

“Where is Papi—Mami?  Why can’t we use the life raft?” I tried to charge past my grandmother, trying to get to the cockpit, but she grabbed my shoulders, shaking me.

“!Bastante! We can’t fit everything we need into the life raft if we are all in there.  Do not worry, they are coming and we are getting everything important, but you must go over the side and get to shore.  Now.”

“Wait! I need to get—”

She held my arm in a death grip.  “You can’t.”

“No!” I wrenched away from her, lurching back towards the cabin and finding myself unceremoniously yanked back, the seams of my dress digging painfully into the soft flesh beneath my arms as my grandmother’s hold on the back of my dress tightened.

“Natalia, we do not have time.” Spinning me around she grasped my shoulders, her features softening for an instant.  “He will get your things.  Te lo juro, I’ll make sure he gets everything.”

“But—”

“M’ijita, when have I ever let you down?”

It was futile.  If she had to push me over the side herself she would.  I would just have to trust her.  I nodded, my hand going to the front of my dress, feeling for my gold chain, tracing the outline of the small cross I’d worn since my Confirmation and the other, weightier pendant that had only recently joined it.  Turning, I headed for the opening where Carlito waited, pale, but eyes wide and sparkling and clearer than they’d been in hours.

But before I could take more than a step or two, my grandmother captured my arm, holding me back once again.  “Natalia, your shoes—dejalos.“

“What?” I glanced down, almost shocked to find them still on my feet.  And all of a sudden, it seemed vital—the most important thing—to win one battle.  Keep just one thing.  “No—they’re from Paris.” Papi had bought them for me on our last trip—when we visited the Sorbonne and he’d told me I could go and I entertained visions of myself as Audrey Hepburn or Leslie Caron.  Seeing myself cavorting along the wide avenues and rues in my soft, black flats and capris and the slightly scratchy wool beret I’d bought from a street vendor on my final afternoon.  I’d had such dreams—sharing coffees and quiet talks in sidewalk cafés.  Taking long, romantic walks along the Seine Making plans.  There had been so many plans.  All so bright and beautiful.

“No importan.  Who cares where they came from?  Leave them. “

I could feel the fast, heavy throb of my pulse, right in the crook of my elbow, just below where her fingers curled, tight and cold.  “We need to move quickly.  Your father’s not certain what damage the boat may have sustained.  Tienes que irte.”

My mouth opened on a wordless scream at my grandmother’s harsh shove, the rage that drove the urge to fight and scratch breaking free of the iron shackles with which I’d restrained it, bubbling to the surface.  My fists clenched—

“No—“

“¡Ay!” Her breath rushed out in one explosive huff.  “Fine.  Suit yourself.  I have no time for this nonsense.”

“But you’re coming?  All of you?” Carlito asked, grabbing my shoulders and turning me toward the opening in the rail.

“Yes, yes—I am going to help your parents.  We’ll be right behind you.  You—” she pointed at Carlito, “take care of your sister.”

My laugh came out so bitter and full of rage, it was a shock the gleaming brass railing didn’t corrode in that instant.

“You’re kidding.” I laughed again.  “He’s a baby.”

“I’m thirteen,” he retorted from where he waited, poised to jump, no second thought about it, the little idiot.  Further proof that he had no business taking care of anyone.

Be careful, hermanito.  Don’t swim too far out. 

Why don’t we play with the dominoes, Carlito?  We’ll make a design and I’ll let you knock them down.

No… no llores, m’ijito—don’t cry.  It’s just an ice cream cone.  Here, I’ll share mine with you.  I’ll always share.  

I took care of him.

“Bueno, m’ija, you’re the one acting like a baby and wasting valuable time.” Abuelita pointed a long elegant white finger at the rail.  “He’s not.”

Because now he thought this was some big adventure.  That it was exciting, like those stupid movies he’d spent his Saturdays watching in the dark, butter-scented confines of El Capitan.  He was practically bouncing up and down, waiting for me.  Waiting to begin.  My eyes stinging, I pushed past him and started down the steps.

“Your shoes, Talia,” Carlito whispered as he started down after me, his feet slender and bare and white above my head.

“Shut up.”

I paused on the final rung before the ladder descended into the water and reached down, slipping off one shoe, then the other.  Holding the pair in one hand high above my head, I lowered myself the rest of the way, gasping as I began treading water.  It wasn’t cold—not really.  I’d simply never gone swimming at night.  Not in the ocean.  Not fully clothed.  Not like this—with this queer dread and its accompanying chill lapping at me, even more insistently than the waves.

It would be so easy to go limp—sink to the bottom.

But the lights… they were there, getting closer, bit by bit.  Even faster if I would truly swim.  I knew it.  I was a strong swimmer.  I could be there in no time.  I could forget the shoes—it was stupid really.  They were just shoes.  My breath hitched in my chest, sharp like a knife, the serrated edge slicing from the base of my neck all the way down to my belly, cramping in hard knots.  Who cared what they meant?  Nothing really.

“What do you think lives in the water here?  Do you think there might be sharks?”

“Shut up, Carlito.”

“Maybe jellyfish.  I bet there are jellyfish.”

I didn’t even know where we were and he was asking about sharks.  Or jellyfish.  Or—

I screamed as something brushed my leg, long and slow—a few feet in front of me, a dark form surfaced and I screamed again, one shoe dropping from nerveless fingers to land beside me with a quiet splash.

“Don’t scare the sharks, hermana.”

“Carlito—it’s not funny.  It’s not a joke.  Don’t you understand?  Don’t you?  Don’t you?”

I kept saying it over and over, my shoulders burning from the strain, my lungs, my eyes, my legs, kicking and kicking—everything burning, water filling my nose, my ears, muffling the noises outside my head even as it made the sounds inside grow louder and louder—

Just let go… It would be so easy… Just let go… You know you want to…

“Stop—it’s okay.  You’re here.  You’re safe.”

I kicked some more, feeling a new pressure under my arms, shaking my head, long strands of hair whipping across my face and catching in my lashes and mouth.

“Stop, honey, you can stop, it’s okay.  It’s okay.”

I shook my head again, rubbed my face against my shoulder—felt the gritty rasp of wet sand scratching my skin as the disembodied voice floated above me.

“Do you understand me?”

Slowly, I blinked, eyes stinging as fresh saline from tears cleared away the salt from the ocean water.

“Si—” I shook my head again.  “Yes.  I understand,” I said, my voice thin and brittle and rising as I looked around, frantic, trying to focus.   ”My little brother—”

“He’s fine, sweetheart.” Hands, warm and secure, like Tata Sucre, my long-ago nanny, draped a blanket over my shoulders, then turned them gently, focusing the beam from her flashlight on Carlito, hunched over on his hands and knees, gasping as a man draped a blanket over his body, back to looking slender and delicate—the terrified glance he shot my way returning him to the boy I had always looked out for.

“Ay, gracias a Dios—gracias madre santisima—gracias.” I scrabbled across the short distance separating us until I reached him, hauling him into my arms, fresh tears flooding my eyes as I felt his arms go around my neck, the heaving of his thin chest as he sobbed, our stealthy flight, the terrifying journey, this final race towards our future finally catching up to him.  Reflexively, I crossed myself once, then twice, feeling again for my chain, making certain it was still there, before stroking the seal smooth curve of his head, murmuring reassurances that everything was all right.  We were all right.  I would take care of him.  Like always.

The voice beside me quietly said, “You were right, John.” Then softer— “What’s your name, honey?”

I went to clutch the edges of the blanket, pull it tighter around Carlito, startled at what I found in my hand.

“Natalia San Martín,” I said softly, staring at the single black shoe, the leather soaked and dripping and ruined.  “My name is Natalia San Martín.  I’m… from Havana.”

It would be the last time I said that.

So then. shall we? Make sure you’re buckled securely into your seats and keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times.

I’m sick, so I’m feeling pretty lazy about uploading—all images referenced can be found on the following sites.

People Magazine Red Carpet Arrivals

HuffPost Style

(I may sneak a photo or two in…</rebel>)

Lot of yellow on the red carpet tonight. Lot of yellow. Look, I’ll be honest right up front. It’s not my favorite color. It’s a difficult color for most people to wear and let’s face it, judging from what I saw tonight… yeah, still difficult. Julie Bowen’s neon yellow, Claire Danes’ sack dress (honey, you’re pregnant—this is no excuse for a mustard-shaded potato sack), Julianne Moore’s very very-OMG-she-skinned-Big-Bird yellow, and Leslie Mann’s daisy yellow were the four, erm, standouts. Of the four Leslie Mann was the closest to pulling it off, mostly because the gown isn’t all yellow—the white bodice manages to offset all the yellow, not to mention, the dress fits her. This goes a long way towards making a dress work, regardless of color.

Speaking of dresses that didn’t fit well (aside from Claire Danes…) two that drove me bananas yet will undoubtedly show up on all the Best Dressed lists were Zooey Deschanel and Kat Dennings. Anyone who’s read my rants on strapless gowns knows how I feel about having them properly fitted to the Girls. Kat’s came closer than Zooey’s, but the bodice wasn’t long enough for her torso and let’s face it, Kat’s got some Bodacious Girls. They needed to be treated with more respect. I did absolutely adore the deep bordeaux color on her though, far more than Zooey’s powder blue. Darling, the Fairy Godmother called—Cinderella’s gonna cut a bitch if she doesn’t get her gown back.

Speaking of strapless gowns… Well, Christina Hendricks’ gown fit her well enough, although I wasn’t a fan of the belt cutting her in half and I really wasn’t a fan of the non-color. Yes, it made her hair stand out like a gorgeous beacon, but it otherwise washed her out. I wonder if maybe the belt had been a contrast color if it would have helped or hindered? Not sure. Overall, just meh on the look.

Her castmate, Elisabeth Moss, showed up as a blonde. I didn’t much care for it. I did, however, like her gown, considering it was a print. I liked the hi-low cut of the hem and the black and green color scheme. I do wish she’d done something about her tan lines.

Speaking of prints and tan lines… Julianna Margulies, what were you thinking? First off, honey, stealing the brocade off a Baroque sofa is so not done and secondly, TAN LINES: do something about them, please.

January Jones, as usual, went edgy and off-the-runway couture and still managed to recycle a look done ten years ago, if perhaps a bit more well-fitted. Girl, would it kill you to try to look pleasant for once?

SofiaVergara, Heidi Klum, and Julianne Hough all went in shades of sea-foam green with varying levels of success—Heidi experienced a rare misstep on the red carpet. The color did nothing for her and the double slit of the gown had the unfortunate effect of making her look like she was wearing a sheer skirt over an Esther Williams bathing suit. But she’ll end up on all the Best Dressed Lists because, well, she’s Heidi. So will Sofia, because she’s Sofia and she’s not afraid of her curves, God bless her, (her gown, on the other hand, was clearly terrified of her curves- slightly NSFW pic) but you know, I think I saw Charo wear gowns just like this *mumblety mumble* years ago. I did love the color on her, but I don’t know… I would love to see her pull a Penelope Cruz and go Old Hollywood Glamor in a custom Emporio Armani or Valentino.

Julianne Hough is going to get the last amount of attention of the three, but hers was the gown I like the best, honestly. I thought it was the most creative and genuinely suited in terms of being elegant enough for a formal event, yet thoroughly age-appropriate and very fresh and young. Hayden Panettiere, I’m lookin’ at you, girl. Please, for the love of all that’s good and holy, quit dressing like a 35-year-old divorcée. Or J-Lo. Okay, Imma sneak another piccie in here, because I genuinely loved Hayden’s gown, just not on her. (I however, would totally wear it.)

Also speaking of age-appropriate, Kiernan Shipka from Mad Men looked absolutely darling—her dress was simple, elegant, made her look grown up without making her look like she was trying to look like a 35-year-old divorcée. *gives Hayden yet another hairy side eye*

Kelly Osbourne—oh, dear heart, I think you’re darling and it was awfully sweet of you to attempt to match your gown to your hair, but no. It’s just not a move that should ever be done. But props for creativity and I actually did love the dress. Just do something about the hair. Please.

Let’s see… who else. Oh, yes, of course, Tina Fey—looked glorious. Loved the color, loved the cut, loved the fact that her breasts didn’t appear to be in pain or on the verge of exploding and can I just nominate her and Jon Hamm as cutest couple who aren’t Jon Hamm & Jennifer Westfeldt?

Melissa McCarthy looked so much lovelier and more comfortable than she did at the Oscars. The gown may have been basic black, but it flattered and enhanced rather than emphasized in a negative way. She’s a lovely lady and I do so love seeing that loveliness shown to best advantage.

Sarah Paulsen looked elegant and lovely, if a bit restrained by most current standards in a deep teal blue ball gown with embroidery and what appeared to be a black velvet ribbon belt. Maybe it was safe, but you know what? It looked damned good on her, from coloring to fit. I call it a win.

Okay, the final two pics I’ll sneak in here tonight are the two most standout gowns for me, personally: Edie Falco’s modernist stunner and Ginnifer Goodwin’s Old School ballgown. Vastly different and I love ‘em both. Edie, bless her, shows that you can be a Woman of a Certain Age and wear drop dead sexy without looking skeevy or like she’s trolling on CougarLife.com. Seriously—how bad ass does the woman look? She puts most of the younguns to shame. And Ginnifer’s is just so fresh and pretty and yet completely unique. I love the 1950s silhouette combined with the very current hi-low hemline, the 3-D effect of the embroidery, the bateau neckline, the unexpected texture of the leather belt and I especially love the coral red/nude color combo, especially with her fair skin and dark, dark hair. I think I might have preferred her lipstick be bold and the eyes softer, but if she was going to go with the heavy, smoky eye, she paired it with a nude lip. Lovely balance. (You’ll note, too, no jewelry—allows the gown to speak for itself. Clever stylist.)

So that’s it for me, this year. I know I didn’t quite hit everyone, but this cold/flu/Plague is kicking my ass. Feel free to comment away.

P.S. Connie Britton. Connie, Connie, Connie… Mrs. Coach, you’re a gorgeous lady. Why did you let them give you the Stepford Wives Treatment? It was all wrong. Wrong gown, wrong hair, wrong makeup. Just wrong, wrong, wrong with a side of wrongity wrong sauce.

Okay. Now I’m really done. I think.