Lone Star Legend Read online

  PRAISE FOR HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEMA

  “Zepeda… presents a debut about the everyday struggle to find one’s way but adds unusual and alluring touches, namely the vibrant Houston setting and the novel’s emphasis on Tex-Mex culture, art, and folklore.”

  —Booklist

  “Jessica’s evolution from self-uncertainty to self-empowerment is amusingly charted, and Zepeda’s take on the popular fascination with good luck charms, horoscopes, psychics, and unreliable predictions is laced with rueful zeal.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Reading Gwen’s book was like going to a family BBQ—full of drama, juicy gossip, and lots of laughs.”

  —Mary Castillo, author of Switchcraft

  “An entertaining lighthearted Latina chick lit romp focusing on the metamorphosis of a young woman… Fans will enjoy this fascinating coming of age tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “The premise is quite cute and flows nicely, casually integrating Latin culture into the fold. Madame Hortensia, the entrepreneurial psychic, is a great comedic stand-out character.”

  —RT BOOKreviews

  “Zepeda is great at both voice and dialogue; the dialogue is clever and powers the story forward.”

  —SadieMagazine.com

  “[A] funny and heartwarming tale that follows the life of Jessica Luna through love, tears, and plenty of laughs.”

  —Bookpleasures.com

  ALSO BY GWENDOLYN ZEPEDA

  Houston, We Have a Problema

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Gwendolyn Zepeda

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Grand Central Publishing

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  www.twitter.com/grandcentralpub

  Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: January 2010

  ISBN: 978-0-446-55803-7

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  CHAPTER 80

  CHAPTER 81

  ABOUT THE CHUPACABRA

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  GUÍA DE LECTOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FOR ALICE VALDEZ

  1

  Blog entry from My Modern TragiComedy, Wednesday, March 8

  Here’s a little story that’s also a metaphor, or maybe a pattern in my life?

  It was a sunny September afternoon, the first day of school at Lorenzo de Zavala Senior High School, East Austin, 1997, and I was on top of the world. It was my sophomore year, and yet I’d already been made Assistant Editor of The Monthly Bugle, our school paper. I was sitting at my new desk—which was actually just a table, but closer to the teacher’s desk than the table where I’d sat the day before—licking my teeth. Not only was I Assistant Editor, but I’d had my braces removed the week before, so I was literally sitting pretty. Prettier, I guess. Well—at least less nerdy-looking than before.

  Aaron Lieberstat, our best boy reporter, walked up and asked me how my summer had been. I’d always thought Aaron was kind of cute, but had never spoken to him outside of academic discussions on student council elections or the merits of various brands of glue sticks.

  “You got rid of your braces,” he told me, a nervous smile lighting his freckle-rimmed lips. “It’s nice. Your face is very symmetrical now.”

  How romantic, I remember thinking, to be complimented by a boy who knew such big words.

  From there we segued into a conversation about our plans for the paper. I was looking forward to trying some new features and formatting that would finally bring our publication into the (very late) twentieth century. Aaron was excited about a photo essay he wanted to do on the Chess Club’s annual tournament. We were in Nerd Heaven.

  Ten minutes after the tardy bell rang, Mr. Jenkins, our beloved editor-slash-teacher, still hadn’t put in an appearance. My classmates and I set to work without him. Whereas other students, given that opportunity, would’ve cut class or set about destroying school property, we newspaper staff students were single-minded in our scholastic dedication.

  I’d fired up my trusty IBM Selectric Word Processor and was already typing up the first draft of a story when the Assistant Principal showed up with Coach Taylor, a woman for whom a broken tibia had long ago ended the dream of a professional cheerleading career.

  “Kids, I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Jenkins won’t be back this year. He had some family issues and went to teach at a school in North Carolina. Coach Taylor here will be your new editor. Coach Taylor, here you go.”

  His words rang in my ears, for those few moments and for the entire school year that followed. For they signaled the end of my budding success as an editrix. Coach Taylor ushered in a new era at our paper, an era filled with sports scores, jock profiles, and cheer, cheer, cheerleaders.

  We entered Nerd Hell, and in junior year I switched my Newspaper elective for its distant, genetically inferior cousin, Yearboo
k.

  It wasn’t until college that I’d attain journalistic nirvana again. As you all know, I’ve been working at a very respectable online publication since my second senior year at the University. (And no, I’m still not going to tell you which one.) But that, I fear, is about to end. We’ve just had a visit from our own Coach Taylor, and it looks like the writing’s on the wall.

  Love,

  Miss TragiComic Texas

  2

  Thursday morning, Sandy Saavedra sat in front of her former editor’s desk, in his Longhorn-orange tweed visitor’s chair. Two faces faced her. Frida Kahlo with her monkey and her iconic bad eyebrows, from the yellowing print in its cheap frame on the yellowing wall. Below that, Angelica Villanueva O’Sullivan—the face of Levy Media, owners of the hippest, the hottest, and the meanest news sites online.

  Sandy couldn’t look at Angelica, whose blond hair, cream suit, and gold jewelry shone too bright in the room full of plywood. So she looked at Frida instead, or else down at the desk, where Angelica’s corporate-length French-manicured claws rested on a piece of Sandy’s work. Sandy’s own bitten nails clutched a brand-new contract.

  “The key is page views. Keep it short, keep it sharp, keep it clickable,” Angelica was saying. It sounded like an ad, like a woman reading lines about a smart, cute, and very expensive car. That’s how the new editor talked, Sandy realized. Everything she said was like a sales pitch to someone much richer.

  Over to their right, through the window, a parking garage gleamed in the already-starting spring heat. It wasn’t the very best view for an editor’s office, but above the garage’s top level, only a few blocks away, you could see floating the dome of the Texas State Capitol building, another iconic ugly woman standing right on top. Sandy felt this stone goddess watching as Angelica sat there and said those ad words. Words that meant the end of the best writing job Sandy had ever scored. Well, the only real writing job she’d ever scored, not counting all those tech writing contracts.

  “This is good,” Angelica said, flipping through a file with Sandy’s byline—her real name, Dominga Saavedra—neatly stickered to the tab. She pulled out the piece that Sandy recognized as the last article she’d turned in to Oscar. It was about suspected kickbacks between politicians and prominent local Latinos, the one that Sandy had researched and rewritten for months, and she could see that it’d been edited all over, all in purple ink.

  “This is good,” Angelica said again, “but it could be even better. You could make six whole posts from these two pages. For example…” She indicated a paragraph about restaurant inspector bribes. It was circled and someone had written a new subheader in the margin: WHO’S UP FOR MARGARITAS AND RAT TOSTADAS?

  “You know, something like that. But sharper and wittier, hopefully.” Angelica handed the pages over the desk. Sandy took them with reluctance, and read.

  The paragraph of accusations that she’d worked so hard to make subtle and ethical? Now blared WHAT PAID FOR HENRY LOPEZ JR’S TRIP TO THAILAND? YOUR TAXES! Then several paragraphs of crossed-out lines. Then her most prized story detail, the leaked e-mail between Congressman Jimmy Diaz and his secretary, was captioned WHAT’S NEXT? JIMMY D SEX TAPE ON FACESPACE?

  As she read over Angelica’s bubbly cursive, dismay bloomed inside Sandy like a small toy capsule that becomes a spongy monster in water. She couldn’t say anything. But she kept thinking, This is how they do it. This is the way they make excuses before they lay you off.

  “You’re very talented, Sandy,” Angelica said. “I’ve read a lot about you, and I know you’ve worked hard to get here. Your writing is good, well researched, and you have a subtle, sophisticated wit.”

  Angelica’s flattery stood in stark contrast to the purple words she’d splattered on Sandy’s pages. If the writing was good, Sandy wondered, why did this woman want her to change it so drastically?

  Angelica leaned back in Oscar’s chair and struck a thoughtful pose. “I think, with just a few changes, you can give me what we need for the new site. You can look at our sister sites for inspiration and mimic their style. And I think you’ll find it easier than what Oscar had you doing.”

  Sandy didn’t see how that was possible. Writing articles for Oscar had been the most natural thing in the world for her, just like writing book reports at school had been. She couldn’t think of an easier job, or a job that she’d ever enjoyed more. And now here was this Angelica woman, taking it away from her.

  Angelica went on. “If you can deliver the kinds of posts we need, you’ll be one of our staff writers. As such, you’ll turn in twelve posts, minimum, per day. They don’t have to be long. The shorter the better, in fact. This”—she indicated the poor butchered article in Sandy’s hands—“would already be half a day’s work for you. You’re ahead of the game. Use these as part of your audition samples. Write a few more—shorter, sharper, and edgier—and e-mail them to me by Sunday at six. We’ll go from there.” Her smile, pageant-y and full of well-crafted veneer, wasn’t as comforting as she probably imagined it was. Angelica stood suddenly and, just like that, was herding Sandy to the door.

  “Remember, Sandy: Nacho Papi is ‘Not Yo’ Papi’s Web Site.’ It’s new, it’s savvy, and it’s readable. And it’s going to make its staff famous. Do your best so you can be a part of it.”

  Sandy cringed. Just the name of it—Nacho Papi’s Web Site Dot Com—made her nervous. She was a reporter, not a pun-writing entertainment blogger. She couldn’t even begin to write what Angelica was asking for. Nor could she imagine how it would make her famous. In fact, she didn’t even know if she wanted to be famous. She wasn’t the fame-seeking type. She didn’t even have her photo on LatinoNow’s virtual masthead.

  She was going to get fired, she suddenly knew. Laid off. Have all future submissions rejected in one fell swoop.

  Angelica gave Sandy’s arm a brief, sharp squeeze, and then Sandy was ejected to LatinoNow’s—no, Nacho Papi’s shared office space. She stumbled toward her desk like a reality-show contestant emerging from a dignity-draining obstacle course.

  Behind Sandy, Angelica called out George’s name, presumably planning to disillusion him next. George gave Sandy a smarmy smile as he sauntered into their new boss’s office.

  Sandy stood silently, clutching her mangled prose and feeling just as scribbled on. She looked around the old LatinoNow offices for what was most likely the last time. The nervous, sad, or unreadable faces of her part-time co-workers looked back at her.

  Sandy looked at Lori, Francisco, Carolina, and the others with a lump forming in her throat. She was going to miss them.

  3

  Blog entry from My Modern TragiComedy, Thursday, March 9

  I’m starting to have doubts about my relationship with HeartThrob GeekBoy.

  Is that horrible? Am I stupid for even thinking it?

  Yes, I know there are hundreds of girls who’d kill to take him off my hands—and that’s at the University alone. He’s the hottest TA on campus. So hot that, as you know, I sometimes wonder how the hell I landed him.

  Not only is he hot, but he’s smart. And gainfully employed. And the man writes poetry, you guys. Poetry. About me.

  So what’s not to like?

  I wish I could tell you. Maybe I’ll meditate on it and get back to you.

  Love,

  Miss TragiComic Texas

  4

  Sandy and Daniel were at Samurai Noodles again because Daniel was trying to go vegan, again, and Samurai had tofu in all shapes and sizes. But then he’d ordered the pepper ahi instead, and now Sandy watched him scrape all the pepper off each raw tuna slice while she told him what’d happened with Angelica that afternoon.

  It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, but this was the only time she could catch Daniel that day, between his freshman comp English classes. Nonetheless, a steady stream of hipsters, tourists, and homeless people walked down South Congress, providing constantly shifting scenery for Sandy to focus on as she told her tale. Her tofu
noodles sat cold on her plate.

  “So you turned in your resignation?” Daniel said when she was done.

  “No, I didn’t resign. I told Lori I was leaving to investigate another story, and then I called you. Why, do you think I should resign? Before even trying to pass the audition?”

  Daniel snorted. It would have been an unattractive sound, but he made it while flinging his long black bangs back from his forehead, like a smug but beautiful horse, and Sandy could never be annoyed when he flung his head like that.

  “I can’t even believe she’s making you audition,” he said. “You, with your credentials? You were an honors journalism student. You shouldn’t have to beg for that kind of job.”

  He took a bite of his scraped red tuna and made a face before going on. “If you want my honest opinion, you never should’ve taken that job to begin with. You belong at a real newspaper, not some ‘online journalism’ racket. I keep telling you, Sandy, you’re better than that. You should take a year off, actually, and finish your novel.”

  Sandy cleared her throat in order to remind Daniel, not for the first time, that she couldn’t afford to stop working for a year. He should have known that. It’d taken her six years to work her way through a B.A., while he went on to graduate school and her friends went on to full-time jobs in the real world. And now she had student loans to repay. There was no such thing as “taking a year off” in Sandy’s world.

  But Daniel went on. “So, now this pseudo–news organization is formally turning into a gossip blog. And you’re worried that you aren’t good enough to write for a gossip blog? Seriously, Sandy, ask yourself: Why would you even want to ruin your reputation by writing for this site, anyway?”

  Sandy picked at the sticky ramen on her plate. “It isn’t a gossip blog. It’s a news and entertainment site.”

  He snorted again. “That’s an oxymoron.”

  She knew what he expected her to say: “You’re right, Daniel. I’m too good for that job. I’m quitting right now.” That’s what she would have done in the past—agreed with him immediately. But she couldn’t say with a straight face that she was too good for this job. She was fresh out of college, practically, with only a year and a half of experience under her belt. And that experience was at Latino-Now, a site that had gone under despite all her hard work. Nacho Papi and its sister sites may not have been “real” journalism, but they were making real money.