by Ann Aguirre
“What’s going on?” I shouted, and all of a sudden I was sobbing. Hard. I was sobbing right there in the family room where I used to watch television with Jorge and he would set the timer for our speed hour of chores and we’d eat sandwiches that were six inches tall.
One of the Psychological Services women pulled me aside and in a voice like a kindergarten teacher’s she explained that Jorge set off some sort of explosive device he said he built in his bedroom to keep awful voices away. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, she told me, but some people were hurt. Jorge wasn’t. She asked me how Jorge had been acting recently, and I tried to explain. She told me Jorge was sick and what happened wasn’t his fault and he was going to get the help he needed. Then she asked me how I was feeling, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to slap her for asking or hug her for at least saying what happened wasn’t Jorge’s fault.
Because in the weeks that followed, it seemed everyone thought it was Jorge’s fault. Or my family’s fault. The story was on the news more than once. Some reports were saying the parents of Erica Garza and Darrell Curtis wanted to sue my parents because they didn’t get Jorge help when he was sick, and Erica had a broken leg and Darrell couldn’t stop the ringing in his ears. Erica’s friends gave me dirty looks in the locker room, like their friend being in a wheelchair was all my fault, too. Erica was very popular. Last year she was homecoming queen.
Teachers were either so nice to me it seemed fake or they watched me so carefully it was like they thought I might set off some bomb, too. Ana and Nestor and Luis and all of my friends still talked to me, but it was almost as if they were thinking about everything they said before they said it. Sometimes I sat down at the cafeteria table and the conversation stopped and Ana brought up something stupid, like what did we think was going to be on the math quiz tomorrow.
Jorge was sent to some state facility in Austin, and I never even got to say good-bye. My parents stopped talking about him. Once my mom drove up to visit him, but she didn’t let me come with her and my dad didn’t go. The door to Jorge’s bedroom was kept shut. My mom peeled off the stickers and threw them away, but I found the SKATEBOARDING IS NOT A CRIME one in the garbage can and kept it in the drawer in my nightstand.
Then just before my mother told me she was going to send me to live with Tía Lucy in Healy, Nestor and Luis grabbed my red binder from me in English class and started doodling on it. I let them because we were always doing stuff like that—joking around with one another and drawing on each other’s arms and everything. For a second it felt normal.
When the bell rang, I grabbed my binder back. Nestor and Luis were snickering a little.
DYNAMITE JUNIOR.
The words were written in big block letters in black marker. They even drew what looked like a cherry next to it but what I guessed was supposed to be a bomb because there were little sparks around the stem.
“You know we love you, Carmen,” said Luis, grinning. “We’re just messing with you.” Nestor was laughing like he could hardly breathe.
I slid the binder into my backpack and rolled my eyes.
“Ha-ha,” I said, doing the fakest laugh I could, like the two of them were boring me to tears.
I spent my lunch period in the library, curled up in the corner by the old encyclopedias that no one used anymore, staring out the window at the bright blue sky. I wondered if, wherever Jorge was, he had a view of the sky. I wondered if he was feeling better and if he was missing me.
* * *
Sadie is done writing on the Slut Stall and now Claudia is having her turn. Sadie’s written ALICE DOES IT WITH YOUR DAD which is stupid not to mention unoriginal. Claudia just writes ALICE = SLUT which is even stupider.
“Your turn,” Sadie says. Claudia hands me the Sharpie. I hold it up to my nose and sniff it.
“Do you like to huff paint, too, or something?” Sadie asks, wrinkling her nose. Claudia laughs like it’s the funniest thing ever.
I step back and move into the next stall, which is mostly blank except for a couple of hearts with people’s initials written inside of them. I slide in past the toilet.
“What are you doing?” says Sadie. “That’s not the Slut Stall.”
“Yeah, I know,” I answer.
Holding the marker tight, in big letters I write SKATEBOARDING IS NOT A CRIME.
“What the hell?” says Sadie. “You’re high from sniffing that marker.”
I hand the Sharpie back to Sadie and admire my work one more time before stepping out of the stall.
“I didn’t know you liked to skateboard,” says Claudia.
“I don’t actually do it yet,” I answer, picking up my backpack and heading for the door. Claudia follows me and Sadie does, too. “But I’m thinking about maybe starting it up.”
“Oh,” says Claudia. “Do you know any other girls who skate?”
“That’s a dumb question, Claudia,” Sadie snaps.
“No, it isn’t,” I answer, and Claudia shoots Sadie a triumphant look. “And I don’t know any other girls who skate, but it could still be kind of cool.”
“Yeah,” says Claudia. “It could be.” Sadie keeps her mouth shut.
The bell rings, and I give the two girls a half wave and head to class. Shouts from other students fill the hallway, their shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor, their metal locker doors slamming shut. For the first time since Jorge did what he did, I feel pretty okay. Pretty good, actually. There’s something about starting at a school where nobody knows me that’s sort of freeing. Like every day I could be someone new.
MONSTER CRUSH
Anna Banks & Emmy Laybourne
BY ANNA BANKS
Joyride
~ The Syrena Legacy ~
Of Poseidon
Of Triton
Of Neptune
BY EMMY LAYBOURNE
Sweet
~ The Monument 14 Trilogy ~
Monument 14
Monument 14: Sky on Fire
Monument 14: Savage Drift
Meet Anna Banks
Truth be told, I never considered myself a writer. It wasn’t an aspiration of mine. Not to say that I wasn’t good at it—I’d write papers for my classmates for money in high school. I’d cater to their voice and the expectations of their teacher and made the prose as realistic to each individual as I could. I just always thought my classmates were lazy. It never occurred to me that they might not have the ability to write, that it didn’t come naturally to them like it came to me.
It wasn’t until my late twenties that I decided to write a book. I had just read the Twilight series, and thought to myself, “If this girl can get published, I get can published.” Yes, I know that sounds like a jerk-face thing to say (and, yes, she will probably punch me in the face one day) but actually it’s a compliment to Stephenie Meyer. She made me believe that easy reading is easy writing. Oh, naive little me. Any good author will tell you, easy reading is freaking difficult writing. And trying to get published is a hard-knock life. But once I started writing, I couldn’t stop. And I’m glad I did, because if not, Galen Forza (the hot guy from my Syrena Legacy series) would never have existed.
Fast-forward to today. As of writing this sentence, I’ve published five books. My newest one is called Joyride. If I had to describe it, I’d say it’s Bonnie and Clyde meets a Latina Pretty in Pink. You should check it out. For reals. It was fun (but not easy!) to write, and hopefully it will be fun to read.
Speaking of fun, have I ever told you about that one time when Emmy Laybourne and I wrote a Sasquatch romance? No? Here, sit back, relax, and have some popcorn while I regale you with the story:
One day, while I was minding my own business (←a lie), Emmy Laybourne calls and says, “Hey, Peaches, how are you doing?”
ME “Hey! Fine. You?” (←or something just as generic)
EMM “Well, I kind of entered us in this Twitter contest thingy to write a Sasquatch romance. And they kind of picked us. So here’s how I thought we could
do it—”
ME “&%#@!” (←use your imagination)
I was under deadline with a manuscript at the time and was insanely busy. But as with all things concerning Emmy, I couldn’t refuse her. We decided that we would each take on bits of the story, and tweet it one after the other during our hour-slot time. Writing with another author, and especially Emmy, is the best kind of challenge, because you strive to be the best version of yourself so you don’t let your partner down.
Writing “Monster Crush” was so satisfying, too, because my original idea for a YA novel was actually a Sasquatch romance—but I didn’t think the market was ready for that quite yet. In the midst of searching for something else to write about, I was watching this documentary on the giant squid. Before 2005, scientists thought the giant squid was just a myth, fishermen’s lore. We’ve all seen those drawings where an old ship is being hauled underwater by enormous tentacles, right? But in 2005, a dead one washed up on shore and everyone had to say, “Just joking! Giant squids are real!” I thought to myself What else could be out there? Mermaids?
And so I set out to prove mermaids could exist; Of Poseidon was born months later. People ask me all the time if I really think mermaids or bigfoot could really exist. My answer? Remember the giant squid, my friend. Remember the giant squid.
Meet Emmy Laybourne
I love a good premise, don’t you?
When I met Anna Banks in 2012, it was on the very first night of the very first Fierce Reads tour. Anna and I, along with Leigh Bardugo and Jen Bosworth, were about to embark on a fourteen-day national tour. None of us had ever met before. It was nerve-wracking to say the least. Luckily we had the YA superstars Marissa Meyer, Jessica Brody, and Lish McBride do some of the events with us along the way to teach us what the heck we were doing!
As the tour developed, I started hearing Anna joke about a premise. Anna would mention an outlandish idea she had for a paranormal romance featuring a Sasquatch. The audiences would always laugh. I would always laugh. It was a great, crazy idea.
I loved that Sasquatch premise.
And I loved touring with Anna. She’s got a very dry wit and she would just sit there and then—zing—come in with a line so funny we’d all be knocked on our butts. Man, was it ever fun to set her up to tell a joke.
Every time she’d mention the Sasquatch idea, I’d mull it over—could it be pulled off? Could you get a reader to imagine a Sasquatch in a remotely sexy or romantic way? Would there be a way to write a scene where a girl kisses a guy who might turn into bigfoot without conjuring for the reader the sense-memory smell of wet dog? I really wanted to find out …
So when I heard they were looking for entries for the first Twitter Fiction Festival—and that collaboration was encouraged—I thought: Anna! And then: Sasquatch premise!
Fortunately, Anna Banks is up for anything.
We had so much fun writing this story. Going back and forth with Anna was tricky at times—but a very fun challenge. Can you tell I tried to set her up for some zingers along the way?
Another exciting thing about this collaboration was that it’s a pretty big departure from the Monument 14 series. In Monument 14, a group of kids are stranded in a superstore while civilization collapses outside the gates. The kids don’t want to go outside because there’s been a leak of a vicious chemical weapon that divides the population by blood type, sending some people into a bloodthirsty rage, while others are made paranoid or infertile or just blister up and die. Okay, it’s pretty intense. Dark in tone. The New York Times called it “frighteningly real” and that’s good enough for me.
When it came time for Anna and me to write “Monster Crush,” I was delighted by how light and breezy it was. I wasn’t wrestling with life and death and chemical warfare—we were writing a love story. And a pretty dang good one. One hundred and forty characters at a time! It was very liberating to play so hard with my dear friend. Playing is good, people.
Once the Monument 14 series was complete, I moved on to a project with a bit more sass. Anna, you inspired me, baby! My next novel is called Sweet. It’s about a luxury cruise to promote a new diet sweetener that makes you lose weight. Only, when the sweetener turns out to be highly addictive, the cruise goes comically, then tragically, then terrifyingly wrong.
Thanks, Anna, for sharing your awesome premise with me. A Sasquatch-human love story is possible … and here’s proof:
MONSTER CRUSH
by Anna Banks and Emmy Laybourne
EL (Emmy Laybourne): Jen was supposed to be on a plane. Amherst started in a week.
AB (Anna Banks): But she was looking forward to going back to college for her junior year like you look forward to an appendectomy.
EL And there was also the issue of the bartender, Ian. Sandy-blond hair, strapping physique, sparkling gray eyes.
AB Why, oh why had they met on the last day of her Colorado vacation? It wasn’t fair.
EL She had watched him all night as he tended bar. Since she was only 19, she couldn’t drink.
AB But he had made her a virgin Harvey Wallbanger that was pretty darn tasty and served it with that tasty smile of his.
EL When Jen had gotten up her nerve to approach him, they’d hit it off. As the regulars drifted out, they’d talked into the night …
AB A night that ended with her in his arms and him kissing her all over.
EL Kissing on the mouth is boring, he’d said. Instead Ian had kissed her on the shoulder, the neck, the palm of her hand.
AB And what his mouth didn’t touch, his hands did.
EL Jen walked up and down the length of the bar now. She couldn’t wait to see Ian again.
AB He would be so surprised, and so psyched that she had decided to stay in Colorado.
EL Who knows, Jen thought. Maybe I can even get a job here at the bar.
AB She knew her parents would flip out, but Amherst was their idea, not hers. In fact nothing was ever her idea—except this. Ian.
EL Finally, around 8:30, Ian walked in. Jen jumped up from her stool and rushed to his arms. He looked surprised, that’s for sure.
AB She knew that look. It’s the look someone makes when they’re surprised by a hair or a bug or a razor in their strawberry cheesecake.
EL Yep. It’s a kind of look you really don’t want to see when the surprise is … you!
AB “What are you doing here?” he said. His gray eyes flashed angrily.
EL “I-I-I wanted to see you again,” Jen stammered. Ian stalked behind the bar and hung his jacket on a hook.
AB He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He leaned across the bar. “I thought you understood last night was just a onetime thing.”
EL Jen slumped into a booth. She couldn’t believe this. Sure, he’d said that. And, yes, she’d agreed. But how could he still feel that way?
AB The way they’d talked and laughed and shared—a onetime thing? He was wrong. It was more than that.
EL She decided to stay and talk to him later, once the crowd thinned out. She watched him, pouring drinks for the regulars.
AB He was so gorgeous, chatting and laughing. A pretty blonde woman spit out her drink at something Ian said.
EL Ian was funny, Jen thought. And everyone seemed to like him.
AB But not funny enough to laugh the way that blonde was laughing. She was braying like a donkey!
EL A scruffy man in coveralls noticed Jen noticing Ian. “He’s an odd duck,” the man said. “Been tending bar here a few years now.”
AB “He lives up in the woods somewheres,” the man said, picking his teeth with a matchstick.
EL The old man patted Jen’s shoulder kindly. “If I were you,” he said, “I’d set my sights on someone a little more … run of the mill.”
AB Jen watched Ian go to get ice from a cooler out back. She followed him, proud of herself for being assertive for once in her life.
EL Why couldn’t she have been this direct with her parents when they sat her down and forced her to pick
Amherst over Colorado College?
AB Ian makes me feel strong, Jen realized. Like a stronger version of myself.
EL Jen cleared her throat and Ian spun around. “Ian, it’s just me,” she said. “Why are you being like this? I don’t understand.”
AB “Of course you don’t understand!” he snapped. “You don’t know anything about me. You need to get on a plane and go back to your life, kid.”
EL Kid? Jen shook her head. “Just because I’m under 21 doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want.”
AB “Yeah? What do you want?” Ian asked. “I want to be here with you, dummy!” Jen said. “I want the chance to get to know you better!”
EL There was just no way he didn’t feel something for her.
AB Maybe he didn’t feel the same way she did, but he had to feel something.
EL “Listen,” she said softly, “if you say you feel nothing for me, then I’ll have to accept it. But for me, last night was … pretty much … magic.”
AB Ian looked at her with a sadness in his eyes she felt she could fall into forever. “I just can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry—it can never be.”
EL He went back into the bar. She should have left. Of course she should have. Maybe before she’d met him, she would have. But she didn’t.
AB She had grown this brand-new backbone because of him, so technically it was his fault, right? Right, she told herself.
EL She waited in a coffee shop across the street, drinking cup after cup of the brackish house roast.
AB When he closed the bar at 2 a.m., she followed him.
