Lone Star Legend (20 page)

“Yeah,” she said, in a ghetto-esque drawl that, again, Sandy couldn’t help but suspect was less than authentic. “Yeah, I got
a few things goin’ on. Nothin’ I can talk about yet, you know.”

“I understand. Let’s talk about the show, then, and your role on it. You were something of an instigator, I noticed.”

“Mm-hmm.” Lisa slouched down farther in her seat and peered at Sandy from under the brim of her cap.

Sandy was instantly annoyed. Whereas before she’d been speaking out of turn, this Lisa character was now turning reticent.
Sandy wondered if it was in reaction to Baby’s embarrassing admissions. Whatever the reason, she had to soldier on. “Who’d
you have the most problems with?”

Lisa shrugged. “Nobody, really. I mean, me and Queenie got into it a few times, but they made it look worse on the show than
it was in real life. She and I are actually friends now.”

“Have you hung out with her since the show finished taping?” Sandy asked.

“Well, no,” Lisa said. “We’ve been too busy, basically. With all the stuff going on.”

“If you had the opportunity to say something to one of your former castmates, what would you say, and to whom?”

Lisa sat up a little and fixed Sandy with the same glare she’d given her at the beginning of the segment. “Actually, you know
who I’d like to say something to?”

“Who’s that?”

Lisa looked directly into the camera then, as if threatening the entire audience. Behind her, the monitor played clips of
her shouting and shoving her fellow reality-show contestants. “Belinda B and that punk-ass Donny the Man!”

Sandy recognized the names but, for the sake of their viewers’ edification, asked, “They aren’t on the show. Who are they?”

“They’re the people talking the most shit about us on your Web site.” Lisa tried her best to look menacing, but Sandy could
tell that she was getting a slight thrill from saying curse words on camera, just like she’d done in the reality show.

“So what would you say to them?” Sandy asked. It was time, she decided, to do a little instigating herself. “You went on a
reality show in order to win parts in dance videos and other shows, presumably so you could get famous, is that right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And now people see you on TV, starting fights with Queenie and Moniqua and the other girls, and now some of the viewers don’t
like it. They’re talking about the show online, and they’re stating their opinions. What’s wrong with that?”

Lisa paused, then replied, “What’s wrong is that I’m trying to be a dancer, here. I’m not trying to have a bunch of fools
talking about my clothes, my tatts, the size of my ass. It’s not
about
that.”

“So you’re saying you want to be famous enough for everyone to talk about your dancing, but not so famous that they talk about
anything else?” Sandy asked, unable to repress a smile. “Have you ever expressed your opinion of a celebrity? Like, say, rapper
Sister Sonya?” Lisa didn’t answer and Sandy pressed on. “Did you, for instance, say in the very first episode of
Video Girl Wannabes
that Sister Sonya was, quote, a ‘washed-up, ugly-ass dyke?’ ” Knowing that the editor interns would remove the offensive
words later, Sandy clarified, “Did you criticize her looks and use a homophobic term for her sexual orientation?”

Lisa shrugged and shook her head for a moment. “Man. That’s different. Sister Sonya’s a damned millionaire.”

Sandy couldn’t repress her smile now. “Do you want to be a millionaire, Lisa?”

Lisa shook her head harder, in obvious dismay at having embarrassed herself without any help from Sandy. “Man. Come on.”

“Do you want to tell Belinda and Donny the Man to hold on to their opinions until you make your first million? Do you want
everyone on the Internet to stop talking about you until that happens?”

“Man. This is some bullshit,” was all the girl could say.

“It
is
bullshit,” Sandy said. “I agree. But we’re going to keep watching, Lisa, to see if you make it. I hope that you do.”

Post on Nacho Papi’s Web site, Wednesday, May 24

by Sandy S.

Some of you literary types may remember that Nobel Prize-winning poet Honorio Mendiola mysteriously bailed on addressing Cornell
graduates a few weeks ago. Well, sources now tell us why. According to students, Mr. Mendiolo spent that day in his hotel
room, recovering from a night of drinking, firing up Colombia’s finest, and—no doubt—measuring verse with three young co-eds.
For the record? Honorio prefers blondes.

See link to similar story about Jose Sonora Williams, below. What’s up with these macho Latino writers, using our country’s
institutions of learning as hunting grounds for one-nighters? This takes me back to my own college days. I remember a visit
from a celebrated young novelist who will remain nameless (his name started with G and ended with ilberto) who made it his
business to pick off the saddest, least talented, and most attention-starved of our creative writing section for “special
mentoring.” Never mind that he, like his fellow horny scribes, was ugly as sin. The most annoying effect of the phenomenon
was that we had to listen to his groupies reading Gilberto Gonzalez-inspired second-person ramblings at every single class
for the rest of the semester. Boring! Young women, do us all a favor and call up someone like Christian Ortiz, instead. I
hear he’s newly single.

Oh my God that is so funny! Please tell me Gilberto G hit on you and you shot him down, Sandy!!

Luisa

Give me a break. Honorio Mendiola is a genius. Nobody at Nacho Papi is fit to shine his shoes. Who cares if he has a few groupies?

Also, this is pretty rich coming from Sandy S, considering that she slept with her own Creative Writing teacher until he got
fed up and dumped her. Bitter, party of one?

Watcher in the Wings

Sounds like Sandy is jealous that she’s the ugly one on the site. Show us more Lori!

Not Yo’ Papi’s Macho

Hey, Watcher in the Wings, get your story straight. He wasn’t her teacher, and Sandy dumped HIM. Take it from someone who
knows the facts first hand. What are you anyway? Mendiola’s mom?

V for Verguenza

No, I’m not his mom. I’m just a fellow writer who can’t stand sour grapes from talentless hacks. I wasn’t going to go there,
but now that you’re questioning my credentials… Sandy S. is a total starfish in bed, from what I hear. Two, she didn’t look
that good until *after* she and my friend broke up. Third, she has a big mole on her right cheek. (Not the cheek on her face,
either.) And she doesn’t eat jalapenos because they give her gas. More than enough reason for D.T. to dump her, as far as
I’m concerned, without even considering her crappy writing and condescending attitude.

Watcher in the Wings

Total BS! And, hello, spicy foods give a lot of people gas. D.T.’s the talentless hack here, and Sandy dumped HIM. Whatever
he told you was obviously just the story he uses to cry himself to sleep every night.

(Hey, Sandy, sorry I didn’t return your call the other day. I’ll call you tonight, okay?)

V for Verguenza

Watcher, sounds like you have a sick fascination with Sandy’s butt.

Verguenza: Tell us more! It’s obvious that you have the *real* inside track! Private message me!

Oh, and Honorio’s way overrated, fan boys notwithstanding.

Belinda B

Whatever, Watchate and Nacho Macho. Lori’s cute but I definitely wouldn’t kick Sandy S out of bed for eating jalapenos! Sandy,
whether you dumped him or he dumped you, you can call me to console you, girl!

The Wild Juan

S
andy sat in a kitschy diner in South Austin, miles away from the university and Daniel’s stomping grounds, where she read
the latest string of anonymous commenters’ vitriol and her loyal readers’ defense. Earlier that morning she had parked her
car at Calypso to get an iced latte. Right before she’d entered the coffee shop someone across the street had shouted, “Hey,
Sandy S.!”

When Sandy turned she saw two frat types waving at her. “You suck!” one of them yelled. They weren’t waving, she saw then.
They were throwing her the finger.

Unsettled, she’d gotten back into her car and driven away. At that moment she had almost felt afraid. Now, however, she was
just perturbed. And annoyed.

She couldn’t tell if things had gotten worse since the big announcement that Nacho Papi was going to be on TV, or if the poison-pen
letters had increased since she’d seen Daniel that day at Calypso. Maybe he had told his friends his own version of their
breakup and they’d taken it upon themselves to avenge him publicly. Or maybe Honorio Mendiola was posting the comments, she
thought with a rueful smile. Or any one of the other celebrities or demi-celebrities she’d written about over the past several
months.

V for Verguenza was her friend Veronica, of course. Sandy was grateful for her support but sometimes got annoyed when Veronica
dropped personal details into her comments, as if to show off to the other readers that she had inside knowledge on Sandy
and the other Nacho Papi staff members.

Feeling the need for another ally, Sandy closed her laptop and called her friend Jane, with whom she’d been playing phone
and e-mail tag for a couple of weeks now, figuring Monday at lunch time was as good a chance to reach her as any.

“Hello?”

“Jane, it’s me. Hey, are you reading this stuff on the site?”

Jane paused for a second. “On your work site, you mean? Or on your personal site?”

“On Nacho Papi. All the comments under the post I wrote about Honorio Mendiola.”

“Oh. No, I haven’t read that one yet.” Jane sounded the tiniest bit weary, as if she thought Sandy had called specifically
to find out if her friend had been keeping up with her posts.

As soon as she’d said it Sandy remembered with brilliant clarity that, back at UT, Jane had been one of the students mesmerized
with Gilberto Gonzalez during his visit. And that, sure enough, Jane had also tried her hand at writing some Gilberto-esque
sonnets, although not for any creative writing class. She’d only shown them to Sandy and Veronica.

Sandy realized then that she’d been partly inspired to write that post, totally subconsciously, by Jane’s temporary infatuation
with Gilberto Gonzalez. She wished suddenly and fervently that she hadn’t called Jane and brought it up. Because Jane probably
wouldn’t have read the post on her own. She didn’t seem to read most of the site.

Sandy decided to change the subject. “Well, yeah. No, don’t worry about it. I was just going to tell you something one of
the commenters said, but it’s not that interesting. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing much.” Jane’s short tone made Sandy worry, then, that maybe she
had
read the post in question and was upset about it.

“What’s wrong? You sound… annoyed or something,” she ventured.

“No. Not at all,” Jane said, definitely sounding annoyed now. “Just busy. Listen, let me call you back, okay? I have to do
this thing real quick.”

“Okay.” Sandy hung up, feeling defeated and regretful. Obviously Jane had read it, and there was nothing Sandy could do about
it now. But she really hadn’t remembered that stuff about Jane and her poems until after the fact. She couldn’t help it if
that had been in the back of her mind while she was writing, could she?

There was nothing she could do, she told herself again. Especially if Jane wouldn’t even admit she’d read the piece. She’d
just have to wait for her friend to get over it.

Sandy felt more alone than she had before calling Jane. She was sitting in a diner, surrounded by strangers, mulling over
things strangers were saying about her. She couldn’t talk to her two best friends about it, and she no longer had a boyfriend
to talk to at all. She didn’t want to call her mom, because every time they’d talked lately it’d been about her dad’s upcoming
wedding. Sandy’s mother kept demanding that Sandy not attend as a show of loyalty to her, and then demanding that Sandy go
to the wedding, after all, and act as a spy on her behalf. It was driving Sandy crazy—crazier than her mother usually drove
her. Hence, she was sitting in a diner on the edge of town, avoiding her mother’s company.

For the hundredth time that week alone Sandy thought about moving out of her mother’s garage apartment. She wished she’d considered
it more seriously before quitting her tech-writing job. Yes, Nacho Papi was paying her well right now—a pretty good salary
for someone with only a token rent payment each month. But if she was ever going to move out of her mother’s she’d have to
find a way to make quite a bit more. Maybe the TV show would take care of that. Angelica had explained the latest, greatest
salary and bonus structure, but it’d been too confusing for Sandy to take in during the meeting. She’d been planning to get
Philippe to explain it to her over lunch when he got back into town.

Sandy felt a pull within her. A strong pull, starting in the area of her chest and radiating out toward her fingers, which
drifted to her notebook computer’s keyboard of their own will. She recognized the motion. It was a temptation to blog, to
type her woes into a bottle and throw it out to a sea of unseen strangers who would send back their own messages of understanding,
of sympathy, of resonation.

But that avenue was no longer open to her. The people who used to hang on Miss TragiComic Texas’s every word were being replaced
with people who knew her to be Sandy S., Journalist-slash-Gossip Writer and TV Star. They would no longer go to her site to
read about
her
—the real Sandy, née Dominga Saavedra. And Sandy had to protect that self more than ever now. No longer anonymous, she could
no longer trust strangers.