Lone Star Legend (15 page)

“Well…” Sandy knew the probable answer to her next question but had to ask it anyway. “So, is it okay with you if we sell
the T-shirts on the site? I could… We’d give you a cut of the profits.” That wasn’t true. Angelica had strictly forbidden
her staff to offer any kind of payment to their interviewees. That was what the release forms were for—to make sure no one
would ask Nacho Papi or Levy Media for money. But Sandy made the offer, figuring she could pay Tío Jaime out of her own salary
if that was what it took.

“No.” He shook his head even harder than before. “I don’t want any money. Listen, m’ija, I didn’t mind doing the interviews
or the questions or whatever. That part’s okay. If people like it, and they get to read it for free on your Web site, that’s
fine with me. But I don’t want to be selling stuff with my picture on it like I’m some kind of movie star. I’m not. I’m just
a regular man, and I want to keep it that way.”

Sandy didn’t know what else to say. The reporter in her wanted to push for the story, the info, the lead—whether or not it
made her source dislike her. But the human being in her wanted to respect this other human being, her friend. He was more
than a source or an interview to her now. He was a real-life friend, wasn’t he?

She decided to compromise. “Okay. We won’t sell the T-shirts. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s okay,” he said, already looking calm again. “I’m not uncomfortable. I just don’t want to do it.” He turned and looked
her in the eye, then. “That paper you wanted me to sign—does it say that I give your bosses permission to sell T-shirts?”

Sandy nodded sheepishly. “That, and other things, yes.”

“Then I won’t sign it. Sorry, m’ija.”

“No, don’t be sorry. That’s fine. I… I respect your choice.” Sandy thought fast, trying to come up with a way to salvage what
she could from the situation. “But, Tío Jaime, can we keep doing the advice column? Recording you answering the questions?”

“Sure, that’s fine,” he said.

As quickly as possible, Sandy pulled out her camera and her notes, hoping the previous conversation hadn’t soured the mood
enough to ruin the advice segment she needed to record for her weekly quota. She glanced at Tío Jaime. He had reached for
a chocolate croissant and was regarding it meditatively. The first thing she’d have to do when she got back to the office,
she realized, was get Angelica to draft a new release form. One that gave permission for the interviews but nothing else.
Explicitly stated, and easy for Tío Jaime to understand. Because she wanted him to be able to understand and feel comfortable
with what they were doing. Not only because she needed the interviews to generate page views for her salary, but because he
was her friend now, and she didn’t want him to be unhappy.

She would fix everything. Everything would be fine. But first Sandy needed to get her story.

“Okay. First question is from Junior Senior. He asks, ‘Chupacabra, please tell me once and for all what women want.’ ”

Tío Jaime turned and looked at Sandy in surprise and undisguised annoyance—so much so that Sandy was almost afraid. “What?”
he said. “Somebody asked that? You’re telling me I have a lot of fans on your Web site, but then they ask me stupid questions
like that? These people don’t need to be reading Web sites. They need to go back home to their mamas’ houses and do some more
growing.”

Sandy stifled a giggle, then prompted the Chupacabra to continue. “What would Junior ask if he were grown?”

“Nothing, because he’d realize that there’s no ‘women.’ There’s only the woman you want to be with, and I can’t tell you what
she wants because I don’t know her. If he wants to know what a certain woman wants, the best thing to do is ask that woman
herself. But if he’s thinking all women are the same—that they all want the same thing out of life—then he needs to go back
to school and pull on little girls’ pigtails until one of them hauls off and smacks some sense into him.”

He scoffed in disbelief and took a bite of his croissant. Sandy zoomed in on the goat tied to the tree, who gratified her
with a well-timed “Meh!”

“Next question,” the Chupacabra commanded. And Sandy obeyed.

Time: Thursday, May 4, 12:47 PM

To: Nacho Papi Team

From: Angelica Villanueva O’Sullivan

Subject: MEMORANDUM

As discussed in our last meeting, George’s sudden resignation means that each of us needs to take up his slack with two additional
posts per day. I’m holding interviews for his replacement starting next week. Please continue to refer your friends as appropriate.

Per yesterday’s meeting, the new salary structure goes into effect today. That means page views matter more than ever. Francisco,
you were lowest last week—spice it up a little. No more posts about G-Phone apps. Readers are tired of those, and Zoom Phones
just purchased an Elite Sponsor Package.

Sandy, you were highest. Great job with your last Chupacabra piece.

In general, all of you are doing very well.

Attached please find your updated itineraries and flight information for this weekend’s launch party. Let me remind you again
that this is a working party—you will be meeting potential sponsors, so pack appropriate clothing and stay on your toes.

I’ll see you all in LA. Please notify me immediately upon your arrival.

Oh, and please be advised: I cannot approve requests for customized release forms. You are only authorized to use the ones
provided by Levy Media Legal.

Cordially yours,

AVO

S
andy sat on a hotel bed that Friday evening trying to finish texting a paragraph onto her new phone’s mini keyboard while
Lori wiggled and bobbed beside her.

“God, these phones they gave us are so freaking awesome,” Lori enthused. “Okay, are you ready? I’m going to hit Record.”

“Ready,” Sandy said. She didn’t actually want to be recorded anymore because she still had a deadline to meet. And now that
that idiot George had left Nacho Papi for its newest competitor, Buzz News, Sandy had even more posts to write in order to
meet her quota each day.

Lori had already used the new phone supplied by their latest sponsor to record Sandy and herself at the Austin airport, on
the plane, at LAX, and in the taxi all the way to their hotel. Her technique was to record as much as possible and then send
it all to Francisco, entrusting him to edit out the boring parts and highlight the gems. So far, the gems included their flight
attendant recognizing them as Nacho Papi’s writers, and their taxi driver serenading them with traditional Peruvian love songs
while staring at Lori’s cleavage and scorpion tattoo. Sandy hadn’t been able to write many posts at all that day, and made
a mental note to ask Angelica if appearing in videos with Lori counted toward her daily quota. She felt a little guilty about
doing that, since Francisco was the one doing the bulk of the work on the videos. And especially because Sandy was pretty
sure he only did it because he was in love with Lori. But that wasn’t her problem. She needed as many page views as she could
get, and Francisco needed to learn to look out for himself.

“Smile,” Lori whispered as she huddled next to Sandy and held out the phone at arm’s length so that its lens would encompass
them both. “Hi! Here we are, Lori and Sandy, in our hotel room in Los Angeles. It’s a good thing I have my Zoom Phone with
me so you guys can be here with us. Sandy, which bed do you want?”

“I’ll take the one by the window.”

“Then I’ll take that one too!” Lori giggled lasciviously and Sandy gave a cool smile. She always played the straight man in
Lori’s posts, and Lori always played it bi.

“We’re about to get ready for the big launch party tonight. I hope you guys can make it, but, if not, you can watch it live,
here on the site. Post comments and let us know how you like my outfit!”

Sandy held her cool/smart/sophisticated expression steady until Lori hit Stop and dropped her phone. “Oh my God, I am so nervous.
I think I’m gonna puke,” she said, grabbing a pillow and clutching it to her torso.

“You’re not going to puke. It’s going to be fine,” said Sandy, for what felt like the fortieth time since they’d left Austin.
“We’ll get to the party, they’ll turn on the cameras, and you’ll turn into Lori the Star. Everyone will love you, Angelica
will be happy, and you’ll be just fine. You can always throw up when you get back to the hotel if you need to.” That was usually
how it happened. The more nervous Lori became, the better she did on camera, and then she ended up being physically ill afterwards.
Sandy felt sorry for her, but not sorry enough to let it affect her own work.

She was nervous too, because they were going to meet Angelica’s boss, Jacob Levy, tonight, but not nervous to the point of
gastric disorder. After all, no one was expecting Sandy to be the life of the party. She’d been gaining social experience,
as Angelica was always sending them to various events and club openings, and Sandy had found that standing there looking just
the way Angelica had designed her was all she ever needed to do. Sometimes people walked up—men, especially—and tried to engage
her in conversations about politics or things she’d said on the site. But they were usually so nervous or self-conscious themselves
that Sandy could dispatch them with a few remarks. It was almost like magic. The fact that she appeared online regularly,
was almost a celebrity, made people feel intimidated by her in person.

Sandy had been afraid at first, thinking that strangers at these events might make the sorts of remarks to her that strangers
made on the site, commenting on her looks or her intellect or conjecturing about her personal life. But in real life, outside
of the anonymity of the Internet, no one was rude at all. No one had the nerve to be.

It made her feel powerful, in a way. Way more powerful than she’d felt when she was only a writer for LatinoNow, or a tech
writer for a bunch of bossy engineers, or a struggling student. Now that she worked for Nacho Papi she felt, for the first
time, like she was really somebody. More and more lately, when she showed up at events around Austin, and even at the State
Capitol, people knew who she was. Or if they didn’t know exactly who she was, they could tell that she was
somebody
and that they had to treat her with respect.

And she knew that Lori felt the same, at least on some level—when she wasn’t retching in a bathroom somewhere or sitting in
a corner chewing her nails, like she was doing right at that moment.

“Come on,” Sandy said. “Let’s get ready to tear this town up.”

A couple of hours later, Sandy’s prediction came true. Lori stood in the middle of the Cadillac Club, which Angelica’s boss,
Jacob Levy, had rented for the occasion. Admirers surrounded her three men deep, and she shone in the light of the live-streaming
camera that fed her every move to their Web site for her fans around the country to see.

Sandy, meanwhile, was navigating through waves of silver balloons and waiters bearing trays of champagne to meet and pose
for pictures with Cleo J., Cuoc X., and the other writers from their sister sites. She and Cleo J., whose real name was Kendra
James, hit it off very well and spent half an hour marveling over how much they had in common, upbringing and career wise,
before Angelica came over and reminded them to mingle with the other guests. And there were plenty of them to mingle with.
Sandy met the writers and editors for all of Nacho Papi’s sister sites, plus the New York team who sold ad space on the sites.
Then there were tons of other people: media people and publicity people and businesspeople and the all-important sponsor people.
And then just plain people—and Sandy was glad that Philippe was there to show her the ropes. She stayed close to him all night,
and he made sure she knew who was who. And he also made sure she had a good time. She always had fun with Philippe. He made
her laugh and made her feel sophisticated, just by standing next to her and looking interested in what she had to say. She
noticed that Lori did just fine by herself, but Francisco mostly stayed with the other techies from their sister sites. Angelica,
meanwhile, was completely in her element, scheming and laughing with her fellow editors and each of the Elite Package sponsors.

An hour into the party, Sandy met Jacob Levy himself. It was only for a few moments. He was a lot shorter than Sandy had expected,
but also exactly how she assumed a media mogul from New York would be, attitude wise. Talking to him simultaneously made her
feel like a yokel from the sticks and inspired her to move to New York herself, one day. He spoke with each staff writer there
very briefly, telling each of them the same thing: that they were doing a great job and he was glad to have them as part of
his organization.

After a while the music stopped and all the guests turned to look at the ska band that had been playing on a small stage in
the corner of the club. The musicians all looked to the opposite corner of the club, causing everyone else to do the same.
Sandy saw that there was a podium and microphone set up there, and that Jacob Levy was making his way up to it to make a speech.

“Thank you. Thanks to everyone for coming,” he said in response to a smattering of tipsy applause. “As I’ve been saying, you
guys are doing a great job. Page views are through the roof!” There was a louder smattering of applause and hoots. Sandy couldn’t
help but notice that Mr. Levy didn’t seem to be very practiced at public speaking. He held his hand up until the noise abated
and then continued. “So, I guess it makes sense, what I’m about to say. What I’m about to say is good news for Levy Media
and for all of us here.”

The crowd got even less noisy at that, and Sandy leaned forward a little to hear what her boss’s boss would say.

“Levy Media is launching a cable television station. It’s going to be called Hate Station, after our flagship site, and each
of the sites represented here will contribute to the programming.”

A gasp rippled through the crowd like wind through a field. Sandy gasped, then turned to Philippe, who was standing next to
her. For some reason he didn’t look surprised at all.