Lone Star Legend (5 page)

With that, there was nothing else for Sandy and her mother to do but take their leave. Mrs. Saavedra hobbled her way back
to the Lincoln, her gold sandals completely caked in dust now. But she waved gaily to Tío Jaime, who watched from the porch
as the two women got into the car and backed all the way down the gravel drive.

“Well,” Sandy’s mother said as they pulled back onto the ranch road, “that was weird.”

Sandy nodded her agreement. It
was
weird, and she was glad to be driving them back to real life.

Post from Don’t Call Me Sassy site, Saturday, March 11

by Cleo J.

You all know Tyrone Marshall as the daddy from that tired ’80s sitcom
We Are the Washingtons
.

Last week, Don’t Call Me Sassy reported on Mr. Marshall’s instantly infamous “Black children, put down those beat boxes and
get you a voice coach” speech. This week, we have a little investigative reporting to share with you all.

1.   Tyrone Marshall’s production company just green-lighted a new straight-to-DVD series called Yo Mama: Backstreet Brawlin’.

2.   Mr. Marshall was recently seen having lunch down in DC with conservative-as-hell Senator Tom McElveigh. Wonder what they’re
cooking up?

Now, Tyrone, don’t be talking out one side of your mouth while taking money from both sides of the street. In other words:
Negro, puh-
lease.

S
andy gasped aloud at Don’t Call Me Sassy’s inaugural posts as she scrolled through them in her twilit living room. This was
nothing like what she’d learned in journalism school. It was nothing like she’d ever seen, in any publication.

Again Sandy felt a quiet panic creep into her guts. How could she write pieces like this? She never had. Sure, she’d sometimes
gotten angry over details of the stories she investigated, but she’d never imagined pouring that anger into print, or openly
criticizing a politician in such a way.

She clicked over to Banana Nation, the tagline of which was “We’re here, we’ve assimilated, get used to it.” The first post
was a video of a reporter, a young Asian woman, stopping Asian people on the street and asking how they felt about China’s
latest Internet restrictions. The answers ranged from funny to political to completely uninformed. Some of the funnier responses,
Sandy thought, looked rehearsed.

Under that post was a pie chart breaking down Asian actresses’ recent movie roles into categories: Dragon Lady, Exotic Sex
Object, Kung Fu Chick, and White Dude’s Girlfriend with No Speaking Part.

Under that was a piece about actress Mai Lee, wherein the author, Cuoc X., insinuated that she was acting as a beard for director
Derrick Rogers, who was purported to be gay.

If Sandy felt uncomfortable about the idea of lambasting politicians online, she was just as unsure of her ability to report
on Latinos in Hollywood. She wasn’t big on celebrity gossip sites, much less on digging up the celebrity gossip herself.

Although Nacho Papi wasn’t a “real” journalistic entity, Sandy realized, writing for it would require just as much research
as writing for LatinoNow had.

She sighed and picked up her phone. She’d start the research by calling Lori, the LatinoNow junior staffer who used to be
Oscar’s assistant.

“Sandy,” Lori said immediately into the phone, “I’m completely freaking out. Angelica said I have to write three audition
posts, or else come up with some story ideas, if I want to remain on staff. What am I going to do?” Her voice became a whine
at the end. Sandy pictured Lori in the corner of the bar where she worked nights, pulling at the ends of her black-and-white-dyed
pigtails, chewing gum a mile a minute, full-arm tattoo on display.

“Calm down,” Sandy told her. “She said you have to write
three
audition pieces?” Sandy didn’t want to be insensitive, but she had assumed everyone would be asked to write six, like she
had, and wanted to make sure she hadn’t misheard.

“Yeah, three pieces. Sandy, you know I’m not a writer. I can’t do that. She said if I didn’t want to write, I needed to come
up with ideas for videos or something. She said maybe I could tape myself doing interviews. I don’t know. I was so nervous
I was completely freaking out. I guess I’ll have to find another day job or something.”

“No, you won’t. Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” Sandy thought she could intuit Angelica’s line of reasoning. She wanted to see
if Lori could do the man-on-the-street interviews they were doing on Banana Nation. So Lori could easily make a few digital
videos of herself talking with friends in front of her bar. In the meantime, Sandy needed to find out what she herself was
up against. “Lori, did Angelica tell George he needed to write three posts, too?”

“I have no idea. He came out of her office and took off, just like you did. He didn’t even speak to the rest of us.”

Sandy felt her glasses slipping down and adjusted them. Then she took a deep breath. She could understand Angelica giving
Lori less to do, since Lori wasn’t an experienced staffer and had no real journalism credentials. But if Sandy found out that
Angelica had gone easy on George, too, she was going to be really annoyed.

“Have you talked to any of the others?” she asked.

“Yeah. Carolina’s completely freaking out, Monica’s totally freaking out, Jesse told me he was quitting, and Francisco said
he was going to make some videos or some graphics or something.”

“Okay,” said Sandy. “Stop freaking out. Everything’s going to be okay. What time do you get off work?”

“Not until two,” Lori said.

“I’ll come down there at two, then, with my camera,” Sandy said. “In the meantime, talk to your regulars and see if any of
them want to be interviewed. Think of stuff you can ask them, and I’ll be thinking, too.”

“Oh, God, Sandy, thank you
so much
. I owe you big time,” Lori said, and kept repeating it until Sandy hung up.

She looked down at her phone to check the time. It was 7 p.m. That gave her several hours to work on her own audition posts,
and then a few more hours the next day, Sunday, before Angelica’s deadline.

Sandy felt a rush of adrenaline flood her bloodstream. It was her right-before-deadline power surge, just like the rush she
used to get when she crammed for finals in college. Ideas were coming to her a mile a minute now, and her nervousness was
gradually being replaced by excitement.

She was going to show Angelica that she could do this. Dominga Saavedra was not going to fold. At least not without a good
try.

Time: Sunday, March 12, 8:37 PM

To: Dominga Saavedra, George Cantu, Lori Gomez, Francisco Tamez, Philippe Montemayor

From: Angelica Villanueva O’Sullivan

Subject: Meeting tomorrow 9 AM

Our first staff meeting will be held tomorrow at 9 AM CST sharp. Bring the material you submitted to me earlier today, your
signed contracts, and your new ideas for upcoming posts.

If you will not be able to attend this meeting, please let me know immediately.

Cordially yours,

AVO

The meeting didn’t actually start until 9:15. Sandy had been in the office since 8:52, waiting and trying not to sweat. It
wasn’t lost on her that Angelica had sent the meeting invite to only a few of LatinoNow’s original staff, plus to a man named
Philippe whom she had never heard of.

Sandy could probably assume, therefore, that the writers attending this meeting were the ones who’d been chosen to stay. But
she was afraid to assume even that much.

The office had been completely changed. All their old desks had been pushed to the edges of the main room. In the center of
the room, there was now a huge conference table, loaded with laptops and power strips. The wall that had formerly held a huge
map of Austin now boasted a sparkling white projection screen instead.

Lori and Francisco were standing near the table, quietly fretting over their displaced possessions. George, Sandy’s least
favorite staff member, stood there with his usual cocky smile, as if he wasn’t surprised by the changes at all.

Maybe he wasn’t, Sandy reflected. Maybe he’d already brownnosed their new editor into being his buddy and she’d told him all
her plans. Sandy wouldn’t have put such a scheme past George.

Before she could ask what was going on, the Lady herself strutted into the room. Angelica, all glammed out in chic white linen
and carrying a matching white laptop that must have cost more than all the computers Sandy had ever owned, combined, took
the seat at the head of the table. The head corner, actually, in a leather chair turned on the diagonal to face her staff
and the screen simultaneously. Francisco scurried to help their new bosslady plug her laptop into the projector.

“Seats, everyone,” Angelica said. “Let’s get started.”

In a dazed rush, all the writers of the former Latino-Now plugged their laptops into outlets and their bodies into chairs.
Something about the woman’s voice commanded immediate obedience. She was nothing like their old editor, Oscar, who used to
camp out in his office all day and have his writers come in, one by one, like students visiting a friendly old guidance counselor.
For the first time since working in this office, Sandy suddenly felt like she was at a real
job
.

Angelica clicked an image onto the screen. Sandy recognized it as the front page of
Hate-O-Rama.com
. Mouse-clicking away, Angelica launched into an introduction of each of their new sister sites. While listening intently,
Sandy managed to aim covert glances at her co-workers and gauge their reactions to this very business-like meeting.

There was George: smirking, smirking. He may have been annoying, but he wasn’t dumb. Sandy was sure he’d already done his
research, just like she had. She narrowed her eyes at the writer who’d been a thorn in her side and her biggest competition
for the past year. For the hundredth time, she took in the “trendy” short crop that didn’t quite disguise George’s ever-receding
hairline and the facial hair that didn’t disguise the chubbiness under his chin. His faded concert shirt was topped with a
faded black blazer, an ensemble meant to make him look hip and edgy. He claimed he was twenty-eight but looked more like thirty-eight
to Sandy. Everything Angelica said made him shoot her a crap-eating grin, just like the ones he used to shoot at Oscar. Oscar
had always ignored George’s brownnosing.

Sandy glanced over to see how Angelica was taking it. Professionally, of course. Her expression remained pleasantly, robotically
professional no matter which of the remaining staff members she faced.

Across the table from George, Francisco peered at Angelica’s screen like it was a technological glitch that needed solving.
Every time Angelica pointed out a video or graphical feature on one of the sister sites she gestured at Francisco, and he
gave a slight nod. He appeared completely unfazed now by the changes going on and ready to work on whatever was put in front
of him.

Next to Francisco, Lori tugged at the ends of her multi-colored braids while taking furious notes in a notebook covered in
rainbows and unicorns. There was no one else in the room with them. Caroline, Monica, and Jesse were missing, but no one seemed
to be missing them.

The projector light sent floating dust specks over Francisco’s head like a cloudy halo. Sandy sat up straighter in her chair
and focused like a laser on what Angelica was saying. She wouldn’t be the next one to get laid off, she told herself. The
only thing worse than going from journalist to blogger, she realized, would be having someone tell you that you weren’t even
good enough to do that.

After her presentation, Angelica shut down the projector and had Lori turn on the lights. Everyone blinked and stared. Sandy
knew something was coming, though. She opened the file she had already prepared on her laptop.

“So,” Angelica said, “who has ideas?”

Sandy raised her hand, calm and confident as she could pretend to be. But before Angelica could call on her George blurted,
“How about Top Ten lists of Latino celebrities? Hottest chulas, biggest mama’s boys? Credits to our Raza and biggest sell-outs?”

Angelica smiled wryly. “A little crass, but it’ll generate page views. Good.”

Sandy cleared her throat. “Angelica, I have a post about Amber Chavez in mainstream media and how many times they’ve described
her using the word ‘spicy.’ I made a chart depicting how often food words describe Latina stars versus white stars. I’m thinking
Francisco can create a graphic with Amber Chavez being barbecued.”

Angelica flashed a quick robot smile. “Okay. What else?”

Sandy referred to her laptop. “I did another statistical analysis showing that celebrities who declare themselves Latino get
more stereotypical roles, and Latinas who go blond and don’t mention their ethnicity get more varied roles.”

A spark of interest showed on Angelica’s face now. But she said, “It has to be funny. What’s funny about it?”

“Uh… The title is ‘Guess Who’s in the Closet. No, Not
That
Closet.’ ”

That scored a dry chuckle. “Okay,” said Angelica. “What else?”

Sandy wondered, then, why she was being asked for multiple ideas while George had only pitched one so far and everyone else
was sitting there with their thumbs up their butts. But she plowed onward. “I did an introductory-level piece about gerrymandering
called ‘Who’s Disrespecting Your Hoods?’ ”

Angelica nodded. “Good. I like this angry, fight-the-power angle you’re taking.” George snickered at that, but Angelica didn’t
seem to notice. “Keep going with it. But keep it funny.” She turned back to George. “And, George, you continue with the lowbrow
thing you’re doing. It’s a good counterpoint.”

Sandy didn’t just snicker at that, she let out a full laugh, which she tried to turn into a cough. But Angelica ignored that,
too, and turned to the others. “What else? What other ideas do we have?”