“What Christmas Means to Me” — Stevie Wonder

“Up on the Housetop” — Jackson 5 (Hey, it’s cold here already.)

“Thriller”–Michael Jackson (And I bought the video. 13 minutes of pure amazing.)

“Say”–John Mayer

“Gravity”–John Mayer (Why does he keeping luring me in? I want to hate John Mayer. I want to.)

“Perfect Gentlemen”–Wyclef Jean

“No Woman, No Cry–Fugees” (Throwback to high school. Wow.)

“Killing Me Softly”–Fugees (I can remember listening to this on the way to Adventureland with my friends. I vaguely remember my dad turning back to the rowdy teenagers in the backseat and trunk of his Jeep Grand Cherokee and saying how the song was originally done by Roberta Flack. His response was probably a bunch of sighs and grunts and “whatevers.” How young and naive. And now some young minx like Rihanna will redo the song with some rapper like Young Jeezy and I’ll be in my Dad’s position. “Do you know the Fugees redid this song already in the 90s? This isn’t as good as when they redid it.”)

“Fu-Gee-La”–Fugees

“Nobody’s Supposed to Be Here”–Deborah Cox (throwback to the undergrad days at Fordham)

“Disturbia”–Rihanna (Probably against my better judgment.)

“Glory of Love”–Peter Cetera (found by Mags!)

“The Boxer”–Simon & Garfunkel (I forgot about this song. I heard it this past Saturday when two of the English teachers from Preston sang it at Preston Idol. They did an incredible job.)

I dare someone to try to categorize that mix.

While I’m happy to be back–the place is a complete mess. I guess I should say “was a complete mess.” C.K. and I worked really hard to get everything reorganized and put away. All the clothing had to be put back. We don’t have those huge California closets anymore so this was a challenge. Then I put back the toiletries and linens (a bigger job than you think). The books went everywhere. We have a ton of books. That’s what happens when two people meet in grad school for English. C.K. did a great job organizing his office closets. And he even committed a mortal sin for geeks — throwing out old gadgets and wires. *Gasp*

Random–I heard on the radio yesterday that 8/8/08 is a lucky day to be married. Yes, it’s a cool date — basically 8-8-8–but lucky. I didn’t think that 8 was a particularly lucky number. Truth be told, I think the whole lucky number thing is voodoo. In my family, 13 is our “lucky” number. 13 is just about the unluckiest number there is. For example, my aunt is 13 years younger than my father, I’m 13 years younger than my aunt, her first daughter is 13 years younger than me, and if C.K. have a child in the coming year, our child will be 13 years younger than my aunt’s first daughter. Whoa, that was a hard sentence to follow. And not that obeying the number 13 is a reason to start a family.

This begets a discussion on the subject of luck. A discussion I’m certainly not equipped to dive into now. I’m only halfway through my cup of coffee this morning.

Oh, and just a thought… The only thing lucky about getting married on 8/8/08 is that your spouse will always remember your anniversary. And if he/she can’t remember three of the same number, I think you should question whether or not you really want to marry that person. Think of all the future problems–the forgotten luggage codes, the forgotten birthdays,

Anyway, I put the family tree (it’s a big family drama, think Dallas, that focuses on the lives of these old high school friends, think The O.C., who are now reunited during their college years). And then there’s the prologue which is written in third-person.

Sorry about the alignment of the text. I had to align it center so the family tree wouldn’t look odd. But I can’t get the body of the prologue to align left justified. Oh well…

The Baptistes

Colette (nee Bertrande) m. Denis Baptiste, Sr.

Carine Baptiste m. Patrick Baines Denis Baptiste, Jr. m. Erica Tracy

Collin Baines Brice Baptiste
Kylie Baines Blaise Baptiste
Chloe Baines Colette Baptiste

The Tracys

Gunner Tracy m. Jacquelyn Blake

Sean Tracy
Siobhan (S.J.) Tracy
Matthew Tracy

The Carricks

Desmond Carrick m. Mara Golde

Rebecca Carrick (m. Brice Baptiste)
Ben Carrick
Adam Carrick

Part I

Prologue
A Son’s Victory

It’s 9:30 a.m. which means it’s time for your local news. Denis Baptiste, Jr. was arrested while exiting his Westside apartment today.
The words sliced through the quiet Kylie had enjoyed during her drive to school. The voice from the radio continued. Prosecutors are confident that this time they will succeed in their efforts to bring justice to the head of the Baptiste family, something they couldn’t do when Denis Baptiste, Sr. was alive. We have this comment from the District Attorney, “We took a very powerful, very dangerous man off the streets of New York City today. I hope this sends a message to anyone involved with organized crime. The charges will stick this time. The Baptiste family can count on it.” Counsel for the Baptiste family had no comment as of yet. And now with our weather, Bobby Jensen. Bobby. Thanks, Jim. Well, it is definitely getting colder. Winter is com—
Kylie pulled into a parking spot in Christ the Savior University’s student lot and turned off the radio. She took a deep breath and told herself (unconvincingly) that everything would be fine. She thought of calling the lawyers, but then she figured she would call her Aunt Erica first. Or maybe she would just wait until someone called her.
She yanked off her new leather gloves and threw them on the passenger seat. Then she let her head plop down onto the unforgiving cushion of the headrest. Kylie turned her head gently and let her eyes fall on the gloves sitting in a small lifeless pile. One of her Uncle’s friends had given them to her, a man who went by the name “Wall Street.” Kylie had met him this past summer and since then the two had dated on and off. As she looked at the pair of gloves beside here, Kylie wondered what part Wall Street would play in this mess.
Then she turned her head back to center and took another deep breath. The last time her uncle was arrested she was a kid—and at that time, she didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. Kylie didn’t really care too much about it either. She was told that the family wouldn’t be going to Aunt Erica’s and Uncle Denis’s for the annual Labor Day barbeque. No explanation followed. She whined a bit about not seeing her cousin Colette, but her mother offered no reason as to why there was no party.
Kylie loved playing with Colette. And on Labor Day, the entire family played in a Mille Bournes tournament. The card game was one of the few elements of French culture that peppered her family life. And that’s not saying much. Even still, Kylie bragged to her friends at school about the card game. The other kids looked puzzled when she barely knew how to play Uno. “Don’t you have this at home?” they asked.
“Sure, we do.” Kylie answered—always sure of herself (even when she wasn’t sure of herself). “But we don’t play that. We play,” she paused before saying the name with the best French accent she could muster, hoping to sound just like her grandmother, “Mille Bournes.” When the kids would make fun of her, she just answered, “It’s a French game.”
As she stared at the car parked opposite hers, Kylie smiled recalling the many fun times she had with Colette. She smirked a little thinking about how Colette never played by the rules. In a game of Parcheesi, Kylie’s cousin wanted to use the small pieces to play “nail salon” instead. Kylie’s older brother Collin found them downstairs with red, blue, yellow, and green plastic game pieces stuck to the ends of their fingers.
But the happy memories quickly turned to concern for Colette. How was she dealing with the news? After all, it was her father and not Kylie’s.
Then she thought once more about Uncle Denis’s first arrest. Kylie wondered what Colette was told when her father was taken from his home in handcuffs. She had one distinct memory of that time. She could picture it vividly in her mind. The night before her first day in the third grade, Kylie came downstairs and saw her mother and Aunt Erica fighting, yelling at each other. Her father saw that she was standing at the bottom of the staircase, “Go to your room and put the television on. I’ll be up in a minute.” It was a few hours before he came up. When he did, Kylie’s father told her that nothing was wrong. “Mommy and Aunt Erica are just talking about…grown-up stuff. That’s all.” She believed him like she always had. Before Kylie knew it, third grade was finished, summer came, and the family was going to her Uncle’s house. All was well again. But the Baptistes rarely spoke of it to their children.
Kylie felt that same helplessness now that she felt at the bottom of the stairs that night. The sense that something was dreadfully wrong and there was no way to fix it. Except this time, Patrick Baines wasn’t there to assure her everything was fine. And this time, she was old enough to know that if he was there, he’d be lying.
As Kylie sat parked in Christ the Savior University’s student lot, she was glad she still had on her seatbelt. For some reason, it made her feel less dizzy. Kylie put her hand up to the driver’s side window. The glass was cold from the November air and it felt good on the bare skin of her palm. Then the loud ring of her cell phone scared her. She didn’t even look at the caller I.D.
“Hello?” Her voice cracked and she took a big swallow to compensate.
“It’s Brice, Kylie.” Her cousin said curtly.
“Brice?” Kylie wondered why he was calling. She was expecting her mother, or her aunt or Colette or even Blaise. But she was shocked to hear Denis’s eldest son’s voice on the other end. She knew this wouldn’t be good.
“Yes, Kylie. It’s Brice. Have you heard yet?” His strong voice, unpleasantly businesslike.
“Of course, I’ve heard. But I’m sure you were the first to know.” Kylie was already on the defensive. Brice was only calling to gloat.
He continued smugly, “Good. They took my father to the 20th precinct on West 82nd Street. He’ll be held there until the hearing tomorrow. We are going to move very fast on this. We have all the information we need for a quick trial.” This was a proud day for Brice Baptiste. Kylie knew he meant to purge this city of its vices—even if it meant taking down his own father. He was clearly buoyant from his father’s arrest. He was self-satisfied and relishing his decision to call his father’s favorite niece.
“We? What does that mean Brice?” Kylie shook her head and nervously loosened her scarf. The morning was getting worse by the minute.
“Of course, I mean ‘my office.’ I’m not getting involved in this case. It’s a conflict of interest. The judge would never stand for it. And the D.A. is not risking anything. We’re getting our conviction this time.”
“I can’t believe you had your own father arrested.” Kylie’s jaw tightened as she realized that the D.A. actually might have a good chance with Brice masterminding the whole case.
“Don’t act like you’re surprised he was arrested. The man is a murderer, Kylie.” Brice spit the words out at her, full of resentment. Did he really have to explain why he hated Denis Baptiste, Jr. and everything his own last name stood for?
“Brice, the man is your father.”
“You don’t choose your father.” He snapped.
“It’s too bad you can’t choose your children either.” Kylie returned. Despite Brice being such an awful prick, she never thought he would be involved in building a case against his own family. She assumed he would make some comment to the press explaining how difficult his position was—probably trying to get the people on the prosecution’s side. She imagined his insufferably pedantic voice as he said how patriotic he was, how invested in the judicial system he was, how much he cared for the city.
“Listen, Kylie, this is big boy stuff. A little college girl like you wouldn’t really understand my situation right now, so let’s not fight. I never had anything against you. We’re family.” Kylie couldn’t believe he said this without choking on that last word.
“Oh, I’d love to understand your situation. I’d love to know what would possess someone to bring down his own family. This will mean a big fat promotion for you, Brice. I should be the first to say, ‘Congratulations.’ Congrats on being the world’s biggest asshole!” Kylie steamed with anger.
He switched to a strong whisper. “Settle down. Like I said, I’m not involved with this case.”
“Whatever. Why did you call?” Kylie rolled her eyes and gripped the steering wheel with both hands until her knuckles turned white.
“Hey, I am doing you a favor by calling you like this. I’m calling from my office and everything. Do you know how much trouble I could get into? I’m trying to help my cousin before she makes any stupid decisions.”
“I’m not sure I want any of your favors, Brice.”
“Fine, I’ll get to the point. I have other things to do today anyway. I’m calling to tell you to cooperate with us. I can get you and my brother out of this. If you don’t, well, let’s just say, it won’t be good. Like I said, we have plenty of information.” His voice sounded like he took pleasure in telling her this, a sadistic threatening pleasure.
“Are you saying that you’re going to have me and Blaise arrested?” Kylie sat up in the driver’s seat. Her anger diluted by fear now.
“No one is saying anything.” He was always good at being vague. She always thought he spoke like that because he was too cowardly to take a real position on anything.
“No, Assistant District Attorney Brice Baptiste, you seem to be telling me that I am going to get arrested for shit I had nothing to do with!” As she yelled, Kylie felt the blood fill the fair skin of her neck and face, “I have done nothing wrong! And neither has Uncle Denis. Maybe he’s made some mistakes in the past but today—today, you’re the one who made the mistake!” Kylie didn’t even understand herself by that point. She was totally consumed by the weird mixture of hatred and anxiety. If the D.A.’s office had found Mark, maybe Brice was on to something.
“Listen, you little brat, you can’t threaten me. I’m the one who’s taking names today.”
“I’m not threatening you Brice. Facts aren’t threats.” Kylie’s mind had left the conversation though. Now all she could think about was her ex-boyfriend Mark. Where was he? Did the D.A. have him? What would he say about her, about her whole family?
“Ya know, I thought I was being nice. But now I see that you are an ungrateful little bitch. A brat, just like Blaise. I’ll just say this. My father is going to drop this time. We have what we need to convict him. And the D.A. is going for life. You and my brother—we’ll just get you for fun. So, just make sure to cooperate with everything we say and maybe… maybe you can come out of this unscathed.”
“Where’d all this information you’re talking about come from?” Kylie’s voice was shaky, anticipating the name “Mark Esposito” in Brice’s answer.
“Obviously, I’m not at liberty to discuss that with one of the most important people under investigation. At least not without your lawyer present, Kylie. Or shall I say, ‘Styles’?”
Hearing her nickname hit a nerve. Kylie knew that although he’d never admit it to her, Brice always resented that she had so much control in the family business, that she was one of his father’s most trusted employees.
“Fuck you, Brice. You know where I am. You know where I’ll be tomorrow and the next day. Just bring whatever you have on me. And I’ll deal with it.”
“That’s a potty mouth you got there, cousin. This will be a true test for you, Kylie. I sincerely hope you make it through.”
“Fuck you, Brice.”
“You said that already, my dear.” He was snickering.
“Yeah, I did. I guess it just feels good to tell you to go fuck yourself.”
“Aw, nothing like cousinly love. You’re just afraid because you know what a test this will be.”
“I pass tests all day long. Like you said—I’m a college girl.” She hung up her phone and threw it down on the passenger seat. It bounced and landed somewhere on the floor.
Kylie slammed her hands on her steering wheel and yelled, “Shit!” Tears came to her eyes and fogged up her sunglasses. She dropped her head on the wheel and began to let herself cry, but once she surrendered herself to the tears, they wouldn’t come. She breathed deeply for a minute, trying to shake Brice’s words. She undid her scarf, turned the car back on and turned the air conditioning on. She didn’t care how cold it was outside right now. Kylie let the cool blast run over her neck and face as if it would ice away the redness in her cheeks.
After a few more big sighs, she felt a little better.

1. a good story, set of characters, or idea

2. discipline and the time to work on the first draft. (I think the fact that I kept working everyday really helped. I had the same vision for the novel at the end that I did at the beginning. I think any large gaps in my work would have made more work for the revision.)

3. more discipline when working on the revision (I’m finding it’s way less fun to revise than it is to write. You don’t get the satisfaction of having created something new, of seeing the word count go up. I’m trying to work for just a half-hour on my book each day. This is harder than it looks. But when I do get working, I usually spend more like an hour.

4. willingness to change the original story or idea –you don’t have to, but it’s good if you’re willing, I think.

5. seeking out feedback…LOTS of it…from WHOEVER will give it to you

1 frozen pie crust (I bought the one already in the tin)

4 plum tomatoes, sliced in quarters and drained on paper towels

6 oz. of shredded mozzarella

1 cup of basil, sliced and loosely packed

2 garlic cloves minced

1/2 cup of mayo

dash of black pepper

1/4 cup of grated Parmesan cheese

Poke some holes into the pie crust. Pre-cook according to the directions on the package. Take out pie crust and put about a third of the mozzarella in the bottom of the pie crust and let it melt. Line the melted cheese with tomato slices. Sprinkle with basil and garlic. In a medium bowl, combine the grated cheese, mozzarella, mayo and black pepper. Spread over the top of the tomatoes. Bake at 400 F for about thirty five minutes.

Here’s what I’m playing with: no more 3rd person narrator and adding other narrators (namely adding Kylie’s love interest Matt and Kylie’s cousin Colette). That way I can just label all the chapters and hopefully they will blend into each other more seamlessly. Right now I’ve got Kylie, Ben and 3rd P. Kylie is the main character so hearing from her is important. Her decisions and what happens to her are the crux of my story. Ben is my strongest narrator–he’s funny, tangential, very Holden Caufield (sp?). His role in the main plot is rather secondary (a supporting actor if you will) but he gives a lot of background information.

If I added Matt, he would have to be much different than Ben. I think his voice would be straight-forward and a little brooding. I think his language would be more economical (the way he tends to communicate in the story). But, we can’t know too much of what’s going on in his mind because that’s half the fun of the plot–not knowing whether he and Kylie will get back together.

If I added Colette, she’d be female version of Ben. However, she’d provide details about Kylie’s life as Styles Baptiste, an employee of her infamous uncle.

Back to work…

This has nothing to do with my novel — RIP Roxy (my aunt’s awesome bulldogs whose farts smelled like aluminum foil).