Whirlwind by Robert Liparulo

This week's featured CFBA book is Whirlwind by Robert Liparulo.



If you would like to read the first chapter of Whirlwind, go here.

Alton Brown

Ok. So I might like living near Chicago.


Zane is not so much a city-boy. Chip off the old block. My fiercely independent ten year old boy, the one who chides me for saying "I have to go potty" because "potty" embarrasses him and can't I just say bathroom or restroom like everyone else? The one who is starting to not want me to kiss him and hug him and love him when people are around (oh my heart.)

This boy clung for dear life to my hand while crossing Michigan Avenue. He grabbed my hand himself. No prompting. Grabbed it and then held it with both of his and said, "This is a lot of traffic."

And now I want to take him back to Michigan Avenue to play in traffic. I'm only kidding a little. This boy who suckled my breast for his first three years of his life and wouldn't go to anyone except me now thinks I'm uncool and I might need one of the pretty white jackets and a few strong martinis (lemon drop, thank you) to get through what comes next. Who are you to judge if I take him to play in traffic so he'll hold on a tighter for awhile longer?

That's what I thought.

Alton Brown has been a staple in our home for quite some time now. We all love Good Eats and Iron Chef America. When I heard Alton was going to be in Chicago doing a discussion and signing for his newest book <---see the picture and click to see the information at Amazon.com, I knew we had to go. Even though the wait was long and the line was longer, I'm really glad we went.

Dear Alton,

We canceled our trip to Legoland to come see you and it was all Zane's decision. I think you should feel pretty good considering Zane has three billion Legos in his room and has been bugging me to go to Legoland. Borders bookstore is the suck though. They baited us with hope of hearing your discussion then told us if we weren't in the first 100 we couldn't listen. Some crazies waited in line from 1pm til 7pm to see you. Not that you're not worth it, but, uhm, that's a long time. So we got there at 6pm and we HAD to buy your current book, otherwise we couldn't see you either. So we bought it, we would've anyway, but they were mean about it. So really, we probably won't ever go back to Borders (those bullies.)

You, however, redeemed the evening, Mr. Brown.

We sat on the floor of Borders and waited in line, talking to the nicest couple. For hours. Now, Zane is 10 and he's pretty patient, but he was about ready to bail. Good thing the line moved. It was nearing 10pm and he was getting nervous as we neared the front of the line. The way you stopped and took time to look Zane in the eyes and ask him questions made my heart swell. You are such and admirable man. Thank you.

And then you did something I didn't expect. Zane was the first kid you signed a book for, I think. When you left your place behind your signing table and went out into the line to sign all the kid's books so they could go home and get to bed...That was integrity.

Thank you for that display of your character. I'm glad I got to witness it.

~michelle

I wanted to tell the whole world what a good guy you are Alton Brown!

Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger

Audrey Niffenegger, author of The Time Traveler's Wife, is releasing her second book, Her Fearful Symmetry September 29, 2009.

I was late on The Time Traveler's Wife bandwagon. That shouldn't be a surprise though, as I only read To Kill a Mockingbird two years ago and I still haven't read anything Harry Potter related and I watched all of the Star Wars movies only because my son forced me (lest I be a bad mother.)

I read Time Traveler's Wife last year and I remember laying in bed, crying over the ending image. I had replaced Clare with myself and my undying love for my own husband and pictured myself as Clare--waiting.

It is one of the most beautiful stories I've ever experienced.

Her Fearful Symmetry is a different kind of story. It is also a beautiful story, but in it's own way. Please don't expect a retelling of The Time Traveler's Wife as you'll be sorely disappointed.

Her Fearful Symmetry is a dark story about identity and breaking points. What defines each relationship we enter into? At what point am I, me and you, you and where do we intersect and converge? Whether you are born into a relationship or enter it willingly, is there a line drawn in the sand for each? Twins, sisters, mothers and daughters, lovers, married couples. The dynamic between each is so different, yet in this story, you understand that there's an underlying familiarity.

Her Fearful Symmetry is about making concessions in relationships and ultimately, making decisions to not make those concessions any longer and the consequences of such. How can one remain entangled with another a yet be separate? It is impossible, though we fight it and the reality is much different than our imagined fantasy.

Her Fearful Symmetry is also about deception and love. In the beginning, we understand there's a secret. Where there is a secret, there is deception. And oh the webs we weave. The story starts like OCD, with everything packed away in its place, tight and secure, double and triple-checked but you pull one string and the whole knitted garment you worked untold hours to create unravels stitch by stitch until there is nothing left.

* * *

There were a few things I didn't respond well to in the beginning. I'm a bit of a point of view purist and it's a good thing I set out with a trust in the author, otherwise I might not have been able to overcome my own OCD tendencies for they would have screamed with every italicized thought and point of view switch. I hushed the voices by chanting, trust her--she wrote The Time Traveler's Wife. To my surprise, somewhere around part two, I considered there might have been a reason for the style and at the end, I admitted (albeit reluctantly) there was no other way to tell this story.

The big secret of the story was really no surprise at all to me. I might have been disappointed about that had the other big thing not have happened and that one--I didn't see coming. But why I didn't see it is beyond me. Maybe by that point I had become invested in the story and wanted it to work out my way.

The end though, surprised me in the darkest way possible and revealed my character, my dark side, and all the un-pleasantries that come along with such a discovery.

Her Fearful Symmetry, the perfect title for this book, is a complicated mess of a story that the reader is allowed to witness. It's like a peek into the keyhole of The Eccentrics only to realize it's a mirror you're gazing into.

Photo credits: Audrey Niffenegger

Parting the Waters: Finding Beauty in Brokenness

I met Jeanne Damoff (pronounced DAM-off) a few years ago on a message board. Yep, she's one of those friends. I have a lot of them, but Jeanne is a bit different.

At first, I thought she didn't like me. She might not know that, but she does now. But seriously, now I understand it was my overactive imagination and nothing more.

We first met at the ACFW conference in Dallas in 2006. I remember laughing with her in the lobby, but what I remember most is feeling overwhelmingly sad when she got a call that someone close passed on. I felt the need to pray and she doesn't know but I was praying silently when I hugged her. I had also signed up to take a shift in the prayer room, I prayed for her family then, as well.

I really got to "know" Jeanne reading her blog and her every-other-Thursday posts at The Master's Artist. Then I found out she takes photographs (like really outanding ones!) And though Jeanne's words are phenomenal, down to earth, and always seem to leave you with an unexpected sense of hope and peace, her photography spoke its silent language to my heart.

This picture of Natalie, Jacob, and baby Lawson Jacob touched me deeper than I realized at first. When I saw it, all I knew was that Jeanne was a great writer, a funny gal who gave points to people who made her laugh, a great photographer, and a woman who loved her family deeply. I sort of knew that Jacob had brain damage, but I didn't know the story and I was didn't want to appear rude by asking. Little by little, the pieces came together. Jacob had an accident, he nearly drowned. He lived. He has brain damage. The photos of him are always stunning, there's so much in his eyes, they speak that silent language, too.

This was my first chapter in the story that is Jacob Damoff.

In August of 2007, I found out that Natalie was Jacob's best friend. I found out she named her baby Lawson Jacob. Soon after, Relief published selections from Parting the Waters.

And this photo then meant more...look at Natalie. I know that feeling of--what do you call it? Blessed pain? Or as Jeanne appropriately called it: Beauty in Brokenness?

Those moments in life, we all have them, or maybe not everyone does?

I have had them. When my grandma died. It was so hard to watch her go, yet knowing she was finally in peace was peace for me. When my uncle committed suicide. The single most painful event in my life, yet knowing the demons no longer could taunt him and that he's resting in Jesus now--overwhelming pain and relief simultaneously.

Is that a taste of what Jesus felt when he commanded His spirit to His Father?

My mind captures images and holds them, the first photo is one that comes to the forefront of my mind often. This is the other one.
There's something in Jacob's smile that commands attention.

I often find myself wondering what it's like to be that happy. Then I remember I am, I have only let life drag me down.

Parting the Waters is so brutally honest. The reality of it all is bitter and heartbreaking, yet through it all there is a hope bigger than explanation.

My mind captured an image from the book and will not let go. Jeanne and George had just brought Jacob home after a lengthy period of rehabilitation. Jacob, at this point, was not able to speak. They were at a special chapel service and the pastor, "...at one point said 'God,' Jacob pointed first to his own heart and then straight up in the air. "

Imagine that.

Jeanne continues, "After that day, when someone mentioned the Lord, Jacob pointed. Always to his heart first, then to the sky. He hadn't uttered a single word, but his actions preached a thousand sermons."

* * *

Another aspect of Jacob's story that I appreciate, one that helps me in my own life, is hearing everything the family and community did with Jacob while he was in a coma. I mentioned above that my grandma's recent death has affected me. She was not conscious for a week or more towards the end. I posted the story of the last minutes I was blessed with sharing with her. As Jeanne put it, "What a precious memory you'll always have of singing her into eternity." I still struggle with the last breath she took, at such a meaningful moment. I feel like God gave me a piece of this Beauty in Brokenness we're talking about.

My friend Elaina, said this to me, "Reading Parting the Waters reminded me that we understand so little of the way our brains work and to presume that someone doesn't comprehend is not a good plan. Even in dementia and Alzheimer's, they're still themselves. They just have trouble piecing everything together. I believe she heard you, Michelle."

Jacob has given me so many gifts, I can only imagine the crowns in heaven adorning his head, and I bet he'll have that big smile each time another is placed for the blessing he's been to a number so great, only God can know.

Order Parting the Waters here.
Join Parting the Waters on Facebook (and send Parting the Waters Flair!)

Visit others blessed by Parting the Waters:

5 Minutes for Books
A Little Whine and Cheese
A Peek at My Bookshelf
A Spacious Place
Alien Dream
Arkansas Dreams
Ashley Evans Boone
Aspire2 Blog
Bible Dude
Blame it on the Loud Mouth Gene
Blog Tour Spot
Bluebonnet in the Snow
Book Nook Club
Canadian Prairie Writer
Christy’s Book Blog
Conversations with a Stranger
Davis Family of 6
Fictionary
Five Bazillion and One
Gatorskunz and Mudcats
Getting Down with Jesus
Good Word Editing
i don’t believe in grammar
iamhealed.net
Kells Creative Musings
La Vida Dulce
Life with Missy
Lift My Noise
Lighthouse Academy
Marc Whitman’s Blog
Michelle Pendergrass
Musings from the Windowsill
Mystery, Suspense, and God, Oh My!
Net’s Book Notes
One Voice in a Big World
Portrait of a Writer . . . Interrupted
Relevant Blog
Restore
Sherry Kyle
So You Wanna Be Published
The Friendly Book Nook
the mcgill’s
The Writing Road
They Hang Like Paper Lanterns
This Present Joy
Tooles in Virginia
What I Learned Today
Wide-Eyed Fiction
Word Vessel
Write Brained
Write by Faith

This is My Blood by David Niall Wilson

I'm actually having a hard time putting to words how I feel about this novel.

When I posted my review of Field of Blood by Eric Wilson, David N. Wilson--no relation that I'm aware of--let me know (via Twitter) that his novel, This is My Blood was also a vampire story, also an alternate history of Christ's days on earth. He said it was ahead of its time, and I agree 100%.

In his own words, David tells us this novel started as a short story in the 1980's entitled "A Candle Lit in Sunlight" which was published in The Year's Best Horror edited by the late Karl Edward Wagner. This led him to expand his thoughts and eventually publish the book in 1999.

The reason I'm having a hard time putting my thoughts down is because this is really like no book I've ever read. But that's not exactly true either.

Remember when I read The Road by Cormac McCarthy and said I sorta liked it? That was October 2007. Now it's one of my favorite books. I realized as the weeks and months passed by that I had an ongoing emotional reaction to The Road. Certain things would trigger my emotion. A gray, cloudy day would bring back all of the stark nothingness of The Road. A father and son in walking to their car would take me to The Road. After months of experiencing The Road, I realized there weren't too many books that could accomplish such a thing.

That's what it feels like is going on with This is My Blood.

I admit, I am very skeptical of stories like this, alternate histories of the Bible, and of course, one must have an open mind when reading any fiction as far as I'm concerned. With an open mind, I read David's novel and discovered a hidden treasure.

I don't want to retell the story, I think you, loved reader, need to get this one for yourself. I'm sure you can find a synopsis online, but that doesn't do justice to this story. So just order the book.

Let me get what I didn't like out of the way, because there wasn't much. You know I have some pet peeves and that's kind of what I picked at. There are some words that are overused. For some reason that bothers me. I probably do it in my own writing. And there's a part at the end I didn't like, but I can't say it here because it would be a total spoiler. It was the one thing that strayed far enough from my theology that I really wish it would have been different. I understand how it benefits the story, but it seemed to me to make Jesus less God and less capable of His purpose. It, to me, gave power and authority to someone else, and for that, I was disappointed.

However...

It did not take away from the message I saw the story delivering.

This is My Blood is a love story. Jesus' story for each and every one of us is a story, a reality, of unconditional love. We don't deserve His sacrifice. We aren't worthy of the spilling of His blood for our tainted and hardened hearts. It is what He came here for, though. To show us His love.

What about the angels that followed Lucifer in their fall? Are they worthy of Jesus' sacrifice? Are they able to be reconciled to the Father? That's a question I've often pondered. This is My Blood speaks to that.

One of the most striking elements of This is My Blood is David N. Wilson is writing from a woman's point of view and it's virtually flawless. I've read a few other things by this author and his writing has a natural, organic, sensual flow. There is a depth of character and emotion that most male writers have a hard time thinking of, let alone getting down seamlessly. For that, I praise David.

There were times I was completely devastated and other times, I could feel my hope mounting, waiting expectantly, as if it was my faith for Christ, my hope in Him, my love. It takes a lot to get me to that point, the point that I'm crossing boundaries of reality.

It is also a story of faith and hope.

Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will actually happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see.

And it is impossible to please God without faith.

To my knowledge, I have yet to read a novel with a more stunning display of faith, hope, and love. This is My Blood is a phenomenal example of Jesus' commitment to the condemned that walk this earth.

I understand now, why some readers of This is My Blood have told David that their faith was strengthened by this story. I will not forget this story.

Guest Book Review

The opportunity presented itself to review How to Really Love Your Grandchild...in an Ever-Changing World and I knew my friend Carol would be the perfect guest reviewer.

Enjoy!

How to Really Love Your Grandchild …in an Ever-Changing World

by D. Ross Campbell, M.D. with Rob Suggs.

Since I am in the not-so-unique position of a grandmother who is co-raising her grandson, with the recent addition of a 15-year-old nephew, this book was particularly relevant. It reinforced so many of the things that I am presently doing; while, at the same time, gave me new ideas of how to cope with the emotional needs of both of them.

One of the main things that I learned was that keeping their emotional tank filled, which is an endless need, can be accomplished in so many different small ways … such as with a simple touch or a small praise for something accomplished.

It is stressed that the grandparent must take care of themselves first, so that they are capable to taking care of their grandchildren … a point which is often forgotten. And, that grandparents need to set an example with both their words and their deeds, always looking for a chance to impart their beliefs to the young ones without being judgmental.

One very relevant point made is that the teachings of the Bible and the word of God must be introduced into the child’s life, whether it is a reinforcement of lessons learned from their parent or as an independent action. One point here … it is easily done when the child is young, but when a 15-year-old is suddenly introduced into a household, it is a much longer and harder process when he has had no prior training or exposure to a Christian life.

Two pleasant surprises at the end of the book included “Five Ways to Get the Most from this Book” and a chapter by chapter “Study Guide.” (which should have been noted at the front of the book because I almost missed them since they were after the “Postscript” which I rarely read. )

Solomon Summaries

Come back and tell me you signed up. I'm going to give away a stack of books to one winner Friday (Halloween!)

Product review: Solomon Summaries

...provides solutions for busy Christians who want to both maximize their limited time and increase their awareness of both current and classic Christian non-fiction books. This unique subscription summary service provides subscribers with a 10-page summary of a non-fiction book, a review of the book, and group discussion questions every week. These summaries are not intended to replace the content of the entire book but rather to provide a synopsis of the key points from the book. Solomon Summaries encourages dialogue, helps readers decide which books to buy and read, and tickles minds with new ideas and concepts that might warrant further exploration by the reader.

Solomon Summaries is an excellent resource for pastors and other church leaders who want to keep up with current Christian books their congregations are reading. Additionally, church leaders can utilize the summaries to help select books for use in small groups and Sunday Schools or to be added to their church libraries.

Authors who write for the Christian market will also find Solomon Summaries useful in keeping up current thinking and trends.

I was totally impressed with the first summary I received. The .pdf was easy on the eyes, the layout was more than impressive. It was uncluttered, and had more information than I expected.

Don't take my word for it (though you really should trust me) go find out for yourself.

Scroll down for the special offer!

And tell them I sent you.

Because you're reading about it here, you can subscribe to this awesome new service and

• Get a free trial from now until Dec. 1. (That's like 6 free summaries!!) No obligations, just sign up for the free trial.
  

• The first book you'll receive a summary for is Mere Christianity by C. S. Lewis

• Win prizes--You'll be entered into a drawing for a stack of books with your subscription.

• Get a discount on the service if you sign up now (pay later) and tell them you came from my blog. It'll come out to somewhere around $8/month and that's far less than if you bought the book, not to mention that you'd probably never read that book because we're all far too busy to read every single book we want to read. (Without the discount, you're looking at $10/month. You could buy a few Starbucks with the leftovers money!)

Come back and tell me you signed up. I'm going to give away a stack of books to one winner next Friday (Halloween!)

The Christian Modifier

I haven't had many deep, introspective thoughts in quite some time. (Does this mean I'm getting better?)

Something's been brewing though. I'd like to give it a shot, ease back into things.

This thought is about the word "Christian" as a modifier.

Christian writer
Christian music
Christian books
Christian artist
Christian horror (Egads! What's that?!)

Modifier= A word, phrase, or clause that limits or qualifies the sense of another word or word group.

And so it has come to pass that I've figured out why I don't like it as a modifier. It limits. Limits imply rules. Rules imply a maker of rules--and here's where I have problems. I can handle, say, speed limits. Seat belt laws. Things that, for all intent and purpose, are for the common good of society.

But where does that fit in when we're talking about this idea of "Christian fiction?" Heather Goodman said,

"In an interview I posted yesterday (or was it the day before?), we decided that what people mean by "Christian novel" is it's written by Christians, marketed by Christians, and bought by Christians, which means it may or may not have anything to do with the themes or theology in the book below a surface level."

Heather also added that she didn't like labels and surprised me by posting a Willie Nelson quote and video. "

"Labels were invented to sell the music. You had to know what to call it to sell it. So they called the blues the blues, and the jazz the jazz, and the bluegrass, gospel. But some music encompasses it all. So what do you call that? And that’s pretty much what I like to play."--Willie Nelson

They're saying the same thing. My take: labels exist for people who need rules. People who want to be kept. Kept what? I don't know. For people who read "Christian" fiction, maybe they need to be kept safe. At least their version of safe. Because it can't fully reconcile itself to Jesus.

Christian radio stations around here tout themselves as "family friendly" and "safe for the whole family."

Since when is Jesus safe?

Strongtower. Yes. But, safe?


And check it out. Head on over to Blue Letter Bible and search the terms Jesus safe.

Sorry! The search criteria that you entered, Jesus safe, does not yield any results...

I wonder, then. How are authors limiting their fiction by subjecting themselves to modifiers that are inadequate? And yes, I'm fully aware that some people are comfortable within limitations. And some people are meant to break free.

Which are you?

Thursday at The Horrible Homeschooler

New post up at The Horrible Homeschooler.

Fiction Woes--

Am I doing something wrong?






And by the way, if you'd like to contribute to The Horrible Homeschooler, please email me! That's mLpendergrass

Wounded by Claudia Mair Burney

Claudia Mair Burney is not safe.

Wounded is not safe.

Thank God. Thank God for a book that challenges my faith. One that allows me to get my hands dirty and doesn't care that it pulled me in the mud. One that doesn't apologize for life, but rather takes this ugly life and shows me that Jesus is there.

The cross is not beautiful, the cross is ugly. What makes it beautiful is Christ. What he did for us-nailed to it, beaten bloody and unrecognizable, his death. All very nasty things. His resurrection and life are what makes the cross tolerable.

We're ugly people. And this story is about disease, loss, pain, hopelessness. It is about Jesus meeting us where we are and turning the ugly things into beauty.

At first, I had a bit of a hard time getting into the flow of the story. That's not any fault of the author (remember, I almost stopped reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy, too. Thank God I kept on.) However, not too far into the book I got the rhythm, and make no mistake, there is a rhythm to this book. Some of the dialogue rang less than true for me, and some of the inner dialogue of the main man sometimes felt a little girly, but that wasnt' enough to make me stop reading and it certainly didn't bother me (like it might have in a book with no story.)

I'm sure I could nit-pick the things people might not like about Wounded, but I give less than a damn what other people think about it. It was a great story. I went into as a woman who remembers her Catholic upbringing, who understands her protestant life, one who is comfortable and confident in her walk with God in the present, and one who wants a story to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. I got what I asked for.

Honestly though, this book is not for everyone. I can guess that most fans of rigid Christian fiction won't like it, however, people who like things like Relief and Coach's Midnight Diner will not have the issues with it that some staunch CBA romance readers might find.

I'm more of a horror-stigmata story girl, rather than love-stigmata story, but this was a fabulous read. I was worried I wouldn't like it. I didn't want to have to tell my friend I didn't like her book. But that's not going to happen. I was not disappointed and I think this story will stick with me.

Wounded by Claudia Mair Burney

I'm reading this now. How can I resist a book about stigmata? Especially when a friend wrote it?

I'll be reviewing it when I'm finished. (Which you know is not typical of me)

May FIRST--Finding Hollywood Nobody

I get excited when the book we're highlighting is someone I know. Lisa and I have just started a friendship a few months ago. The more I'm around this amazing woman, the more I love her (and her family!!) I haven't read this book yet mostly because I've got a stack of others by her I'm getting caught up on, but knowing what I know, there shouldn't be any disappointment!

So while we're out of town, enjoy this FIRST chapter.








It is May FIRST, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!

Today's feature author is:

LISA SAMSON

and her book:

Finding Hollywood Nobody

Navpress Publishing Group (February 15, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Lisa Samson is the author of twenty books, including the Christy Award-winning Songbird. Apples of Gold was her first novel for teens

These days, she's working on Quaker Summer, volunteering at Kentucky Refugee Ministries, raising children and trying to be supportive of a husband in seminary. (Trying . . . some days she's downright awful. It's a good thing he's such a fabulous cook!) She can tell you one thing, it's never dull around there.

Other Novels by Lisa:

Hollywood Nobody, Straight Up, Club Sandwich, Songbird, Tiger Lillie, The Church Ladies, Women's Intuition: A Novel, Songbird, The Living End

Visit her at her website.

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


Chapter One

Hollywood Nobody: Sunday, June 4

Well, Nobodies, it's a wrap! Jeremy's latest film, yet another remake of The Great Gatsby, now titled Green Light, has shipped out from location and will be going into postproduction. Look for it next spring in theaters. It may just be his most widely distributed film yet with Annette Bening on board. Toledo Island will never be the same after that wacky bunch filled in their shores.

Today's Hottie Watch: Seth Haas has moved to Hollywood. An obscure film he did in college, Catching Regina's Heels (a five-star film in my opinion), was mentioned on the Today show last week. He was interviewed on NPR's Fresh Air. Hmm. Could it be he'll receive the widespread acclaim he deserves before the release of Green Light? For his sake and the film's, I hope so.

Rehab Alert: I've never hidden the fact that I don't care for bratty actress Karissa Bonano, but she just checked into rehab for a cocaine addiction. Her maternal grandfather, Doug Fairmore, famous in the forties for swashbuckling and digging up clues, made a public statement declaring the Royal Family of Hollywood was "indeed throwing all of our love, support, and prayers behind Karissa." The man must be a thousand years old by now. This isn't Ms. Bonano's first stint in rehab, but let's hope it's her last. Even I'm not too catty to wish her well in this battle. But I'm as skeptical as the next person. In Hollywood, rehab is mostly just a fad.

Today's Quote: "It's a scientific fact. For every year a person lives in Hollywood, they lose two points of their IQ." Truman Capote

Today's Rant: SWAG, or Party Favors. Folks, do you ever wonder what's inside those SWAG bags the stars get? Items which, if sold, could feed a third-world country for a week! And have you noticed how the people who can afford to buy this stuff seem to get it for free? I'm just sayin'. So here's my idea, stars: Refuse to take these high-priced bags o' stuff and gently suggest the advertisers give to a charitable organization on behalf of the movie, the stars, the whoever. Like you need another cell phone.

Today's Kudo: Violette Dillinger will be appearing on the MTV Video Music Awards in August. She told Hollywood Nobody she's going to prove to this crowd you can be young, elegant, decent, and still rock out. Go Violette!

Summer calls. Later!

Monday, September 15, 4:00 a.m.

Maybe I'm looking for the wrong thing in a parent.

I turn over in bed at the insistence of Charley's forefinger poking me in the shoulder. "Please tell me you've MapQuested this jaunt, Charley."

She shakes her tousled head, silhouetted by the yellow light emanating from the RV's bathroom. "You're kidding me right?" She slides off the dinette seat. Charley's been overflowing with relief since she told me the truth about our life: that she's not really my mother, but my grandmother, that somebody's chasing us for way too good of a reason, that my life isn't as boring as I thought. We're still being chased, but Charley can at least breathe more freely in her home on the road now that I know the truth.

Home in this case happens to be a brand-spanking-new Trailmaster RV, a huge step forward from the ancient Travco we used to have, the ancient Travco with a rainbow Charley spread in bright colors over its nose.

"Where to?" Having set my vintage cat glasses, love 'em, on my nose, I scramble my hair into its signature ponytail: messy, curly, and frightening. I can so picture myself in the Thriller video.

"Marshall, Texas."

"East Texas?"

"I guess."

"It is." I shake my head. Charley. I love her, I really do, but when it comes to geography, despite the fact that we've traveled all over the country going to her gigs ever since I can remember, she's about as intelligent as a bottle of mustard. And boy do I know a lot about bottles of mustard. But that was my last adventure.

"If you knew, then why did you ask?" She flips the left side of her long, blonde hair, straighter than Russell Crowe, over her shoulder. Charley's beautiful. Silvery blonde (she uses a cheap rinse to cover up the gray), thin (she's vegan), and a little airy (she's frightened of a lot and tries not to think about anything else that may scare her), she wears all sorts of embroidered vests and large skirts and painted blue jeans. And they're all the real deal, because Charley's an environmentalist and wouldn't dream of buying something she didn't need when what she's got is wearing perfectly well. She calls my penchant for vintage clothing "recycling," and I don't disagree.

"Is this really a gig, Charley, or are we escaping again?"

She shakes her head. "No phone call. I really do have a job."

I feel the thrill of fear inside me, though there's no need right now. Biker Guy almost got me back on Toledo Island. (Yeah, he looks like a grizzled old biker.) To call the guy rough around the edges would be like saying Pam Anderson has had "a little work done."

I've been looking over my shoulder ever since.

But more on that later. We need to get on the road. And I need to get on with my life. I'm so sick of thinking about how things aren't nearly what I'd like them to be.

I mean, do you ever get tired of hearing yourself complain?

I flip up my laptop, log on to the satellite Internet I installed (yes, I am that geeky) and Google directions to Marshall, Texas, from where we are in Theta, Tennessee—actually, on the farm of one of Charley's old art-school friends who gave her some work in advertising for the summer. Charley's a food stylist, which means she makes food look good for the camera. Still cameras, motion picture cameras, video, it doesn't matter. Charley can do it all.

"Oh, we've got plenty of time, Charley. Five hundred and fifty miles and . . . we have to go through Memphis . . ."

My verbal drop-off is a dead giveaway.

"Oh, no, Scotty, we're not going to Graceland again."

The kitsch that is Graceland speaks to me. What can I say?

And you've got to admit, it's starting to look vintage. Now ten years ago . . .

I cross my arms. "Do you have cooking to do on the way?"

Yes, highly illegal to cook in a rolling camper.

"Yeah, I do."

"And do you expect me, an unlicensed sixteen-year-old, to drive?" Again, highly illegal, but Charley's a free spirit. However, she refuses to copy CDs and DVDs, so in that regard, she's more moral than most people. I guess it evens up in the end.

"Uh-huh."

"Then I think I deserve a trip through the Jungle Room."

She rolls her eyes, reaches down to the floor, and throws me my robe. "Oh, all right. Just don't take too long."

"I'll try. So." I look at the screen. "65 to route 40 west. Let's hit it. And we'll have time to stop for breakfast."

Charley shakes her head and plops down on the tan dinette bench. The interior of this whole RV is a nice sandy tan with botanical accents. Tasteful and so much better than the old Travco that looked like a cross between a genie's bottle and the Unabomber cabin. "You're going to eat cheese. Aren't you?"

"I sure am."

And Charley can't say anything, because months ago she told me this was a decision I could make on my own.

Freedom!

"I've rethought the cheese moratorium, baby. I know you're not going to like this, but three months of cheese is enough. I can't imagine what your arteries look like. I think it's time to stop."

"What?" Cheese is my life. "Charley! You can't do this to me."

"It's for your own good."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I am."

"Why?"

"Because summer's over, baby, and we've got to get back to a better way of life."

I could continue to argue, but it won't do any good. Charley acts all hippie and egalitarian, but when push comes to shove, she's the boss. However, I'm great at hiding my cheese . . . and . . . I'm going to convince her eventually.

But still.

"This isn't right, Charley, and you know it. But it's too early to argue. And might I add, you have no idea what it's like to have a teen with real teen issues. You ought to be on your knees thanking God I'm not drinking, smoking, pregnant, or"—I was going to say sneaking out at night, but I've done that, just to get some space—"or writing suicidal poetry on the Internet!"

We stare at each other, then burst into laughter.

"Just humor me this time, baby," she says. "We'll come back to it soon, I promise."

I don't believe her, but I hop into the driver's seat, pull up the brake, throw the TrailMama into drive, and we are off.

Six hours later

I pull through Graceland's gatehouse at ten a.m., park near the back of the compound's cracked, tired parking lot, and change into some crazy seventies striped bell-bottoms, a poet shirt, and Charley's old crocheted, granny-square vest. Normally I go further back in my vintage-wear, but I'm trying to go with the groove that is Graceland.

I kiss Charley's cheek. "I'll be back by noon."

"When will that put us in Marshall?"

"By six thirty."

"Because I'm not sure where the shoot is."

"Please. Marshall's small. Jeremy and company will make a big splash no matter where they set up. Besides, growing up around this, I have a nose for it."

She awards me one of her big smiles. "You're somethin', baby. I forget that sometimes." She puts her arms around me, squeezes, pulls back, then smacks me lightly on my behind. "Tell Elvis I said hello."

"Oh, I will. He's one of the groundskeepers now, you know."

I've seen computer-generated pictures of what he would look like now, in his seventies. Scary.

I jump down from the RV, head across the parking lot, over the small bridge leading into the ticketing complex and walk by Elvis's jets, including the Lisa Marie. Gotta love anything with that name. Don't know why. Just has a nice ring to it.

Banners proclaim, "Elvis Is."

Is what? Dead? A legend? What? Because he isn't "izzing" as far as I'm concerned. Present tense, people! If the person's not alive, "is" can only be followed by a few options: Buried up in the memorial garden. Rotting in his casket. Missed by his family and friends. Not exactly banner copy, mind you.

Still, you've got to admit the name Elvis wreaks of cool. Perhaps the sign should read, "Elvis Is . . . A Really Cool Name."

But it's not nearly as cool as my name. You see, my real mother loved the writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. And that's my name: Francis Scott Fitzgerald Dawn. Only Dawn's not my actual last name. I don't know what my real last name is. My real first name is Ariana. Being on the run, Charley renamed us to protect our identity. So she honored my mother by naming me after Mom's favorite novelist. More on that later too.

It sounds fun, traveling on the road from film shoot to film shoot, never settling down in one place for too long, but honestly, it's very sad.

I always knew Charley lived with a sadness down deep, and when I found out why this spring, her sadness became mine. See, my dad is dead and my mother, Charley's daughter Babette, is too. Or we think she must be, because she disappeared under questionable circumstances and never came back. Learn that when you're fifteen and see where you land.

When I thought Charley was my mother, I had such high hopes for who my father might be. Al Pacino was number one in the ranking. Don't ask.

Okay, Elvis, here we go. Let's you and me be "taking care of business."

I hand over my money to the lady behind the reservations counter. I called thirty minutes ago on my cell phone, compliments of my mother's friend Jeremy, and reserved a spot.

"You'll be on the first tour."

Yes! More time amid the shag carpeting and the gold records. And the jumpsuits. Can't forget the jumpsuits. I want a cape too.

The gift shop calls to me. Confession: I love gift shops. They even smell sparkly. Key chains dangling, saying, "You can take me with you wherever you go!" Mugs with the Saint Louis Gateway Arch or the Grand Ole Opry promising an even better cup of coffee. Earrings that advertise you've been somewhere. That's exactly what I choose while I wait for the tour, a little pair of dangly red guitars with the words Elvis Presley in gold script on the bodies, and how in the world they put that on so small is beyond me. See, gift shops can even be miraculous if you take your time and look.

A voice over the loudspeaker announces my tour number, so I stand in line. By myself. Just me in a group of twenty or so.

Okay, here is where it gets hard to be me. I know I should be thankful for my free-spirited life. But especially now that I know my parents are dead, it feels empty all of a sudden. I shouldn't be standing in line at Graceland alone. My mother and I should be giggling behind our hands at the man nearby who's actually grown a glorious pair o' mutton-chop sideburns, slicked back his salt-and-pepper curls, and shrugged his broad shoulders into a leather jacket. Really, right? My father, who was an FBI agent the mob shot right in a warehouse in Baltimore, would shake his head like a dad in a sixties TV show and laugh at his girls.

We'd get on the bus like I'm doing now, each of us putting on our tour headphones and hanging the little blue recorders around our necks in anticipation of the glory that is Elvis.

The driver welcomes us as he shuts the hydraulic doors of the little tour bus with its clean blue upholstery, a bus in which an assisted-living home might haul its residents to the mall.

It smells new in here, and my gross-out antennae aren't vibrating in the least like they do when I go into an old burger joint and the orange melamine booth hasn't been scrubbed since the place opened in 1987.

In my fantasy, my dad would sit beside me. And Mom, just across the aisle, holding onto the seatback in front of her, would look at me as we pass through those famed musical gates, because she would have introduced me to Elvis music. According to Charley, my vintage sentimentalism comes from my mom. I've learned a little about her this summer.

Charley said, "She'd wear my cousin's old poodle skirt and listen to Love Me Tender over and over again while writing in her diary." She became a respected journalist, loved books as much as I do. I pat my book in my backpack, looking forward to tonight when I can cuddle into my loft and get into one of Fitzgerald's glittering worlds. "She was different from me, Scotty. I tried to change the world through protest. Your mother wanted to build something completely different and much better." She sighed. "All my generation could do, I guess, was tear apart. It's going to take our children to put the pieces back together. Babette was a very careful person. Very purposeful."

If it drove my freewheeling grandmother crazy, she doesn't let on.

"I could try to describe how much she loved you, baby. But I don't think I could begin to do her devotion to you justice. I was so proud of her, for how much she loved and gave away. She was amazing."

So in May I found out she existed, the same day I found out she is dead, or most likely dead. And now I'm going into Graceland alone, truly an orphan. Who wants to be an orphan?

We disembark from the bus—me, Elvis Lite, some folks from a Spanish-speaking country, and a lot of older people. I miss Grammie and Grampie right now. More later on them, too. And you'll get to meet them. Like the waters of the Gulf Stream, we seem to travel in the same general direction. I spent a week with them this summer in Tennessee. Yeah, we did Nashville right. They're loaded.

Standing beneath the front porch, my gaze skates up and down the soaring white pillars and comes to rest on the stone lions that guard the steps. My father was a lion. That's why he ended up with a bullet in his chest. Speaking in very broad terms, the story goes as follows:

Dad, undercover, worked his way into a portion of the mob, or mafia if you prefer, that was heavily financing the campaign of a Maryland gubernatorial candidate. When they discovered him, they shot him on site, in a warehouse in the Canton neighborhood of downtown Baltimore. My mother watched, gasped, and a chase ensued. She hid in a friend's gallery, called Charley and told her to keep watching me. (Charley had kept me the night before because my mom and dad had some glamorous function to attend.) And then she disappeared.

The Graceland tour recorder tells me to look to my right into the beautiful white living room with peacock stained-glass windows leading into the music room. This room really isn't so bad, I've got to admit. A picture of Elvis's dad hangs on the wall. He really loved his parents.

I've toured this house at least seven times before, and I'll tell you this, Elvis's love for his family soaked into the walls. A girl that lives in a camper, has dead parents, and is being chased by someone from the mob who knows my grandmother knows what went down, well, she can feel these things.

Charley thinks someone's trying to kill us. This guy is always trying to find us, but Charley's really great at evasion. She said the politician who won the governor's seat all those years ago just announced his candidacy for president and—oh, GREAT!—he's probably trying to make sure nothing comes back to haunt him and sent Biker Guy to finish off the entire matter.

The thing is, he seems to be after me too. And what in the world would I have to do with all of that?

I'll bet Charley's back in that camper shaking in her shoes because I'm over here by myself; I'll bet she's figuring out more ways to be utterly and overly protective of me. I wouldn't be surprised if she's wondering whether locking a kid in an RV is child abuse.

But I love Charley. I really do. I know she's scared back there, and despite the fact that I would be no real help if Biker Guy caught us, I can't leave her there so frightened and alone for long.

Elvis dear, I can only stay a little while. So love me tender, love me sweet, and for the sake of all that's decent, don't step on my blue suede shoes.

I hurry past the bedroom of Elvis's parents, decorated in shades of ivory and purple, very nice, and through the dining room—a little seventies tackiness I'll admit—into the kitchen with dark brown cabinetry and the ghosts of a million grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches, then on down into the basement. Okay, I admit, I've got to just stand for a second in the TV room and admire the man's ability to watch three TVs at once on that huge yellow couch with the sparkly pillows.

I shoot through the billiard room, which is, honestly, truly beautiful with its fabric-lined walls and ceiling, up the back steps and into the Jungle Room, probably Graceland's most famous room. Green shag carpet overlays the floor and the ceiling, and heavily carved, Polynesian-style furniture is arranged around a rock-wall waterfall at the end of the room. It really defies the imagination, folks. Google Jungle Room Graceland and see what I mean.

The second floor of Graceland is closed off to the public because Elvis died up there. On the toilet. Wise decision on the part of Priscilla I'd say.

Out the door, into the office building, down to the trophy hall, I whiz through all the gold and platinum records, the costumes, the awards, and even a wall full of checks he'd written for charity. According to my recorder, Elvis was an active community member in Memphis. And he obviously didn't care what race or religion people were. He supported Jewish organizations, Catholic, Baptist. Pretty cool.

Of course, this recorder isn't going to tell of the dark side of the man. But Elvis Isn't, despite what the banners say. So why drag a dead man through the mud?

I hurry through the racquetball court, more gold records, the infamous jumpsuits, back outside to the pool and memorial garden where Elvis has been laid to rest.

An older lady cries into a handkerchief. I don't ask why.

Good-bye Elvis. Thanks for the tour. Maybe one day I'll do something great too.

A few minutes later . . .

Teen FIRST

It's April 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!


Ted Dekker and his book: Chosen

Read the first chapter here.