West of Mars

You guys know about me and my book club.

Well, one of the ladies in my club needs help. I’m coming up empty, so I thought I’d see what you guys have to say.

She is looking for a group of books written by a Jewish author, and dealing with Jewish themes — but they have to be age appropriate for a 13-year-old girl. Yep, this is going to be a Bat Mitzvah present.

I’m poring over Flashlight Worthy Books (for whom my own lists are long overdue. Eep!), and so far, all I’ve come up with is The Book Thief, Marcus Zusak’s hit novel.

What else would you suggest? They don’t have to be Holocaust-themed. In fact, the broader we can go, the better.

And… for my Thirteen this week, let’s see if we can make a list of 13 or more books!

I’ll update the list as you guys suggest and discuss in the comments. Thanks!

My friend Melisa suggested All-of-a-Kind Family, written by Sydney Taylor.

Laura from I’m Booking It suggested Chaim Potok, especially Zebra and Other Stories

Janet reminded me to think of the most obvious: The Diary of Anne Frank

Harriet says her daughter suggests some of the American Girl books. She suggested Lindsey, but there’s also Rebecca.

Jade at Brainripples suggested poet Tracy Koretsky. (Although Ms. Korestky herself isn’t so sure she’d be a good choice — read the comments!)

Susan Bearman dropped in with a ton of links. Ready?

The Skokie Public Library has a great-looking list. My own wishlist just grew when I looked this over!

Jane Yolen’s The Devil’s Arithmetic is another suggested read. My book club read this — and it’s also used in my local elementary school for the advanced readers who are pulled into a fifth-grade book club that’s led by one of our Gifted teachers. I know my friend’s aware of this one.

TK Welsh wrote The Unresolved (there’s no link at Powells.com. Thanks to Susan Bearman for the link!)

Avi is a very famous Jewish writer. I’ve got a copy of City of Light, City of Dark here, in fact.

Carol Matas specializes in Holocaust and WWII fiction for middle grades and young adults.

Julia suggested one of my all-time favorites, The River Midnight.

Now, THIS is cool. Tracy Koretsky (see above!) suggested a book, herself! It’s called Marcello in the Real World and was written by Francis Stork. I can’t find a link at Powells, so if you have any information…

And here’s a list from my friend Mari Blaser, whose blog I really need to add to the sidebar so I can find it to link to it properly… she was Tweeting for me and this is what she turned up:

Michele, @banana_the_poet : Mr Rosenblum Dreams in English/Mr Rosenblum’s List – by Natasha Solomons

Donna, @Donna_Carrick :every book by Sylvia Maultash Warsh, especially “Season Of Iron“. Not 100% sure ok for teen.

Lynette, @LynetteBenton: “Diary of Anne Frank” (note from me: link’s above)

Monica, @lil_monmon :”Number the Stars“, by Lois Lowry

J. Sterling @JSterlingS and @4evermore: “The Chosen“, by Chaim Potok.

Patricia recommended Geraldine Brooks’ People of the Book. I’ve read this one; it might be too adult. But then again, it might not be…

Alice Rene popped up over at GoodReads to suggest her own memoir, Becoming Alice.

**As a reminder, the book links take you to Powells.com, where I am an affiliate. Any pennies earned will be turned back to you guys in the form of books!

This negotiation shouldn’t have had to happen, Kerri thought, crossing her arms over her chest and giving the bodyguard her best sulky look. She was the client. He was supposed to be serving her, not dictating where she could and couldn’t ride her bike.

Hell, it wasn’t even a negotiation. Just a body guard laying down the law.

“No one wants you to turn up dead,” Gene said. He slumped in his chair and unbuttoned the cargo pocket on his pantleg, pulling out what looked like a random romance novel. Kerri knew better. There was nothing random about Gene’s romances.

Clearly, she realized as he curled the cover back and started reading, the conversation had ended. Somehow, she’d lost. No more riding her bike all over town, at least not without Gene. Maybe, she thought, Tony would hire someone new to be her bodyguard. Someone who rode bikes.

Gene was kind, almost doting, when he brought her to Fit Riverview and showed her how to set up a spin bike. He made a point of bringing over the instructor as soon as she walked in the room and introducing her to Kerri — who wasn’t surprised when Gene asked her to be low-key about who Kerri really was.

“Not a problem,” she said. She had a brusque way about her that made Kerri think she was annoyed by the request. Then again, this was Fit Riverview. Everyone who was anyone worked out here, including people with bigger names than Kerri Voss.

Hmm, Kerri thought as she stepped up onto the bike and tried to get comfortable. The handlebars were too far away, compared to her bike at home. No brakes, no gears. Just a knob.

At least pedaling was the same.

The class had a neat ebb and flow to it, Kerri thought as she followed along. Hands here, stand there, and pedal, pedal, pedal. The room was dark and the fans maybe sort of moved the quickly-heating air around.

Biking outside was more fun — until the instructor started playing air guitar. A few of the women near the front piped up and volunteered to be backup singers. As they pedaled away, they shimmied their upper bodies, did the hand motions to the old-time Motown song.

“And Gene?” the instructor asked. “Bodyguard duty?”

“You betcha!” he called over the noise of the rap or hip-hop or whatever was just starting. Kerri wasn’t sure she could make it to the end of this song without hurting someone. Gene was on top of her list.

He caught Kerri’s eye. He winked and mimicked an air guitar.

She shook her head, unable to stay angry with him. Everyone wanted to be a rock star — everyone but her and Gene.

They knew better. They were close enough to the real things to know what it was really like. So much more than air guitar and shimmying shoulders.

Kerri envied her classmates their freedom. She closed her eyes and pedaled some more, wishing she could pedal right out of the studio and onto the street.

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This was my first stab at Three Word Wednesday. And, of course, is part of the Weekend Writer’s Retreat. All these fun writing sites these days!

Welcome to all the cool folk looking for my mini-interview with David Grant, author of Rock Stars. It’s over at Rocks ‘n Reads, my book-oriented blog, so head on over and join the party!

I’ve had a week where it seems as if everything has inspired me somehow. Here’s a partial list:

1. Janet
2. the punching bag in the back seat of the car I parked next to
3. my pillow
4. Boot camp today
5. A bag of Goldfish crackers (wait. That inspired the cat. To eat them. Same for the spaghetti sauce. And popcorn.)
6. The NHL playoffs
7. Mary
8. My bicycle
9. This book I’m reading (Greg Mortenson’s Three Cups of Tea)
10. Opening my PO Box
11. Celtic Librarian
12. The couch in my family room
13. A cool spring evening spent on a soccer field

Ahh, to have the proper time to work this into fiction now…

I found this cool chick online: the LA Stylist Mom. I wish you’d all buy more copies of my books so I can afford to have her come fix my fashion issues, which are many (and which I mentioned during this guest blog post I wrote a little bit ago).

Check out these earrings! I don’t wear studs much because my second piercing is too close to the first, but man, I might take out my favorite pink ESP guitars for these babies.

And then there’s Martha Rotten. I drool. I covet. I wish I could have professional pictures taken and a free something from Martha so I could wear it in the pictures. I wish I could walk into my kids’ school with some of her jewelry on; the staff knows me too well to be scared by it. So do the kids. The parents, however, I think get their cheap thrills from being scared of me.

Ahhh…. on I dream. Of fashion. My tastes sure have changed since the days of prairie skirts, but hey. I’m cooler than prairie skirts now!

The watch. That’s what made it, Soriana knew. Her arm, bare, snaking up the wall. It could have been any other girl’s arm even though it lacked tattoos or cutting scars on her forearm. The lack would have made her stand out anyway, but it was that gold watch that pulled the eye.

It was one of those stupid watches parents gave their kids for high school graduation. The gold kind, with the solid strap that hooked shut and had a guard chain at the clasp. The kind that was thinner than Soriana’s little finger was wide, except for the face. It swelled out and back in, reminding her of her Mona’s pregnant belly.

She bit back a smile when he came over. “You’re barely old enough to know what you’re doing,” he said softly.

Soriana drew back, whipping her arm away from the wall. “What do you know? I’m older than you think I am!”

Pity crossed his brownish-green eyes, and he frowned. “I hear that every night. Trust me, honey. I know that unless I get you out of here, one of my friends might be arrested for statutory rape.”

Biting back panic, she felt her eyes dart back and forth but couldn’t see anything. She felt like she was standing inside her head, pressed up against the very back of her skull, looking out at the world. And at Eric, who seemed concerned but who was probably laughing at her, deep inside where she couldn’t see.

“I’m not that young!” she hissed, turning her head as she glanced around. A few other girls were looking at her, older girls, giving her death looks at attracting the guitarist.

He put a hand on her elbow and guided her out of the room and into the hallway. It was wide, it was sorta dark, and no one was around. It should have been creepy, but after the other girls in that room, there was something comforting about it.

“Now, look,” he said, but she pulled her arm away.

“You look!” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her ID. “I know I look young. But only a fool would forge a college ID. I really am as old as I say I am.”

Eric took the ID from her and turned aside slightly. Soriana let her eyes travel the line of his waist, so smooth where it appeared under the waist of his jeans, so flat under his t-shirt.

“I told you,” she said into the silence. She licked her lips and shifted her weight from foot to foot, shuffling slightly. She’d worn these shoes before, of course. But she’d never had to spend hours standing in them. She knew when she kicked them off, the floor would feel warped.

Eric handed her the ID back. “Then I owe you an apology,” he said, folding one hand along his waist and bowing slightly. He reminded Soriana of a knight — one in an olive green khaki t-shirt instead of shining armor. Or an English gentleman who only needed his tux to complete the look. Or…

“But a girl like you shouldn’t be hanging around them,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
Soriana was fixated on his forearm. Thick. Strong. If she was Mona, she’d be thinking about the hints that forearm gave off, the promises of what else would be thick and strong.

Mona would have asked who a girl like her should have been hanging around. Soriana couldn’t bring herself to ask the question. She bit her lip, then licked it, and smiled nervously. “Probably not,” she said.

Eric smiled and leaned against the wall, folding his arms behind his ass like his hands were a cushion. “Lucky for me I spotted you. You’re the exact type Trevor likes.”

“Type?” she echoed hollowly, her sudden spike of fear receeding as she let her eyes trace the ends of his hair, sitting jaggedly on his t-shirt.

“Good point,” Eric said. “He likes all you girls equally. He can’t resist a redhead, a blonde, a brunette — and the girls who look like they’re out of place.”

“Which was me,” Soriana said. She hugged herself. “I know. I promised my best friend…”

Eric nodded. Soriana had the feeling he’d heard that one before. In this case, it was as true as her age. Mona had bought the tickets, had figured she’d have had the baby early and would be able to go. Had wrangled the backstage pass even when she knew it would be Soriana going. And had issued the instructions about how to stand, hand on the wall, watch sticking out.

It had worked. Sort of. Except now, Soriana didn’t know what to do. Eric was right: she was out of her league. She never should have listened to Mona. Should have scalped the ticket and sold the backstage pass for a couple hundred bucks. Mona wouldn’t have taken the cash, but she’d have taken the diapers the cash would have bought. Formula for the baby, food for Mona.

Soriana wanted to kick herself. Mona needed money, not tales of Soriana making an idiot of herself backstage. She was in college, for crying out loud. She was smarter than Mona — if only because she knew how to use birth control — and she was going places. Places that were bigger, longer, and further away from here than Mona could even begin to dream.

Eric waved an arm and someone appeared, making Soriana wonder if they’d been less alone than she’d thought.

“Can you see my friend to her car?”

“I… took the bus.”

“Then wait with her until the bus comes,” Eric said to the guy. He wore black pants and a black shirt, with dark red embroidery that said Bank Arena. His muscles bulged down the length of his arms; his thighs filled out the black cargo pants that disappeared into his boots. Soriana had a feeling he’d been wearing a yellow security jacket just a few hours ago.

“Will do,” the guy said, and led Soriana out.

She didn’t look back. Mona would just have to deal.

**
Okay, so Eric’s here, but otherwise, this really has nothing to do with the band. That’s okay. It can’t be all ShapeShifter, all the time.

Go visit the fine folks at the Weekend Writer’s Retreat and at Sunday Scribblings for more non-ShapeShifter fiction. Unless someone’s writing fan fiction, which is fine by me.

Ahh, we’ve got to blame this one on Steven Beeber, author of The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB’s. It’s a really cool book tracing the history of Jews and the punk rock movement. Steven asked us to list our top 10 rock books, so I decided to do it here rather than there.

This is in no real order. And, of course, I can’t limit myself to ten. Hello? Me? The self-proclaimed expert on rock and roll fiction?

I don’t think so.

Anyway, here’s the list:

1. I’ll be crass and start this list off with my own books. Because I can. If you haven’t read them yet, shame on you for six weeks!

2. If you haven’t heard me rave about KL Going’s Fat Kid Rules the Earth, you haven’t spent a lot of time with me.

3. Don Bruns writes a great mystery series about a dude named Mick Severs. Don’t miss them.

4. Don DeLillo — Great Jones Street. I read this in college and it’s stayed with me all these years. It’s also the only DeLillo book I could finish.

5. Peggy Ehrhart — Sweet Man is Gone

6. Bill Flanagan — A&R

7. Kathi Kamen Goldmark — And My Shoes Keep Walking Back to You

8. Mark Childress — Tender

9. Sylvie Simmons — Too Weird for Ziggy

10. Michael Shilling — Rock Bottom

And of course there are a few honorable mentions, as well:

Roddy Doyle — The Commitments
Jeanette Clinkunbroomer — Life Without Music
Joe Meno — Hairstyles of the Damned
Cecil Castellucci — Beige
David Hiltbrand — Killer Solo

Got any of your own? I’ll link ‘em here and/or add them to my rock books page. And yes, YOU can include non-fiction. I won’t tell.

**reminder of the disclaimer garbage: most of these links will take you to Powells.com, where I’m an affiliate. If I ever make money from it, I’ll buy books to give to you guys, my readers. If not, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I love you anyway. And really, I’d rather have the royalties from you buying MY books, when all is said and done…

1. Blank
2. Void
3. Devoid
4. Absent
5. Empty
6. AWOL
7. On vacation
8. Truant
9. Missing
10. Incapacitated
11. Frozen
12. Stale
13. Abandoned

It’s been awhile since we had a visit from the Deadly Metal Hatchet guys, and even then, this barely qualifies. It’s a tale that came to me and asked to be told. So here it is.

“Foz-zee!” Mark said, standing up and leaning over the counter so it’d be easier for Fozzy to try to slap his hand. The guy didn’t need the beer he’d come in here to buy; he already walked with a lurch, thanks to that stupid-assed way his dad had laid down that bike. Mark thought it had been a waste of a good bike. And a damn stupid way to try to off yourself.

“Doooood,” Fozzy crowed back, stopping in front of the counter and making sure he was anchored before going off-balance for the hand slap. “How’s it hangin?”

Mark adjusted the waistband of his jeans. “Loose, man. Got some good air flow happening today.”
He nodded, trying to look like he had it all going on. Fozzy couldn’t deal if a guy started telling him how his girl had walked out the other night, how blue his balls were, or how sucky his pay at this pissant job.

He looked past Fozzy, who was nodding and looking for all the world like he was trying to figure out what to say next. She was there again. The little girl with the dirty brown hair and the too-small t-shirt and those long, skinny legs. She must’ve been about seven. And she was always alone.

“Hey, little girl,” he said, gesturing to her. He eyed the security screens he’d made Hans put in when the beer had been cleaned out the third time, right under their noses. He wasn’t supposed to leave the counter, no matter why. But it was just him, Fozzy, and the girl in the store.

He knew what the girl was up to. He didn’t know how she pulled it off, not with that tight t-shirt and those shorts that had once been knee-length. But she managed to walk out of the convenience store every few days with something pretty significant. A loaf of bread. Peanut butter. Paper towels.

She looked over her shoulder at Mark and Fozzy, her eyes wide, her mouth open a bit. Mark figured she’d grow up to be a looker. If she got a chance to grow up.

“Man, isn’t she a little young?” Fozzy asked, leaning close so he could speak softly.

Mark pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly. The little girl turned back to the shelf.
She was eyeing the Cheetos.

He had Cheetos in the lunch box he’d filled before his shift started. The only way to get through some of these shifts at this shitty job was to eat. Otherwise, you’d fall asleep, or do something dumb like take some funny money, or give someone change for a twenty when they handed you a five. Of course, they’d never fess up. They always got that same smile, like they had a secret, and they’d fold up the cash and slide it into a pocket, even when they still had their wallet in their hand.

“You hungry?” he asked the little girl.

She looked at him again, her big eyes bigger. She bit her lower lip and nodded slowly.

Fozzy shifted his weight and scuffed his feet. Then he started rubbing at his arms.

Mark understood. Hungry little kids weren’t supposed to happen. Not where they lived, even though where they lived wasn’t exactly Hollywood or some other place where the rich people flocked.
But here she was. A couple of times a week.

Fozzy took off for the cooler the beer was in. Mark hadn’t expected him to stay as long as he had.

“You can’t keep coming in here and taking food, you know. My boss makes me pay for it.”

She didn’t answer. She just kept staring, half-turned like a spring that was all wound up and waiting for the release, so she could shoot across the room.

Fozzy paused, the door to the cooler propped against his bad shoulder.

No one moved for the longest minute, then Fozzy closed the cooler. “For real?”

Mark nodded. “Anything comes up short on my watch, I have to pay for.”

“How do they know?”

He shrugged. “They do. Somehow.”

Fozzy looked at the little girl and then at Mark. He frowned.

Mark wanted to groan. This was probably part of her act. Make ‘em pity you and they’ll cough up the cash. She’d probably deliver it to her old man and he’d spend it on booze while she went hungry…

Fozzy left the store without his beer. The little girl followed. Mark let his eyes linger on the shelves.
Everything seemed to be there.

Except his self-respect.

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Be sure to stop by the Weekend Writer’s Retreat for other great fiction being posted online!

You guys miss the nut cases in my fictional band, ShapeShifter? Me, too.

Here’s some moments you might have missed. (and yes, I’m playing with words again. It’s what I do. Go figure.)

1. A Saturday Afternoon Trevorism

2. A Trevorism

3. A Scene I hated to cut

4. Another one I hated to cut.

5. And a third, but a paragraph this time.

6. Some of Trevor’s favorite foods

7. One of Trevor’s Favorite Comebacks

8. This Moment with Trevor was in response to a video in which I’d supposedly appeared.

9. You can meet and greet Trevor as part of the first life of Thursday Thirteen.

10. Another Thirteen list about our boy.

11. Trevor? Sappy? Valentine’s Day?

12. More Thirteen fun! Trevor’s favorite perks of being in ShapeShifter.

13. And a final thirteen, where Kermit Ladd makes his debut on the blog and the boys school him.

If you’re a link clicker, have fun looking around. Comments on all posts should still be open, so feel free to leave some! I live for comments — what blogger doesn’t?