YA Who Enter Here…
Since JA’s is closed until the all the body parts are found, I find myself scuffing rubber along the boulevard looking for a fresh watering hole. A block or two north, I find Dana, dainty feet propped up on a weathered table, on the patio of YA-YA’s.
YA-YA’s is where the young adult crowd hangs out, sip non-alcoholic drinks and shows off footwear combos. I notice Lemony Snicket wearing two different shades of Crocs™ and an ascot dyed in primary hues. For some reason this is considered cool. I am long past wondering why this sort of thing becomes trendy. I stopped asking after Ponchos and Farah Fawcett were considered hip. These days ‘being hip’ means my butt has it’s own zip code.
Rowling force-feeds pasta to a restrained supermodel in the back, as Judy Blume sits at the bar, smoothing down the faded feathers in her hair. In a corner, Kenneth Oppel and Eoin Colfer play chess over hot chocolates. The ‘bar’ hums with hushed discussion, like bees around pop cans
The buzz is all centered around KaavyaGate. The Outrage. The Plagiarism. The Ivy League Backlash. The Packager. The Marketing Machine. The Confusion. The Scandal. The Conspiracy. The Re-write. The Lost Movie Deal and Two Book Deal.
Collect them all!
It’s astonishes me that this girl’s parents felt compelled to hire someone to the tune of ten of thousands so their daughter’ resume included an insane-money book/movie deal so she would be chosen go to Harvard and learn how to balance expenses and income columns.
“Why a half-mil advance to a 17 year old girl not legally considered an adult, for a book not fully written?’ Dana squeezes a fresh lime into her diet cola.
“I can understand the why’s.” Actually, I can’t, but add stupid money to any equation and it’ll cancel out logic. A thin waiter with a pencil-thin goatee brings me a double Shirley Temple with a Scream. “With that sort of coin at stake, it’s the ‘How’s’ that intrigue me.”
Dana waves to M.G., her face a seething montage of conflicting emotions.
“The Harvard types do have a knack for getting published, though,” I comment. “Kaavya and Harvey Mansfield being two of their poorer results.
M.G. limps in, brushes a few scorpions from her blouse and dumps herself into a bright yellow Muskoka chair. “I hate spring cleaning,” she hisses and orders a small bucket of bourbon.
The waiter’s nostrils flare in indignation. “Madam, this is YA-YA’s. We do not stock bourbon or any other fermented beverages. We cater to the writer’s of the young adult market, who are not permitted to cuss, criticize society’s taste in body image, engage in sexual relations – even if married – and most certainly do NOT drink alcohol in public.”
“Look, Fauntleroy,” M.G. dangles a writhing scorpion from her fingertips. “Get me a bucket of bourbon pronto or I’ll stuff this down your trousers so he’ll see to it you’ll have to dress on the left for the rest of your life.”
“A $500,000 advance.” Dana shakes her head as the waiter, whimpering, scuttles away. “Make’s ya sick doesn’t it?”
I savor the bubbly ginger on my dry tongue and sigh. “Only if it’s not for Louis Sancher.”