Dirty Girls on Top by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez

Author:Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez [Valdes-Rodriguez, Alisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-312-34967-7
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Published: 2008-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

cuicatl

I SHOULD KNOW better than to read the colorful non-news of USA Today, but it’s what has been delivered to my doorstep at the hotel, and I take it. There, on the front of the Lifestyle section, is a piece about my miserable concert ticket sales and declining album sales. The article says, as if it were fact, that my waning popularity “is possibly evidence of a shift in mainstream sensibilities, away from the exotic and Hispanic, and back toward the tried and true American.”

“Fuck you!” I shout at the paper. “Could it be that my new music is just too fucking weird for the public? Could that be it? Could you treat me like any other person with a pulse? Why do you have to make me your fucking spokesperson for the entire Latino world? ¡Chinga tu madre, cobarde!”

Across the room, Frank watches me. He slept in my room last night, on the sofa, to keep me company. He thought I might have a breakdown of some kind, and so he made popcorn and we watched a Ben Stiller comedy that I liked until they had Mayan stereotypes in it. He held me a little during the movie, just a friendly kind of fatherly hug. I wanted more. But I held back. It didn’t seem like the time to bring it up. I have to deal with my own shit before I can pull him into it with me. It’s only fair.

Frank doesn’t say a word now, as the tears flow from my eyes. He walks over to me in his jeans and T-shirt, rumpled and sleepy, and takes the paper from my shaking hands. He throws it in the trash after looking at it.

“They are wrong,” he says. “You have to know that.”

At that moment, his cell phone chimes with a Los Lobos song. He answers it, gives me a concerned look, and takes the call outside. I use the chance to change from my shorts and tank top into jeans and a T-shirt, too. We’re flying to Las Vegas today, for my show tonight.

Frank returns with a grim look on his face. He asks me if I’m packed. I am. “Then let’s go,” he says. “The car’s waiting to take us to the airport.”

When we get to the airport, Frank directs the driver to the international terminal. “Homes,” I say, “last I checked, Vegas was in the United States.” USA Today might not agree, given that the city has a Spanish name.

“We’re not going to Las Vegas,” he says as he opens the door to get out. I follow him into the sun.

“What do you mean we’re not going to Las Vegas? I have a show there tonight.”

Frank hoists my bag over his shoulder and gives me a sad look. “No, Cuicatl. You don’t. They called this morning to say it was canceled.”

“What? Why?” I feel like I’m going to fall over. This is too much. Too much for one day. This can’t be happening.

“They didn’t sell

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