Welcome to the book tour of YA author Estevan Vega. The new book titled Arson is a YA coming of age novel with threads of supernatural suspense. One of the characters you will get to know from the novel is Emery Phoenix. Whether you are a reader, parent, teacher, or writer Emery is here to grab at your heart and tell her story.
This Is Not a Freakin’ Diary
By Emery Phoenix, super-awesome, rocker chick from Estevan Vega’s ARSON and the upcoming ASHES
I freakin’ hate diaries, so don’t think this is gonna be all woe-is-me, where’s my guy, I’m still waiting for that full chest that bimbo’s seem to be born with, kind of thing. Because it’s not. I’m not your dear diary, Bridget Jones, blah-blah-blah scribe, okay? But if you promise not to stare at my mask, I’ll tell you a little bit about the girl who’s underneath it.
I was born in Massachusetts. At least, I think I was. The rents move us around so godawful much, it’s easy to lose track where you came from. Well, not the rents. Dad. He’s the Bible-toting, good news preacher who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, so he turned to Jesus and the bottle. I know, cliché, right? Whatever. Dad’s the reason we moved; Mom’s the reason I have sharp pains in my back. She’s the thorn in my side, and I don’t even think she means to be. But then again, she’s not all Betty Homemaker perfect. Far from it. Dad’s got his issues, but so does Mom.
I suppose you want to hear how they got married, the romance and the blind date, how they both practically had no other options, but we’re not going there. Okay, that last part was a tad cynical, but maybe I have my reasons. And maybe, just maybe, a bit of Arson is rubbing off on me. Oh my gosh, he’s so cool. So chill. So not like me. And totally unlike any other guy I’ve ever met. But more on him later. For now, you’re stuck with dear old Dad and fake smile Mom. Fast forward through all the murky crap of their early years, all the times Dad moved us because he switched churches, or because of my face. The reasons soon lost meaning. Truth was, I never really had much of a home. Guess I’m a little like Mom after all. Anyway, Mom’s a nurse. I guess she’s good at her job. Though she’s spending an awful lot of time with her boss, Carlos Pena. He’s one of those douchebag’s who sounds like Antonio Banderas or something. And I got bets that it’s a phony accent too. Seriously. No one looks that suave and talks that smoothly and just so happens to have an accent that pierces like that. I mean, c’mon, who writes this junk?
So back to the fast forward part. Sorry, I get a little ADD sometimes. After moving a bazillion times, we’re now stuck, right before my senior year kick-off, in East Hampton, Connecticut. The place is kind of boring, if you ask me. Not a lot to do except stare at a creepy lake. On the plus I got this alien neighbor. Sorry, Arson. Mom thinks he’s probably an alien, though. That’s because she doesn’t know a thing about him. She doesn’t know him like I do. Wait, come to think of it, I don’t really know him. But I am sure of one thing: I like him. At least, I think I like him. Aw, screw it, I friggin’ really, definitely like him. I wonder if he likes the same kind of rock music as I do. Call me a chicken, but I haven’t felt brave enough to tackle all the traditional relationship qualification questions just yet. The politics, religion, do-you-dig-hard rock music convo hasn’t exactly presented itself, so you can see my hesitation. I like the way his hair frowns down over his eyes, though, no questions necessary. I like his skinny arms. I like the way he always sort of shrugs, like he’s never really sure of things. A little like me. I hope he can get past my dysfunctional family. After all, I’m willing to look past his psycho grandmother. Well, maybe she’s not psycho. I mean, technically, I haven’t seen her go all Norman Bates on anybody, but who answers their front door in their birthday suit? That’s right. Butt-stinkin’ naked, saggy parts and all. A real looker. I think I’m still having nightmares.
Crap, it’s getting late. You’re probably sick of me droning on and on about my crummy life. Pretty boring, huh? Well, forgive me, we don’t all live on Gossip Girl. Screw it. Half those sluts should be wearing my mask anyway, and that’s not an overstatement. I mean, most chicks in society hide behind thick gobs of makeup. I feel more normal in a mask. Forget I said anything. I usually don’t get this personal or this hostile, but it’s almost 2 a.m. If you get a chance, check out ARSON, not the kid, the book. Geez, he doesn’t need another stalker. I mean, crap, that’s not what I meant. I’m not a stalker. I just kinda like him, that’s all. I hope like crap he likes me back. Whatever, go check out the book. I hear I’m in it.
Visit http://www.estevanvega.com/ for more on the book and the author. I think teens will grab this and run, whatever it takes to keep teens and YA readers reading. And Emery may just be the ticket.