Honey Blonde Chica by Michele Serros

From the Publisher

Evie Gomez is one chill chica.

She and her best friend, Raquel, hang with the Flojos, a kick-back crew named for their designer flip-flops. And their habit of doing absolutely nothing.

But the return of long-lost amiga mejor Dee Dee wrecks Evie and Raquel's Flojo flow. A few years in Mexico City have transformed their shy, skinny, brunette Dee Dee into a Sangro nightmare. Dee Dee has reinvented herself as "Dela," complete with tight designer threads, freaky blue contacts, and that signature blond hair.

When Raquel wants precisely nada to do with the new Dela, Evie finds herself caught between two very different friends. At heart, is Evie a Cali-casual Flojo chick, or a sexy Sangro diva?

How's a chica to choose?

Children's Literature

Evie Gomez is the black sheep in her wealthy Hispanic family. Unlike her parents and older sister, whose ambitions put the "Go in Gomez," Evie prefers to be laid-back, to do as little as possible. This does not make for an inspiring heroine. She shares this lack of ambition with a group of four other well-to-do Hispanics, including best friend Raquel and resident nice guy Alex. Evie's uneventful life turns upside-down when her old best friend suddenly returns after four years. Dela, formerly known as DeeDee, has returned with not only a new name, but a new hair color, eye color, wardrobe, figure, and step mom. Dela and Raquel immediately despise and insult each other, and poor Evie is stuck in the middle. Forced to choose sides, Evie ends up following Dela, leaving her usual friends (and her usual self) behind. When she whines to Alex (the only intelligent character in the story), "I don't know who my friends are anymore," he replies "Maybe they don't know who you are." The frequent sprinkling of Spanish phrases (most of which are neither translated nor understandable) does not disguise the derivative, predictable nature of this book. Evie is self-absorbed (as Alex points out near the story's end) and shallow, and the fact that she is torn between two equally unappealing characters generates neither sympathy nor interest. Frequent and unnecessary profanity as well as lewd references only serve to provide more reasons not to buy this unflattering portrait of today's Hispanic youth.

Angela Semifero - VOYA

Evie Gomez, California suburban Flojo slacker extraordinaire, is not known for her impulse control. Her life mainly consists of partying with her best friend, Raquel, spending her father's hard-earned money, and aspiring to be a surfer-although, of course, never actually getting on a board. She avoids work like she avoids the superficial, giggling, fake-blonde Mexican city girls, the Sangros. When her childhood best friend, Dee Dee, moves back into town sporting the Sangro look and attitude, Evie finds herself drawn into Dee Dee's world, changing her look, her hobbies, even her name to fit in. Soon Evie is losing her old friends, including her crush, Alex, and she wants them back. When she learns that Raquel's boyfriend is cheating on her, she knows she must take action to help her friend, but how could Raquel possibly believe a Sangro girl? This novel is a quick, enjoyable read by the producers of the Gossip Girl and A-List books. Teens will relate to being torn between social groups, Evie's indecision, her insecurities, and her sarcastic, direct manner. Serros creates a nice balance between a popular teen angst romance story and witty commentary on the dynamics of a Mexican American family and social strata. At times the story seems predictable, the villainous characters obvious, and the characterization inconsistent. The sprinkling of obscenities sometimes feels glaring within the text's language but overall does not distract from the story. This book is recommended for public libraries with large popular fiction collections. VOYA CODES: 3Q 4P J S (Readable without serious defects; Broad general YA appeal; Junior High, defined as grades 7 to 9; Senior High, defined as grades 10 to12). 2006, Simon Pulse/S & S, 304p., Ages 12 to 18.

School Library Journal

Gr 8 Up-California sophomore Evie Gomez has benefited from all the accoutrements of upper-class life, including a maid, private school, successful parents, and every whim fulfilled-even a surfboard she has yet to dip into salt water. Her friends call themselves "the Flojos" for the flip-flops that are their trademark, some of which cost more than 100 dollars. The hip language, omnipresence of drugs and alcohol, plus the cars, games, and freedom of these teens combine with Latina cultural icons and Spanglish galore. Not that Evie really speaks Spanish, as she often has to get help from Dee Dee, who recently has returned from a number of years in Mexico City. The plot centers around Evie's identity crisis as she moves from her initial chopped blue hair to the honey blonde she adopts when hanging out with "the Sangros," a slightly wilder clique. This chick-lit title with a Latina flair manages to capture the confusion of these privileged yet vulnerable teens, and it also provides a balance to the white-bread world often pictured in this genre.-Carol A. Edwards, Douglas County Libraries, Castle Rock, CO Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Serros offers a glimpse into the lives of the Hispanic elite in this story featuring privileged Mexican teenagers behaving badly in coastal California. Evie is a fairly inexperienced young woman, despite the prevalence of drinking parties and hookups, and the generally disrespectful attitude toward adults among her peers. She finds herself torn between two friends: Raquel, her best friend, and Dee Dee, a childhood pal who moves back to the neighborhood after living in Mexico for a few years. In a search for her own identity, Evie questions whether she should remain loyal to her laid-back surfer friends, the Flojos, or join up with a group of Sangro girls who know how to have fun. Although Evie eventually manages a balance between the two, it's unfortunate that a third option-being her own person-wasn't seriously considered. The thin plot and shallow, label-conscious characters won't appeal to those looking for a story with more depth; but, nevertheless, this work will find an audience among Latina girls and fans of Gossip Girl-like romps. (Fiction. YA)

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1

Evie Gomez woke up on Saturday morning with two things on her mind. The first was that her best friend, Raquel Diaz, was definitely no longer just that, a best friend. Raquel had proven herself to be, as of 10:32 a.m. that late September morning, a 100 percent pinche beyachee. And why? Because after two weeks of no phone, no friends, basically no life, Evie wasn't under her mother's house arrest anymore for coming home a piddly-ass twenty (okay, maybe it was forty) minutes past her curfew. Her ankle bracelet had been officially clipped off, but did her girl Raquel bother to call so they could celebrate Evie's first night of freedom? No. Raquel hadn't even had the decency to return any of Evie's phone calls, text messages, or the desperate IMs Evie had sent to SexyMexy08. Raquel was no Sexy Mexy, Evie decided, but she was definitely a bitch.

The second thing Evie realized was how light her head felt. She ran her hand from the back of her neck and, yup, her long, dark brown hair was much shorter. All of it. She pushed up from her pillows and got a look at herself in her closet mirrors — her hair was now short, chopped in haphazard fashion with streaks of uneven blue. Cancún Blue No. 32 to be exact. But it should have been called Abuelita Azulita because it had come out the same exact blue tint you see on, well, abuelitas.

What had she done? She yanked down at the sides but they barely reached her shoulders. Who the hell cuts their own hair? Is this what happened to prisoners in solitary confinement? After being isolated from their peers for too long, did they eventually go mad and commit self-inflicted acts of hair assault with Ginghar craftscissors too? Evie looked hideous and she had no one to blame but...yes, Raquel. It was her fault that Evie had gotten grounded in the first place. Raquel had insisted they go to Tracy Tankerson's party two weeks ago. It was the first party on the first Friday of the new school year and Raquel promised she'd have Evie home by her curfew. But, as Evie should have known, by the time it was time to leave, Raquel was just getting her drink on. There was no way she was gonna get Evie home by her curfew, and she didn't.

Evie glowered at the sight of her reflection. Why, why hadn't Raquel just called her back last night? As a best friend, she owed it to her. When nine o'clock rolled around, it had become painfully obvious to Evie that she was going to spend another long night at home alone. And after clicking from one reality makeover show to the next, she realized it was she, not another midwestern housewife, who needed a change. She wanted something that demanded attention, respect. She wanted...hair the color of the Cancún ocean! And that's how The Reinvention of Evie Gomez, Mex-treme Makeover, Friday Night Home Edition came to be.

But as of now, Saturday morning, it was sadly evident that she had truly lost her senses the night before. Her rookie dye job screamed beauty-school flunk-out. The bleach she'd used to strip her brown wasn't dispersed as evenly as it should have been and now her head looked like a patchwork of beige, white, and blue, the national colors of...whatever country's flag was beige, white, and blue. She looked like crap.

"What do you think, Meho?" She toed her male tabby, nestled at the foot of her bed. "Punk rock, or goth-metal dork?" But Meho couldn't care less about her state of blue disrepair. He lifted up his hind leg and started to lick behind it.

"Cla-see," Evie smirked as she gave him a slight tap with the rest of her foot.

She heard Lindsay, the Gomez's housekeeper, turn up the volume of El Mercadito on the kitchen radio downstairs. Other than that, the house was quiet. She was sure her father, Ruben Gomez, had left hours ago for one of his several panadenas and her mother, Vicki, was probably in the pool doing her obligatory fifty laps.

Evie pulled her Dean Miller sheets up to her chin and looked blankly up at the ceiling. From her sister, Sabrina, who took eighteen credits a semester while maintaining presidency of the most prestigious Latina sorority at Stanford University to big ol' dopey Molesto (given name: Ernesto) — the Gomez's black Labrador, who demanded his pre-poop walk around the perimeter of the block every morning at 6 a.m. — the Gomezes were a very focused, ambitious family. They accentuated the Go in Gomez, all of them, that is except for Evie, who felt more of a personal connection to the lagging z as in Gomezzzzzzzz.... She yawned, lifted her Roxy T, and scratched her belly. It was now 10:45 a.m. Yeah, she could sleep a little bit more and deal with las dilemas later.

Just then the buddy alert on her computer dinged, signaling to Evie that one of her online buddies was available to chat. Raquel?...Finally.

Evie pushed off her blankets and went over to her desk. But it wasn't Raquel. It was Shaggy, who had already instant-messaged her.

ShaggyMA (10:46 AM): Hey, U up?

RioChica (10:46 AM): Yup. U just wake up, too?

ShaggyMA (10:47 AM): No. Just got in from surfing. Did Dawn Patrol this morning. Crazy. Surfer magazine was there and took photos of us.

Evie felt jealous. Did everyone have a more exciting life than she did? During her period of home internment, she had met Shaggy via a chat room for MASA. No, not masa, as in dough, but MASA as in the Mexican-American Surfing Association. Evie hadn't even known such a thing existed, but ever since she'd caught Blue Crush on cable with Raquel over the summer, she had become a mad active surfer. On the Internet, that is. Raquel wasn't so hot on independent study after seeing the film, so Evie researched all things surf on her own. How could she live in California and not surf? All those years as a kid at the beach and not once ride a wave? As a fourth-generation Cali girl she at least looked the part, from her sixty-dollar Hollister Ts to her Roxy hibiscus-print board shorts. Evie had even gone so far as to buy a surfboard, a white nine-foot, five-fin custom long board, especially shaped for her by the one and only Max of Santa Barbara. But truth was, Evie had yet to even get the pricey stick wet and, to be dreadfully direct, she could barely even manage a boogie board in waist-high white water. Qu - scandalous, no?

RioChica (10:50 AM): What do you think of the color blue?

ShaggyMA (10:50 AM): One of my sticks is blue.

RioChica (10:51 AM): Cool enough.

ShaggyMA (10:51 AM): Hey, gotta go.

RioChica (10:51 AM): Sure, TTYL!

Sigh. Evie was alone, and bored, again.

Suddenly the latest Moz (Given name: Steven Patrick Morrissey) download, blared from her cell phone. Evie got up from her desk and grabbed the phone off her nightstand. She saw Raquel's face on the screen, her long hair pulled over in front of her shoulders and her chin drawn down. Ugh. Evie reluctantly flipped open her phone.

"Hello?"

"Heeey," drawled Raquel's gravelly voice. Apparently Raquel had gone out the night before. Without Evie. WTF?

"Oh, hey," Evie said trying to sound just as casual.

"So...," Raquel started. Evie could sense a smile on the other end. "You got your phone back."

"Uh, yeah," Evie said. "I actually got it back yesterday, as of five p.m."

"Oh, yeah." Raquel paused. "That's right."

"So what happened?" Evie asked. "You said we were gonna do something, go out. I left you like a gazillion messages."

"Yeah." Raquel let out a moose-sized yawn. "Sorry about that. I completely spaced. My parents went out and then Jose came over with a six-pack. We ended up kicking it, watching Fuel all night. Boring." The moose yawned again.

"Oh." Evie tried to sound calm, but she was burning up inside. "That's cool. Did Alex or Mondo go out?"

"Nah," Raquel said. "Nobody did nothing."

Evie relaxed. At least she hadn't missed anything, but that didn't really surprise her. The five Flojos — herself, Alex, Mondo, Raquel, and her boy, Jose — shared one thing in common, and that one thing was the absolute, all-consuming, unending desire to...do absolutely nothing. Was it the clich - teenage rebellion against their workaholic fathers? Too many spins (and lyric interpretations) of Cypress Hill on Mondo's Technics turntable? Wherever they were, be it poolside or oceanside, and whatever you called it, trifling or chilling, the Flojos did nada together. Never mind Generation Y. The Flojos were in a generation of their own — Generation YBother?

Coincidentally, flojo (correct Spanish pronunciation: flow-ho) means "lazy" in English, but it's also what you call flip-flops (correct South Cali pronunciation: flow-joe) and as everybody knows, flip-flops are a pretty lazy excuse for a shoe. But the Flojos were hard-core when it came to their flip-flops and wore them 24/7/365. From high-end Havaianas ($118) to low-end plastic bin specials from Savon (true flojos, Alex claimed), nothing came between Flojos and their flojos.

But it wasn't just attitude or a common footwear philosophy that had brought the Flojos together. Evie and Raquel had been friends since growing up in Rio Estates and last year when they were freshmen, Raquel hooked up with Jose. He was a tall, lanky sophomore with the Mars Volta 'fro and black titanium chin labret piercing that gave him a devious look. Raquel fell for it hard. Once they started dating, his sidekicks, Mondo (he who had a "delivery job") and Alex (he who actually did some surfing), came automatically included in the package. Of course, it was pure prestige points for Evie and Raquel to hang with upperclassmen. Besides, few students at Villanueva Preparatory High School were like them — rich kids whose family crests — that is, if they had crests — contained the letters x, y, or z (read: Latino).

Evie's family had a crest, sorta. If you counted the small, peach-tinted seashell logo for her father's successful business, Conchita's Bread. Years ago her father started Conchita's and thanks to his hard work (along with Evie's great-grandma Conchita's secret pan dulce recipes), the Gomezes had arrived where they were now: a big ol' Spanish-style house with a swimming pool in the back and her father's Escalade in the front. Not quite ransom-worthy rich, but the Gomezes, like a lot of the families in Rio Estates, were pretty well off.

"So," Evie continued. She took a deep breath. "I chopped off my hair."

"What?" Raquel said.

"My hair," Evie repeated. "It's gone."

"What do you mean?"

"I hacked it off. And..." Evie paused for dramatic flair. "I dyed it blue, sorta." Evie felt proud and a bit smug. She liked the idea that she'd done something so radical, on her own, and without consulting Raquel. It was so un-Evie of her.

"Yeah." Raquel yawned. "I dyed my hair blue one time."

"Really?" It was so Raquel of Raquel to try to outdo Evie. And Evie wasn't sure she was buying it. "When?"

"One time when I was up in the Bay Area, like two summers ago. It totally clashed with my complexion. Brownies can't be sporting blue. I changed it back the next day."

"You never told me that," Evie said, still suspicious.

"'Cause it was really no big deal."

Evie felt herself getting annoyed. "So," she said, changing the subject. "What's the plan for tonight?"

"Um." Raquel yawned again. "Jose heard about some party out near Bard. You in?"

"Definitely," Evie said. Actually, she had hoped they would drive down to L.A., do something covert, crazy. Rio Estates was just sixty miles north of Los, but it was still suburbia and, of course, painfully uneventful. Even though she was a Flojo, Evie had always felt the slight tug of wanting something more, wanting to do something outside of the 805.

But Raquel did say that the night's party was "out near Bard," so that could mean anything.

"As long as I'm home by twelve thirty," Evie reminded Raquel. "I mean, not even twelve thirty-two in the driveway. My mom will freak if I'm late again."

"Yeah, and we don't wanna freak out ol' Vicki," Raquel said in a tone meant to show she was so over mothers and curfews. "She must have crapped bricks when she saw your hair, huh?"

"Not really," Evie lied. "Like you said, it's really no big deal."

But Evie was starting to worry. What would her mother say about her hair? Vicki Gomez was known for possessing the legendary Gomez fury, unleashed when something didn't go her way.

Just then, someone knocked on Evie's bedroom door. She sank into her bed and quickly pulled the sheet over her head. Well, at least she wouldn't have to wait any longer — she was about to find out how her mother felt about having a Smurf for a daughter.

"Evelina?"

Whew. It was only Lindsay. "Are you awake?" she asked from the hallway.

"Sí, sí, Lindsay," Evie called out, making sure to keep her head covered. "Come in." She told Raquel she had to hang up.

"Oh, hey," Raquel started. "One last thing."

"Yeah?" Evie asked.

"Did you dye your pubes, too? 'Cause if you'd done your shrub, now, that woulda been real crazy ass."

"Good-bye, Raquel." Evie rolled her eyes and flipped her cell phone shut before tossing it onto the floor. Yup. No doubt about it. Raquel was definitely a bitch.

* * *

"Oh," Lindsay said as she came into Evie's room and saw her in bed. "You're still sleeping."

"No, I'm awake," Evie answered, peeking out from under the covers. "I'm just laying here."

Lindsay looked around Evie's room and sighed. "Ay, Evelina. This is not good. Let me clean in here today. It would make your mother so happy."

"Lindsay, I really don't care what makes my mother happy. So," Evie changed the subject. "Did you buy anything off of El Mercadito?"

"NAy, no!" Lindsay took a seat at the edge of Evie's bed. "There was a foot, ¿cómo se llama?" Her wrinkled hands made a rubbing motion across her Aerosole slip-ons. "A massager? But the lady wanted too much for it. No way." She turned around and looked above Evie's bed. "Why is all that scribble around that boy?"

Lindsay was referring to Paul Rodriguez, Jr. Evie had Sharpied elaborate red hearts on a poster of him skateboarding. So, he didn't surf, as far as she knew, but he did skateboard, which was close enough, and he did have a z in his name. Oh, come on, who was she kidding? P. Rod was FAF. She crushed him hard.

"Oh, that's — ," Evie started to explain as she turned to look up at the poster. But when she did, her sheet slipped down, exposing her head.

"NAy!" Lindsay stood up. "Evelina, what did you do? Your hair!" She nervously fondled her gold chain necklace as though it was a rosary, protecting her from all decisions evil.

"Oh, I cut it." Evie nervously tugged at the sides, but it was no use. They remained short and stringy.

"Yes, I see that." Lindsay's face remained shocked. "But the colors. It's...does your mother know?"

"Well." Evie tousled her hair nervously. "She's always going on about money. So she should be happy that I saved her a hundred bucks by doing my own hair."

Lindsay's eyes widened. "You pay a hundred dollars to have your hair done?"

Evie immediately felt embarrassed and tried to explain. "It's not just for a cut. I mean, I get it washed, and they give it a blow-dry and style. Plus I sometimes get a one-on-one consultation, a lot of times with Viggo — he's the salon owner." But the more she said, the more Evie knew how shamelessly VH1 Diva it all sounded.

"Ay, Dios." Lindsay shook her head. "I just can't imagine what your mother will think."

"Think about what?" Vicki Gomez asked as she entered Evie's bedroom. Just out of the pool, Evie's mother looked effortlessly stylish in her magenta one-piece with a plush beige towel wrapped around her wet hair. There was no time to duck and cover.

"Oh, my God!" Evie's mother clasped her hand over her mouth. "Evie! What the hell did you do to your hair? You've got to be out of your mind! Did you forget that school photos are next week? Do you expect your father and me to fork over two hundred dollars to document this?" She towered over Evie and picked over her hair, like a grade-school nurse searching for head lice.

Evie looked shamefully over at Lindsay. Yes, Lindsay, we also drop a few hundred for some measly school photos. Oh, but that does include wallet size!

"What the hell were you thinking?" Evie's mother was furious. "I have a good mind to ground you for a month for this stunt!"

"What?" Evie pulled away from her mother. "Why? Just because I wanted to do something different to my hair?"

"No, because you don't think. That's the problem, Evie. You don't think about how your actions affect other people." She looked at Evie's bed and pulled the pillow out from under her. "Great. You stained the pillow, too. Did you even think to rinse out your hair or put down a towel?" Vicki Gomez looked around.

"Oh God...look at this."

Evie looked beside her bed. Sure enough, a trail of small blue blotches stretched across the cream-colored carpet from her bathroom to her pillow. She hadn't noticed them before. There was even dye on the precious Dean Miller plastic-grass bed skirt she had begged her mother to buy her for her last birthday.

"Don't worry, Señora Vicki," Lindsay said, wiping the spots on the sheet as if they would magically go away. "I can get the stains out."

"Your father is going to be pissed!" Evie's mother continued to rant. "Do not make any plans this evening until he gets home and we can discuss this."

"You mean tonight?" Evie was horrified.

"Yes, tonight." Her mother knelt down and rubbed the stained carpet with her fingers.

"But Dad usually stays late on Saturdays and I told you I was going out with — "

"You'll just have to wait." Vicki Gomez stood up and handed Lindsay the pillow. After telling her in Spanish to work on it immediately, she stalked out of Evie's room. Lindsay followed silently.

No. There was no way that Evie planned to endure another night in the maximum security Gomez Penitentiary. She leaned over her bed, grabbed her cell, and speed-dialed her father.

He'll listen, she thought. Her father was a reasonable man, definitely much more reasonable than her mother. Evie knew she wouldn't survive another night of lockdown. I'll go crazy, and who knows what I'll do? she thought. Maybe I really will dye my pubes blue.

Copyright © 2006 by Alloy Entertainment and Michele Serros

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Honey Blonde Chica

Simon Pulse

Evie Gomez woke up on Saturday morning with two things on her mind. The first was that her best friend, Raquel Diaz, was definitely no longer just that, a best friend. Raquel had proven herself to be, as of 10:32 a.m. that late September morning, a 100 percent pinche beyachee. And why? Because after two weeks of no phone, no friends, basically no life, Evie wasn't under her mother's house arrest anymore for coming home a piddly-ass twenty (okay, maybe it was forty) minutes past her curfew. Her ankle bracelet had been officially clipped off, but did her girl Raquel bother to call so they could celebrate Evie's first night of freedom? No. Raquel hadn't even had the decency to return any of Evie's phone calls, text messages, or the desperate IMs Evie had sent to SexyMexy08. Raquel was no Sexy Mexy, Evie decided, but she was definitely a bitch.

The second thing Evie realized was how light her head felt. She ran her hand from the back of her neck and, yup, her long, dark brown hair was much shorter. All of it. She pushed up from her pillows and got a look at herself in her closet mirrors -- her hair was now short, chopped in haphazard fashion with streaks of uneven blue. Cancún Blue No. 32 to be exact. But it should have been calledAbuelita Azulita because it had come out the same exact blue tint you see on, well, abuelitas.

What had she done? She yanked down at the sides but they barely reached her shoulders. Who the hell cuts their own hair? Is this what happened to prisoners in solitary confinement? After being isolated from their peers for too long, did they eventually go mad and commit self-inflicted acts of hair assault with Ginghar craft scissors too? Evie looked hideous and she had no one to blame but...yes, Raquel. It was her fault that Evie had gotten grounded in the first place. Raquel had insisted they go to Tracy Tankerson's party two weeks ago. It was the first party on the first Friday of the new school year and Raquel promised she'd have Evie home by her curfew. But, as Evie should have known, by the time it was time to leave, Raquel was just getting her drink on. There was no way she was gonna get Evie home by her curfew, and she didn't.

Evie glowered at the sight of her reflection. Why, why hadn't Raquel just called her back last night? As a best friend, she owed it to her. When nine o'clock rolled around, it had become painfully obvious to Evie that she was going to spend another long night at home alone. And after clicking from one reality makeover show to the next, she realized it was she, not another midwestern housewife, who needed a change. She wanted something that demanded attention, respect. She wanted...hair the color of the Cancún ocean! And that's how The Reinvention of Evie Gomez, Mex-treme Makeover, Friday Night Home Edition came to be.

But as of now, Saturday morning, it was sadly evident that she had truly lost her senses the night before. Her rookie dye job screamed beauty-school flunk-out. The bleach she'd used to strip her brown wasn't dispersed as evenly as it should have been and now her head looked like a patchwork of beige, white, and blue, the national colors of...whatever country's flag was beige, white, and blue. She looked like crap.

"What do you think, Meho?" She toed her male tabby, nestled at the foot of her bed. "Punk rock, or goth-metal dork?" But Meho couldn't care less about her state of blue disrepair. He lifted up his hind leg and started to lick behind it.

"Cla-see," Evie smirked as she gave him a slight tap with the rest of her foot.

She heard Lindsay, the Gomez's housekeeper, turn up the volume of El Mercadito on the kitchen radio downstairs. Other than that, the house was quiet. She was sure her father, Ruben Gomez, had left hours ago for one of his several panadenas and her mother, Vicki, was probably in the pool doing her obligatory fifty laps.

Evie pulled her Dean Miller sheets up to her chin and looked blankly up at the ceiling. From her sister, Sabrina, who took eighteen credits a semester while maintaining presidency of the most prestigious Latina sorority at Stanford University to big ol' dopey Molesto (given name: Ernesto) -- the Gomez's black Labrador, who demanded his pre-poop walk around the perimeter of the block every morning at 6 a.m. -- the Gomezes were a very focused, ambitious family. They accentuated the Go in Gomez, all of them, that is except for Evie, who felt more of a personal connection to the lagging z as in Gomezzzzzzzz.... She yawned, lifted her Roxy T, and scratched her belly. It was now 10:45 a.m. Yeah, she could sleep a little bit more and deal with las dilemas later.

Just then the buddy alert on her computer dinged, signaling to Evie that one of her online buddies was available to chat. Raquel?...Finally.

Evie pushed off her blankets and went over to her desk. But it wasn't Raquel. It was Shaggy, who had already instant-messaged her.

ShaggyMA (10:46 AM): Hey, U up?

RioChica (10:46 AM): Yup. U just wake up, too?

ShaggyMA (10:47 AM): No. Just got in from surfing. Did Dawn Patrol this morning. Crazy. Surfer magazine was there and took photos of us.

Evie felt jealous. Did everyone have a more exciting life than she did? During her period of home internment, she had met Shaggy via a chat room for MASA. No, not masa, as in dough, but MASA as in the Mexican-American Surfing Association. Evie hadn't even known such a thing existed, but ever since she'd caught Blue Crush on cable with Raquel over the summer, she had become a mad active surfer. On the Internet, that is. Raquel wasn't so hot on independent study after seeing the film, so Evie researched all things surf on her own. How could she live in California and not surf? All those years as a kid at the beach and not once ride a wave? As a fourth-generation Cali girl she at least looked the part, from her sixty-dollar Hollister Ts to her Roxy hibiscus-print board shorts. Evie had even gone so far as to buy a surfboard, a white nine-foot, five-fin custom long board, especially shaped for her by the one and only Max of Santa Barbara. But truth was, Evie had yet to even get the pricey stick wet and, to be dreadfully direct, she could barely even manage a boogie board in waist-high white water. Qué scandalous, no?

RioChica (10:50 AM): What do you think of the color blue?

ShaggyMA (10:50 AM): One of my sticks is blue.

RioChica (10:51 AM): Cool enough.

ShaggyMA (10:51 AM): Hey, gotta go.

RioChica (10:51 AM): Sure, TTYL!

Sigh. Evie was alone, and bored, again.

Suddenly the latest Moz (Given name: Steven Patrick Morrissey) download, blared from her cell phone. Evie got up from her desk and grabbed the phone off her nightstand. She saw Raquel's face on the screen, her long hair pulled over in front of her shoulders and her chin drawn down. Ugh. Evie reluctantly flipped open her phone.

"Hello?"

"Heeey," drawled Raquel's gravelly voice. Apparently Raquel had gone out the night before. Without Evie. WTF?

"Oh, hey," Evie said trying to sound just as casual.

"So...," Raquel started. Evie could sense a smile on the other end. "You got your phone back."

"Uh, yeah," Evie said. "I actually got it back yesterday, as of five p.m."

"Oh, yeah." Raquel paused. "That's right."

"So what happened?" Evie asked. "You said we were gonna do something, go out. I left you like a gazillion messages."

"Yeah." Raquel let out a moose-sized yawn. "Sorry about that. I completely spaced. My parents went out and then Jose came over with a six-pack. We ended up kicking it, watching Fuel all night. Boring." The moose yawned again.

"Oh." Evie tried to sound calm, but she was burning up inside. "That's cool. Did Alex or Mondo go out?"

"Nah," Raquel said. "Nobody did nothing."

Evie relaxed. At least she hadn't missed anything, but that didn't really surprise her. The five Flojos -- herself, Alex, Mondo, Raquel, and her boy, Jose -- shared one thing in common, and that one thing was the absolute, all-consuming, unending desire to...do absolutely nothing. Was it the cliché teenage rebellion against their workaholic fathers? Too many spins (and lyric interpretations) of Cypress Hill on Mondo's Technics turntable? Wherever they were, be it poolside or oceanside, and whatever you called it, trifling or chilling, the Flojos did nada together. Never mind Generation Y. The Flojos were in a generation of their own -- Generation YBother?

Coincidentally, flojo (correct Spanish pronunciation: flow-ho) means "lazy" in English, but it's also what you call flip-flops (correct South Cali pronunciation: flow-joe) and as everybody knows, flip-flops are a pretty lazy excuse for a shoe. But the Flojos were hard-core when it came to their flip-flops and wore them 24/7/365. From high-end Havaianas ($118) to low-end plastic bin specials from Savon (true flojos, Alex claimed), nothing came between Flojos and their flojos.

But it wasn't just attitude or a common footwear philosophy that had brought the Flojos together. Evie and Raquel had been friends since growing up in Rio Estates and last year when they were freshmen, Raquel hooked up with Jose. He was a tall, lanky sophomore with the Mars Volta 'fro and black titanium chin labret piercing that gave him a devious look. Raquel fell for it hard. Once they started dating, his sidekicks, Mondo (he who had a "delivery job") and Alex (he who actually did some surfing), came automatically included in the package. Of course, it was pure prestige points for Evie and Raquel to hang with upperclassmen. Besides, few students at Villanueva Preparatory High School were like them -- rich kids whose family crests -- that is, if they had crests -- contained the letters x, y, or z (read: Latino).

Evie's family had a crest, sorta. If you counted the small, peach-tinted seashell logo for her father's successful business, Conchita's Bread. Years ago her father started Conchita's and thanks to his hard work (along with Evie's great-grandma Conchita's secret pan dulce recipes), the Gomezes had arrived where they were now: a big ol' Spanish-style house with a swimming pool in the back and her father's Escalade in the front. Not quite ransom-worthy rich, but the Gomezes, like a lot of the families in Rio Estates, were pretty well off.

"So," Evie continued. She took a deep breath. "I chopped off my hair."

"What?" Raquel said.

"My hair," Evie repeated. "It's gone."

"What do you mean?"

"I hacked it off. And..." Evie paused for dramatic flair. "I dyed it blue, sorta." Evie felt proud and a bit smug. She liked the idea that she'd done something so radical, on her own, and without consulting Raquel. It was so un-Evie of her.

"Yeah." Raquel yawned. "I dyed my hair blue one time."

"Really?" It was so Raquel of Raquel to try to outdo Evie. And Evie wasn't sure she was buying it. "When?"

"One time when I was up in the Bay Area, like two summers ago. It totally clashed with my complexion. Brownies can't be sporting blue. I changed it back the next day."

"You never told me that," Evie said, still suspicious.

"'Cause it was really no big deal."

Evie felt herself getting annoyed. "So," she said, changing the subject. "What's the plan for tonight?"

"Um." Raquel yawned again. "Jose heard about some party out near Bard. You in?"

"Definitely," Evie said. Actually, she had hoped they would drive down to L.A., do something covert, crazy. Rio Estates was just sixty miles north of Los, but it was still suburbia and, of course, painfully uneventful. Even though she was a Flojo, Evie had always felt the slight tug of wanting something more, wanting to do something outside of the 805.

But Raquel did say that the night's party was "out near Bard," so that could mean anything.

"As long as I'm home by twelve thirty," Evie reminded Raquel. "I mean, not even twelve thirty-two in the driveway. My mom will freak if I'm late again."

"Yeah, and we don't wanna freak out ol' Vicki," Raquel said in a tone meant to show she was so over mothers and curfews. "She must have crapped bricks when she saw your hair, huh?"

"Not really," Evie lied. "Like you said, it's really no big deal."

But Evie was starting to worry. What would her mother say about her hair? Vicki Gomez was known for possessing the legendary Gomez fury, unleashed when something didn't go her way.

Just then, someone knocked on Evie's bedroom door. She sank into her bed and quickly pulled the sheet over her head. Well, at least she wouldn't have to wait any longer -- she was about to find out how her mother felt about having a Smurf for a daughter.

"Evelina?"

Whew. It was only Lindsay. "Are you awake?" she asked from the hallway.

"Sí, sí, Lindsay," Evie called out, making sure to keep her head covered. "Come in." She told Raquel she had to hang up.

"Oh, hey," Raquel started. "One last thing."

"Yeah?" Evie asked.

"Did you dye your pubes, too? 'Cause if you'd done your shrub, now, that woulda been real crazy ass."

"Good-bye, Raquel." Evie rolled her eyes and flipped her cell phone shut before tossing it onto the floor. Yup. No doubt about it. Raquel was definitely a bitch.

* * *

"Oh," Lindsay said as she came into Evie's room and saw her in bed. "You're still sleeping."

"No, I'm awake," Evie answered, peeking out from under the covers. "I'm just laying here."

Lindsay looked around Evie's room and sighed. "Ay, Evelina. This is not good. Let me clean in here today. It would make your mother so happy."

"Lindsay, I really don't care what makes my mother happy. So," Evie changed the subject. "Did you buy anything off of El Mercadito?"

"NAy, no!" Lindsay took a seat at the edge of Evie's bed. "There was a foot, ¿cómo se llama?" Her wrinkled hands made a rubbing motion across her Aerosole slip-ons. "A massager? But the lady wanted too much for it. No way." She turned around and looked above Evie's bed. "Why is all that scribble around that boy?"

Lindsay was referring to Paul Rodriguez, Jr. Evie had Sharpied elaborate red hearts on a poster of him skateboarding. So, he didn't surf, as far as she knew, but he did skateboard, which was close enough, and he did have a z in his name. Oh, come on, who was she kidding? P. Rod was FAF. She crushed him hard.

"Oh, that's -- ," Evie started to explain as she turned to look up at the poster. But when she did, her sheet slipped down, exposing her head.

"NAy!" Lindsay stood up. "Evelina, what did you do? Your hair!" She nervously fondled her gold chain necklace as though it was a rosary, protecting her from all decisions evil.

"Oh, I cut it." Evie nervously tugged at the sides, but it was no use. They remained short and stringy.

"Yes, I see that." Lindsay's face remained shocked. "But the colors. It's...does your mother know?"

"Well." Evie tousled her hair nervously. "She's always going on about money. So she should be happy that I saved her a hundred bucks by doing my own hair."

Lindsay's eyes widened. "You pay a hundred dollars to have your hair done?"

Evie immediately felt embarrassed and tried to explain. "It's not just for a cut. I mean, I get it washed, and they give it a blow-dry and style. Plus I sometimes get a one-on-one consultation, a lot of times with Viggo -- he's the salon owner." But the more she said, the more Evie knew how shamelessly VH1 Diva it all sounded.

"Ay, Dios." Lindsay shook her head. "I just can't imagine what your mother will think."

"Think about what?" Vicki Gomez asked as she entered Evie's bedroom. Just out of the pool, Evie's mother looked effortlessly stylish in her magenta one-piece with a plush beige towel wrapped around her wet hair. There was no time to duck and cover.

"Oh, my God!" Evie's mother clasped her hand over her mouth. "Evie! What the hell did you do to your hair? You've got to be out of your mind! Did you forget that school photos are next week? Do you expect your father and me to fork over two hundred dollars to document this?" She towered over Evie and picked over her hair, like a grade-school nurse searching for head lice.

Evie looked shamefully over at Lindsay. Yes, Lindsay, we also drop a few hundred for some measly school photos. Oh, but that does include wallet size!

"What the hell were you thinking?" Evie's mother was furious. "I have a good mind to ground you for a month for this stunt!"

"What?" Evie pulled away from her mother. "Why? Just because I wanted to do something different to my hair?"

"No, because you don't think. That's the problem, Evie. You don't think about how your actions affect other people." She looked at Evie's bed and pulled the pillow out from under her. "Great. You stained the pillow, too. Did you even think to rinse out your hair or put down a towel?" Vicki Gomez looked around.

"Oh God...look at this."

Evie looked beside her bed. Sure enough, a trail of small blue blotches stretched across the cream-colored carpet from her bathroom to her pillow. She hadn't noticed them before. There was even dye on the precious Dean Miller plastic-grass bed skirt she had begged her mother to buy her for her last birthday.

"Don't worry, Señora Vicki," Lindsay said, wiping the spots on the sheet as if they would magically go away. "I can get the stains out."

"Your father is going to be pissed!" Evie's mother continued to rant. "Do not make any plans this evening until he gets home and we can discuss this."

"You mean tonight?" Evie was horrified.

"Yes, tonight." Her mother knelt down and rubbed the stained carpet with her fingers.

"But Dad usually stays late on Saturdays and I told you I was going out with -- "

"You'll just have to wait." Vicki Gomez stood up and handed Lindsay the pillow. After telling her in Spanish to work on it immediately, she stalked out of Evie's room. Lindsay followed silently.

No. There was no way that Evie planned to endure another night in the maximum security Gomez Penitentiary. She leaned over her bed, grabbed her cell, and speed-dialed her father.

He'll listen, she thought. Her father was a reasonable man, definitely much more reasonable than her mother. Evie knew she wouldn't survive another night of lockdown. I'll go crazy, and who knows what I'll do? she thought. Maybe I really will dye my pubes blue.

Copyright (c) 2006 by Alloy Entertainment and Michele Serros

Continues...

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Excerpted from Honey Blonde Chica by Michele Serros Copyright © 2007 by Michele Serros. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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