When the Stars Go Blue: A Novel

When the Stars Go Blue: A Novel

by Caridad Ferrer
When the Stars Go Blue: A Novel

When the Stars Go Blue: A Novel

by Caridad Ferrer

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Overview

Winner of an International Latino Book Award, When the Stars Go Blue is a contemporary interpretation of Bizet's Carmen in which the fiery gypsy is reinvented as a modern-day dancer, torn between the attentions of an intense, disciplined music prodigy and a flamboyant soccer player.

Dance is Soledad Reyes's life. About to graduate from Miami's Biscayne High School for the Performing Arts, she plans on spending her last summer at home teaching in a dance studio, saving money, and eventually auditioning for dance companies. That is, until fate intervenes in the form of fellow student Jonathan Crandall who has what sounds like an outrageous proposition: Forget teaching. Why not spend the summer performing in the intense environment of the competitive drum and bugle corps? The corps is going to be performing Carmen, and the opportunity to portray the character of the sultry gypsy proves too tempting for Soledad to pass up, as well as the opportunity to spend more time with Jonathan, who intrigues her in a way no boy ever has before.

But in an uncanny echo of the story they perform every evening, an unexpected competitor for Soledad's affections appears: Taz, a member of an all-star Spanish soccer team. One explosive encounter later Soledad finds not only her relationship with Jonathan threatened, but her entire future as a professional dancer.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781429925747
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Publication date: 11/23/2010
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: eBook
Pages: 336
Lexile: 820L (what's this?)
File size: 378 KB
Age Range: 14 - 18 Years

About the Author

Caridad Ferrer is a winner of the RITA and International Latino Book Award. She is the author of Adiós to My Old Life and It's Not About the Accent. Ferrer was a drum major in high school and a member of the drum and bugle corps for three years. She lives with her family near Seattle, Washington.


Caridad Ferrer is a winner of the RITA and International Latino Book Award. She is the author of When the Stars Go Blue, Adiós to My Old Life and It's Not About the Accent. Ferrer was a drum major in high school and a member of the drum and bugle corps for three years. She lives with her family near Seattle, Washington.

Read an Excerpt

When the Stars Go Blue


By Caridad Ferrer

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2010 Barbara Ferrer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-2574-7



CHAPTER 1

may

first impressions



"Hey, Soledad, have you ever done Carmen?"

With the static buzz and ringing going on in my head, it took a few seconds for the words to penetrate. Not that they made any more sense once they did.

"What?"

"Have you ever done Carmen?"

I continued staring at the reflection in the dressing room mirror, rational thought kind of ... starting to return. So I'd start with the most rational question.

"Jonathan, what are you doing in here?"

The reflection's startlingly pale eyes widened. "There you are. I was wondering if you were ever going to hear me. I've been trying to talk to you since you came offstage."

"You were?"

"I was."

"Huh." I took a sip of water, trying to clear out more of the post-performance adrenaline haze. "You know, Jonathan, I'd think you'd know better. I mean, it's just a rehearsal, but still."

The reflection cringed. "Sorry."

I knew he was. Even though he was a musician and I was a dancer, and generally never the twain shall meet, four years as classmates meant I at least knew him well enough to know that normally, he'd be all about respecting the boundaries. But for whatever reason, the boundaries seemed to have gone AWOL, prompting him to barge into the dancers' dressing room and pepper me with bizarre questions. The temptation to smack him upside the head was definitely strong, but so was the adrenaline high of a performance well done. Lucky for him.

"Okay, now that I'm marginally more with it, let's try again — what are you talking about and why are you back here anyway, instead of down in the pit, where you belong?"

And regardless of what he was going on about, I still needed to get ready for my next number, so I went ahead and peeled down the sleeves of the formfitting Firebird costume, holding it to my chest as I bent over to untie my pointe shoes. Not that he was actually checking anything out. His entire focus — laser-beam intense — was centered right on my face. Okay, strike that. Mostly centered on my face. Because just as I finished wiggling out of the costume, I saw his gaze drop — just for a second — before it returned to my face, like it was determined to stay there.

"I'm back here because I'm off for the next few numbers and I needed to find out if you've ever done Carmen."

"Uh-huh."

Yeah ... Still not making much sense. I shook out the bodysuit and draped it over the chair next to mine. As I moved, I saw his gaze do its thing again, with an added small shake of his head like he was scolding himself. You know, I almost felt sorry for him, but this was the dancers' communal dressing room. It's not like our rep as a notoriously immodest bunch — girls and guys alike — should come as any big surprise. Honestly, in tights and the flesh-colored pasties that played defense against clinging Lycra, arctic air conditioners, or any potential wardrobe malfunctions, I was almost fully clothed.

Chilled from the air conditioner blasting through the theater — and taking a tiny bit of pity on him and the wandering eyes he couldn't seem to help — I grabbed my heavy terry cloth robe from the back of the chair and pulled it on, sneaking my share of looks in the mirror, trying to figure out what his deal was. And why did I care? For God's sake, I had another performance to get ready for. Just as I was getting ready to tell him to get lost, that whatever it was could damn well wait, he shoved his hands through his hair and huffed out a massive breath that blew loose wisps of air against the back of my neck.

Closing his eyes, he took another breath, this one deep enough to pull his ratty gray T-shirt tight across his chest. Fascinated, I watched as his mouth went visibly firm and he released the breath in a slow, controlled stream though a small opening between his lips. Opening his eyes, he tried again.

"Have you ever portrayed Carmen?"

As our gazes met again in the big mirror the last of the woolies cleared away and everything clicked into place. "'Carmen' as in gypsy, opera, ballet, exceptionally misguided role for Beyoncé to play in a really cheesy and unimaginative reworking of a classic. Right?"

Thick sandy brows drew together in a line as straight as a practice barre. "You lost me on the last part, but otherwise yeah, that Carmen."

"No, but I have studied the role." I shrugged and stood from the chair, blinking as we came face to neck. Had he always been this tall? Or had we just never stood quite this close to each other? I mean, given that I stood five-ten and most danseurs tended to have maybe only a couple of inches on me, this was definitely ... novel. Edging past him I said, "It's one of my favorites." Carmen. The Firebird. Those were my kinds of roles. Not every ballerina aspired to be the wee, dainty Sugar Plum Fairy.

Ducking behind the garment rack, I pulled my black-and-burgundy dress off the hanger. Half hidden by a forest of spandex and chiffon and ribbons, I stepped into the costume and slipped the thin straps over my shoulders, yanking the zipper up myself rather than flag down one of the poor freshmen running around doing minion duty.

I dropped back into my chair and ducked under the vanity, rummaging around in my bag for my ballroom shoes. "So what about it?"

"Would you like to portray Carmen?"

"Sure. Who wouldn't?" Yanking on the black leather heels, I stood and shouldered my way past him again and out of the dressing room. Threading my way through the mad backstage chaos, I headed for the wings, fighting the nervous urge to bounce up and down and pump my arms. No reason to waste energy that would be more valuable channeled onto the dance floor.

"I'm serious. If you're interested, you can be Carmen."

The words, I understood them, but they didn't make a damned bit of sense. And right this second, I really didn't have the time to try to dissect Jonathan's cryptic statements.

"Look, the only thing I'm interested in right now is my performance. Period." I paused by the rosin box, rapidly grinding the ball of one foot, then the other, in the yellow-white powder, knocking the excess off against the edges before resuming my path toward the wings. The closer I got, the more I made a point to walk slower, consciously matching my breathing to each step, the chaos, the bodies, the extraneous chatter all falling away as I dropped into my zone.

"I know ... I know ... I'm really sorry, I know my timing blows."

Each word sounded as if it was coming from farther and farther away. "Yeah, it really does. Seriously, whatever this is about, it's just going to have to wait."

"I know. I got impatient, I'm sorry. I can wait."

I risked a glance over my shoulder, looking straight into those pale eyes and catching my breath again at the intensity. Feeling myself wrapped — for just a split second — in a surprising sense of familiarity. Strong enough and shocking enough that those little hairs on the back of my neck went straight to red alert.

"You're on in sixty," the stage manager whispered beside me.

"Thanks," I replied absently, still staring over my shoulder.

I took a deep breath, glanced out toward the empty expanse of stage that beckoned, then back into that steady, simpático gray gaze. "Meet me after rehearsal's called."

"Where?"

"Mack and Mabel's."

"Okay." He smiled, full out for the first time, revealing ever-so-slightly-crooked front teeth. "You know, don't know if I've ever mentioned it before, but you're a seriously kick-ass dancer."

It came so out of nowhere that even as the disciplined dancer was urging me toward the stage, the other part of me, the girl, couldn't help but do a double take, an answering smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

With the unexpected compliment echoing in my mind, I strode out onto the worn floorboards of the stage and assumed my opening pose. Breathing deep, I waited for the strum of the guitar, for the dark insistent rhythms of the percussion to sink into my skin and work their magic, transforming me into an enchantress, a siren. With each note, the minutiae of dress rehearsal, of intense boys with pretty eyes, of the petty annoyances of life, of school, of everything —

All faded into insignificance as once again the dancer took over.


consider this


I slammed the door on the faded blue Corolla I shared with Mamacita and made a beeline for the air-conditioned interior of Mack and Mabel's, feeling like I was swimming through the muggy air. Eighty-five degrees at ten at night, and it was only mid-May. Keep going this way, and summer was going to suck big hairy ones. Okay, it was Miami — summer always sucked big hairy ones, but at least I wouldn't have to be out in it. Let's hear it for air-conditioned studios.

As blessedly cool air washed over me, a loud "Soledad!" sounded from the back of the narrow diner.

"Hey, girl, come over, we got room."

I grinned and waved at the posse of dancers from school as I scanned the counter and vinyl booths of the vintage diner. Nope. Not here yet. Kind of a surprise, considering I was the one who was running late. "Thanks, but I can't. Meeting someone." We'd said Mack and Mabel's, right? I mean, where else was there? It was the de facto school hangout, but in retrospect everything was so fuzzy and surreal about that whole encounter — like it had happened to someone else and I'd heard about it secondhand.

A good-natured chorus of oooooohs had my wave turning into a one- fingered salute, prompting laughter. "You guys seriously need to get out more." Even though they kind of had a point. Not like I was Miss Social. With a sigh, I tossed my backpack into a booth and dropped down beside it, reaching inside for my favorite time killer. Might as well just chill — order a shake and see if he showed. I took another look around, as if expecting him to maybe pop out from behind the brightly lit jukebox or one of the many towers of Miami kitsch souvenirs. Nope. Still nowhere to be seen. He probably got hung up, too. What with everyone flipping out about performance finals and trying to squeeze in that last little bit of practice, even if lips, feet, and/or fingers were on the verge of falling off from overuse. Opening my book to where I'd left off, I immediately got sucked into the story, pausing only long enough to order a double chocolate shake.

"I'm glad you didn't blow me off."

I glanced up to find Jonathan standing beside the booth. "I was starting to wonder if it was the other way around."

He laughed as he slid in across from me. "And cue the image of the snake eating its tail."

I draped my beaded bookmark between the pages and set the book aside. "Come again?"

"You know ... from the mythology unit we did in Lit?"

"Right — the Ouroboros. What does that have to do with anything?"

He grinned as he pulled a couple of menus from behind the napkin dispenser, handing me one. "I waited for you after we broke rehearsal, but you kept going ... rehearsing that flamenco number over and over. I watched you work for a while, then assumed you'd totally forgotten, or at least weren't going to remember until you were satisfied with your work and the rest of the world made a reappearance. I figured you were good for at least an hour, so I went and did some practicing of my own."

"Oh."

"I checked every few minutes and when I saw that you'd finally left the auditorium, I packed it up and came over. Hoping you hadn't totally blown me off."

"Oh." So it had been what I assumed. Sort of. Except I was the one who'd been flipping out and trying to squeeze in that last little bit of practice.

And Miss All Dance, All the Time strikes again.

"Shut up," I muttered to that pesky inner voice that had a habit of popping up at really inconvenient times. And Mamacita kept insisting I should listen to it more often. As if.

"'Scuse me?"

"Tell you what, whatever you want to talk about must be pretty important. Hanging around and waiting on top of that whole backstage stalking and barging into the dressing room thing." When in doubt, go on the offensive. Beat trying to explain about stupid inner voices.

But the way he ducked his head and mumbled "Yeah, um, sorry about that —" made me feel like a total worm for even bringing it up. He didn't need to apologize. I understood he really had been more focused on whatever his mission was and not so much on what I was — or wasn't — wearing.

Hey, he did cop a look at the boobs. Twice.

So he looked, I silently argued back. Proves he's human and probably straight.

Yeah ...

Oh, for God's sake. I'd known the guy for four years. He was just a guy. A good musician. Tall. With pretty eyes. Really pretty eyes, practically glowing silver in the light from the vintage pendant hanging over the table.

Glowing? Oh, brother. I had to be wicked tired.

"Hey, Soledad, you all right?"

"Yeah, just tired. Hungry, too —"

And like he was some blessed, patchouli-scented angel sent from on high, Mack showed up, in all his Birkenstocked glory, ready to take our orders — or rather, to tell us what we should eat in order to keep our strength up. Not that anyone ever argued with him or Mabel. They were like the cool hippy aunt and uncle everyone wished they had. Their house was open 24/7, they were mellow about how long you hung out, and the munchies were always awesome. One of the things I was seriously going to miss about Miami after I left.

After Mack cruised back toward the kitchen, Jonathan reached across the table and touched the battered cover of the book I'd been lost in when he showed.

"Heartbreak Hotel. Not exactly required reading for our final."

I shrugged. "An old favorite."

"Why?" He was rolling his wrapped-up silverware back and forth, an even, steady rhythm, perfectly in sync with the music coming from the juke.

Whoa. Surprise. Usually, if anyone ever asked what I was reading, they'd nod and say, "That's nice," and move on to a more interesting topic. Like the weather. I stared at him, trying to read his expression, but couldn't see anything in there beyond honest curiosity. Which was the only reason I could figure that instead of just coming up with something pallid and boring and acceptable like, "Just because," I found myself actually giving him a real answer.

"Um ... because I really love how Maggie, the lead character, defies logic. She fights her upbringing and her surroundings and her self-imposed expectations of being a woman in the South in the fifties to become something" — I floundered around, trying to find the right word and finally settling on — "more. Becoming who she's meant to be."

What can I say? It resonated. But that part wasn't for sharing. No matter how pretty and compelling his eyes were, making him look like he was ready to hear any and everything — and damn, I must be more tired and hungry than I thought, because my brain was going to all sorts of weird places tonight.

Thankfully, our food showed up just then, preempting any other questions followed by way-too-revealing answers on my part. No one needed to know that much about me.

He stared at my plate as he squeezed a huge glob of ketchup on his own. "A hamburger and an order of fries."

I returned the book to my backpack. "Root veggie fries. Air baked."

"And you already have a shake."

Heat prickled along the back of my neck. "Yeah, what of it?"

"I thought most dancers didn't eat."

The sound I made was somewhere between a choke, a laugh, and a snort, and made his eyes go wide. "Dude, do I look like most dancers?"

I made myself sit perfectly still as his eyes narrowed and he looked me up and down — leaving me with the distinct feeling he was seeing more of me than he had back in the dressing room. A lot more. Finally he said, "No, you don't. You don't have that stick insect look." He nodded at the nearby table where the dancers still congregated, a single plate of fries sitting in the middle of the table, still half full.

"Yeah, I know, and thanks for saying it so politely."

"What do you mean?"

I began yanking bobby pins from my hair. "Most people just say fat."

The ketchup bottle hit the table with a thump. "That's crap."

"Not in the dance world. It's problematic."

"Why? You're a great dancer. You look so —" He stopped, his gaze following the movement of my hands as I pulled pin after pin from my hair. "I don't know ... So alive and real up on the stage."


(Continues...)

Excerpted from When the Stars Go Blue by Caridad Ferrer. Copyright © 2010 Barbara Ferrer. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Contents

Cover,
Title Page,
Dedication,
acknowledgments,
so she dances,
may,
first impressions,
consider this,
getting into something,
all good things,
it's amazing,
heatwave,
el tango,
give me a reason,
hide and seek,
wild hope,
harder to breathe,
june,
any other way,
pocketful of sunshine,
world where you live,
have you got it in you,
somebody to love,
you give me something,
all we are,
under a painted sky,
awake,
give a little bit,
you are,
july,
tears and rain,
believe,
between the lines,
gravity,
front row,
august,
slow dancing in a burning room,
wild horses,
when the stars go blue,
the pieces don't fit anymore,
let me fall,
many the miles,
everybody hurts,
love is a losing game,
october,
the last goodbye,
looking forward,
march,
my heart was home again,
author's note,
also by caridad ferrer,
Advance Praise,
Copyright,

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