Page 26 of A Bookish Story

“No, it’s something new.”

She’s only read one of my books because officially that’s all I’ve written. Since she knows I ghostwrite, she’s always wanted to know how she can read those books. But she knows better than to ask me for any details. From time to time, I try to trick people into reading my work by suggesting a Desdemona Hill book I’ve written. Since Sofia was into vampires for a while, she read a few of my books without realizing it. She claimed they were good, but “not as good as your book,” which I found hilarious and proof of why we’re told not to let our family be our first readers.

“Finally! I knew it would happen someday,” she says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I’ve had to work to come up with a plausible explanation for why I’d keep something like this from my bestie. My ride or die since I was a kid. The ghostwriting is one thing, but this wouldn’t make any sense to her. I do some of my best work and spin a tale of many late nights writing a super-secret project over the last year, and the shock of getting an agent, and a deal.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything sooner, but the publisher asked me not to. It’s kind of like my ghostwriting stuff in that it had to be confidential until it was time to release,” I say, coming the closest I can to the truth.

“But now you wrote it and get credit for it!”

I cringe. “Um, yeah. I’m going to tell Abuelita and Eddie tonight. Wish me luck.”

They think ghostwriting is wrong and unfair but they don’t understand it no matter how many times I try to explain I get paid to do it.

“You wrote a book for someone else?”

“Why can’t they write the book?”

In Desdemona’s case, she’s long been dead, so she can’t very well write them anymore. But ghostwriters are never truly appreciated for all they do.

That evening, the succulent smells of Spanish rice and chicken waft through the air of Abuelita’s modest-sized kitchen.

We’ve been eating for several minutes, when Eddie begins discussing his patients’ horrible flossing habits. He tells us we wouldn’t believe the food he finds in their molars. This is common at our table, where no disgusting subject is off-limits because Eddie has a stomach made out of steel.

Abuelita glares at him. “No talk of teeth at the table!”

I use the opportunity. “I have an announcement to make.”

They both turn to me and I clear my throat.

“No!” Abuelita says, setting her spoon down. “You are not!”

Eddie reaches for his mother’s hand, stilling it. “Tranquila, Mami.”

“She cannot take Chris back!” Abuelita pounds her fist on the table. “I will not have it. Not in my house.”

I shake my head. “Nope, not taking Chris back. He’s still somewhere in South America with the Peace Corps, and I don’t care.”

“Good,” Abuelita says, then mutters several curse words in Spanish under her breath.

“Will you let the girl talk?” Eddie says and then waves at me to take the floor.

“Thanks.” I fold my hands together. “Well, you know how I ghostwrite books for authors?”

Both of them nod.

And so, I lie about everything. How I’ve finally written a book that New York wants, and that I’m sorry I had to keep it a secret all this time. Unlike Sofia, they don’t wonder why I haven’t told them sooner. Writing is my thing and something we rarely discuss. I tell them I’ve written this book under a pen name because it’s unlike the other books I write, and for privacy reasons.

“Many authors do this, you know.”

“I don’t like it,” Abuelita grumbles. “You should be Lucia Milagros Santana and proud of it.”

I sit up straighter. “Don’t worry, I promise my next book will be published as Lucia Santana.”

I know how important it is for my grandmother to have her son’s name live on in me.

“The good news is the book is successful and I’ll make enough royalties to be able to move out of the shed soon.”