Free Blue Angel by Francine Prose Page A

she used to be one of those kids. But she wasn’t now.
    â€˜Lydia was miserable. That morning she’d yelled at her mother and hit her baby brother, then she felt even worse. She was used to the crime-ridden, drug-infested city streets of her neighborhood. She didn’t let any of that get to her anymore. But this time was different.’”
    Courtney must have worked hard on the opening section. From there on, the grammar and syntax deteriorate, making it hard to follow, on the simplest plot level, the story of Lydia, who has a “huge thing” for “this good-looking guy” named Juan, who belongs to a “vicious tough inner-city gang” known as the Latin Diablos. Juan wants Lydia to join the “girl-part” of the gang. He comes along and kisses her while she’s sitting and brooding among the “crackheads and junkies like human garbage on her front steps. After all, it was Lydia’s first kiss. So it really meant a lot.”
    Lydia’s almost persuaded to go through the “terrifying gang initiation” to become a Latina Diabla. But then her mother tells her that a baby down the block—a “cute precious girl” Lydia used to babysit for—was accidentally killed in a drive-by shooting. Who did it? Guess. The Diablos.
    Relieved to be almost finished, Courtney sails into the grand finale. “‘Right at that moment Lydia knew she could never be part of Juan’s world. She could never love a man who could be part of something like that. She needed the strength to tell Juan she didn’t want to. But would she be able to? Could she? Lydia honestly couldn’t say for sure. At least not for the moment.’”
    That’s it. The end. That’s all she wrote. Most of the students are still reading, giving Swenson a moment to think of something to say, some way to improve this heartbreaking, subliterate piece of shit, heartbreaking because, for all he knows, it represents Courtney’s personal best.
    He refuses to accept that. It’s his job to refuse to accept that. Courtney can do better. Too bad that classroom etiquette prevents him from saying so. God forbid he tell Courtney—or anyone—to bag it and start over, as if no real writer would do that, as if he himself hadn’t pulled the plug on dozens of stories and novels.
    And now they’re all looking at him with the same panic he fears they see on his face. Or maybe they loved the story and are moved too deeply for words. Certainly, he’s been wrong before…. Hewaits a beat, then says, “At least it isn’t about someone having sex with an animal.”
    â€œCompared to this,” Makeesha says, “that chicken thing was genius. This is just more of that totally racist shit white folks are always laying down. Like every sister and brother on the street is a gang member killing babies and doing dope. What’s that shit she calls the brothers? Human garbage?”
    â€œHang on, Makeesha,” Swenson says. “Let’s get back to that in a minute. We usually start off saying what we liked about the story.”
    He’s asking the impossible, but Angela’s hand shoots up. “I like the name, the Latin Diablos. And then the Latina Diablas, it’s like the Ladies Auxiliary or something. They’re pretty good gang names.”
    Some new confidence or authority shines in Angela’s face. Her entire metabolism seems less speedy and frenetic, as if some hand has steadied her and made her stop tapping and squirming. Could she have been so changed by Swenson’s message on her machine?
    Claris says, “Is Diabla a Spanish word? Is the devil ever female?” Swenson often wonders what Claris is doing at Euston.
    â€œI’ll bet not,” says Meg. “They’d never let us have that much power. Even the devil has got to have a dick.”
    Swenson shakes his head. The students chuckle,