How Wendy Redbird Dancing Survived the Dark Ages of Nought
About the Book
Paperback: 282 pages
At sixteen, Wendy Redbird Dancing flies her freak flag high; she’s a scary-smart white girl with a hippie mom, a missing father, and a rarefied Michael Jackson obsession. It doesn’t help that her mother just uprooted them yet again, this time from California to North Carolina. Now Wendy has to survive a new school and fight bullies who rule this Southern roost.
But one black girl reaches out––Tanay––and she and Wendy forge a friendship to help her fight back. Her mother’s new boyfriend, Shaye, turns out to be decent-not the usual sleaze, but instead, a charming and attractive guy. As he gains her trust, Wendy’s crush ignites, and her hopes for a stable future soar.
When Shaye starts flirting, Wendy is flattered but confused. When things take a terrible turn, she must go underground, waiting for the day she can escape to London for Jackson’s final tour.
All seems lost when the King of Pop dies. But Wendy suddenly hears his ethereal voice, offering guidance and sending her west. Is St. Michael now the only one she can trust?
Lyn Fairchild Hawks’s debut novel melds modern teen life with a parable of betrayal and trust, sharing the light and the dark of human relationships.
Discuss the Book on Facebook
“Lyn Fairchild Hawks writes with an intriguing voice that captures me…I looked forward to the world of Wendy Redbird Dancing each and every night as I picked up the book to take in a few more chapters. The protagonist is real, tough, tender, believable, and heart-wrenching…I’m saving this book for young family members when they are ready to discuss sex, the real world, and how to grasp it.”
Wendy Redbird Dancing’s Pact with MJ. June 25, 2009. 2:27 p.m.
O St. Michael, prince of heavenly hosts,
If I start telling how things happened, it must be nothing but the unblinking truth. Every raw, horrific fact must be laid bare.
For nights I’ve dreamed of cleavers separating his hand from his arm, his head from his neck. But each dream ends with my hands, arms, head flying into outer space. I’m bad. Hounded by night creatures. Stamped by the smoothest of criminals.
Let truth be told in this old-school journal. Not some tweet-text-IM, spamming everywhere, gone with the next breath. Ink instead, sure as blood. Note the red leather: hardbound. Note the handwriting: cursive. Note the lock and key. Let’s do this like monks, like nuns, like girls of old.
If he shows again tonight, or tomorrow, and I must look him in the eye, I will find the strength to say it. Then I will 911 Grandma. I will beg her presence in this house. Show her this tome when terror takes my tongue. No one will hurt me now, because they’ll know what’s true.
Coming soon: The Big Reveal. This girl will peel back the glittering glove, and she will doff her mask.