How Wendy Redbird Dancing Survived the Dark Ages of Nought

By Lyn Fairchild Hawks

Everywhere Wendy Redbird Dancing goes, she’s the weird girl with the Walkman, the hoodie, and the Michael Jackson obsession. Now that her wandering mom has uprooted them again, Wendy has to survive another new school and more bullies who don’t like her looks.

But when Tanay reaches out, Wendy wonders if she’s found a real friend. Plus Mom’s charming new boyfriend, Shaye, isn’t the usual sleaze; he’s cool and knows retro music. So Wendy’s hopes for a stable future soar.

As Shaye gains her trust, Wendy’s crush ignites. When things take a terrible turn, she goes 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?

For fans of ALL THE RAGE, THE NOWHERE GIRLS, and THE UNRAVELING OF MERCY LOUIS comes a surreal journey through friendship and music with a melody that lingers long after the final note.

"The protagonist is real, tough, tender, and heart-wrenching.” C. Hope Clark, author of Lowcountry Bribe

“A modern-day Antigone who finds herself in a drama not of her own making. Brutally lyrical storytelling.” D.W. Frauenfelder, author of The Mirror and the Mage

“An incredible story of courage and survival.” Gordon Jack, author of Your Own Worst Enemy

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyn Fairchild Hawks
• Release date: Mar 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988883734

Book preview

Acknowledgments

A first novel is a bit like a first child. Bear with me as I open my album stuffed with photos and make you look. Understand that without my village, this book wouldn’t be.

This story began when I heard Wendy’s flatline voice telling the world how it is, was, and ever shall be. Her first words scrawled themselves into the back of a composition notebook one December, six months after June 25, 2009. That was the day I’d tried to explain to my twelve-year-old stepson, Henry, who Michael Jackson was. As the shocking news unfolded on screen and we watched footage of the ambulance and hospital, I tried to describe Michael and his impact on me. I might have said his music was my high school soundtrack, and how the night Thriller premiered, I stood watching with hundreds of other teens at a night club—all of us silent. How do you capture the King of Pop in words? I couldn’t, really.

I knew I needed to keep trying, though, so I found my friend Teresa and said, Can I read you some of this? She said she wanted to hear more. Then she agreed to read the whole, rough thing on a train to Baltimore and came home raving, saying I needed to keep at it. That same summer my writing partner, Jen, realized her eyes needed help when she peered at my fine print for way too many pages (I was trying to save at Kinko’s). But she got glasses and persisted, and graciously read more versions over the next two years. Stephanie, our other partner, kept pace too, helping me again and again with her meticulous feedback. I am truly grateful.

When my sister, Antonia, read a draft, she said, It’s YA for Gen X! She talks about my characters as if they’re real, claiming she’s seen Sunny Revere around town.

Also cheering me on was Gordon, amazing author of Your Own Worst Enemy and The Boomerang Effect. If I hadn’t had his humor and faith during the crazy query journey, I’m not sure where I’d be.

Bob, my Peaceniks pal since our writers’ residency with Doris Betts, gave such thoughtful read-throughs. David, my Peaceniks and True North pal, was a great editor and adviser on everything from back-cover blurbs to cover design, reminding me always of scribere quam videri scriber. Write—don’t just seem to write. Doris’s inspiration is still with me: a truth-teller, hilarious and kind, and always challenging us to find our authentic stories.

The term beta readers doesn’t do justice to folks who cheerlead your work along, no matter how ragged. Thank you, Randy, Delia, Kira, Gwyn, Amanda, and Vince who labored through early drafts. Thank you, Nancy S., for amazing conversations about writing, art, and passion. Thank you Marcia, who advised me on emotional issues for youth, and to my cousin Elizabeth and my friend Nick, doctors both, who helped me with medical questions. The Muu Muus—Marcia, Beverly, Susan, Laurie, and Katie—heard various bits and gave me pep talks when things got tough. And Bobbie, Tracy, Sally, and Deirdre—how often you heard news and said, Stay strong, have faith, hang in. Nancy P., thanks for your wonderful emails shouting joy and encouragement across the miles. Elizabeth, I appreciate so much your keen editor’s eye and how you keep my stories alive with your wonderful support and web design. And I know you’ll forgive me my violation of style guides as I sought to make Wendy’s numerical lens come to life.

Nina and Bonnie of the Wilkes University Creative Writing program called me after the manuscript won the first runner-up award for the James Jones First Novel Fellowship. They said that it was between mine and the winner. That kept me going.

I thank Diane for vetting the manuscript and catching many errors, whether grammatical, mechanical, or logistical, helping the book to make good sense. I’m grateful to Streetlight Graphics for making the cover of my dreams—twice now.

To the cast and crew of the Wendy Redbird trailer, directed by the awesome Nic Beery, thank you. Paul, Caity, Hannah-Kathryn, Susan, Greg, Hannah, Carol, Ish, Jay, Simon, Henry, Nate, Blake, Robert, and Jay: you made the trailer of my and Wendy’s dreams!

Cat lovers will ask if Strike and Retreat is real. My mewse, Sonny Hawks, knows that’s his doppelganger. If he hasn’t scented or shed upon my work, then it’s not an approved draft.

Thank you, Henry, for teaching me about slang and texting when I was a super-Luddite in the phone department. And for making it through all my missteps in other realms.

Thank you, Carolina, for reading it twice and for being so faithful with encouragement. You get my soul buddy wanderings into strange realms of spiritual belief.

Amy, you’re my hero. You say you’re no writer, but to paraphrase Pat Schneider, You write on air whenever you speak. Thanks for your wise counsel and wit. You keep me going.

It is may be what it is, yet you’ve never settled for that.

My parents, Stephen and Katherine—I’m not sure how many drafts you read. All I know is, I am so loved I can’t measure it. I am able to write today because you always gave me hope and space as a child to let creativity flourish. You gifted me with trust that my ideas matter.

Greg Hawks, my partner in artistic faith, you’ve loved me through all the deadlining. Bless you for getting me to laugh and rest when I take my art waaaaay too seriously.

In 2022, thirteen years after I began this journey, I revisited the prose to find what’s lasting and ask what’s not. I marveled at the weird prescience that happens with storytelling, since Leaving Neverland left me speechless. I cringed at words and phrases that had to go and took them out. If Catholicism has taught me anything, it’s confess, repent, and try again.

Thank you to all my professors at Vermont College of Fine Arts for growing my mind, heart, and spirit. Thank you, VCFA colleagues who challenge me to think deeply and revise well. Thank you to so many YA authors and allies and activists who help me wake up White daily and see what I couldn’t see before.

All these midwives, all these helpers. And now, the rebirth.

May art heal and help. May it get us to speak what’s hidden. Let’s listen and let the truth unfold.

There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night.

—Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus

Wendy Redbird Dancing’s Pact with MJ. June 25, 2009. 2:27 p.m.

If I start telling how things happened, it must be nothing but the unblinking truth. Every bit of horror must be laid bare.

Let truth be told in this old-school journal. Not some tweet-text-IM, spamming everywhere, gone with the next breath. Let it be ink instead and 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.

For nights I’ve dreamed of cleavers separating his hand from arm, head from neck.

But each dream ends with my hands, arms, head flying into outer space.

Because I am bad.

Hounded by night creatures.

Stamped by the smoothest of criminals.

If he shows again, and I must look him in the eye, I will find the strength to say it. Then I will call Grandma. I will beg her presence in this house. Show her these words when terror takes my tongue.

No one will hurt me now, because they’ll know what’s true.

This girl will peel back the glittering glove, and she will doff her mask.

Chapter 1

We’re getting honked at yet again in the school drop-off circle because my dear mother, Sunny Revere, has failed to move forward in a timely fashion. Or perhaps they hate us because of her bumper stickers: MATRIOTIC, COEXIST, and NATURE IS MY CHURCH.

4…G…V…N…? As in ‘forgiven’? Whatever, Sunny says, sneering at the license plate of the silver SUV ahead. She lurches us forward, then loops her gray-brown hair into an unsteady knot at the back of her head. "Oh, look, another John 3:16. Since when did this town go Bible Belt?"

Since always, Mother, I snap. We’re trapped here, unable to disembark till the right fascist drop-off moment. I’ve already counted 15 boys with backward ball caps and 7 girls with 4-inch heels here at my new school, and none of these are workable numbers.

The ignorance, Sunny mutters, tailgating the SUV. One false move and our rusting 1991 Mitsubishi Mirage Colt will be a pancake beneath it.

Then why are we here?

We’re at a dead stop again, thanks to the fat palm of the good ol’ boy officer just ahead, sweating like a hunk of white cheese in this swamp heat. Poor guy, he looks dehydrated, Sunny says.

She rolls down her window and offers him her thermos. Assalaamu alaykum, she calls cheerily—her form of protest against racial profiling of Muslims in Southern suburbia.

The officer looks spooked.

Mother! I groan.

What? It means peace be with you! Catholics say it. She waves the thermos. Try this organic goji berry tea! So refreshing!

No thank you, ma’am.

I sink lower in my seat. You’re scaring him.

She rolls up the window. I am not!

Nor are you converting him. He probably doesn’t understand what you said.

O ye of little faith!

"Once upon a time, life was good. But no, we had to leave Calif—"

Enough with the rants, Wendy! When Sunny makes a face, her jaw gets even more lean and horsey. If I survived this place, you can. You’ll get back on your precious stage, okay?

I’m done with theater. My most important play, ever—and you ruined it.

Two bright-red spots bloom on her cheeks. I couldn’t take things anymore. You need to understand!

I am the most understanding fifteen-year-old she’ll ever meet. Like when she said I’d be with Cindy for eighth grade in San Francisco, but we suddenly ended up in West Virginia. Or when she went crying back to California three months into my ninth grade year, but then insisted we flee for Idaho at Christmas—only to make us go right back to California in June. And now, May of my tenth grade year, we’ve made haste for North Carolina.

I could put a fist through this window.

Another lurch forward. It’s just… Her voice trails off.

Just what? Who is it this time?

She won’t say.

My heart slams my ribcage. I start counting: 4 cracks in the windshield, 4 rust spots on the hood, 4 nicks in the dash—she always finds a backup man, every time we bolt. I know she has a new dude here, which is why she left Jerome, heinous couch-surfing Jerome, with his lean and ragged look and the B.O. and clove cigarettes. Narrow eyes always watching me whether Sunny was in the room or not.

Our silence simmers. Only 2 cars till drop-off.

Sunny explains to the windshield, "First of all, you had an understudy! Second of all, trust your talent. You have no faith! There will be other shows."

I had the lead, Viola, in Twelfth Night. Cindy, ruling the stage beside me as the lovely Olivia, she said it was a damn shame; then she cried.

No, I say. There will not.

Sunny messes with the radio dial. She lands on some oldies station where Elvis croons Don’t Be Cruel. He growls, Mmm, like a horny beast, like a cartoon lion after a cartoon impala. She laughs and starts singing along.

I’m leaving, you know, I say over her singing. This is it, Sunny. After London, you’ll never see my ass again.

On July 24, 2009—my birthday—Cindy and I, proud and rare owners of tickets to see Michael Jackson at the O2 Arena, we shall bow down in the presence of The King of Pop. Grandma’s funding it, so Sunny can’t do a thing.

Okay, drama queen, she says with a sigh. "All the world’s your stage. She inches us forward the last bit. But this is my home—my roots! Someday, it’ll be yours, too. You’ll see."

Deanna Faire strolls by, flipping salon blonde over a shoulder and trailed by minions. She who rocks the bronze spray tan and tiny glitter tee upon those pasty-white and puny limbs, those skintight jeans and red cowboy boots, she stars as my latest nemesis. Somehow I’ve enraged yet another Mean Girl. Doesn’t help she’s a local country star with four thousand Facebook fans and a publicist. Now her hate for me is trending.

Thank MJ she doesn’t notice our rusty carcass spewing smoke—or Mother’s latest outfit.

Have a beautiful day, my little redbird! Sunny sings as I get out. Heads turn and faces sneer in the crowd—at me and my dear mother, too loud in a ratty blue sari and peacock feather earrings. I’ve only been here 4.2 days of May, but the masses very much know who I am.

The Carolina heat hugs me like hot, bad breath. I plug Michael in my ears and make my entrance to the school, head down and hoodie up.

Chapter 2

BAM! A shoulder hits mine in these factory halls reeking of sickly sweet Lysol, raging hormones, and rank sweat. Too high, that redneck who just bumped me; too many, these fools and tools swarming to get over, under, around. Drones ogle phones and thumb tiny keyboards, faces stuck to screens.

Hey, emo! yells a Skoal-dipping senior with a long-ass drawl. What’s under the hoodie?

How low can they go? Praise Michael Jackson for filling my ears, King of my Walkman, granting me sanity—ooh! I push through the idiocy, the illiteracy—beating and bopping, giving thanks to guitar, praise to bass, blessing these drums—ow! Yee-ha! Brassy and rhythmic, I dodge these zombies, 8 steps per verse, blocking tongues like razors. Though sweat pools in my pits, though looks slice and dice, it’s alright, that’s right! Do you fools have an anthem?

Deanna Faire with her pack of fans leans against the wall of the main hall. Hey, look, y’all, she calls as I come close. Look who’s back in black. She has something to say every freaking day, like her reputation depends on it.

She says to her crew, Think she’s a lez?

The drone BFFs giggle. One says: She’s kind of psycho.

And her mom’s a ho, Deanna says. A hippie ho.

This cracks them up mightily.

Then she says, lower but loud enough: I don’t pay him to chill with that skank!

I pick up the pace. How the hell could she know about Sunny’s cross-country manhunts? Pay who what? At least today Deanna’s pack doesn’t tread on my heels, a beauteous rarity.

Behind me, Deanna’s last drawl: God, somebody needs to clean house. This place has gone goth, ghetto, and Mexican.

Cackles from her Wonder Bread crew. I twitch and keep walking, but all I can see is Cindy’s stricken face at my lily-livered retreat. I wonder when I became a coward.

Just a week ago at dress rehearsal, she and I sat in front of mirrors with her dark foundation, my light, joking about the three commandments of makeup. Tonight she will speak Shakespeare and light up the stage. Without me.

At the intersection of the math and science wings, I forget which way English is. So many lemmings swarm from every side, I’m stuck in the middle, pushed by a teen tsunami up against a Unity mural where deformed Blacks and Whites grin like pumpkins, grasping four-fingered hands. Is everybody just Race Option A or B here in this sweaty land of Lost Causes?

Move along, Wendy Redbird Dancing, calls Ms. Washington. She’s a tall, older Black woman on fearsome heels, not to be messed with in her brown silk suit. You can tell she’s not a fan of suburban White kids or my hippie name. I don’t blame her. Sunny claims I make this up, but seriously, Ms. Washington looks at me like she knew Grandma in a Whites-only kind of way.

I land in AP Lit, bruised, but hoodie still intact; body-slammed, but still breathing. Ms. Teasdale, who looks like a pale lanky bird in a tie-dye, passes out books for our AP exam review. Praise MJ, I read all of these back in California: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, The Scarlet Letter. Hmm, which should I choose: racist hate, bloody whips, or branded harlots?

I flip through Huck Finn and see that Teasdale’s marked out the n-word on every page where it appears, with a thick black Sharpie.

What the hell? I say under my breath. So we can’t handle the truth?

I know, right? says a voice just in front of me, to my left.

It’s Tanay DeVries. We’ve never even said hey, but she did nod at me yesterday. I like her face because it’s heart-shaped with apple cheeks. Her nose is broad and beautiful, like MJ’s before the surgeries, and her eyes glow an eerie, bright-crystal green, giving her an elvish vibe. She’s wearing fatigues with a tight purple shirt pulled over her curves, but somehow it all works.

That woman means well, she says, nodding her head at Teasdale, but it is what it is, know what I’m saying? Like don’t do that for me.

Yeah, like Mark Twain said: ‘Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.’

Tanay’s eyebrows rise. Then her face clears. Ah, pun. I bet they put that on the exam. She sighs and shakes her head, like Armageddon is on its way.

Andrew Burrell leans forward from where he sits behind me to my right. Like Tanay, he’s the only Black rep for his gender in the class. So it’s okay to use it? He’s looking at Tanay.

Tanay won’t look at him. Do I care what you do? Go ahead, use the whole damn dictionary with your boys.

You still mad? He’s grinning, and he’s got a voice rich and deep, a chiseled nose and jaw, and a head shaved close—honestly, the kind of face I suppose might start some fireworks inside a red-blooded female, were I that sort of female. Come on, girl, it’s all about context. He glances at me. Don’t mind us, we like to fight.

"Bet you don’t say that word in here, Tanay tells him. But you’re out there saying it all the time!"

Out there, it’s a term of endearment, Andrew says.

It’s a racial epalet! Tanay says.

Epithet, I think, just as Andrew says, Epithet.

Shut up, Tanay says.

Don’t judge me now. You just said, you’re all for it in books, Andrew says. "It’s about who’s saying it and why they’re saying it. Like I said: context."

Yeah, well, now you got the rednecks thinking they can do it, too, Tanay snaps. It’s not like they’re reading this. She pounds Huck Finn. But her lips are on the verge of a smile.

Fools were racist long before me, Andrew says with a shrug, and settles back in his seat.

I hate censorship, I say to no one in particular. But, um, it’s not a word I’d read out loud.

See, she’s got sense, Tanay says.

Andrew says to me, She’s always got to have the last word.

Tanay groans. I believe I am sitting on a high-voltage line of sexual tension.

Deanna Faire struts in as the bell rings, as much as skeletons can strut, beaming at all her peeps. She sits her bony ass right in front of me. While Teasdale yaps about the Big AP coming soon to a desk near you, Miss Dee swishes her locks, then turns and gives my garb The Elevator. Up, down, sneer. Those Xanax-blue eyes finally land on my Egyptian eyeliner, worn in honor of one singer who brought us the biggest of all Thrills.

She leans over to one of her girls, waving a hand before her wrinkled pointy nose. Anyone got Febreze?

Laughs here, there, everywhere except for Tanay and Andrew.

Burning waters roil at the edges of my skin. My fists clench, pushing nails center of my palm, stigmata fierce.

Tanay glares at Deanna. You are one nasty human.

Deanna smiles at her like an angel. "Sorry, but something smells nasty. Don’t worry; it’s not you."

More giggles. Tanay gives her a look that could cut glass.

Oblivious Teasdale scribbles on the SMART Board, CONNECT THE DOTS. "Okay, everyone! You already know the AP exam wants you to see the big picture. You need to make connections among all these readings. What’s the theme that links these pieces of literature?"

Prejudice, I say, loudly. Still super-relevant. Like some people who I heard today say that this school’s gone, and I quote, ‘goth, ghetto, and Mexican.’ Unquote.

And I point at Deanna. It’s very quiet. Most of the class looks at me, though, like I’ve lost my mind.

Deanna’s face lights up in pink neon. "Uh, who says that? she sputters. Omigod, it’s like 2009! People just elected Obama! Please."

‘People,’ Tanay mutters. Hmm. But not you.

But everywhere else, sympathetic murmurs for Deanna’s enlightened status.

I mean, I don’t see race. Deanna’s voice gets high and angelic. "I think people who always talk about it are the racists."

Everybody’s looking at me.

Did you, or did you not say, ‘This school’s gone goth, ghetto, and Mexican’? But now my voice is shrill.

Deanna sighs. I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I do know that’s slander.

Watch out, she’s got a lawyer, says some White dude in a backward ball cap.

Everyone chuckles, and Deanna smirks like a satisfied cat.

Settle down, please! Teasdale squeaks, running nervous hands through gray, flyaway hair. Let’s get back to connecting dots!

I mean, come on, Andrew, Deanna says. "You’re class VP and starting quarterback. Like that’s racist?"

People laugh. Andrew’s face has shut down.

Excuse me, Tanay says, leg jittering beneath her desk. As long as Blacks are seventy percent of suspensions around here, but less than thirty percent of the population, we’ve got a ways to go.

Andrew clears his throat. Yeah, it was in the paper the other day.

If people get suspended here, it’s for serious stuff, Deanna says.

Uh-uh. Tanay shakes her head. Some people get suspended just for attitude.

I got two days for starting a fire, the dude with the ball cap says proudly. Everyone cracks up.

Keshawn McAdoo got seven for writing on the bathroom wall, Tanay says. You do the math.

That can’t be true! Deanna sputters. He has to have a record or something.

Excuse me, I say, raising my hand. I have to vomit.

Around me people recoil. But Tanay shoots me a grin, looking like she knew me in another life.

Ms. Teasdale sighs and hands me the big wooden hall pass—a long, phallic symbol of freedom. I race out of the classroom and down the hall, gritting my teeth. Aside from Deanna’s idiocy, I actually do have to vomit. This always happens when my damn period presents itself like an assault out of

Reviews for How Wendy Redbird Dancing Survived the Dark Ages of Nought

[khal_khaleesi · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

(This review can be found on my blog The (Mis)Adventures of a Twenty-Something Year Old Girl).


When I came across this book on Goodreads, there was something about the blurb that made me want to read it, so when I got asked if I'd like to review it, I said yes instantly. While the first half of the book was a bit hit and miss, the second half really became interesting!

The title is a bit of a mouthful although interesting. I had a hard time remembering what the book was called due to the long name. Eventually, I memorized it, but I would still double check just to make sure I was right.

The cover might be a bit plain, but I think it suits this book perfectly! After the terrible incident that happens to Wendy, she kind of goes inside herself. I think this cover definitely captures that.

What bothered me a bit with the world building was I just felt like the school Wendy attended was racism central. I know that racism is a huge problem is some places, but it just felt a bit over the top in the beginning of the book. Luckily, about a third of the book in, the over the top racism thing stops, and the world building becomes more believable.

The pacing is fairly slow to begin with. However, about a little before halfway in, the pacing speeds up, and it quickly held my attention for the rest of the book. In fact, I couldn't put the book done after that! So if you start off a bit bored with the book, please do continue reading or you'll out miss out on a really good story.

The plot is interesting enough. It deals with racism, being an outcast, sexual abuse, and an emotionally distant mother as well as some other issues. I thought it was an original idea to use Michael Jackson as a teen girl's saint. I love the references to some artists of old.

The characters were written really well. Wendy, aside from her obsession with the king of pop, is just your average teenage girl. Her goal is to see Michael Jackson in concert in London. Wendy is definitely easy to relate to. Shaye comes across as being very cool and charismatic. He's instantly likable. I felt bad that I had ever liked him though after what he did to Wendy. My favorite character was Tanay though. I loved her attitude as well as her sass. She's super funny, yet she's a friend who's got your back. I think teenage girls will have an easy time relating to Wendy and/or Tanay.

The dialogue, for the most part, runs smoothly. However, at the beginning of the book, it does feel a little bit forced especially when it focuses on racism a little too heavily, at least I thought so. Some may get offended with the racism being used, but I didn't feel like the book itself was racist. I just felt that there was too much focus on how segregated Wendy's school is and how much racism (against all colors) there is in that school. Other than that, everything is smooth sailing. The character interactions feel normal, and the dialogue goes well with what a teen book should read like. There is some cussing in this book as well as some sexual situations, so I wouldn't recommend this book to younger teens.

Overall, How Wendy Redbird Dancing Survived the Dark Ages of Nought is a very intriguing book. The issues it deals with are issues that have plagued teens as well as adults for awhile. Hawks does a fantastic job of writing about this issues.

I'd recommend this book to those aged 16 who want to read something a little more realistic than normal fiction with characters of whom are easy to relate to.

I'd give How Wendy Redbird Dancing Survived the Dark Ages of Nought by Lyn Fairchild Hawks a 3.75 out of 5.

(I received a free paperback of this book from the author in exchange for a fair and honest review).