Zana West's Diary: #CaliGirls, #FirstCar, and #HonoluluLaw

By Katharine M. Nohr

"Thoroughly engrossing... A must read for fans of the Zana West legal mysteries."

 

-Laurie Hanan, Author of the Louise Golden mystery series

 

When all is lost, can young Zana West find the strength to stay strong?

Before

• Language: English
• Publisher: Written Dreams Publishing
• Release date: Jun 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781951375225

Katharine M. Nohr

Katharine M. Nohr is the author of Managing Risk in Sport and Recreation: The Essential Guide for Loss Prevention (Human Kinetics, 2009) and the Tri-Angles series, which include Land Sharks, Freewheel, and VO2 Max (Written Dreams Publishing, 2016, 2017, 2018). She is the host of the weekly talk show, "The Wide World of Esports" on the ThinkTech Hawaii livestreaming network. She is an insurance defense and Esports attorney and a principal in Nohr Sports Risk Management, LLC. During her free time, Katharine dances Zumba, swims, and plays with her Siamese cats, Ninja and Ramsey. Find her on social media at @KatharineNohr or @TriathlonNovels.

Book preview

#Prologue

@ZLaw

My childhood was a nightmare. Now that I’m a successful adult, I’ll put it out there. I was a foster kid. I was raped. And, sometimes I was homeless. I wish I’d grown up with 2 parents. But, that didn’t happen. I had to make do with little and turn it into the life of my dreams.

Chapter One

The last few miles of a marathon can be agony. For me, my life marathon was a sufferfest from the beginning and only got worse with each mile.

March 2000, Ventura, California

Story Sanchez squinted through her sunglasses at the old blue car decorated with a gigantic white bow in the driveway.

Happy Birthday! Mom and Dad chanted in unison, and then her sisters echoed the sentiment.

Story hugged them each in turn and said, Thank you. She’d asked for an off-the-showroom-floor 2000 Honda Civic for her sixteenth birthday, but in the Sanchez family tradition, was gifted with an ancient 1987 Buick Riviera. How could they give her something better than the old red truck her older brother Anthony had gotten on his sixteenth?

Story managed a real smile when she examined the car closely. It had a fresh coat of paint and the interior looked thoroughly detailed. The California license plate was personalized with STORY 1, which made her laugh. She’d been named Stephanie Jill Sanchez at birth, but her parents had nicknamed her Story when she’d begged them to read to her as soon as she could talk. She loved stories of any kind. The name had stuck, and few of her friends even knew her given name.

Hank restored it. Dad handed her the keys. What do you think?

I like it. Story smiled. Can I drive it?

Pass your test today and you can drive it all you want, Mom said, and then added, within the rules, of course.

Story sighed. Her parents had rules for everything. Anthony affectionately called them helicopter parents, because of their smothering involvement in their lives. That’s why, as soon as he’d turned eighteen, he’d moved out and chosen a Florida university, even though he had better offers close by.

After a breakfast of homemade pancakes, maple syrup, crisp bacon, and fresh squeezed orange juice—all her favorites—Story and Dad headed to the Department of Motor Vehicles in his car. She’d been practicing in his BMW and didn’t want to switch cars for the test. She felt fairly confident that she would pass the driving part. The butterflies in her stomach were caused by her anxiety over the written portion. She had never been a good test-taker.

When they returned home, Mom and her sisters—Kimberly and Betsy—greeted them at the door.

Did you pass? they asked at the same time, before she’d even got a chance to step in through the door.

Story frowned, hoping to fool them, but then cracked a smile. She jumped up and down in excitement. It was the best birthday present ever.

Now, can I go for a drive? She directed her question at her dad, because her mother would more than likely want her help with dinner or to assist ten-year-old Betsy with her homework.

Sure. Dad nodded. Don’t go far and be back in an hour. You’re not allowed to let other kids ride in the car.

Story didn’t wait to hear the rest of his admonitions. She raced out the door to her very own car. She started the engine and carefully backed out of the driveway with her family watching her from the picture window of their spacious home.

She drove around the neighborhood, waving at a few kids from school. She was tempted to stop by Erica’s and Whitney’s houses, but there would be time for that later. Instead, she drove to the beach, found a parking space, and sat in the front seat, staring at the ocean and a handful of surfers waiting for the next wave. This was the first time in forever she’d been alone. She breathed in deeply, feeling her shoulders relax. She totally got why Anthony had moved far away to escape smothering suburbia and their Leave It to Beaver upbringing.

After a few minutes of relaxing, Story examined the car closely. The glove compartment was empty save for a manual, registration, and an insurance card. She got out and opened the rear door to examine the backseat. There was a small hole in the upholstery that she hadn’t noticed before. She used the button in the front to open the trunk to calculate how much stuff it might hold—if she was able to convince her parents to let her take a road trip.

She ran her hand over the freshly vacuumed carpet in the trunk until she felt a bump. Was there something under it? It’s probably a tire iron or tools.

She lifted it up, and underneath the carpet were three journals. She opened one, and on the front page it said, Property of Zana West in neat handwriting.

Before Story went to bed that night, she began reading the earliest entries in Zana West’s Diary.

March 6, 1992

They won’t let me go to school—again! We have to drive to Orange County for a stupid marathon. Mom would’ve let me stay with Ashley, but Dad said we have to go as a family. It wouldn’t be all that bad, but there’s a race every weekend and Miss Morris wants to have a meeting to talk about my attendance. I’m doing extra credit and she says I’m still the best student in Language Arts and Social Studies, but there’s rules about attendance. She said something about the school’s funding.

I slammed the door to my room. I hear them talking in the living room about me. It’s hard to hear, but Mom said that I’m mad because I can’t play with Ashley and Jessica on Saturday. Dad isn’t saying much as usual. He’s probably loading up the station wagon. He calls it an SUV, but it’s a 1978 Chevy Mali-butt. It’s not like Jessica’s Dad’s Ford Explorer. Mom doesn’t want me to be mad. She said we can bring my bike and if there’s a kids triathlon, I can do it if the fee isn’t too high. I’d rather go to Disneyland, but it’s too expensive. I hope we can stay in a motel. Mom says that’s wishful thinking.

Maybe we’ll camp in our tent. There’s more room than sleeping in the car. I always get stuck sleeping in the back with my bike. Dad gets the backseat and he snores. Mom’s knocking on the door. I’m ignoring her.

March 7, 1992

I couldn’t sleep last night. I could smell Dad’s feet hanging over the backseat, so I draped a t-shirt over them. It didn’t help. I forgot to bring a pillow and had to use my backpack. Now, I have a headache.

I finally fell asleep around 4 A.M., but a few hours later roosters woke me up. Dad parked the station wagon near some farmhouses and a man wearing overalls knocked on the door and told us to move along.

We found a place serving breakfast for $1.99 and split two plates. Well, Dad ate a whole plate and some of the second plate. I had toast with grape jelly and some eggs. I’m still mad about having to come to Orange County so I’m not talking to them, except when necessary like asking to use a bathroom.

They don’t have much money, so they dropped me off at the library. They’re checking out the marathon course. Dad said he’s sick of my sullen attitude. Mom smiled and said I’d be in a better mood after spending time alone.

If I were talking to them, I would’ve said that if they didn’t want me hanging around, why didn’t they let me stay at Ashley’s house? Parents can be so stupid. A lady is reading aloud from a Dr. Seuss book to some kids a few years younger than me. When I’m done writing in my diary, I’ll find To Kill a Mockingbird. My teacher said I’m like 4 grades ahead in my reading and writing skills.

Mom would like me to skip a few grades, and since I’m the tallest in my class, Miss Morris agrees. Dad says I’m too immature and he doesn’t want me to get mixed up with boys. I’m not sure what he’s talking about. Maybe their feet smell, too.

March 7, 1992—5:40 P.M.

I’m still at the library. My stomach’s growling and my head hurts. The librarian has been staring at me and frowning for hours. She finally asked if she could help me. I assumed she was asking about books, and so I told her I couldn’t find To Kill a Mockingbird anywhere. She finally cracked a smile and said my classmates had checked out all the copies. Apparently, it’s on some class reading list and she assumed that’s why I was asking. I didn’t set her straight.

It’s almost 6:00. I keep looking out the window for the station wagon. The library will be closing soon. I guess I can sit on the front steps and wait for my parents. I don’t have any money and haven’t eaten since breakfast. I’m bored.

March 7, 1992—5:53 P.M.

Some of the lights have been turned off. I guess they want me to leave. There’s no one else here except that librarian with the long gray hair and her jangly keys. If she’s not staring at me, she’s staring at the clock. Maybe she has a date or has to get home to feed her cat. She’s coming over here.

March 7, 1992—6:12 P.M.

I found a bench to sit on, but I’m not alone. This weird guy who talks to himself is sitting here, too. Sometimes he stands up and yells swear words. There’s no other place to sit and if I focus on writing, hopefully he won’t bother me. I wish I could’ve checked out the book I was reading, but I live too far away to return it and I don’t think my library card for Ventura will work here.

I hope they didn’t get in an accident. What if they were sick of me not talking to them and they abandoned me here? All I can think about is food. I drank as much water as I could from the drinking fountain to fill up my stomach, but now I have to go to the bathroom again. There’s a black van pulling into the parking lot.

March 7, 1992—8:45 P.M.

I’m writing this by flashlight under covers in an actual bed. Everyone else in the house is asleep, because they have to get up at 3:30 in the morning to run the marathon. I have to go with them, because I can’t stay here in Mr. and Mrs. Reed’s house alone. They’re also triathletes and when the station wagon broke down, Mr. Reed picked Mom and Dad up in his van and then stopped by the library to pick me up.

I said I was hungry, and Mr. Reed gave me a Kind bar from his gym bag. All they do is talk about triathlons and the marathon, so they barely noticed me at all. Mom sat next to me in the backseat. When we’d almost got to the Reeds’ house, she put her arm around me, kissed me on the cheek, and said she loved me. I smiled at her for the first time in weeks.

Everyone says I look just like her. She’s tall with straight black hair and green eyes. She’s much prettier than I am. I’m not talking to her just yet, but maybe I will tomorrow.

This house is huge compared to our apartment. I’m sleeping in the same room as their five-year-old daughter, Zoe. They were laughing at dinner, saying how cute it was that their girls are named Zana and Zoe. The zany Zs, they called us.

I don’t think Zoe is zany at all. She has curly blond hair and stares at me with big blue eyes, then giggles and runs away. I hope we can leave tomorrow after the race. I heard Dad say that the station wagon needs a new battery. I wonder what a battery costs. If we don’t have money for Disneyland, a kid’s triathlon entry fee, or to buy food, we might be stuck here. Dad always says I worry too much. He never seems to worry about anything, so I worry for both of us.

March 8, 1992—7:15 A.M.

I walked with Mom and Dad to the marathon start line. Mr. and Mrs. Reed dropped us off before taking Zoe to her babysitter’s house close by. Mrs. Reed’s in Mom’s age group and they joke about kicking each other’s butts. Dad is the oldest, but they say he’s the fastest, so he started near the front. They told me to stay near the finish line and Dad should be done in two hours and forty-five minutes.

I’m sitting on a park bench. I wish I could lie on the bench and go to sleep. It’s like this every weekend. We’re always going to triathlons or running races and I’m stuck getting up in the middle of the night and hanging around at the finish line. They can’t afford a babysitter and since I’m super tall and mature for my age, they said I could take care of myself. Some people think I’m twelve years old, but I’m only eight. They don’t get that I’m scared to be by myself. I started crying when I said goodbye to Mom this morning. I hugged her tightly and whispered, I love you.

She looked happier than I’ve ever seen her. She said, I love you, Z-bear, like she always does. She skipped to the start line. I guess I’m talking to her now.

December 26, 1992—9:48 P.M.

Dad gave me this diary for Christmas. He said it would help me to write about my feelings. I don’t think he knew that I already have a diary—an old school notebook. At least this one has lined pages and a blue cover with a butterfly design. I’m not sure why he thinks I’m the one who needs it. He’s the one who needs help. He started smoking pot about a week after Mom died and now, that’s all he does. We had to move into a super small apartment, because he lost his job at the bike shop.

At first, he tried to hide the joints and bong from me, but now he doesn’t seem to care. He sold all of our bikes a few weeks ago to get money for drugs. He said the money was for rent—another lie. Does he think I can’t smell? This apartment is so small—he sleeps in the living room and I have the closet-sized bedroom.

I can hear him and his friends in the next room. Dad supplied the pot for their party. There’s no way I’m going to get any sleep tonight. They’re talking loudly. It’s smoky. I have to pee, but I don’t want to go past them to get to the bathroom. At least, I don’t have to get up early tomorrow for school.

I wish I had grandparents or aunts and uncles like the kids at school. I would live with them instead of my stoner dad. I can’t even go to Ashley’s house anymore, because we moved too far away. I have to go to a new school now, and the kids call me Giraffe or Stretch instead of Zana. I haven’t made any friends yet, so all I do is study.

At recess, I help out the librarian by putting books away. After school, I walk to the free community pool and swim laps until open swim is over. Christmas vacation is torture. No school lunch. I sit in my room all day. Sometimes I cry. I miss Mom.

Chapter Two

When Story