Sixteen-year-old Nia has a history of running away in epic fashion. In 8th grade she ventured across Eastern Europe! But when Nia and her mom visit her grandmother in California for the summer, they both assume her juvenile escapist days are over. But her broken family's lifestyle in San Francisco soon becomes dull and offensive, and Nia meets an intriguing young troubadour named Jesse. In typical teenage style, things change very quickly. Nia gets inspired by Holden Caulfield from Catcher in the Rye. She's fuelled by news that her sage-like friend from her first fugitive adventure, Kurt, is dying only hundreds of miles away in San Diego. Add a lingering attraction to Jesse, and Nia's rebellious California road trip becomes much more urgent.
Sixteen-year-old Nia has a history of running away in epic fashion. In 8th grade she ventured across Eastern Europe! But when Nia and her mom visit her grandmother in California for the summer, they both assume her juvenile escapist days are over. But her broken family's lifestyle in San Francisco soon becomes dull and offensive, and Nia meets an intriguing young troubadour named Jesse. In typical teenage style, things change very quickly. Nia gets inspired by Holden Caulfield from Catcher in the Rye. She's fuelled by news that her sage-like friend from her first fugitive adventure, Kurt, is dying only hundreds of miles away in San Diego. Add a lingering attraction to Jesse, and Nia's rebellious California road trip becomes much more urgent.
âSure youâre down for this?â Jesse asked me.
I nodded and smiled nervously in his front seat, as he clanked the passenger side door shut and a strand of his messy hair fell across his eyes. Jesse intrigued me, for sure, but his car was the biggest piece of crap Iâd ever sat inside. It reeked of cigarette smoke and dead butts filled the ashtray. It was a compact, twenty-year-old rust bucket, andâbased on the strewn clothes, pillow, and blanket in the tiny back seatâit must have doubled for his bedroom on occasion. But that didnât matter. I was glad he didnât have a fancy car.
Heâs a rebel musician.
Jesse raised the hatchback to put his well-worn guitar case and flannel over shirt in the back.
âSparkyâs pretty cozy, huh?â he said.
âDid you say âSparkyâ?â
âYep.â He gave the carâs fender a hard slap. âI call him Sparky. Itâs a Chevy Spark.â
âClever,â I said, unsure how heâd respond to sarcasmâor anything for that matter.
I donât know him.
Iâve only talked to him once before.
Heâs nineteenâthree years older than me.
These facts hit me like the chill of biting into ice as he opened his door and slid into the driverâs seat. The paradox: I hated that cold shooting through my teeth, but still liked chewing on ice.
He craned his neck to look at the mess in his backseat, and I noticed a tattoo on his neck. Was it a black leaf?
He caught me examining his inked skin.
âYouâre good to go?â he asked, as if it were a warning.
âYeah, letâs go,â I said.
As soon as the words left my mouth, I half-doubted my decision to leave with this guy. My other half couldnât wait to hit the road in a foreign land: California.
Two weeks earlierâŚ
AMERICAN ARRIVAL
We arrived at the San Francisco airport in the middle of a bright July day. I walked into the terminal and through customs like a zombieâwithout sleep or proper meals for over fourteen total hours. Mom was zoned out, too. She seemed almost drugged as the immigration officer questioned her, an American citizen, as if sheâd defected and was some kind of spy.
âHow long have you lived in Bulgaria?
âWhy did you leave?
âHow long have you been married to a foreigner?
âWhatâs your occupation there?
âHave you been to Russia in the past twelve months?
âWhatâs your address here in America?
And almost twenty more questions, most of which sounded paranoid and ignorant. At the end of the interrogation he stamped our passports and offered us a big fake smile.
My mom spotted Grandma Ross in a sea of sign holders and random faces at the international arrival doors. I barely recognized her in the crowd. It had been four years since Iâd seen her in Vienna, because she never came to visit us in Bulgaria. Mom told me sheâd called it too âdirty and backward.â Only Western Europe was good enough for Grandma Rossâher somewhat impersonal title showing how much closer I was to my Bulgarian grandma, who I simply called Grandma or âBaba.â The last time Iâd seen Grandma Ross her hair was dyed a very unnatural golden blonde. Since then, sheâd let it go silvery white which was much better, but it did make her look elderly. After hugging my mom with her eyes closed tight, Grandma Ross reached out her hands to me.
âOh my, Nia,â she beamed. âItâs been so long, sweetie.â
âHi, Grandma,â I said and smiled.
She gave me a bear hug that smelled like sheâd bathed in Chanel perfume. With her hands on my shoulders, Grandma Ross stepped back and sized me up.
âYouâre absolutely gorgeous, Nia,â she said, her eyes all over me. âBeautiful skin, sweet smile, and such a good figure. Just lose that hideous nose ring, the shabby T-shirt, and youâll be shaping up into a fabulous woman in no time.â
Weird. And rude.
Grandma Ross was judging me on my appearance alone, and wasted no time going there.
I forced a smile. What do you say to that? I hated the idea of being seen as a cute doll and nothing more.
âMom, take it easy, youâre embarrassing her.â
âOh, nonsense,â Grandma Ross said. âNia, honey, are you okay? Flight was too long, huh? Or have you been in Bulgaria for so long youâve forgotten how to speak English? Ha!â
She laughed too much at her own joke.
Mom gave her a courtesy smile.
âShe goes to an American school,â my mom said. âShe speaks English every day.â
âI know, Sara. Iâm just kidding.â
Grandma Ross pinched my cheek, which might have appeared sweet from afar, but actually stung with condescension.
âLetâs go,â Grandma Ross said. âMy new Benz is right out in the parking lot.â
Fun fact: my American grandmother had managed to annoy me within the first minute of our arrival.
Dinner at Grandma Rossâs wasnât any better. The three of us sat at a long dining table. Grandpa Ross died when I was three years old, so I didnât really remember him, but a grand framed portrait of him hung near the window behind where Grandma Ross sat. Her dining room with its ornate chandeliers looked like a private banquet hall in an exclusive, aristocratic clubâbeautiful, but stuffy and uninviting. The silence between small talk was almost creepy. And, yeah, the talk shrunk to super small.
How long was your flight again?
Howâs the weather been in Sofia?
Howâs your job been going?
All directed at my mom. I couldnât tell if she was interested in answering these questions or not, but she did. Maybe she was just happy to see her mother for the first time in a while. Sifting through my shrimp pasta made by the housekeeper, I zoned out of the conversation until Grandma Ross roped me in with the ever-fascinating:
âHowâs school, Nia?â
I hated this question from adults. On the surface it was simply unoriginal, but underneath it was potentially complex and too personal.
I opted to keep it simple. âGood.â
Grandma Ross waited for an awkward few seconds and then furrowed her brow before turning to my mom.
âSara, you have to pull Nia out of that school. It sounds like her English isnât quite what it should be. Sheâs notâ
âMother, she speaks English as good as Iâ
âWell. Not good, well,â Grandma Ross corrected.
âWhatever, Mom. Nia is getting a great education and sheâs fine. I donât know if sheâs jet-lagged orâ
âIâm just pointing out,â Grandma interrupted again in her grandiose fashion, âThatâs sheâs been here for half a day now and hasnât spoken much to me. Articulation is very important. But I ask her a question and sheâ
âShe is right here,â I said. âShe is me, so why are you both talking about me in the third person, as if Iâm not even present?â
âOh, there she is, alive and kickinâ,â Grandma said, âAnd a little feisty too.â
I bit my lip because I didnât want to be rude or disrespectful to my own grandma on day one, but sheâd already managed to get on my nerves. Had she heard stories about me getting in trouble at school? Running away that one time? Or had she simply labeled me as a bad girl, a teen punk?
âReady to talk now, Nia?â Grandma added, condescendingly.
âMom,â my mom intoned as if she wanted to defend me but feared committing to it. We were newly-arrived guests after all.
âI just think NiaâŚâ
Grandma Ross went on, talking about me in the third person again while I sat right next to her. â...should open up and show at least a little polite interest, thatâs all.â
âNo disrespect, Grandma,â I said, âBut I have no problem expressing myself in English or Bulgarian. And, yeah, Iâm feeling jet-lagged, but I have no problem showing interest in answering questions... if theyâre interesting questions.â
âNia!â my mom shrieked.
Yeah, Mom was really good at repeating only our names to show her disapproval and perhaps discomfort, but not much else.Â
Grandma Ross tsked her tongue, her loftiness crystal clear.
âWell then, Nia, can you teach me how to ask an interesting question?â
âMom!â my mom yelled.
âStop repeating yourself, Sara,â Grandma said.
The tension thickened, making breathing a bit difficult. I wanted to get up and leave, and it was only the first night!
Grandma Ross turned her gaze on me.
âAre you going to answer me, Nia?â
What the hell is going on here?
Was this old woman on medication that made her extra bitchy? Or could there be some odd background information on her that had been kept secret? Had my mom said something to her about me that was offensive? What was I supposed to say to her?
âSorry, Grandma,â I said. âBut Iâm not very interested in school at the moment. Itâs summer and I donât really wanna think about classes, my friends, my not-so-friends, the gossip, my teachersâIâm on vacation, right?â
Grandma Ross sighed, not in understanding but in disappointment.
âThen what interests you, Nia?â
âThatâs a better question,â I said.
âReally? You approve of it?â Grandma asked facetiously.
My mother buried her forehead in her hands, making it obvious this wasnât the family reunion sheâd envisioned.
âYeah, but itâs a tough one,â I said, glimpsing Grandma Rossâs cold, tight-lipped smile, wondering what I had done to upset her, and why I felt the strong vibe she didnât like me. âI guess writing. Music. Traveling. Those all interest me.â
Grandma Ross turned to my mom as if sheâd have a cue card with a written response ready. My mom had nothing for her. And the blank space between them told meâfor the first time, though it seemed insultingly obviousâthat they didnât have the best relationship. And it hit me like a blunt object: Thatâs why Grandma Ross never visited us in Bulgaria! As a kid, Mom always gave me sugar-coated explanations as to why we rarely saw her, and over the years not seeing her had become the norm. Now, finally, came some clarity:Â She never visited because something went very wrong between her and my mom long ago.Â
âOh my,â Grandma Ross said. âNiaâs one of those artsy Gypsy types. Sounds like sheâs been in Eastern Europe for too long⌠But itâs good sheâs here at leastâto get a sense of American life, or should I say reality.â
âMom, please. Niaâs fine and so is Bulgaria.â
âYeah, Iâm fine,â I said.
âFine,â Grandma Ross said with thick sarcasm. âEverythingâs fine and dandy then.â She sighed and glanced around as if she were waiting for a servant to carry her away on a throne. âJust leave your plates here. The maid will come get them.â
I left the dining room like an unwelcome stranger in my own grandmaâs homeâa foreigner in a country where I actually had citizenship but never lived.
My mom walked me down the hall to my own lavish guest room. She didnât have much to say besides âGood night.â She neither apologized for her motherâs behavior nor scolded me for being impolite. She just gave me a helpless look and a shrug. Momâs expression suggested a generic excuse for Grandma Ross: Give her a break, sheâs old and sheâs your grandma.
But that didnât work for me.
Kurt was oldâsuper oldâand he was one of the best people I knew.
KURTâS FIRST EMAILS
Almost two years after the original paper letter heâd sent me, and one year after I secretly sent him fifty typed pages via snail mail (along with my email address), good ole Kurt broke down and figured out how to use the internet. He sent me the first email about a week before my trip to San Francisco. Of course, I didnât tell my mom.
_______________________________
Dear Nia,
How are you? This electronic message may come to you with a bit of surprise at my use of the interwebs and email technology, something I couldnât have accomplished alone. Thankfully my daughter, Sammy, helped me enter the 21st century this week!
 Iâm not supposed to communicate with you and, technically, what Iâm doing here is illegal. But I have some great news for you, so to hell with Interpol! Iâm not in Germany anymore, am I? This is a free country, right? Though I donât give two damns about European laws and their judgment about your former runaway business, I do care about your parents and what we all went through two years ago. So Iâll stick to the point.
Remember those fifty pages you sent me? They were great! Iâm so impressed with your writing. I took your words and pasted them into the story I was working on with very little editing. I kept your part of the narrative true to your voice. My part has been done for a while now. The good news is I sent the manuscript to Vagabond Publishing and they want to publish it! Apparently, this old fart still has a book in him to offer the world, or at least the few dozen people who might buy myâcorrectionâour book. Thatâs right, I want you to check out the finished manuscript and approve it because I want your name to be on the cover as the co-author! Pretty snazzy, huh?
As you know, Iâm older than old school, so Iâd like to mail you the manuscript the old fashioned way: one hundred and fifty pages of paper. So whatâs your address, Nia? How long will it take the US Mail to reach Bulgaria? Yeah, the Cold War is over, but sometimes Communist bureaucracies die hard!
Best,
Kurt
PS:Â Perhaps youâve done the math yourself, but Iâm 91 years old now. Jesus Christ! Hopefully the manuscript will get to you before Iâm dead and buried! Come to think of it, I might pay the extra few bucks for express mail.
_______________________________
I immediately emailed Kurt back and told him how excited I was about the book being published. Our book! I told him I couldnât wait to read the manuscript, but Iâd be in San Francisco most of the summer, not Bulgaria. Anxious to read the story, I urged him to send me a digital copy as soon as possible, or meet me in San Francisco. And I told him not to joke about dying because it wasnât funny at all.
I didnât receive a reply from Kurt until my first night at Grandma Rossâs, right after dinner.
_______________________________
Nia,
Iâm sorry you felt my last message was too morbid. I donât want to upset you. But I hope you understand Iâm at a stage in my life that I have to make fun of, otherwise itâs all too damn depressing. Also, honestly, I donât want to live for too much longer. 92? 93? I canât even imagine 95! My body is falling apart, Nia. I canât take it anymore and I canât trade it in for a newer one. Word to the youth: You only have one body in this life, so take care of it. Seriously!
As for your summer trip to San Francisco, I appreciate your idea to meet up for a coffee and manuscript exchangeâhonestly it warms my heart that someone your age would like to hang out with an old fart like me. But I also canât imagine your parents being okay with that, and San Diego is a far drive from San Francisco. I canât fly anymore, unfortunately. I donât like to admit this because it makes me feel like I have one foot in the grave, but Iâm damn near immobile now.
A few weeks ago, the doctors and I decided it was time to check into nursing care. I donât know if that means anything to you, but Iâll put it this way: Old folks check into nursing homes, but they donât check out alive! Reads like a corny horror movie line, but itâs not too bad. As I mentioned before, Iâm ready for the afterlifeâwhether thatâs eternal sleep or something else slightly more appealing. My daughter visits me everyday, and the food isnât as horrible as it could be. Plus, the fact that our book is being published keeps my hopes up.
I understand you want me to email you the manuscript as an email thing you call âan attachmentâ because youâll be traveling over the summer, but thereâs something in my old bones thatâs weary of throwing this entire book onto the interwebs, willy nilly. Can these attachments be lost? Stolen? Vaporized? Iâd rather mail a tangible package to an address. Can you give me a mailing address in San Francisco? Or do you want to wait till you get back to Bulgaria to read it?
Regards,
Kurt
The phrase âmixed emotionsâ had never been more true. I was overjoyed to be reminded I would soon be the co-author of a book; that my name would be on the cover along with Kurtâs on some shelf in a bookstore; that some stranger would read our story and might actually like it, even be moved by it! Then there was the somber reality that Kurt might die of old age any day; might not have the pleasure of seeing our book on a shelf, or be able to hold the finished product in his hand. And something about his not being able to travelâwith his hometown of San Diego not that far from San Franciscoâmade me want to visit him even more. Yeah, I wanted to read the manuscript, but, more importantly, I wanted to see Kurt while he was still alive.
Nia and the Dealer is an adventure of a read that I think young adult readers will find intriguing and relatable to youth rebelliousness. It is a young adult fiction that has an air of John Greenâs Paper Towns mixed with J. D. Salingerâs Catcher in the Rye.
Nia, a 16-year-old semi-delinquent, has a rocky relationship with her motherâ who she has recently traveled to the U.S. with for a weekâ and an even rockier, tense relationship with her grandma. Nia herself is of Bulgarian heritage, and her grandma, Grandma Ross, is a born and raised American who refuses to understand Nia as she is. Niaâs mother, also American, is constantly torn between taking the side of her mother or defending Nia from her insults and judgements.
Nia sees the week-long stay in California as an opportunity to fulfill one of the goals sheâs had in mind since her time in Bulgaria, which is picking up a manuscript she co-authored and visiting with her old, dying friend, Kurt, in San Diego.
Thus, stewing with resentment and frustration toward her discontent with her current family situation, Nia decides to find Kurt on her own. Except, with her new accomplice, Jesse, a charming guitar player with a few secrets up his sleeve, she finds herself in more trouble than she bargains for.
This novel felt like reading a movie scriptâ a good movie script. I was constantly wondering would this be the moment she meets Kurt? Will she make it in time? What about her poor mother, worried sick? Nia does come off as a spoiled brat at times, but also disconnected by culture shock as a 16-year-old coming from Bulgaria to the U.S. She relates everything back to her life and her situation throughout the novel, especially music, even when it doesnât pertain to her. She also takes offense easily and holds grudges, which are her key flaws.
The author, however, does a fabulous job writing from a troubled teen girlâs perspective. He also does well making the reader feel on edge, creating moments of tension and knowing just when to calm you. I really enjoyed it and all its twists, it was quite impressive! I would recommend this book to anyone, even if young adult is not your choice genre!