I am thrilled to be hosting a spot
on the THERE GOES THE NEIGHBORHOOD by Jade Adia Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out
my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
About The Book:
Author: Jade Adia
Pub. Date: March 7, 2023
Publisher: Disney-Hyperion
Formats: Hardcover, eBook, Audiobook
Pages: 432
Find it: Goodreads, https://mybook.to/jade-adia
A raised fist against the destructive
forces of gentrification and a love letter to communities of color everywhere,
Jade Adia's unforgettable debut tells the darkly hilarious story of three best
friends willing to do whatever it takes to stay together.
The gang is fake, but the fear is real.
Rhea’s neighborhood is fading away―the mom-and-pop shops of her childhood
forced out to make space for an artisanal kombucha brewery here, a hot yoga
studio there. And everywhere, the feeling that this place is no longer meant
for her. Because while their little corner of South L.A. isn’t perfect, to Rhea
and her two best friends, it’s something even more important―it’s home. And
it’s worth protecting.
But as more white people flock to their latest edgy, urban paradise for its
cheap rent and sparkling new Whole Foods, more of Rhea’s friends and family are
pushed out. Until Rhea decides it’s time to push back. Armed with their
cellphones and a bag of firecrackers, the friends manipulate social media to
create the illusion of gang violence in their neighborhood. All Rhea wanted to
do was protect her community. Her friends. Herself. No one was supposed to get
hurt. No one was supposed to die.
But is anyone ever really safe when you’re fighting power with fear?
Reviews:
"Equally strong in its magnetic messiness and potent candor, the novel
plunges into discussions of youth activism, capitalism-fueled displacement, and
racism’s myriad forms with fierce vision and conviction. A robust cast of
characters diverse across various dimensions gives voice to contemporary
perspectives on community-oriented social justice and performative wokeness . .
. this one’s a much-needed read. Plain terrific."――Kirkus Reviews
"In this riveting portrait of community care, debut author Adia paints the
pain, danger, and consequences of gentrification with visceral clarity,
highlighting changes such as displacement and fractured families via Rhea’s
biting and witty voice and her unwavering loyalty to her hometown."――Publishers
Weekly
Excerpt:
PART one
“Swear to god if this happens again, I’m gunna scream.” I
pull my forehead back from the glass and use my fist to wipe away
the condensation.
“Yeah, I’ll walk straight to the mayor’s mansion, and
he better be ready to catch these hands,” Zeke says. He forms two
fists and throws a couple of fake punches in the air.
Malachi laughs, gripping the number on his classic Kobe
jersey. “Bruh, you’re not gunna fight anyone.”
This much is obvious to me and anyone who knows Zeke.
The boy once told me that he could never imagine himself fighting someone,
unless it was in space and he had a lightsaber.
“Okay, fine,” Zeke relents. “But I will send a
strongly worded email. And write a bad Yelp review.”
“I don’t think you can write Yelp reviews for the City of
Los Angeles,” I mumble. It’s only July 1, but when I try to count
up the number of mom-and-pop shops to bite it this summer alone, I give
up after ten. Jugos Azteca was the last place in the neighborhood where
you could still get a giant thirty-two ounce Styrofoam cup of agua fresca at
any hour for only $2.
But now it’s gone too.
The global spice mart was the first to go. Some corporate
stooges bought it last year and turned it into a boutique Pilates studio.
And the Liquor Bank where we used to buy sour belts and chile mango pops?
That was shut down for a health code violation, and now there’s an
artisan coffee shop where you can paint a ceramic mug while you wait.
Last year, someone took over the fish fry restaurant next to that,
and now there’s a goddamn taco shop run by a couple of white boys,
and their only salsa option is pico de gallo. Pico-de fucking-gallo. Not
a bottle of Valentina or Yucateco in sight. Not even any Tapatio or
weak-ass Cholula. We went there once to see what the deal was, but
between the three of us,
we only had enough cash for one taco to split. When the
corny dude brought it over to us, we asked for hot sauce and he
gave us SRIRACHA. Fuck outta here with that ketchup shit. That would never
have happened back in the day.
So yeah, things in South LA are changing, to say the least.
“We could walk on Western Avenue until we find the elote guy?” I suggest,
more so as an excuse to get as far away as possible from this
depressing-ass empty storefront than out of an actual craving for street
corn.
“Rhea, it’s too hot to walk. Like Mad Max slash Dune
slash that Star Trek episode when Kirk fights that desert
lizard level hot.” Zeke uses the seam of his graphic tee to wipe
a line of sweat from underneath his sheepdog haircut.
“Well, unless you magically learn to drive, I don’t
know what our other option is,” I say. I’m usually the one good for
thinking of the plan for the day, but between the heat and yet another
spot biting the dust, I got nothing.
“When I get my permit, I’ll be charging y’all for
rides,” Malachi says proudly.
“Boy, please.” I bop the back of his head. “As if you
can even buy a car.” At fifteen, the three of us can barely afford
snacks, let alone a whole-ass vehicle.
The sun kicks it up a notch. Trippy waves of gas rising
from the steaming concrete do a little dance for me before melting away.
Across the street, something catches my eye. If this looks like what I
think it does . . . I fight the urge to gag.
“Wait, guys, hold up,” I say, holding a hand above my
eyes to block out the sun.
For the past six months, the city’s been building this high
speed Metro rail to slice through our neighborhood. The construction site is
almost always empty, but today, it looks like there’s a “special” new
addition.
Cars honk as I dodge traffic, but I couldn’t care less.
When I hit the other side of the street, I lace my fingers around
the wire of the chain link fence to get a better look. You’ve got to
be kidding me.
Zeke catches up and puts on his CNN newscaster voice to
read the brand-new billboard staring at us. “Kofa Park: Los Angeles’s
Newest Up-and-Coming Hot Spot!”
I roll my eyes. “Gimme your backpack,” I say to Malachi.
“Why?” He pulls the straps of his space-themed JanSport close to his
chest.
“You don’t trust me?”
“Hell no!” He backs away all dramatic at first, but there’s
a faint trace of a smile beneath it all. I lunge forward to snatch
it but miss. He laughs and tosses me the backpack.
I snag a Sharpie from the front pocket. “Watch out for
a security guard, aight?” I dig the rubber toes of my Converse
into the gaps of the fence and climb over. My shoes hit the concrete with
a sting.
The marker squeaks as I rub its felt tip against the
Plexiglas. The future train stop shelter has two side panels, so I hit those
real quick before focusing on the backside, which is the most important
because this is what faces the street.
This is the shit that people see.
We’ve had bullshit billboards like this popping up all
over South LA for the past couple of years, so normally I wouldn’t
have even noticed. But something about this particular one caught my
eye:
All the people in the ads are white.
Well, at least they were until a minute ago.
I use the brown Sharpie to fill in one last face.
The guys hop the fence to join me on the forbidden
side. Malachi with his long legs does so much easier than Zeke, who
sort of half scrambles, half falls his way over.
The hood of the train stop structure casts a thin strip
of futile shade covering only half of the metal bench, which by now
has already absorbed hours’ worth of summer heat, so it’s way too hot to
sit on. But that doesn’t stop Zeke from trying. Twice.
“Rheaaaa,” Zeke complains to me after burning his ass
once again. He rubs the seat of his jeans. “Can you just let this
go?”
“No.” As a Black girl, I know how shit works: we’re
either hypervisible or invisible. I’m not gonna pretend that I personally
don’t fall in that second category, but I don’t need a goddamn billboard
rubbing it in my face. Let alone erasing the entire hood into obscurity
along with me.
My hand cramps and I accidentally color outside of the
line.
“I’m too young and too cute to get a rap for breaking
and entering,” Zeke complains.
On the other side of the fence, a white twentysomething
woman with a cat on a bedazzled leash crosses the street to avoid walking
past us. She clutches her phone all dramatic, the panic button locked and
loaded as if we’ve been lurking here waiting to mug her. She avoids my
eye contact as I stare her down.
Apparently, we don’t look very young to her.
I ignore Zeke and keep coloring. He groans and grabs
the cluster of neon-yellow caution tape from the floor, walking over to
Malachi. Even while leaning against the fence, Malachi towers over Zeke,
so Zeke has to rise up on his toes to wrap the “Do Not Enter” tape around
Malachi’s neck. Zeke arranges the makeshift boa and smiles. “You look
fabulous.”
“Y’all play too much,” Malachi says, hiding a smirk. He
adjusts the caution tape scarf and takes the wave brush from the back
pocket of his jeans, compulsively rubbing it across his head, fresh from
the barber with a new fade. The new cut works for him. A little too
well. I’ve seen the way that other girls have started to look at him this
summer. He’s all height, glowing brown skin, and perfect teeth since the
braces came off. Not like that’s any of my business—how other
girls look at him, I mean. As his oldest friend, I try not to notice
the changes. Plus, it’s not like I’ve glowed up in any way to
match.
Zeke, Malachi, and I have been best friends since
Pampers. Our moms became tight when they’d volunteer at our day
care together. As we got older, that turned into waiting for us at the
bus stop after school, which was always late because we’d mess with the
driver so much that he’d have to pull over to yell at us to stay in our
seats and shit. So our moms had
plenty of time to bond and gossip about the other
parents. Eventually, the three of us became accustomed to impromptu
playdates on the patch of grass at the street corner while our moms kept
raising their gelled nails at us, telling us to chill out for “five more
minutes.” And let me tell you, when Black and Latina moms get into
full-on chisme mode, you know for damn sure that they ain’t gonna be just
“five minutes.”
So, Zeke, Malachi, and I leaned into our crew. We
gradually transitioned from school friends, to bus friends, to friends
friends.
These days, my mom doesn’t hang out with the others
anymore. Or anyone, really, except her newest husband. Even I didn’t make
the cut. So Zeke and Malachi aren’t just my best friends, they’re my
tethers—the ones who keep me from feeling like I could drift away at any
moment without anyone noticing, the ones who make me feel at home in
the world. Not like I’d ever straight up tell Zeke’s sentimental
ass or Malachi’s smug self how much they mean to me, but what ever, they
know. And the fact that they ride-or-die so hard with me, hopping a fence
to watch my back, no questions asked, means it’s mutual.
“Incoming security guard.” Malachi tilts forward like
he’s ready to bolt. Little diamond-shaped impressions run down his
spine where he had been leaning against the fence. “You done yet?”
“Nah, hold on.” The guys hover over my shoulders, but I
cover my work. “I said I’m not done yet.”
Malachi sucks his teeth. “C’mon, let us see.”
“It’s not finished.”
“Sis, relax,” Zeke says. He swats away my hand and
takes a sharp inhale.
Malachi doubles over in laughter. “They look like
they’re in blackface!”
“No, they don’t!” I protest. I take a step back but
realize that they low-key do.
Not my best work.
“This somehow feels even more racist than the original
ad,” Zeke cackles.
“Ay, yo, STOP!” On the opposite side of the track, a
skinny security guard pulls up on some bootleg Mall Cop bullshit.
He leans over the handlebars of his bicycle, but his helmet is slightly
too big, so it sags to the side, making him look even younger than he is.
I recognize him because he works the night shift at Wing Stop. It’s
probably just in my head, but swear to god, I can smell the lemon pepper
seasoning lingering on his uniform from over here.
“The penalties for a conviction of misdemeanor graffiti
are up to 364 days in county jail, a $1,000 fine, or both,” the
guard shouts, tryna make his voice big. The dark skin of his chicken legs
glisten with sweat and cocoa butter.
“And what’s the penalty for rockin’ shorts that tight on
a Wednesday afternoon?” Malachi clowns as he hops the fence back to
the street. I take the moment of distraction to add my final touch:
I scratch out the “newest up-and-coming” part of the ad.
“You know what?” The skinny guard whips out his busted
Android with a screen crack deeper than the San Andreas fault. “Names and
addresses! I got y’all on tape!”
With that, Zeke and I catapult ourselves over the
fence. I kick out a kink in my leg from the fall as we watch the
goofy Mall Cop nigga round the corner, pedaling straight toward us.
Malachi’s big brown eyes go wide as he claps in my
face. “Yo, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”
We sprint by the men in suits who hand out copies of
the local paper every afternoon and the mural of the dark woman
whose afro holds a spaceship above the words “Free Your Mind.” A group of
girls, maybe four or five years younger than us, Double Dutch in the
empty parking lot where a woman selling tamales laughs with a customer
who hangs out of their car window, delicately grasping a plastic bag
steaming from the heat of the corn husks. I can smell the masa even
after we dip into the alley, leaping over empty boxes of backwoods
and lost wads of braiding hair from the salon above the black and-gray-style
tattoo parlor.
Our sprint slows to a jog, which slows to a walk. We
emerge on the other end and lose the guard at last. “Your bad attitude is gunna
screw us all over,” Malachi says between deep gasps for breath. “I’m
cutting off your Sharpie supply, Rhea.”
Recently, there’s been something about the way he says
my name that makes my stomach do a slow somersault. I clock the feeling
but push it aside. “Whatever, bighead,” I reply, knocking my sandal
against his Jordans, but being careful not to scuff them up.
The heat catches up to us, so we practically crawl the
final two blocks to Zeke’s apartment, which is where we hang most
of the time because his mom, Lupe, keeps the fridge stocked with hella
snacks. Within minutes of piling inside, the three of us are arguing over
who gets the last cheese-and-loroco pupusa when Lupe comes in.
She’s crying.
“Ma?” Zeke asks softly, relinquishing the tiny bowl of
curtido that he had been threatening to withhold if we didn’t share
with him.
“Can you get this out of the way, please?” she asks me,
pointing at a chair that we had knocked over earlier. I stand and move it
to its proper place at the table so that she can move her wheelchair
around our mess. We all stare at the open envelope and crinkled letter
lying facedown in her lap,
but none of us dare to ask about it. She shuts her
bedroom door gently and Zeke sinks back down onto the carpet. “What do
you think that’s about?” Zeke asks, clenching his hands together.
“I don’t know.” I tread carefully, because Zeke’s one
of those real sensitive, empathetic guys. He’s the type who’ll get
choked up by those corny commercials where someone earns their degree
from an online university and their kids try on the graduation cap. When
things get dark for real, he can fall apart easily. I never really cry on
my own, but with Zeke, his tears are annoyingly infectious. Once he gets
started, it’s Game Over for me—straight kryptonite. Unlike Zeke,
though, I’d rather keep the feels to a minimum, so I throw myself
into ‘Operation: Zeke Cry Prevention’ at all costs.
“Do you think it’s health stuff?” Malachi asks
cautiously. Zeke’s mom has been some type of sick for practically
our entire lives. A few years ago, though, her nervous system
stopped working well, which made it hard for her to walk, until
eventually, she couldn’t walk at all. The doctors never figured out
exactly what happened, but she’s been able to manage with the chair and
hasn’t been to the hospital in over a year.
Lupe has one of those wild, uninhibited laughs that makes
it easy to forget that she’s often in pain.
“Nah, man. She was at the doctor last week and everything was
chill. They spent most of the appointment talking about how the doc’s
bratty son ruined his niece’s quince photo shoot.”
“How’d he ruin the photo shoot?” Malachi asks. I flick
the side of his head to remind him to focus on the actual issue at
hand.
From behind her closed door, Lupe calls out to us. “Why
don’t you all go to Malachi’s house? I need a bit of space to work this
afternoon.” Lupe is the part-time billing manager for a semiretired
dentist, so she’s always contacting some one’s insurance or returning a
patient’s phone call.
“Sure, no problem,” we reply in unison, though the
chorus of our voices comes out more apprehensive than eager. Malachi and
I get up, but Zeke’s still glued to the floor. I reach out my hand. “Just
give her a minute, it’s probably nothing,” I whisper. He grabs my wrist
and I pull him up, careful not to knock over the collection of porcelain
crosses on the bookshelf behind me.
Zeke locks the door behind us as Malachi and I attempt
to see who can jump high enough to touch the hallway ceiling. I’m centimeters
away from swiping the stucco above our heads when a familiar voice yells
at us from down the hall.
“Cut that shit out!”
“Not this asshole again,” Malachi murmurs.
Right on cue, Vic comes waddling down the hall. He’s
one of those short, pudgy white dudes who’s thicc with lower body
curves honestly not unlike my grandma.
“Here comes the Evil Landlord and his signature body
odor fragrance . . .” I say to the guys. We cackle, which only
makes Vic more pissed.
“Hahaha laugh all you want, cretins. In thirty days, I’ll
be the one laughing.” He haphazardly waves a scroll of paper at our
faces like a fire extinguisher. “I’ll never have to see you three
spilling Arizonas and stomping all over my units ever again.”
“’Cause you’re gunna kill us?” I chime in with a devious
grin.
“As much pleasure as that would give me, no. I won’t
have to. Didn’t you hear the news?” He runs his french-fry-grease soaked
hands across his mouth and nods at Zeke. “Acne ridden wannabe Carlos Vives over
here is moving.” Vic makes his pale fingers into the shape of a gun and
pretends to fire it at Zeke’s chest.
“What are you talking about? We’re not moving,” Zeke
pipes back.
Oil mixed with sweat glistens above the self-satisfied grin
smeared across Vic’s face. “Oh yeah? So, you’re saying that you
personally have the money to afford the sixty percent increase in rent
then?” A fly buzzes through the hallway, filling the silence that falls
between us. Vic moves to swat it. He misses.
Look, I don’t know how much the rent is, but I got an A
in math last year—a 60 percent increase is no joke. “You see this?” Vic
theatrically unrolls the scroll that he’s been wielding and reveals a set
of blueprints. “The shithole that you’re standing in now—which was run
into the ground by all of your people—will soon be renovated. Out
with the old tenants, and in with the new ones.” I’ve seen enough
changes on the block recently to know what he means. Read: millennials
with tech jobs and hipsters with trust funds. “And this apartment
complex”—he knocks on the wall—“is going to house them.”
“You can’t do that!” Zeke shouts. His voice cracks in a
way that under different circumstances would have been fair game for
ridicule. “We’re under rent control.”
“News flash: the rent control ordinance expired, kiddo.
And I’ve already got an investor lined up. We’re expected to close the
deal by the end of the month. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Vic pushes past
a stunned Zeke to start taping notices of eviction to each of the
doors.
Nuh-uh, fuck that. First they close our shops, now they’re full-on tryna
displace us? I throw my arm in front of the door that Vic is preparing to
plaster. “Do you really think you can get away with this?” The
rage that’s been building inside of me all afternoon, all summer, pops
off. I knock the stack of eviction notices from his grimy hand. “Well, go
ahead. Try it. I fucking dare you.” I get all up in Vic’s space,
so close that I can feel his soggy fast-food breath soak the air between
us. I lower my voice to a cold whisper. “Because guess what? When
all this shit passes, we’ll be the ones left standing . . . not you.”
His beady eyes narrow. “Is that a threat?”
I cross my arms. “It’s the truth.”
Vic sneers and gathers the papers from the floor.
“Thirty days. That’s all you got.”
“Is that a challenge?” I clap back.
I stare Vic down and he stares right back. No matter
where Zeke moves, there’s no way he’d stay nearby—not with prices surging
across the city. He could end up all the way out in the valley or even
the Inland Empire, both of which are far as hell. Moving out there is
practically like going out of state— we’d never see Zeke.
I break away to look over at Zeke, who’s glued to his
door,
mist gathering over his eyes. I grab his wrist and pull
him down the hallway with Malachi while the ghost of Vic’s sick
laughter bounces off the concrete walls against our backs.
“Change is inevitable, kids. Better get used to it now.” The
door slams and we’re left standing outside, looking in. “To Live and Die in
LA . . .” Zeke says, eyes red. “That was the plan.”
I clench my fists until the knuckles crack. Our crew is
not falling apart. Not like this, not on my watch, not ever. We have to
stop him.
“It still is.”
About Jade Adia:
Born and raised in South LA, Jade Adia writes stories about
gentrification, Black teen joy, and the sh*tshow that is capitalism.
She holds a bachelor’s degree in Ethnicity, Race & Migration, and a certificate in Human Rights. She recently survived law school, graduating with a specialization in Critical Race Studies. There Goes the Neighborhood is her debut novel.
Website | Twitter
| Instagram | TikTok | Goodreads | Amazon
Giveaway Details:
1 winner
will receive a finished copy of THERE GOES THE NEIGHBORHOOD, US Only.
Ends April 7th, midnight EST.
a Rafflecopter giveawayTour Schedule:
Week One:
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3/1/2023 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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3/2/2023 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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3/3/2023 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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3/4/2023 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
Week Two:
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3/5/2023 |
Excerpt |
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3/6/2023 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
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3/7/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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3/8/2023 |
Review |
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3/9/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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3/10/2023 |
IG Review |
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3/11/2023 |
IG Review/Facebook Post |
Week Three:
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3/12/2023 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
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3/13/2023 |
IG Spotlight |
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3/14/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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3/15/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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3/16/2023 |
IG Review/LFL Drop Pic |
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3/17/2023 |
Review |
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3/18/2023 |
IG Review |
Week Four:
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3/19/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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3/20/2023 |
IG Review |
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3/21/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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3/22/2023 |
IG Review/LFL Drop Pic |
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3/23/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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3/24/2023 |
Excerpt |
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3/25/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
Week Five:
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3/26/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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3/27/2023 |
Review |
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3/28/2023 |
IG Review |
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3/29/2023 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
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3/30/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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3/31/2023 |
YouTube Review/IG Post |
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