Tart by Jody Gehrman released on Jun 28, 2005 is available now for purchase. Just as her first novel, Summer in the Land of Skin (2004), did, Gehrman's second offering features a heroine on the move. Claudia Bloom has stolen her ex-boyfriend's VW bus to take her from Texas to California, where a job as a theater instructor at UC Santa Cruz awaits her. But the VW doesn't survive the trip; it explodes just after Claudia jumps out with her cat. She is rescued by handsome Clay Parker, and it isn't long before -commitment-phobe Claudia is falling for him. But an obstacle immediately presents itself in the form of Clay's not-yet-ex-wife, Monica, who is also an instructor at UC Santa Cruz. Claudia tries to ignore her growing feelings for Clay as she focuses on her job and its challenges, including obnoxious students, Monica's wrath, and the demanding department head, who just happens to be Clay's mother. Gehrman's enjoyable novel is as sharp and observant as the title suggests. Kristine Huntley Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved "Her characters are confused, believable and utterly human, which is one of the main reasons the book strikes so many . . ." -- Publishers Weekly on Summer in the Land of Skin "Poignant and affecting, Gehrman's debut is brimming with vivid characters and lyrical prose." -- Lynn Messina, author of Fashionistas, on Summer in the Land of Skin Jody Gehrman is the author of nine novels and numerous plays. Her most recent Young Adult novels include The Truth About Jack, Audrey's Guide to Witchcraft, Audrey's Guide to Black Magic, and Babe in Boyland, which was optioned by Disney. Her adult novels include Bombshell, Notes from the Backseat, Tart, and Summer in the Land of Skin. She is a Professor of English and Communications at Mendocino College. Tart By Jody Gehrman Red Dress Ink Copyright © 2005 Jody Gehrman All right reserved. ISBN: 0373895267 I"m almost to Santa Cruz when my engine catches fire.I've got my entire life savings stuffed into my bra, my hair is so wind-matted I can't even get my fingers through it, and I desperately need to change my tampon. Things could be better. It's mid-September,and California's crazy Indian summer is just getting started. The hundred-degree weather cools only slightly as I careen closer to the Pacific, where a slight tinge of fog is always hovering; it's still plenty hot, though, and I'm sweating profusely,cursing as my temperature gauge lodges itself stubbornly in the red zone. Highway 17 is the quickest route through the Santa Cruz Mountains, but I'd forgotten just how manic it is: the crazy curves force everyone on the road into race-car-style cornering. Three pubes-cent surfers in a beat-up Pinto station wagon keep swerving into my lane as they pass a joint around. I honk at them instinctively; all three towheads swivel in my direction,and the car veers unsteadily toward my front fender again. I hit my steering wheel with the palm of my hand and ease onto the brakes,praying the Jaguar in my rearview mirror won't slam me from behind. "Cunt!" one of the surfers yells. "Chill, lady,"another one adds.Did he just call me lady? Jesus,I could use a drink. When the engine makes a sound so primal I can no longer ignore it, I pull over onto the narrow, crumbling shoulder and get out to assess the situation. The bus is producing enormous clouds of black smoke,and bright orange tongues of flame are licking at the air vents. I haven't even bothered to check the oil since I left Austin three days ago. I knew the bus was making increasingly alarming noises, starting around El Paso, but I told myself that's what hippie vehicles do, and turned the radio up louder. The smoke is so thick now I can barely see,and I'm afraid to open the door to the engine because I've got this sinking feeling it will blow my face off. Woman Found by Highway; Face Found 100 Yards Away. Shit. Medea, my cat, is yowling a pathetic, drugged-out plea from the back seat,so I quickly stuff her into the cardboard pet taxi and carry her out onto the shoulder with me. Then I start thinking about the cat Valium in the glove box,wondering how many of those tiny pills I'd have to take before this whole scene would take on an underwater, slow-motion sheen. Of course, there's something about the utter destitution of the situation that appeals to me. In theater, we're taught that people are only as interesting as their current crisis.Jerry Manning, my favorite professor back at UT, used to scream at us,"Disaster defines you. Where's the disaster? Come on, give me your disaster!" I feel a tiny trickle of blood as it forms a damp spot in my underwear.Medea scratches at the cardboard, her panic momentarily breaking free from the straightjacket of drugs I've kept her in. Her terrified mewling has gone from meek to murderous."Here you go,Manning," I whisper."Here's my disaster." Unfortunately, my only audience is the steady stream of traffic roaring p