Goya, Moratin, Melendez Valdes y Donoso Cortes (1900)

My name was Coco Twain and I was never happy about it. My mother borrowed my first name from Coco Chanel because she thought it was so clever, so French. Little did she know that the fashion designer’s name was actually Gabrielle and ‘Coco’ was nothing more than a ridiculous nickname. I’ve had to endure countless jokes about being a hot drink and quips about marshmallows. Had I been named Gabrielle, I could have been exotic or at least interesting. But that was neither here nor there. Having a last name of Twain was an even bigger burden. Mom actually believed she married into a family related to Mark Twain. When I learned enough to know that Twain’s real name was Samuel Clemens, I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen. She liked to brag about our ancestry all the way back to Mark Twain.
So here I was, Coco Twain growing up feeling totally fictitious. Coco Twain may be fictitious, but she’s fun to read. Life in her isolated small town becomes more interesting and dangerous when two escaped convicts take over her best friend Sonja’s house. Coco finds herself hiding the truth and learning a good deal about friendship and loyalty. Set in rural Oklahoma in 1958, this coming of-age-story is a poignant testament to a teenager’s quest to fit in somewhere.