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“A Ford Terino jerked to a stop, inches from her knees. Before the driver could honk, Jimena tapped the hood of the car. The man glanced up and her eyes warned him, You're out of your neighborhood.
He understood and settled back patiently as if it were normal to stop at a green light in Los Angeles. Once Jimena had crossed the street, the car screeched away.”
― Lynne Ewing

“Jimena sensed their fear. That brought a smile to her face. Her reputation was still so big that even tough enimigas wouldn't face her down.
She strutted past them, her heels snapping loudly on the sidewalk. She enjoyed the feel of their admiring eyes, their sideways glances and the wonder she saw on their faces. Jimena wasn't choloed out in khakis, a tight T, and long, boyfriend-borrowed Pendletons. She wore a slinky dress and ankle-breaking high-heels. The rain made the dress cling to her body, so they knew she wasn't strapping. No gun. Still, they were afraid to confront her.
This time she stopped for the red light, pausing to let the chicas know she didn't fear them. It felt good to be the toughest chola en el condado de Los Angeles. She was still down for Ninth Street, her old gang, but at age fifteen, already a veterana. A leyenda, her homegirls told her with pride. Jimena had been a real badass before she understood her destiny. She glanced at the scars and tattoos on her hand. What would the klika-girls do if they knew her true identity?”
― Lynne Ewing, Night Shade