After much trial and error, Fleitas has discovered that in advertising, nice only gets you so far. Other tools of psychological warfare are required, such as the guilt trip, or on occasion, veiled threats. "We always get an excuse," complains Fleitas, marketing director for a fledgling student-run magazine called Frenzy. "I called Bayer [the pharmaceutical giant] and they were like, 'Oh, we already committed to other causes.' Then the next day I see they gave $18 million to the NFL. Like the NFL really needed it." Don't even get Fleitas started on Taco Bell. "They said we weren't their target demographic," she repeats incredulously. "Hispanic teenagers are not their demographic?!"
Fleitas's day job is actually taking classes as a student at Killian High School, but even there she is composing endless to-do lists -- calls to make, meetings to schedule, students to drive to interviews. This is what it takes to get a publishing empire off the ground. At the moment the empire consists of a warehouse studio in Kendall and 100,000 copies of the slick magazine stacked in boxes in a cargo bay at Miami International Airport, where they await inspection by U.S. Customs. Frenzy is printed in Colombia because it's much cheaper. Still the 120-page October issue coming out in the next week or so cost $81,000 just to print and ship. That's on top of the roughly $2000 per month it takes to maintain the studio, and more whenever equipment breaks down.
The idea is to make the magazine pay for itself, but so far the operation has been largely bankrolled through the strained credit cards of husband-and-wife team Lauren Fletcher-Garcia and Jorge Garcia. Fletcher-Garcia, 31 years old, is the editor/den mother of the Frenzy enterprise, which she began about eighteen months ago (although only recently has it become a high-production, glossy affair). A small, birdlike woman, Fletcher-Garcia had some experience in the publishing world as an editor at a local magazine called Sensational, but she wanted to do something that would make a difference for kids. Her husband Jorge, age 48, serves as Frenzy's art director. Garcia, a wiry Colombian with a small hoop earring and a ready laugh, spent most of his career as a freelance photographer. He figures he works eighteen hours every day between Frenzy and his freelance gigs, plus moonlighting as a Denny's waiter.
The magazine, which is distributed free to local middle and high schools, is not unlike other commercial publications aimed at teenagers, but the content is decidedly more provincial -- almost everything is written by Miami-Dade students. A small core of teens also helps with editing, photography, and design. Frenzy typically contains a mix of stories about subjects like drag racing, alligator wrestling, and fashion shows, along with poems, essays, an advice column, and short interviews with stars like P. Diddy and Cristina Saralegui, an early backer of the magazine.
Fletcher-Garcia says that when she first approached the school district, in 2001, about getting the magazine into the schools, then-superintendent Roger Cuevas made it clear she'd have to pay the district for access. When Cuevas was ousted she went back to see the new guy, Merrett Stierheim. She promised to put ten percent of any proceeds into a scholarship fund for the participating students, who would be required to maintain at least a C average in school and receive credit for community service hours. Stierheim agreed to allow the distribution, with a couple of caveats, such as no sex, alcohol, or cigarette ads.
Initially Frenzy was more pamphlet than magazine, printed on plain paper stock in black-and-white type. But this past May the first glossy issue was printed, 66 pages. Fletcher-Garcia figures that 44 pages would have been break-even size given the few paid ads they garnered, but she couldn't bring herself to turn down many of the stories submitted by students. For the most recent issue they took in only about $20,000 in advertising.
In a way, the two grownups are giving the kids a lesson in how not to run a magazine. That's because one goal of the undertaking -- financial viability -- runs headlong into the other goal, which is to give as many students as possible a forum for their writing. "These kids are smart and they have talent, but nobody wants to recognize it," Garcia explains. "They need that opportunity. We have no money, but I still have no doubt we'll make it. These kids push us."
Catch her on an off day and Fleitas, with big blue eyes and long brown hair highlighted a deep purplish red, looks like a normal jeans-and-a-T-shirt teenager. But most days, in heels, a pantsuit, and enough makeup for a dozen Britney Spears clones, she seems closer to Hollywood's idea of a teenager -- namely, 25-year-old actors channeling youthful angst. "People can't believe I'm only seventeen," Fleitas brags. "It's a great opportunity. My mom is like, 'Aren't you working a little too hard?' If I weren't doing this, I'd be home eating, watching TV, and going out with my friends. I plan to be the next Puffy with five cell phones and all these companies. He's a business genius. I want to be important."
This little-girl-with-adult-aspirations effect has its charms. Quintin Taylor, a local publicist for several Miami Dolphins players, just laughs when asked about Stephanie Fleitas, who calls him frequently looking for players to interview, sponsorship, free tickets to give away to students -- whatever she can get. "She's definitely persistent," Taylor allows. "She's creating havoc, which is good in that industry. I admire her fortitude." Whenever that fortitude produces results, Fleitas's inner seventeen-year-old overtakes her and she runs down the hall to perform an end-zone victory dance for Fletcher-Garcia.
The nucleus of Frenzy kids includes about five or six who do the majority of the work, which includes recruiting other students in their schools. Like Fleitas, the students are usually bright, energetic -- and raging egomaniacs. Jorge Garcia says part of his role is simply playing peacemaker. "It's a clash of egos," he notes, "especially with this one [he indicates Fleitas]. She likes to be always on top, in control of everything. Plus anytime you put kids in a room, it's just a matter of time before something happens."
In July the kids began auditioning students for a new project, a weekly television program to be broadcast on the county's cable-access channel, and possibly Telemundo's bilingual mun2 cable network. Garcia describes it as "part Que Pasa and part Deco Drive." He's hoping to get it on the air by early November.
It's in the TV world that fifteen-year-old Zachary Sandoval's personality really shines. During auditions for the planned Frenzy television show, which take place on a stage set up across from the food court at the Mall of the Americas, the Krop High School student (a features editor and column writer at the magazine) serves as co-host to a succession of kids trying out for roles as reporters and anchors. As he puts it campily to one nervous sixth-grader: "I'm just the muse." Decked out in blue pants, tucked-in white shirt, and tasseled loafers, the short, bespectacled Sandoval proves well versed in the rhetorical tools of the late-night talk show host (Conan O'Brien is his muse). As Katrina Rodriguez, a sixth-grade student from Saint Philips Episcopal School, improvises a commentary about alligator wrestling, Sandoval is ready with the self-deprecating quip. "If I want an adrenaline rush, I usually try croquet or golfing," he deadpans, pausing for the imaginary rattle of Max Weinberg's drums. "But that's just me."
This, it turns out, is more than simple hamming it up. Garcia explains that Sandoval decided to throw the auditioning students a curveball to test their mental agility as potential show hosts. "He's quick and if you're not, he'll catch you off guard," Garcia offers with a smile. "It's good because we want kids who can think on their feet." At a table in front of the stage Garcia watches a monitor on which the auditions are played out. Beside him, Susie, a big girl with braces, checks off the applications and lets Sandoval know who is next. Mothers occasionally hover anxiously over the table, asking whether their little star is up soon.
Sandoval calls for Anthony Lopez, who bounds across the mall floor and leaps onto the stage. A good-looking kid, he's wearing jean shorts, black sneakers, a black T-shirt, and a large gold cross on a chain. A thin line of dark beard is precisely shaved around his chin. Sandoval asks him what he's going to talk about. "Man, I just want to talk about this feeding frenzy we got going on out here," he hypes vaguely. His entire spiel continues in this vein. From the floor, Fleitas appraises Lopez's act. "He's good because he looks classy, but he talks ghetto," she judges. Sandoval attempts to steer Lopez into a comprehensible conversation. "Let's talk about peer pressure," he begins.
"You're running too long," Susie interjects before Lopez can reply, indicating they should wrap things up.
Sandoval, the consummate professional, succumbs to a millisecond of exasperation. "I have 22 seconds left," he responds to Susie, slightly peeved. "I've been counting."
Then he turns back to Lopez and fires away: "All right -- peer pressure. Twenty seconds."
Back at the Kendall warehouse, things are hectic as usual. A group of high school kids who are opening their own Internet café have come to be interviewed for the magazine. Fleitas is calling around to get promotional gifts to take to a Haitian youth festival on the weekend. Part of her marketing strategy is to participate in as many local events as possible to get the word out about Frenzy. One radio station claims it's out of T-shirts but can offer bottles of sunblock. "Sunblock?" she queries. "For Haitian kids?"
Fleitas also plans out her next day. "I've got to go pick up the Marlins tickets at four," she tells Fletcher-Garcia, who reminds her that she's got to meet a photographer at that time.
"Well then, I'll go at six," Fleitas replies.
"No, we'll be on Radio Paz then," Fletcher-Garcia says. "How's your Spanish?"
"I can make it work," Fleitas assures, swinging her hair for emphasis. "I'm a kid, they'll let it slide. I speak Spanglish."
"There's no such thing as Spanglish!" cries Garcia, walking through the conversation. "Aye, you kids are killing me!"
