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117 pages

English

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An insightful, raw YA novel about a young photographer navigating toxic relationships and how they influence her identitySixteen-year-old Arden Grey is struggling. Her mother has left their family, her father and her younger brother won't talk about it, and a classmate, Tanner, keeps harassing her about her sexuality-which isn't even public. (She knows she likes girls romantically, but she thinks she might be asexual.) At least she's got her love of film photography and her best and only friend, Jamie, to help her cope. Then Jamie, who is trans, starts dating Caroline, and suddenly he isn't so reliable. Arden's insecurity about their friendship grows. She starts to wonder if she's jealous or if Jamie's relationship with Caroline is somehow unhealthy-and it makes her reconsider how much of her relationship with her absent mom wasn't okay, too. Filled with big emotions, first loves, and characters navigating toxic relationships, Ray Stoeve's honest and nuanced novel is about finding your place in the world and seeking out the love and community that you deserve.

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Publié par	ABRAMS BOOKS
Date de parution	26 avril 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781683359494
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0777€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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PUBLISHER S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4197-4600-0
eISBN 978-1-68335-949-4
Text copyright 2022 Ray Stoeve
Book design by Hana Anouk Nakamura
Published in 2022 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.
Amulet Books is a registered trademark of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
ABRAMS The Art of Books 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007 abramsbooks.com
To queer friendships, in all their magical and life-giving forms
CHAPTER ONE
Jamie is trying to cheer me up again.
Imagine Tanner gets caught in a wrestling hold the wrong way and his arm is slowly twisted off, he says. He grips the pull-up bar in his bedroom doorway, feet dangling in midair above the carpet. I grimace. Tanner may be the worst human in the world, but grievous bodily harm isn t my style.
An expression! Ladies, gentlemen, and nonbinary honored guests, I see an actual facial expression. His wide smile answers my frown. Another pull-up.
I stare out the window at the October rain lashing the glass, the sky a single shade of pale gray. Seattle living up to its stereotype. Jamie grunts from the doorway, biceps flexing as he rises and lowers, face almost as red as his ginger hair. This is probably the kind of thing some people find hot, watching a guy work out. Not me. Jamie and I have been best friends since freshman year of high school, and sometimes people think we re dating, but that s just weird. I don t like anyone like that. Not boys or girls or anyone else. Why would I need to date when I have friends?
Okay, one friend. But the point stands. I m not interested in any of that stuff-not romance, not sex.
In the doorway, Jamie blows air like an orca surfacing, his pull-ups slowing down.
Are you done yet? I ask.
Nope. Gotta get those muscles. Make the most of that testosterone. Another pull-up. Hashtag trans guy life.
Hashtag trans formation, I say as his chin barely clears the bar.
She s cracking jokes now, folks! My work here is done. He lowers himself to the floor and bounds across the room, flopping onto the bed next to me. So what are we watching tonight?
I let him scroll through Netflix until he finds some mindless action movie. This time it s Point Break , some classic from the eighties, maybe the nineties, I m not sure. Jamie loves old movies.
The screen goes black, the production company logos fade in and out, and the first scene begins. We re going to be up way too late watching, but it doesn t matter. I m always tired now, like my body is a suit of armor I can t take off.
Sometimes I wonder when I m going to cry. I haven t yet. Not even the day it happened.
It was September, the third day of school. I d just gotten home to find Mom and Dad in the kitchen, sitting on opposite sides of the counter but not talking to each other, their faces still and serious.
What s wrong? I asked. Mom always worked late, and Dad usually got home after me, so I knew something was up.
Honey, could you go sit in the dining room please? We need to talk to you and Garrett about something, Dad said. His smile looked painted on.
I did what he asked. He called Garrett down and they took seats across from the two of us.
Evelyn, do you want to . . . Dad trailed off, looking at her.
Mom nodded. She looked at us, her eyes clear. Your dad and I are separating for a while. Things haven t been working between us for a long time, and I m going to go stay with a friend in San Francisco while we take some space.
She folded her hands, watching us, like it was the most normal thing in the world to say. Like she d just told us we were going on vacation, not that our family was ending. I knew I was supposed to say something, but I couldn t think of anything. My whole body was frozen.
You re getting a divorce? Garrett said finally. His voice sounded like he was choking.
No, just separating. We need some time to think about what s next, Mom said.
Uh huh. He pushed back his chair so hard it fell against the wall. Dad flinched. Mom usually would have snapped at him, but she just watched. Have fun in San Francisco. He spat the words at her and left, charging up the stairs to his room. A moment later, his door slammed.
I shut my eyes tight. That was a month ago, and I m still thinking about it. What exactly stopped working for her? The marriage? The family? Did she leave because of her and Dad, or was it Garrett and me, too?
Jamie pokes me. You okay?
I look at him. His brown eyes are warm. I try a smile, manage a lips-closed line with the ends upturned. Good enough. What did I miss?
Keanu s a new FBI agent and he s gonna help investigate this ring of bank robbers.
I nod and try to focus on the movie. I don t really care what s happening. The question is just an anchor, a way to hold myself in the moment. If I stay here, I won t think about back then.

Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I imagine that this will be the day I start over. I m going to walk into school and be someone else, someone loud and funny, with a posse of friends. Someone who wears bright-colored clothes and dyes her hair and isn t afraid to speak up in class. Or speak up in general. But instead, I get up and put on jeans and a black t-shirt, comb my shoulder-length brownish-blond hair, and stare at my one eyeliner pencil before deciding, again, not to wear makeup. I don t know what I m so afraid of. But not knowing doesn t make the fear go away.
On Monday before school, when I m done with my daily emotional crisis, I sit on the steps and wait for Jamie s mom to pick me up. Most days I bus, but it s raining (surprise!) and Jamie texted to ask if I wanted a ride. I huddle under the awning on the front porch until they arrive. Jamie presses his face against the car window, smooshing his lips and cheek flat against the glass as I walk up to his old red minivan. Inside, heat blasts from the air vents and Heart wails from the speakers.
Arden! Jamie s mom Kim beams at me, then guns it away from the curb. She s cut her hair again, in what Jamie and I call the Ellen DeGeneres : short, blond, and very, very gay. Jamie s other mom, Lisa, is more of a Ponytail Lesbian.
Your hair looks nice, I say.
You re so sweet. You always notice. Unlike some people, she says, arching an eyebrow at Jamie.
You ve been getting the same cut for three years, he says.
Just wait. I ll come home with purple hair and then you ll really freak.
The day is a series of tests in Navigating the High School Hellscape: essay research in English, group work in French, an actual test in history, and biology. Yeah. Biology doesn t need to do anything special to suck. It exists in Permanent Trash World.
Mr. Bones (his actual real name, Jamie checked) passes out a worksheet on genotypes and phenotypes. I bend over my paper, leaning my head on one hand while I fill it out. Across the room, Tanner and his friends are joking and laughing. Some of the girls sit on their desks, legs crossed. When they talk, the boys watch them and look at each other like they know some secret the girls don t know. Tanner gestures wildly, words exploding from his mouth, interrupting Caroline Summers midsentence, and his buddies join in, all of them talking over each other. The girls laugh. Tanner looks over at me and catches my eye before I can look at my worksheet.
Ar-den! He singsongs my name like it s two words instead of one. I ignore him.
Arden! Arden! Arden! He s chanting my name now. The girls giggle. My heart beats like a washing machine and rage rises in my chest like dirty water, but I can t give in, can t give him the satisfaction.
Tanner. Mr. Bones s voice echoes across the classroom and all chatter grinds to a halt. I stare at my worksheet but I m not seeing it. Office.
I wasn t even doing anything, Mr. B!
Now, Mr. Olson.
I hear a heavy sigh and the exaggerated thumping of books into a backpack, and then the door opens and slams shut. I stare at my worksheet and focus on the rage, imagine it s a typhoon sucking Tanner down into the ocean and drowning him, his square white face swollen, stupid fauxhawk waving like seaweed. Maybe grievous bodily harm is my style after all. I focus on the rage and I don t cry. I don t cry. I don t cry. Around the room conversations bloom again, seeding through the desks until the noise level is back to normal. I avoid looking at anyone for the rest of the class.
The bell rings and right on cue, it s Mr. B with an Arden could you stay a moment please? Everyone else piles out the door like the floor is made of lava as I walk over to Mr. B s desk.
How are you, Arden? he asks when the classroom is empty.
I shrug. I m fine. I look at his desk, all the items organized into containers: paper clips in a small glass box, pens in a mason jar, papers filed neatly into an upright metal organizer divided by class period.
What s the deal with you and Tanner?
Nothing.
That didn t look like nothing.
I look up and meet his eyes, focused on me under the bushy eyebrows Jamie and I giggled about when we were freshmen. His gaze is laser-sharp, a microscope under which I am frozen. How long has this been going on? he asks.
L