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Today we’re spotlighting Good Luck, Babe! by Erin Baldwin!

Read on for more about the author, the book, plus enter the giveaway!

About the Author: Erin Baldwin

Erin Baldwin is a Filipino American author who writes vivid diverse stories that will leave you in happy tears. She lives in New Jersey with her partner and their two wonderful cats who’ve transcended the need for names. Her debut, Wish You Weren’t Here, was released in 2024. Good Luck, Babe! is her sophomore novel. You can visit Erin Baldwin at ErinBWrites.com.

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About the Book: Good Luck, Babe!

 In Erin Baldwin’s new YA romance novel, fake dating isn’t just complicated–it’s competitive.

“Good Luck, Babe! is nothing short of iconic . . . this book is fun and honest and relatable in the best way.” —Rachael Lippincott, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Five Feet Apart and She Gets the Girl

Reality TV enthusiasts Noelle and Yumi spent ten years attached at the hip—until the summer after junior year. One ill-fated night (and one awkward kiss) ended their friendship, and after a year of no contact, fate throws the girls back together when they’re offered a last-minute spot on their favorite show—an Amazing Race analog called The Adventureverse.

It’s a chance to put their superfan status to the test, a dream come true. Except for a few snags: It’s an all-couples season, filming starts in two days, and Noelle hasn’t spoken to her “girlfriend” in a year. But Noelle already has plans to use the prize money on her ailing father’s medical expenses. She would do anything for him—including fake date her ex-bestie on national television.

Can Noelle walk a tightrope between reality and TV while juggling a pretend relationship and true feelings? Or will she get sent home empty-handed and brokenhearted?

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~Excerpt~

Chapter 1

PREVIOUSLY ON

Twin flames. Platonic soulmates.

Too long; didn’t read: I had a crush on her. Obviously.

I mean, obvious in retrospect. At the time, I had fully convinced myself that getting secret matching quote tattoos with a girl you’d take a bullet for was unquestionably straight behavior.

To be fair, I didn’t know liking girls was, like, a thing I could do.

But apparently, I could. Intensely. And I did it for several years without even trying. I didn’t know my own strength, I guess.

Once I realized it, every intimate moment afterward felt like a betrayal. I was experiencing, as they say, queer panic. When Yumi talked about the people she liked, when she gave me a hug,

when we shared a spoon: panic. The problem wasn’t that I was super into girls and their pretty faces, it was that I was into a girl who trusted me not to be into her. I felt like an enemy spy anytime

we closed the door to her room or shared a pillow fort. I was too guilty to make a move on her, too weak to set boundaries, and too selfish to give up our friendship.

Because that’s what it would have been—the end of our friendship. Yumi maintains a scorched-earth policy for her exes— once she’s done with someone, she’s done. No matter how close they were before dating, no matter how amicable the breakup, it didn’t matter. Dating Yumi was a recipe for ruin. And this wasn’t just any other friendship; Yumi was my person. That’s not the

type of thing you torpedo because of some crush. Not if you’re smart, anyway.

My delusion was a monument I’d built over years, quiet yearning that snowballed until one single crack set off an avalanche: the finale of The Adventureverse Season 23. Our favorite team had just

won, which almost never happens. High on the adrenaline of Gabby and Christian’s win, I couldn’t help it; I turned to her and said, “Let’s film our audition.”

There had never been a question in our joint mind about whether or not we wanted to be on TV. The decision was made from the moment we saw our first confessional. I was immediately engrossed by the big personalities and even bigger drama.

We loved it.

And that’s what we told the camera, prostrate on her bedroom floor with our feet in the air; a tableau at the Altar of Reality. Yumi’s eye shadow shimmering every time she blinked, the smell

of Earl Grey tea on her breath. A laugh so deep in my body that it felt like it could turn into a sob at any moment. The impossible heat of her leg pressed into mine as we hit submit on the application

form. An overwhelming stillness that surrounded us like

break in case of emergency glass.

You can’t put that shit back together once it’s shattered.

Her lips were soft. A little sticky from her lip gloss. And she made this noise, like a sigh. What comes next, I can only view out of the corner of my eye. It’s the kind of memory that sneaks up on

you in vulnerable silence. Even when you’re alone, it makes you cover your face.

“No. This is a bad idea.”

I flinch. If I could take that night back, I would.

I’ve been to more than my fair share of therapy sessions since my mom’s death. In the intervening years I learned—many times, because this is one of those lessons you just learn and learn and learn again—that people aren’t great at expressing themselves in the heat of the moment. Well, not people. Me. I’m not great at expressing myself in the heat of the moment.

I practically ran. I was driving away before “bad idea” finished

echoing off her bedroom walls, but when I got home and the dust settled, I texted her I was sorry. She didn’t answer.

For the entire summer, that’s how it went: I did therapy worksheets, I texted her, she didn’t answer. The Adventureverse’s Season 24 promo aired, I texted her, she didn’t answer. I journaled, I cried, I waited, I texted.

She didn’t answer.

A year went by.

A year went by.

She never answered.

So, that was it. Not with a bang but a whimper.

Good Luck, Babe! By Erin Baldwin

Copyright © 2026 by Viking Books for Young Readers. Reprinted with permission.

Title: Good Luck, Babe!

Author: Erin Baldwin

Release Date: 6.23.2026

Publisher: Viking Books for Young Readers

ISBN-13: 9780593622735

Genre: Young Adult Fiction,  Romance, LGBTQ+, Contemporary, Social Themes, Mental Illness, Reality TV, Fake Dating

Age Range: 12 and up

*GIVEAWAY DETAILS*

Use the Rafflepress Form below to enter

*be sure to include complete mailing address for the second entry question to qualify to win*

Three (3) winners will receive a copy of Good Luck, Babe! (Erin Baldwin) ~ US ONLY!

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Today we’re spotlighting THE ODYSSEY by Homer; Adapted by Geraldine McCaughrean!

Read on for more about the author, the book, plus enter the giveaway!

About the Author: Geraldine McCaughrean

Geraldine McCaughrean has written over 160 other books, including A Little Lower Than Angels, which won the Whitbread Book of the Year Children’s Novel Award in 1987, A Pack of Lies, which won the Guardian Prize and Carnegie Medal in 1989 and Gold Dust, which won the Beefeater Children’s Novel Award in 1994. She has written retellings of notoriously tricky classics including El Cid, the Epic of Gilgamesh, Moby Dick and The Pilgrim’s Progress. In 2004, she won a competition to write the sequel to J M Barrie’s Peter Pan. And in 2006, Peter Pan in Scarlet was published to great acclaim.

About the Book: THE ODYSSEY

An action-packed young readers adaptation of Homer’s The Odyssey, in an edgy, deluxe hardcover! Read it ahead of Christopher Nolan’s highly anticipated film, coming July 2026.
After ten years of war, Odysseus turns his back on Troy and sets sail for home. But his voyage takes another ten years and he must face many dangers—Polyphemus the greedy one-eyed giant, Scylla the six-headed sea monster and even the wrath of the gods themselves—before he is reunited with his wife and son.

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~Excerpt~

INTRODUCTION BY

GERALDINE MCCAUGHREAN

The Greek myths are like a great patchwork bedspread of stories, stitched together over centuries, growing and growing as the Greek Empire flung itself across more and more of the ancient world. Each new territory seized joyfully on the myths and wanted to be a part of them. ‘Do you think Heracles visited here? Bet he did!’ So they stitched themselves into the bedspread. For me, though, The Odyssey is the greatest of stories and one near the very centre of the bedspread.

It seems to me like an advertisement for all things Greek: that willingness to explore the world and carry Greek cunning, courage and strength into every cove and port around the Mediterranean. Odysseus doesn’t mean to spend ten years meeting the world’s oddities, but he is equal to every terror, adored by every woman who sees him. How good it must have felt to be a Greek listening to the courageous adventures of Odysseus!

The Greeks were a seagoing race – fishermen and traders, forever setting sail in small boats – and yet the voyage of Odysseus was, for them, like science fiction is for us: a journey into the unknown. You only have to think for a moment of Star Trek where the starship Enterprise flies from planet to planet, encountering new monsters and dangers every time it comes in to land. Captain Kirk is a direct descendant of Odysseus. The one story has shaped countless stories that came after.

I return to The Odyssey time and time again; I’ve told it for all ages of reader. It has everything – monsters, giants, nymphs, fools and gods, bravery, suffering, magic and shipwreck.

I could tease many a new story out of its characters too. Did Circe put her magic to good use after Odysseus left? Didn’t Telemachus want to see for himself all the wonders his father talked about when he got home? Great stories drop fruit from their branches, inviting you to pick up – taste! – make them your own. Do it. Savour the taste of Story – as strong today as it was in ancient Greece. And maybe the delectable fruit of The Odyssey will tempt you out on to the world-encircled sea of the Imagination. But be careful: like the lotus fruit, Story is addictive.

CONTENTS

1             Yearning for Home                                                                                                                                  1

2             The Sea God’s One-eyed Son                                                                                                                11

3             The Brass Island and the Bag of Winds                                                                                              24

4             The Pig-Woman                                                                                                                                        37

5             Alive Among the Dead                                                                                                                            45

6             Beauties and Beasts                                                                                                                                54

7             Mutiny and Murder                                                                                                                                64

8             Three Women Watching                                                                                                                        74

9             Poseidon’s Revenge                                                                                                                                 83

10           A Husband for Penelope                                                                                                                        93

1
Yearning for Home

The war lasted so very, very long. Then suddenly it was over in a flash of fire, a splash of blood and a trampling of horses. Men whose ships had rolled idly over a thousand tides in the bay of Troy mustered by the water’s edge in groups.

There were many faces missing, many oars lacked a rower after ten years of war. But those who unfurled their sails, latched their oars over the oar-pins and set the tillers, were cheerful. Their masts were hung with tokens of victory and their holds were full of Trojan gold and wine. Best of all, they were going home.

Home! To wives they had not seen for ten years, to sons who had grown from boys into young men, to daughters who had grown from babies into beauties, to farms that had lain tangled and untended under ten hot summers. A few strokes of the oar and they would be home – all those men who had answered the call to war and mustered from every island and shore of the O-round ocean.

The long fast-ships were heaved off the sand and gravel and into deep water. Friends stood waist-deep in the sea, waving and waving and waving.

‘Till we meet again, Nestor!’

‘Until we meet again, Menelaus!’

‘Until we meet again, all you brave Myrmidons!’

‘Safe journey, Odysseus!’

Odysseus felt the sand and gravel grate against the bottom of his ship. Then, with a rush of white water past the bow and the crack of his sail as it filled, he leaned on the tiller and turned his eyes away from the shoreline and the still-smoking ruins of Troy. He was going home to his three-island kingdom of Ithaca. His cockerel mascot crowed triumphantly on the stern rail.

Mustered behind his own fast, black ship, like cygnets behind their swan, were eleven others all manned by men of Ithaca, Cephalonia and wooded Zanthe. At first their rowing was ragged. Their oars beat out of time for lack of practice and their shoulders burned under the Trojan sun. But gradually they settled into a rhythm – a splash, a grunt and a sigh.

‘Your son will be a big lad now, captain,’ said Polites.

‘Eleven! Almost eleven! He was only a baby when I left Ithaca. A fine help I’ve been to his mother, leaving her all alone.’

‘Ah, but such a lady, captain! Such a lady as never knew the meaning of impatience!’

Odysseus looked into the distance with unfocused eyes. ‘Indeed, yes, Polites. Such a woman.’

High in the window of Pelicata Palace, Penelope, Queen of Ithaca and wife of Odysseus, looked out across the wave-striped ocean. A dark shape caught her eye, far, far out across the sea. At once she was leaning out of the window and her hands were plunged into the unpruned vine which cloaked the palace walls. ‘Odysseus! Odysseus!’

Her voice rang through the empty courtyards and tumbled over the cliff edge. Her son, Telemachus, stopped his game of archery and ran towards the house.
But it was only the shadow of a scudding cloud, and not a ship at all. Penelope pressed her cheek against the cold stone of the window frame and steadied her breathing. Behind her, Telemachus tumbled into the room. ‘Is it him, Mama? Has Father come home from the war?’

Penelope turned away from the window, smiling. ‘Not yet, Telemachus. I was mistaken. Not just yet.’

A breeze sprang up. The breezes braided themselves into a wind. The wind twisted itself into a gusting gale and the gale screwed itself into a frenzy. Odysseus’ twelve ships were juggled by the waves: those on the crests and those in the troughs clashed sides as they rose and fell. The crews looked in terror at their comrades and saw them one moment against a sky crazed with lightning, the next in a valley of glazed black water, then enveloped in clouds of spray. They raised their oars but they were too slow to lower the sails, which ripped in three. Their cloaks were so wrenched at by the wind that the cords half-throttled them. Two hundred voices called on the gods, and prayers skimmed like seagulls over the teeming sea. For nine days and nights they ate sopping bread and drank rainwater, cupping it out of the bilges with their hands.

‘Land!’
‘Where? I don’t believe you!’
‘There! There!’
‘It’s a cloud.’
‘It’s a reef!’
‘It’s an island!’
‘We shall be driven past.’
‘We shall be driven on!’
‘We shall be broken up!’
‘We shall be saved,’ said Odysseus loudly and calmly, ‘and the gods are to be thanked for it.’

The gods were indeed to be thanked. The storm died in an instant, and they found

themselves on a sunlit beach of white sand. Strewn like flotsam, the twelve ships lay on their sides and the sea tickled their round bellies. The crews crawled up the sand, and most fell asleep on their hands and knees.

‘Can we go and look for food?’ asked Eurylochus.

‘You don’t want to rest?’ said Odysseus in amazement.

‘I’ve got a wife and six daughters to get home to, and I don’t mean to keep them waiting any longer than need be, captain. I’ve been away ten years already.’

‘Very well. But go carefully. Take just twenty men with you: I don’t want the islanders to think we are an invasion force . . . and don’t get into any fights.’

Odysseus himself was anxious to inspect the boats for any damage. So Eurylochus took men and went inland in search of food and fresh water. The sinking sun wounded the sky. The night bruised it black. And still Eurylochus did not come back.

Odysseus waited until first light to begin the search. Leaving the ships well guarded, he took fifty men inland through the dense, luxurious trees. Velvety, succulent leaves stroked their faces. Sweet-smelling flowers drooped, heavy laden with nectar, and sprinkled their hair with pollen. There was a noise of water bubbling underground, and dark-eyed fawns peeped at them from between golden grasses.

‘What danger could there be in a place like this?’ whispered Polites at Odysseus’ shoulder.

The King of Ithaca said nothing, but the hairs on the nape of his neck were lifting. No more than a mile along the green and shady path, they were dazzled by a clearing, bright with sunlit water. Round the lake stood a village. In the shade of the palm-leaf roofs, their sword-belts all unbuckled, lay Eurylochus and his twenty men as well as a pride of naked locals. The young native men and women all had long, thick hair which spilled over their shoulders and over the guests lying in the grass. They were plying their visitors with fruit from wooden bowls and, at the sight of Odysseus, leapt up smiling, and ran and took hold of the newcomers and dragged them towards the shade. Their hands were as brown as chestnuts and their skin as sticky as chestnut buds with the juice of the fruit. Their words were soft murmurs, hums like half-remembered tunes, and their mouths never once stopped smiling.

Eurylochus smiled, too. He smiled at Odysseus as at someone whose face was dimly familiar, and his words slurred a little when he said, ‘Don’t I know you? Come and have some of this fruit. There’s plenty! Plenty! Taste it! You never tasted the like! Know you, don’t I? Do I?’

He tossed a piece of fruit – a golden globe wrapped in a velvety skin – and Polites reached up to catch it. But Odysseus snatched the fruit out of the air and cast it into the pool. He whispered over his shoulder, ‘Tell the men: no one is to touch the fruit.’ He waved away the sticky brown hands that offered him the luscious food. Then he called out to Eurylochus, ‘What of your wife and six daughters, my friend? Will you keep them waiting while you idle here?’

‘Who? What? Sorry, friend, but I think you’ve got the wrong man . . . Wife? Daughters? Have some fruit. That’s what you need – some fruit to set your brains straight.’ And as Eurylochus spoke, the juice ran down his beard and stained his chest a sugary, crystalline gold.

Polites was alarmed. ‘What’s the matter with him, captain? What’s the matter with all of them?’

A native girl pressed a fruit against Odysseus’ lips until he took a grip on her wrist and pushed it away. ‘Have you never heard of the lotus-eaters, Polites?’

‘The lotus-eaters?’

‘Lotus-eaters?’

‘. . . -eaters?’

The name echoed through the ranks of Odysseus’ fifty men and their faces turned deathly white. Odysseus leapt up on to a poolside log. ‘Courage, men! Your comrades have been eating the lotus fruit. Their memories have melted and their wits have drowned in the treacherous juice. They care nothing now for us or for the families waiting for them. Are we to abandon them here? Or shall we save them from themselves? Close up your ears and seal up your lips, and help me carry them back to the ships!’

Round the pool they ran, pushing aside the fawning caresses of the villagers and overturning the bowls and baskets of lotus fruit. They seized on their friends – two men to one – and dragged them to their feet.

‘Leave us be! What are you doing? Get away! Who are you?’ shrieked the lotus-eating Greeks. ‘You barbarians! Look, if it’s the fruit you want, there’s plenty for everyone! What are you doing? Where are you taking us? Leave us be! For pity’s sake, don’t take us away from the fruit!’

The further they were dragged away from the pool and down the shadowy path, the more desperately the advance-party struggled and pleaded and shrieked: ‘The fruit! We must take the fruit! What are you doing? We can’t leave without the fruit – we’d die! We’ll all die without it! It’s life! It’s everything! Pity us! Don’t make us leave the fruit!’

Shutting their ears and sealing their lips, Odysseus and his party of fifty men dragged their foolish friends down towards the sea, though their sandals kicked at the ground and their hands clutched at tree branches in terror. The lotus-eating villagers pattered along behind making a murmured music with their whimpering. But as they got further from the grove where their beloved lotus trees grew, they dropped away and ran back towards the village.

‘Take some fruit! Please! A morsel of fruit, if you have a shred of pity in you,’ begged Eurylochus.

‘Should we, captain?’ asked Polites anxiously. ‘We must have food if we’re to row.’

But Odysseus forbade one lotus fruit to be taken aboard, and the twelve ships were heaved into the surf as empty as they had come. ‘What use would it be to row if we had forgotten where we were going?’ he said. ‘Tie the lotus-eaters to their benches and don’t untie them till this place is out of sight or they’ll try to swim back.’

And so they would, but for the strong hemp that bound them and the determination of their friends who heaved on the shining oars.

At last their brains struggled free of the cloying nectar of the deadly fruit. They began to remember and to be ashamed. And, tight-bound to their benches, in the rolling bilges of the fast, black ships, they began to feel very seasick indeed after eating all that fruit.

Title: THE ODYSSEY

Author: Homer; Adapted by Geraldine McCaughrean

Publisher: Viking Books for Young Readers

IBSN: 9798217320134

On Sale: May 26, 2026

Ages: 10+

Genre: Juvenile Fiction

*GIVEAWAY DETAILS*

Use the Rafflepress Form below to enter

*be sure to include complete mailing address for the second entry question to qualify to win*

One (1) winner will receive a copy of THE ODYSSEY (Homer; Adapted by Geraldine McCaughrean) ~ US ONLY!

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Today we’re spotlighting Stream by Aida Salazar!

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About the Author: Aida Salazar

Aida Salazar is an award-winning author and arts activist whose writings for adults and children explore issues of identity and social justice. She has written several multi-award-winning middle-grade verse novels, including The Moon Within, Land of the Cranes, and Ultraviolet, an ALA Notable and Pura Belpré Honor Book. Her acclaimed picture books include the Caldecott Honor Book Jovita Wore Pants: The Story of a Mexican Freedom Fighter, illustrated by Molly Mendoza, and In the Spirit of a Dream: 13 Stories of American Immigrants of Color. Salazar lives with her family of artists in Oakland, California.

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About the Book: Stream

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Today we’re spotlighting THE ROMANCE REWIND by Sarah Everett!

Read on for more about the author and the book!

About the Author: Sarah Everett

Sarah Everett is the author of various critically acclaimed books for young people. Her books have been translated into several languages and are available wherever books are sold. When she is not writing, she is going on long meandering walks, learning a new language or diving into a good book. She lives in western Canada.

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About the Book: THE ROMANCE REWIND

In this swoony and charming romcom with a twist, a 17-year-old goes back in time to relive her relationship and see where it went wrong.

“This one makes all my dreams come true.” —Laura Taylor Namey, New York Times bestselling author of A Cuban Girl’s Guide to Tea and Tomorrow

Title: THE ROMANCE REWIND

Author: Sarah Everett

Release Date: June 23, 2026

Publisher: Penguin Young Readers

Genre: Romance

Age Range: 14 and Up

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Today we’re spotlighting Lake Life by Tanya Boteju!

Read on for more about the author and the book!

About the Author: Tanya Boteju

Tanya Boteju lives on unceded territories of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh First Nations (Vancouver, BC). Part-time, she teaches English to clever, sassy young people. The rest of her time, she uses writing as an excuse to eat pastries. Her debut novel, Kings, Queens, and In-Betweens, was named a Top Ten Indie Next Pick by the American Booksellers Association. In both teaching and writing, Tanya looks to bend the universe even the tiniest bit toward justice.

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About the Book: Lake Life

Perfect for fans of Becky Albertalli, this charming, chaotic romance follows two teens who agree to fake-date when stuck together one summer in a quirky, scenic lake town.

This is definitely not how Maya wanted to spend the summer—depressed at her once-beloved cabin in Spruce Lake, and unable to avoid seeing her lifelong best friend, Rashida, after confessing her woefully unrequited love to her last year. Maya can’t decide if she wants to escape, or convince Rashida they’re still meant to be.

Gabe is sent to Spruce Lake by her mom in hopes she stays out of trouble. Gabe is NOT excited to be here. She does NOT like nature. She does NOT want to spend her summer in a tiny town with outdoorsy environmentalist types.

Gabe is pretty sure she’ll be spending this entire summer bored and alone…until she meets Maya. Together, they hatch a fake-dating scheme to make Rashida jealous and convince Gabe’s mom that Gabe has turned a wholesome new leaf.

But as the plan plays out, and Gabe and Maya contend with protests, a relentlessly concerned community, and romantic twists, they start to realize that their assumptions about friendship and love might have led them completely astray. Can they find their way through this mess without hurting each other in the process?

Amazon

~Excerpt~

1.

I need to get to my spot. After finding it back when I was twelve, I set up a hammock (that I named Ruth, after one of my favorite characters in my favorite book, Fried Green Tomatoes) and stashed a couple of important items in a waterproof box next to the pond.

It was the only place in Spruce Lake I’d kept for myself—Rish knew I had a spot, but she didn’t know where it was, and she seemed to get why I needed it. I’ve always liked a bit more alone time than her. But I’d imagined sharing it with her at some point—after we were officially together. I would bring her here, and it would be like magic, revealing this place to her that had been just for me, but was now for us.

Except.

A half-naked white girl is lying on Ruth right now, her eyes closed, one bare foot propped over the edge of the canvas. Her bright red bikini pops off her light skin and very full, very curvy body. She has dark brown hair that sprawls around her face, and even from where I’m standing, maybe fifteen feet away, I can see she has several piercings in at least one ear. One hand is visible where it loosely grips the edge of the hammock, and both her fingernails and toenails are painted a bright red that matches her bathing suit. A tiny tattoo I can’t quite make out sits just above her hip bone.

I’ll admit, it’s not a terrible sight, but . . . that’s my hammock.

Who are you, and what are you doing on Ruth?

I’m perplexed. After a morning of annoying, painful conversations, my instinct is to creep away, silent and unseen.

But . . . this is my place. My special place. And I really need it right now.

“Um,” I say, genius that I am.

The girl doesn’t move.

I take two steps forward. “Excuse me,” I try, a little louder.

Nothing.

“PARDON ME.” Finally, her eyes pop open, and she sits up with a start, which you just don’t want to do in a hammock. She loses her balance and flops out of Ruth onto the—lucky for her—soft forest floor beneath.

Only she doesn’t see how lucky she is. “What the actual fuck?” she yells from where she’s lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows. She finds me with her glare, and part of me wants to just run away, but another part of me is very defensive of this place.

“Oops. Sorry. I just—I—this is kind of my spot.”

She scrambles to her feet and brushes off nonexistent dirt like she’s being attacked by it or something. Not exactly one with nature, it seems.

“Your spot? Like, you own it or something?”

She’s gorgeous, but I can also tell she’s a jerk, and I find the whole package a little jarring. I’m also in no mood for her attitude.

“Well . . . no. But I set up that hammock that your practically bare butt was on, and I’ve been coming here for years for peace and quiet.”

“My butt is not bare.”

“I said practically.”

We stare at each other for a moment or two.

“You could’ve been less abrupt,” she says.

“I tried to be, but you weren’t responding.”

“Right—because I was sleeping.” She rolls her eyes like she actually has a reason to. “I should have known this spot was too good to be true.”

She moves to get her clothes from on top of my stash box. I watch as she pulls on her jean shorts and crop top, trying very hard not to notice her butt cheeks still visible beneath the hem of her shorts, or her soft-looking stomach, or the cleavage rising above her shirt.

I’m obviously failing at not noticing.

She catches me, and my cheeks get hot. A smirk lifts her lips, and my cheeks grow even hotter.

She taps her flip-flop against the lid of the box. “What’s in here?”

I shrug. “Just a blanket and book.”

“What book? Something dirty?”

Funny enough, when I was younger and first read Fried Green Tomatoes, I did think I was getting away with something. It was the first time I’d read a book with a romance between two women, and I thought Idgie and Ruth were badass. I always keep a copy of it in the stash box.

“What? No. Maybe that’s the kind of stuff you read,” I say, knowing I sound juvenile.

“And? Nothin’ wrong with a little of that kind of dirt.” She’s still smirking as she walks toward me.

I roll my eyes now, losing patience for this cocky girl already.

“So this is your secret spot, huh?” she says, when she stops a foot in front of me.

“Yeah. It is.” She places her palms backward against her hips, which only thrusts out her chest more. She’s definitely not shy. “Why d’you need a secret spot?”

To get the hell away from rejection and my annoying family and everyone’s pity, I think, but instead say, “Who doesn’t need a spot to call their own?”

She studies me for a moment. Then she shrugs. “I don’t.”

“But you liked this spot.”

“I need a tan. The sun was there.” She turns a little sheepish. “And maybe I couldn’t find the beach.”

My eyebrows lift a little at this admission. “You’re new here, then?”

“Obviously. Do I look like I’m from here?” This needles me. “Do I?” I ask, and immediately regret it as she eyes me up and down and cocks an eyebrow at me. “Whatever,” I say. “Are you visiting?”

“Unfortunately,” she says.

“Okayyyy . . . ?” I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t. I really don’t want to stand here while this girl judges me, and so I decide the only way to get her out of here is to take her to where she was going. At least she doesn’t know anything about me or last summer, and her judgment is reserved for this moment, not any previous ones. “Do you want me to show you where the beach is?”

She looks surprised by my offer. “What about your ‘peace and quiet’?”

I shrug. “The beach isn’t that far. I can come back. Call it small-town hospitality.” Then, hospitably, I add, “My name is Maya, by the way.”

She considers me, her eyes narrowing. But then she shrugs and says, “Sure. Why not?” like she’s doing me a favor. “I’m Gabe.”

We walk for a minute in silence through a shortcut to the beach. Well, almost in silence. Gabe curses under her breath at least four times as she lurches through foliage behind me.

“Is this really the way to the beach?”

“It’s a shortcut.”

“Can we take the long cut?”

“This is way faster,” I say, meaning, I can drop you off and get back to some peace and quiet faster. Feeling a little spiteful, I add, “Although the beach isn’t that far. And the regular path is pretty clear. Not sure how anyone can get lost on the way.”

She scoffs. “Thanks for pointing that out. So much for smalltown hospitality, I guess?” she says.

“I’m taking you there, aren’t I?”

“Sure. I might die from thorn punctures and a branch to the gut, but your generosity is noted.”

I roll my eyes again and immediately think of Rashida. She’d find this girl aggravating as hell and would say something sharp and witty about her. Then we’d laugh and push through the foliage with no trouble at all, because that’s just the way it is with us.

Gabe stumbles and bumps into me, interrupting my pesky thoughts. She grabs my arm to keep her balance, cursing again.

“All right there?” I ask, a tiny bit amused by this ridiculous girl. Something about her complete incongruity with this place is actually kind of refreshing. Maybe it’s just nice meeting someone who knows nothing about me or my embarrassment.

She drops her hands from my arm and narrows her eyes at me. “Enjoying this, are you?”

I shrug and keep walking, unable to keep the smile off my lips.

Title: Lake Life

Author: Tanya Boteju

Release Date: 5/26/2026

Publisher: Quill Tree Books

Genre: YA sapphic romance

Age Range: 13+

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Today we’re spotlighting The Chismosas Only Book Club by Laekan Zea Kemp!

Read on for more about the author and the book!

About the Author: Laekan Zea Kemp

Laekan Zea Kemp is a writer living in Austin, Texas. Her debut novel, Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet was a 2022 Pura Belpré Honor recipient and her most recent novel, An Appetite for Miracles won the Jean Flynn award for YA fiction. The Spanish translation of her debut picture book, Una Corona para Corina was named a Campoy-Ada Award Honor book and her picture book Desert Song was awarded the Tomás Rivera Book Award in the Young Readers category for 2025, as well as the Brigid Erin Flynn Award for Best Picture Book from the Texas Institute of Letters.

She has three objectives when it comes to storytelling: to make people laugh, cry, and crave Mexican food. Her work celebrates Chicano grit, resilience, creativity, and joy while exploring themes of identity and mental health.

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About the Book: The Chismosas Only Book Club

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants meets Mexikid in this heart-warming novel with illustrations about four friends and the magical bookstore that holds them together.

Cat, Sofia, Ana, and Mari are best friends. Nothing, nada, can break their bond. When Cat’s mom scolds them for their loud cackling at the bookstore, calling them a bunch of chismosas, the name sticks. Cat creates the The Chismosas Only Book Club, giving the girls a way to stay connected as they begin high school.

     But ninth grade is hard, and it seems like no amount of conchas y libros y risas at Milagro’s Books, founded generations ago by Cat’s great-great-great-grandmother, can repair the ever-growing cracks in their friendship. But maybe the spirit of Milagro herself can . . .

     Brimming with whimsy and heart, and woven with black-and-white graphic novel chapters, this enchanting book celebrates the magic of friendship, the embrace of ancestors, and the power of stories to hold us together.

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~Excerpt~

Chapter 2 – Ana

Ana was not normally a rule- breaker. She earned straight A’s and always made her bed. She showed up to work at the family restaurant on time, sometimes staying late, and she never stole cash from the tip jar. She never cursed. She never complained. And she never snuck out late at night to break into the local bookstore with her friends without telling her father first.

For months, she’d been looking forward to honors classes and Robotics Club and collecting the kind of achievements that would make her college applications sparkle. But the closer she got to the first day of high school, the more she itched to gather the weight of her responsibilities and heave them over a cliff.

Helping her younger sisters (aka the Littles) with their homework. Making dinner for her ’lita and the Littles while her parents worked late. Picking up extra shifts every time one of the other waitresses called in sick. Translating every phone call with the bank or the school or an unruly customer. She wanted to roll it all up like the giant bales of hay that lined the roadsides leading into Nueva Rosita and then roll it right down into the deepest canyon she could find.

Rosalinda, the heroine in Sinner’s Isle, could relate.

Ana knew Cat would pick a book they would all love, but the arrival of this story was as strangely serendipitous as the flicker- ing lights at Milagro’s that always greeted them as they stepped over the threshold. Opening Rosa’s story felt like stepping over a threshold too, one that tempted Ana to open doors she’d never dared open before, to dream of a grand escape.

Once the girls were safe inside Milagro’s bookstore, they got to work laying out blankets and clicking on electric candles and doling out delicious snacks.

Mari reached for the bag of hot Cheetos. “Okay, but, like, can you believe in chapter twenty- five, when— ?”

Cat snatched it out of her hands. “Not yet, Mari! You know the rules.”

Mari gnashed her teeth at her.

Ana tried to hide her laughter. Mari was often a menace when it came to Cat’s (many) rules, but Ana had always admired how unafraid Mari was of being herself, of eating an entire bag of hot Cheetos without a single sip to drink, of saying the word “no.”

Mari gnashed her teeth at her.

Ana tried to hide her laughter. Mari was often a menace when it came to Cat’s (many) rules, but Ana had always admired how unafraid Mari was of being herself, of eating an entire bag of hot Cheetos without a single sip to drink, of saying the word “no.”

“It’s our last meeting before school starts,” Cat argued. “Let’s do it right. First, we cleanse the space. Then we drink from el río.” Mari stuffed the piece of concha into her mouth. “Eat the flesh of our ancestors.”

Sofia swatted her. “Be serious.”

Cat cleared her throat, continuing. “Then Sofia reads our cards.

And then we discuss the book.”

Mari rolled onto her back in defeat. “All right, all right!”

As much as Ana admired Mari’s defiance, there was also a part

of her that appreciated Cat’s routines. Because they meant she always had a place. Which meant she never had to worry— about being left out or left behind. And the last thing Ana needed was more to worry about.

While Mari continued to lie at Ana’s feet like a dead beetle, Sofia dumped out her backpack, cards spilling in a pile in the cen- ter of their prayer circle; Ana poured sparkling water into plastic champagne glasses; and Cat pulled a bubble gun from her backpack and got to cleansing.

Excerpt from The Chismosas Only Book Club by Laekan Zea Kemp; illustrated by Heidi Moreno. Copyright © 2026 by G.P. Putnam’s Sons Books for Young Readers. Reprinted with permission.

Title: The Chismosas Only Book Club

Author: Laekan Zea Kemp

Illustrator: Heidi Moreno

Release Date: 5/26/2026

Publisher: G.P. Putnam’s Sons BFYR

Genre: Middle-Grade, Friendship, Latinx Culture, Coming of Age

Age Range: 10+

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Today we’re spotlighting Stars, Stripes and Summer Nights by Celeste Dador!

Read on for more about the author and the book!

About the Author: Celeste Dador

Celeste Dador is a Filipino-American author who writes cozy rom-coms with festive flair. A former reality TV show finalist on America’s Next Great Author, Celeste has also been selected for several competitive author mentoring programs. Celeste lives in the D.C.- area, where she blends her love of romance and public service into her stories. Stars, Stripes & Summer Nights is her Young Adult debut. When writing adult romance, which includes a dash of spice, she uses the pen name C.C. Dador, including her New Adult romance debut Merry Ex-mas (Requited, 09/29/26). Find out more about her at her website or follow along on Instagram.

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About the Book: Stars, Stripes and Summer Nights

Filipino American author Celeste Dador pens a swoony summer escape where picture-perfect First Daughter Abby learns to embrace the unexpected when she meets a frustratingly cute photographer who turns her life upside down. “Stars, Stripes, and Summer Nights” (May 12, 2026, Delacorte Romance) fuses cozy, “Gilmore Girls”-esque small town charm with the forbidden “royal romance” tension of  Red, White, and Royal Blue, with an American twist. In this heartwarming debut, Celeste crafts a diverse American love story that will enchant readers with a summer full of bucket list adventures, independence, and fireworks.

She wanted normal. He gave her unforgettable.

All first daughter Abby Cary-Alzona wanted was one normal summer before college. No headlines. No drama. Just a chance to breathe. But a run-in at the White House with Gabriel Calabrese—a maddeningly carefree small-town photographer—ends in a pizza delivery scandal that makes front-page news.

Suddenly, Abby’s carefully laid plans vanish, and she’s exiled to a charming country inn run by Gabriel’s family to escape the fallout. Now she’s stuck with the last person she wants to see.And as they team up to save his family’s Fourth of July festival, sparks fly—especially when Gabriel helps her chase a summer bucket list full of things “real” teens get to do. Parties. Picnics. Maybe even a first kiss . . .

Soon, the sarcastic, camera-obsessed boy is everything she never saw coming. Can a First Daughter write her own love story—or has it already been decided by protocol, polling, and public opinion?

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~Excerpt~

CHAPTER 1

“Smokeshow” and “hot guy” are phrases you don’t typically hear during Mom’s work parties, but of course my sister missed that memo years ago. Fortunately, we’re in the privacy of my upstairs bedroom, away from spying eyes and gossip-hungry ears.

I lower my phone, where my feed shows most of my classmates at end-of-the-school-year parties. Not me. I’m mentally preparing myself to keep an eye on the “rambunctious” member of the family. My head tilts sharply as I beckon my little sister away from my bedroom’s second-floor window. The royal-blue curtain, which Mom’s designer selected, provides a stark contrast to Elle’s sparkly citrine-yellow ball gown, the gown she and Mom eventually compromised on.

Since I’m the “dependable” one, no one had to weigh in on my dress. My white-gloved hands flatten my lavender sheath dress against my thighs—very Jane Austen meets Jackie O. It’s classic and maybe a little predictable, but I prefer playing it safe.

A stubborn strand of my sister’s brown hair has fallen from her updo. “Tsk tsk,” I say as I tuck it back into place for the millionth time. Oblivious, Elle continues to talk about the “hottie” outside like a reporter live on the scene. I sigh. Freshman year has turned my sister boy crazy. To her, the “American dream” refers to a cute guy. For the rest of my family, it’s what everyone in this country deserves.

I force all five feet, two inches of myself to stand tall. “Young lady”—my voice is overly crisp and clipped as I impersonate our mom—“you mean attractive and smart.”

Elle smirks as she fans herself with her neon-green nails, a color she picked despite my repeated suggestions for Essie’s Ballet Slippers—my go-to pale pink.

“Nope. I definitely mean smokeshow,” she says.

“Smokeshow? Hay naku. Is something burning?” I throw up my hands, this time imitating Mom’s sister Tita Karra’s sonorous accent when she slips into Tagalog to scold us.

Elle’s giggle is my reward. Only Elle knows that imitating voices is my thing. I’ve got several governors and many of our teachers down pat. Impersonations are one of the few things that have gotten her—and if I’m being honest, also me—through the years and years of monotonous VIP functions.

I wrestle Elle’s sequined dress straps back into place; she was too busy with her amateur red-carpet fashion analysis of our guests to notice. “Hold on,” I protest as she turns away.

“He might be gone,” Elle groans as she rushes back to my window to press her nose against it. My pearl earrings jostle as I shake my head at my sister.

“Like I said, total hottie,” Elle continues. “Loving the dark wavy hero hair. And sweet! Are those Chuck Taylors with his tux?”

Exhaling loudly, I stand behind her and follow her gaze, where guests in predictable black tie and grand ball gowns parade about our manicured lawn below. It’s a perfect June evening, meant for showing off the historic grounds of our home under the star-spangled night sky—but most guests aren’t stopping to smell the fragrant flowers in our rose garden; they’re rushing to get inside to the party instead.

“None of these guests strikes me as hot unless balding and boring is your thing,” I say.

She huffs. “He must be inside already. I’ll find him when we get downstairs.”

My cheeks flush. That’s the last thing I want her to do. An awkward encounter with one of Mom’s VIP guests orchestrated by my sister. Hey, Abby, meet this hottie, Elle would shout across the room, causing people to stare. My number one rule in life: Don’t create any headaches for Mom. She’s got enough on her plate. “Please don’t. I’m not interested.”

A wicked grin curves her lips. “I’m just wondering if you’re ‘not interested’ because of your date tonight?”

I fiddle with my amethyst necklace. Heat spreads across my cheeks. “Sorry. I’m not sure what you mean.” But of course I do. Whether Oliver Darby is officially my date tonight is something I’ve been worrying about too—and something my sister has been teasing me over for years.

Title: Stars, Stripes and Summer Nights

Author: Celeste Dador

Release Date: May 12, 2026

Publisher: Delacorte Romance

Genre: YA, Contemporary Romance

Age Range: Young adult

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Today we’re spotlighting LILY TRIPP: DIARY OF AN ACCIDENTAL TIME TRAVELER by Amelia Tait!

Read on for more about the author and the book!

About the Author: Amelia Tait 

Amelia Tait built her career as a freelance features journalist, exploring lifestyle, culture, humor and trend stories for publications such as The New York Times, The Guardian, The New Yorker, and The New Statesman. In 2020, she was named as one of Forbes’ 30 Under 30 in Europe.

Website

About the Book: LILY TRIPP: DIARY OF AN ACCIDENTAL TIME TRAVELER

The start of a brilliantly funny accidental time-travel diary series for tweens. It’s Back to the Future meets Judy Blume, with a 13-year-old girl who tackles timeslip mishaps, laugh-out-loud embarrassing moments, and one unpredictable adventure after another.

Hi! I’m Lily. My birthday is in two weeks and I have a big secret: Every New Year’s when the clock strikes midnight, I time travel to a new century. Mind-blowing, right!?

Thank goodness my cat, best friend, and school crush always turn up, too. But I still have a ton of problems… like why is my arch-nemesis, Georgia, so good at ye olde insults? How does anyone survive in Ancient Rome without chicken nuggets? Why are my brother’s clothes so ridiculous in every century? And why on earth can’t I stay in one era!?

Amazon * B&N * IndieBound

~Excerpt~

5:04 p.m., Thursday,

December 18, 2025

There are three things you need to know about me, but, unfortunately, I can only tell you two.

• My name is Lily Tripp
• I turn thirteen in two weeks

 There’s currently a bearded man on our kitchen  counter  going on and on about “living in the present”— he’s saying it over and over again because my mum is too busy chopping  potatoes to swipe to the next video on her phone.

“Ladies”—he’s grinning, staring up at the constellation of ceiling lights above him— “free yourselves from your pasts.

Learn to live in the moment.”

That’s what I’m  doing right  here, right now. I’m becoming the most pre sent person to ever live in the pre sent precisely  because of my past, which— not to brag— contains the most past of any past that’s ever passed.

Sorry, that might’ve been a  little deep. You can tell I’m  new to this whole “diary”   thing.

I’m sitting at the  table scribbling in this old, bent spiral note pad with my glittery purple gel pen that used to smell like grapes. My mum is making a cheesy potato bake. My fourteen- year- old  brother, Harry, is being a cheesy potato bake— shouting, “It’s- a me!”  every time he kills a mushroom- looking thing in Mario. My dad (who’s an accountant) is in the other room with the old- school calculator he takes everywhere, even to the loo.

“Lil, will you help me grate some cheese, please?” Mum’s  just asked. I know I should’ve started grating instead of writ        ing that down, but I’m trying to stay in the moment.

“ Can’t Harry do it?”

“Not  after what happened last time.”

“Ugh.”

Right, I’m back. Sorry about that little smear of cheese.  So the best  thing about living in the moment right now is that I  don’t have any homework because it’s almost  Christmas. The biggest (and, I think, only???) thing I have  to worry about is that tomorrow is non-uniform day and  Harry spilled a banana milkshake all over my fuzzy checkered cardigan. You actually  can’t see the stain, but  there’s a  lingering . . .  scent. I  don’t want to be “that girl who smells like fake bananas,” so I’m  going to have to wear my light- pink sweater instead.

I just texted Poppy to ask what she’s wearing, but she said

it’s a “surprise.” Even though I became best friends with her a hundred years ago, I’m still not used to Poppy’s “surprises.” All I can picture is the twenty purple balloons that turned her into a bunch of grapes at Halloween.

Apart from Poppy, I don’t  really have many other friends  at school, but I  don’t mind,  because I do have Ollie, the love of my life. He  doesn’t actually know that’s what he is yet or anything, but still.

So there you go. That’s my pre  sent moment, and do you know what? I’m definitely, definitely, definitely going to  stay living in it, just like the bearded man said I should.

Overall, middle school can be a lot, sure, but it’s nowhere near as bad as watching an ox get ritually sacrificed by a man in a toga.

Title: LILY TRIPP: DIARY OF AN ACCIDENTAL TIME TRAVELER

Author: Amelia Tait

Release Date: May 12, 2026

Publisher: FSG Books for Young Readers

Genre: Middle Grade Fiction

Age Range: 10-14

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Today we’re spotlighting Holloway by Elana K. Arnold!

Read on for more about the author and the book!

About the Author: Elana K. Arnold

Elana K. Arnold is the award-winning author of many books for children and teens, including the Sydney Taylor and National Jewish Book Award winner The Blood Years, the Printz Honor winner Damsel, the National Book Award finalist What Girls Are Made Of, and the Global Read Aloud selection A Boy Called Bat. She lives in Long Beach, California, with her husband, two children, and a menagerie of animals. You can find her online at elanakarnold.com.

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About the Book: Holloway

Award-winning author Elana K. Arnold returns with a boldly visionary, deeply felt story that crosses space and time to examine loss and love in a world on the brink.

It is the late summer of 2021, and a girl named Nora is on the Paris Metro.

Nora, whose mother loved her, even though Nora was broken.

Nora, who couldn’t help her mother when her mother needed her most.

Nora, from whom the pandemic has taken nearly everything, save the object she clings to: a cylinder containing her mother’s ashes.

With no family left, no friends to speak of, and no way to turn back time, Nora has come to France to keep a promise she never got to make: to spread the ashes in a place her mother never got to see. But instead, Nora finds herself on the run through a forest in the night, taking refuge in a dark holloway. And when she wakes, and tries to make her way back to something she recognizes, she realizes that is impossible.

Because it is no longer 2021.

Questioning everything—including her own sanity—Nora sets out on a journey through a time and place completely foreign to her, and yet one that, much like the time and place she came from, is defined by death, loss, fear, and uncertainty. A journey in which she must find a way to honor her mother—and heal herself—in a world that feels irrevocably broken.

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~Excerpt~

It’s the last day of August, 2021, and I’m on the Métro, bleary-eyed and jetlagged, cutting beneath Paris. My brain understands that I’m in a different time zone, but my body doesn’t, not yet. Yesterday, back home in California—where I used to live—I boarded a plane at six in the evening; when we landed, the flight attendant informed us that it was two in the afternoon. The magnitude of the disorientation that results from moving one’s body at an unnatural speed across space and time cannot be overstated.

My brain knows that I can’t fall asleep because that would mean I’ll miss my stop, but my body insists that I close my eyes. I lean my head against the wall of the Métro train. It’s hard and cold and most likely not particularly clean, but what a relief to rest. When I close my eyes, there’s Gillian, smiling at me. The warm weight of her hand upon my head.

Then comes a bark of a cough, and quick as a reflex, I press the metal piece of my mask across the bridge of my nose. The cougher is a police officer, white, in his sixties, I’d guess, wearing all the regular parts of a police officer’s uniform—the jacket, the pants, the boots, and the cap, the “bonnet de police,” a funny name, for Americans, for whom bonnets are associated with characters like Little Bo-Peep, charming little feckless girls—plus a mask, black to match the cap. Is the mask part of the uniform now, or is he required to provide his own?

This is the sort of thing that interests me—or that used to interest me, I should say. Before the virus and the shutdown, I might have asked him about it. Of course, back when I would have been interested, when I might have asked . . . back then, no one was wearing masks.

He’s seen me staring, which I hadn’t meant to do, but which happens when I get lost in detail. He raises a gloved hand—in greeting, to apologize for coughing, I don’t know which. Latex gloves, black.

The virus can’t be transmitted through nonporous objects, the way the flu can. That’s one of the things we’ve learned. Just over a year and a half ago, when the virus was new, before we knew all the things we know now, television doctors demonstrated how to spray down groceries, how to use antibacterial wipes on hard surfaces, how to properly wash our hands, singing the ABC song as they lathered and scrubbed. Gillian and I sat side by side on the couch, clutching each other’s hands as we watched the television doctor demonstrate handwashing best practices as if we were a whole country of preschoolers. It was ridiculous, but I was comforted. The doctor was describing the rules of the virus, just as the lines on the blacktop described the rules of the games. If we followed the rules, we would be safe. If we broke them, not safe.

I want to tell the officer that he doesn’t need the gloves. That the important thing is the mask, and the vaccine. But words are hard for me again, for many reasons. It’s not that I don’t speak French—I do, and fairly well. Language has long been a special interest—along with art, philosophy, and animals of all kinds. I also speak passable Italian and German, some Hebrew, and English, of course. Big Nora spoke French to me when I was young, and occasionally Gillian would try, though my knowledge of the language surpassed hers years ago. It’s funny—funny-strange, not funny-haha—that language is something that interests me so deeply, considering the times when language seems not at all interested in me.

Anyway, no one over here particularly wants to hear an American voice speaking any language, especially one telling others what to do, or what they should or shouldn’t be concerned about. We’ve lost quite a bit of credibility over the past few years.

The officer’s attention drifts as he scans the Métro car. For something to do as well as out of habit, I find the hand sanitizer in the pocket of my windbreaker. It’s cold and I hate the smell of it, the slime of it too as I rub it between my fingers.

Over the intercom, a man’s voice announces the stop as we pull into a station. The doors clang open, then closed. Another train on the tracks across from us, a high whine as it pulls away in the opposite direction. We roll forward, too—it’s funny, that their forward is that way, and our forward is this, and for a second it feels like we’re going backward, not forward at all. I hold up my hands and watch them vibrate. I try to force them to go still but I can’t make them stop. Control is an illusion, it turns out.

I place my hands on my thighs and try to focus on things that calm me—like the sound of the train’s metal wheels, rolling along the iron rails. It’s satisfying, the texture of the sound. Again, I close my eyes and lean my cheek against the window. The glass is cool and hard, I tell myself first in English, then in French, for practice.

The tracks are hard and made of iron. Les rails sont durs et en acier. I am safe, I am safe. Je suis en sécurité, je suis en sécurité.

It calms me to tell myself these things. Some of them are facts, and others are not. But it soothes me to say them, the way I used to be soothed by others.

There is no one left to soothe me anymore.

Title: Holloway

Author: Elana K. Arnold

Release Date: 5/5/26

Publisher: Clarion Books

Genre: YA

Age Range: 14+

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Today we’re spotlighting The Last Best Quest Ever by F.T. Lukens!

Read on for more about the author, the book, plus enter the giveaway!

About the Author: F.T. Lukens

F.T. Lukens is a New York Times bestselling author of YA speculative fiction including the novels Spell Bound, So This Is Ever After, Otherworldly, Love at Second Sight, Spell Bound, and In Deeper Waters (2022 ALA Rainbow Booklist; Junior Library Guild Selection), as well as other science fiction and fantasy works. Their contemporary fantasy novel The Rules and Regulations for Mediating Myths & Magic was a 2017 Cybils Award finalist in YA Speculative Fiction and won the Bisexual Book Award for Speculative Fiction. F.T. resides in North Carolina with their spouse, three kids, three dogs, and three cats.

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About the Book: The Last Best Quest Ever

 fraudulent teen quester must team up with a brooding, royal rival on a perilous adventure to save her brother’s life in this “witty…lively, heartfelt” (School Library Journal, starred review) young adult romantasy full of mythical creatures by the New York Times bestselling author of Spell Bound and So This is Ever After.

Seventeen-year-old Ellinore has the best questing record in the kingdom. Not even Aven—the infuriatingly charming royal who’s become her fiercest rival—can compete. But every one of Ellinore’s triumphs is a lie. The monsters she’s slain? Staged. The treasures she’s claimed? Planted. Tired of the charade, she shocks the realm by retiring during a royal feast.

Her hopes for a quiet life vanish when her reckless twin brother, Zig, bets his life on her ability to retrieve the horn of the mythical Elder Beast—a creature no one believes is real. To save him, Ellinore must return to the spotlight for one final quest. She’s joined by Zig, eager to prove himself; Aven, determined to finally outshine her; and a ragtag crew of unlikely questers with big dreams, questionable skills, and a knack for trouble.

As the stakes rise, Ellinore must decide who she really wants to be: the fraud the kingdom celebrates, the hero it needs, or someone entirely new.

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~Excerpt~

1

If I had learned anything in my years of questing, it was that members of the royal court always appreciated a grand entrance.

They were gluttons for pageantry and suspense. They salivated over any spectacle and devoured drama and pomp. And since the upper class didn’t have to work for a living, unlike lowly peasants such as myself, they had endless hours to fill with various forms of entertainment. Gossip, secret liaisons, and treason were the normal fare, but even elaborate plans for a coup d’état became boring after a while. Thus, they invented different avenues of distraction, diversion, and amusement.

The kingdom’s monarchs organized all manner of competitions and celebrations, much to the delight of the lords, ladies, and lieges of the court. They gorged themselves on lavish feasts, sophisticated fashion, and complicated dancing. And, of course, there were the tournaments. The monarchs loved to watch knights pummel one another with dull swords or spear one another with pointy sticks while hurtling at full speed on horseback. Unfortunately for the spectators, the court couldn’t indulge in sword fights and jousting matches daily, or there would be no knights to defend against the threat of warlords, bandits, and the sporadic vengeful gnome. So they had to turn to other sources of daring entertainment.

That’s where I came in.

I was an expert at questing, the broad term for a variety of daring and courageous tasks, including monster hunting, magic or divine object retrieval or destruction (depending on the day), and the occasional VIR (very important royal) recovery mission. (Princess Avriel was very excited when I showed up to rescue her from the swamp sprites instead of Lord Ethan, as he har bored a very large and very unrequited crush on her and had vowed to be her champion despite his utter lack of prowess when it came to feats of rescue or romance.)

Anyway, I was great at winning quest competitions. The best at it, in fact, in the entire kingdom. Exalted throughout all the land. And though I wasn’t someone who enjoyed prolonged attention, it was an act I was willing to play for the gold.

For a time.

With my vast experience in these matters, I knew that absolutely nothing topped a theatrical last-second entrance.

Which was how I came to be there, impatiently waiting outside the closed double doors of the castle’s great hall for my final performance. I pressed my ear to the glossy polished wood while I listened for the best moment to announce my arrival. If this was to be the last time I would enter the presence of royalty as the most decorated quest competitor in all of Avoury, I would do so in style. Magnificent, boorish, boasting style. Even if it meant upstaging my opposition, and especially if it irritated my fiercest competitor.

Princet Aven was fun to tease.

“Well, as no one else has returned from the Dark Wood,” the king’s voice rang out, “then I believe I must declare Princet Aven the—”

Ah, my cue. I rammed my shoulder against the heavy door so it swung wide open, startling the guards and the banner bearers, and cutting the king off midsentence. The ornately carved handle slammed into the stone wall, the impact reverberating amid the gasps of the court as I took a brash step over the threshold. I swept my brown hair to the side, revealing my blood splattered face, and tossed the tattered hem of my cloak over my shoulder to full effect. Between the sword at my side and my dirtied leather armor, I appeared gruesome and battle worn as I stood proudly at the back of the hall, every inch the mighty adventurer the bards proclaimed me to be.

“Sorry I’m late,” I called as I strode in, lugging the heavy corpse of a monstrous spider behind me by its own web, which was kind of poetic in a macabre and gross way. “I was a little caught up.” The crowd stared at me in stunned silence. “Caught up. Get it?” I sighed. The castle court had no sense of humor. “The spiderweb?” I jiggled the thick strands entwined around my hands for emphasis. A twitter of disgusted laughter echoed throughout the chamber but abruptly changed to horrified gasps when one of the long, hairy legs of the spider twitched. The thud of a liege fainting followed shortly after.

I gripped the sticky fibers I’d looped over my shoulder and dragged the creature across the stone with a foul scrape and squelch. The ribbon of carpet that led to the royal dais bunched beneath the eight legged carcass, while a wide swath of black blood and green, viscous venom seeped from beneath it, spreading out toward the jeweled toes of the courtiers, who pressed hand kerchiefs over their mouths to ward off the stench.

Yeah. It was dead. Very dead, despite the occasional postmortem spasm. And heavy.

I grinned as my gaze slid to Princet Aven. My stomach leaped gleefully at their attractive pout, their fair skin reddening with annoyance as they crossed their arms over their pristine royal outfit. Aven had a wheelbarrow of smaller spiders, adolescents compared with the one I was dragging toward the raised thrones of the king and queen. Not a bad showing for the second best, and if I had been one minute later, they’d have won the challenge and the court’s favor this time.

There were other participants lined up behind Aven, some with a smattering of dead spiders and one with a large bat. Lord Ethan, with his ridiculous curled mustache, had obviously missed the entire point of the adventure, which was to cull the Dark Wood’s man-eating spider population down to a manageable level.

The Dark Wood was thick and wild, and during peak foliage season it was so dense that light scarcely broke through the canopy of leaves. The populace thought it cursed, but the path cutting through it was the shortest way between the farms and ports on the northern edge of the continent and the rest of the kingdom. Taking the route through the wood took a third of the time it would take to venture around the perimeter—which for a trader or a farmer was no menial deviation.

Unfortunately, the spider population had exploded as an unhappy herald of spring. I and my fellow questers had been tasked with bringing back as many dead creatures as possible to create a safer way through the wood for the prime trading months of the spring and summer. The reward was a sack of gold and the esteem of the kingdom.

It was the perfect last quest. A way to earn a bit of gold and one last chorus of enthusiastic huzzahs.

I paused next to Princet Aven and bowed to the king and queen, seated on their thrones atop the raised platform. The bulbous body of my bounty smelled like death, the stink wafting anew each time I moved it. It was positively vile. But the king stared, delighted, and the queen giggled as I dropped the web to the floor with a loud splat.

“I apologize for my tardiness, Your Majesties.” I bowed again at the waist. “This,” I said with a gesture toward the body, “was difficult to lug all the way from the depths of the Dark Wood.”

Aven rolled their blue eyes and dropped their arms with a soft huff. I ignored them, though I inwardly preened.

“You’re forgiven, of course, Ellinore,” the queen said. “Especially as you have brought a fine specimen.”

The king gestured to the stone wall behind them, where a gigantic bear rug hung above a recessed stone shelf. The ledge held a quill from a manticore, a magnificent pearl from the Eastern Sea, a silver thimble from the swamp sprites, and a scale from the famed Golden Dragon, about the size of a small shield, which gleamed in the sunlight. “Yes. The fangs will make an excellent addition to the other trophies you have brought to us.”

I internally flinched but hid my distaste behind a wide smile. “I agree, Your Majesty.” One of the spider’s brittle legs cracked and fell off, eliciting another waft of death so overpowering that I clamped my mouth shut to keep from vomiting.

The king wrinkled his nose. “A quite pungent creature.”

I laughed through my clenched teeth. “Yes. Well, it’s dead. That’s what happens.”

“Of course.” The king’s gaze cut to Aven, standing by my side. “I was just about to declare my dear brother’s only child, Princet Aven, the winner of this little competition, as they have killed the most spiders. But we cannot deny that once again you have prevailed.”

“Wait. How did she win?” Aven asked, gesturing to the corpse behind me. “That’s one spider. The quest was to kill many spiders. To decrease the population.” They pointed at their wheelbarrow. “Twelve is much greater than one.”

“Princet Aven does have a point,” the king said, stroking his gray beard. He was a stately man, a warrior in his day, and the sharpness of his blue eyes was rivaled only by Aven’s. “The quest did specify quantity.”

“Yes, Princet Aven does have a magnificent point,” I said with a wink in their direction. “And while this is but one spider compared with Princet Aven’s bounty, this is a mother spider. And all her eggs are also now . . . gone.” Gone, but not dead. Merely relocated by a friend. But that bit of information would remain between myself, my friend, and the ancients. “And she cannot procreate again.”

“Well done, Ellinore.” The king cleared his throat and addressed the crowd. “Once again I hereby declare Ellinore the Brave—the Spider Slayer—the winner. She has triumphed in this quest!”

I beamed in spite of the name. I’d always despised epithets, but “the Spider Slayer” wasn’t too awful. It was better than some of the other ones the king had bestowed on me previously. The crowd clapped politely as the rest of the com petitors dispersed with grumbles and envious looks. Lord Ethan sniffed as he passed and checked his shoulder hard against mine, his steel armor knocking my already-loose leather pauldron askew. The prick. He had a chip on his shoulder larger than the dragon scale displayed on the shelf.

Aven didn’t move from their position by the thrones and frowned as I accepted the sack of gold from a nearby page and a bouquet of colorful flowers from another, a mix of bright cosmos, delphiniums, and small pink roses. With my back straight, I endured the praise and adulation from those courageous enough to skirt around the stretch of the giant spider’s legs to speak with me. They were mostly young lieges of the court, dressed fashionably, and blushing as they asked me about my adventure. There were a few older nobles as well, vying for me to move to their fiefs, though I had no intention of doing so. Interest finally began to dwindle, most likely because of my curt answers and forced, frozen smile. Or maybe it was the thick stench. Either way, I was left to make my escape.

That was when Aven chose their moment. “Like you need another purse of gold,” they said as they bent their head close to mine, tone low but sharp. Their eyes glinted with a perceptiveness I didn’t appreciate, and they exuded an aura that, thanks to the breadth of their shoulders and royal bearing, would eclipse mine in any other circumstance. “You’ve won the last five competitions. Isn’t that enough?”

“Six competitions. And that’s rich coming from you,” I said, wedging the gold into the bag at my hip. “Literally.”

“I would have donated it to charity, of course. Some worthy cause.”

I tapped my chin in thought. “Do you consider your own coffers a worthy cause?” One fun fact about acting as Ellinore the Brave—she was kind of a jerk.

Aven scoffed. They brushed a piece of imaginary lint from their tunic sleeve, showing off the golden thread and intricate embroidery around the cuffs. Aven was the pinnacle of royalty, from the shine of their glossy black hair and the gold glint of the earrings that lined the curves of both their ears, to the makeup expertly applied around their eyes. Their sturdy leather boots were polished to a glow, and their trademark bow and quiver were made with the straightest wood and the finest feathers—peacock, pheasant, and raven alike.

Aven was currently last in line for the throne, the king’s dead brother’s only child, sometimes referred to as the Pointless Princet. With five cousins who were the children of the king and queen, they barely held a claim, and they’d fall even further down the rungs once the oldest cousin, Princet Avia, ascended the throne and named their own heirs. Maybe that was why Aven was perpetually in a bad mood.

“At least don’t spend it all in the first tavern you find. Save some for a leatherworker and have that buckle fixed.” Aven nodded toward my shoulder. “One firm hit and that pauldron will give.”

Embarrassed, I clapped my free hand over the distressed strap of my armor. I knew the buckle and leather were on their last legs, but I didn’t see the use in getting it repaired when this would be my last quest. And I hadn’t thought anyone would notice. I lifted my chin and swished my long, loose hair, tangled as it was. “Well, maybe that will allow you the chance to actually best me.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Here.” I smacked the flowers against their chest. “These suit you more than they do me.”

Aven’s jaw clenched, and the tips of their ears turned red, a dead giveaway that I’d successfully annoyed them. They took the bouquet anyway. “You’re infuriating.”

“I aim to please,” I said, a genuine smile stealing over my features. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home. With my bag of shiny new coins.”

I turned my back to them, all set to march right out of the throne room, until the king’s voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Not staying for the feast, Ellinore?” the king called.

I went rigid as all the attention in the room swung back in my direction. I took a fortifying breath, plastered a pleasant smile on my face, then turned and faced the king. I bowed as elegantly as I could, which was not elegantly at all.

“No, Your Majesty. I’ve been in the Dark Wood for several days, and I would like to return home.”

“You can stay here,” the queen said, resting her hand on the arm of her throne, the flash of the jewels in her rings highlighting the cool undertones of her deepbrown skin. “You could quickly bathe and change into a spare gown and—”

“You’re too kind, Your Majesty.” A gown. As if. Who did she think I was? “But I’ve left my brother unsupervised for too long.”

“I thought he was your twin,” Aven said, their mouth pulling into a slow smirk. “Surely, he’d be fine for another day. He’s almost an adult, after all.”

“He is my twin. But there is no telling what kind of trouble he can find without me there.” That was an understatement. I only hoped that the house was still standing.

“Ah, siblings,” the king said. “I understand how troublesome they can be.” Aven’s teasing expression turned cold and sour for the span of a blink, before smoothing into something bland and neutral. I hated watching their personality recede behind a blank mask, as it often did under the scrutiny of the court. It was one of the reasons I always teased them, to bring out the person I knew existed beneath it.

“Anyway,” the king continued, “at least regale us with the tale of how you were able to slay this magnificent creature and her brood, so the bards may spin another rousing song of Ellinore the Brave.”

My smile grew tight. My tongue was thick in my mouth as my mind whirred for a good answer. I’d hoped to make it out of the castle before anyone asked for details. “Right. A stirring tale for the bard.” In the corner of the hall, a bard sat with his quill perched over a parchment, ready to take down my words, his lute propped nearby. Ugh. Bards were the worst. Almost as horrible as mages.

I coughed into my fist. “It was a short fight,” I said finally, patting the sword at my side. “No match for the best steel in the kingdom. Again, thank you for the gift. I couldn’t have defeated the creature without it.”

I may have hated playing the social game, but I knew how to appeal to vanity. The sword had been a gift from the monarchs after the quest of the Golden Dragon and had been made by the finest swordsmith in all the king dom. Maybe a bit of flattery and gratitude would distract them long enough to let me make my getaway.

“Oh, very good to hear our gift was of help,” the queen said, drinking from a goblet worth more than the pouch I’d just received. “But I bet it was harrowing all the same.”

“Yes! Very harrowing. Incredibly harrowing. The most harrowing. It was dark in the Dark Wood, obviously. I was very deep in the interior, and it was difficult to see. The spider did have the upper hand with the web and venomous fangs and all, but I landed several blows. I managed to defeat it and win. As I always do.”

The bard scribbled furiously in the corner. Another round of polite applause swept through the room as the king and queen nodded their heads. Aven frowned while circling the spider, stepping over the river of ooze. They poked at a leg with a gloved finger, and the brittle limb creaked.

“Well, if the bard has any questions,” I added hastily, taking a step back ward, “he may contact me in my home village. Thank you.”

“Wait,” the king said with a chuckle. “Not so fast, Ellinore. Please, indulge us by answering one last question before you take your leave. What do you intend to do with the winnings?”

My throat went as dry as a desert. I gripped the hilt of my sword, my fingers curling around the leather. I licked my lips as the crowd leaned in, hanging by a thread for my answer.

“Retire.”

The great hall fell morbidly silent. So quiet, the only sound was the audible gasp of a nearby servant. Aven snapped their head around, abandoning the spider’s corpse.

“What?” they breathed.

Their question sparked a ripple of conversation that ran through the onlookers, courtiers and servants alike, while the king glowered down at me from his throne.

“Retire?” the king demanded. “From questing?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. Aven narrowed their eyes. “You’re only seventeen.”

A tingle of irritation worked down my spine at their tone, and the mention of my age. I was aware I was quite young to retire. And we were of a similar age. They’d had their eighteenth birthday a few months ago, and because they were royalty, there had been a big feast and competition. I had won, of course. Beating them on their birthday had been particularly satisfying. They’d gotten over it. Probably.

“Yes. But I’ve been questing for years, and to be honest, I’m exhausted.”

“A rest, then,” the queen said, smiling gently. “A well earned respite until you return for the summer season.” She touched her spouse’s hand, which had curled into a fist. “And she’ll return fitter and fiercer for it!”

I wanted to argue, to tell them I had no intention of returning for the summer tournaments, but that would just keep me here longer. I nodded.

“Yes. A rest.” The king clapped his hands. “Wonderful. Well, then, let us feast.”

Before anyone else could stop me, I hurried down the carpet, dodging the ooze I’d dragged in, and made it out of the double doors into the castle’s main hallway. I leaned against the cool stone and inhaled a steadying breath. I rubbed my hands over my face, my thin bracelet slipping down my wrist. Thank the ancients that would be the last time I’d have to pretend to be an extrovert. The last time I would have to pretend to be a hero.

“Ellinore the Brave?”

I startled, pushing myself from the wall, immediately transforming from haggard and exhausted Ellinore into the extraordinary champion everyone expected.

“Yes?” My voice squeaked in pitch. Yes. I was an impressive hero.

A girl approached me dressed in an elegant muted green dress, which was stunning against the warm sepia tone of her skin. Her hair was twisted and styled in the popular way of the women of the court, a stark contrast to my tangled hair hanging in my face. Jewels adorned her fingers and her neck, and any composure I’d gathered fled in the face of her soft smile.

She offered me a cloth sack. “Food for your journey. From the feast.”

“Oh, thank you.” I took the bag gratefully, with an awkward, deferential nod. I may have been a decorated quester, but I was still a peasant.

“You’re welcome. Thank you for . . . helping our traders and farmers. That spider was quite gruesome.”

“Ah. Yes. That.” Oh no, she wanted to talk about the quest. Must flee.

“I’ve greatly enjoyed hearing about your quests. You’re so brave and admirable.” She batted her long eyelashes. Oh no, this might be more than just quest talk. Must flee squared. “The tale about the Golden Dragon is my favorite.”

“Oh, yes. That was a . . . great quest.”

“I was wondering—”

“Well. Um . . . look at the time. I really must be going. Thanks for the food. Bye.”

I brushed past her and all but ran toward the stables. I exited the castle, gracefully tripping down the stone steps of the entrance into the square court-yard, focused on escape.

Footsteps followed me as I crossed the cobblestones, and I desperately hoped it wasn’t the courtier trying to engage in more conversation.

“You’re lying,” a voice said from behind me. Oh, it was worse than the courtier. It was Aven. I stopped in my tracks, stiffening in fear until they continued. “You have no intention of returning for the summer quests.”

I sighed before I turned to face them. “I thought you’d be happy. You’ll win for once.”

Their ears glowed red, but it may have been the heat from the late afternoon sun instead of their obvious irritation. The weather was warm for an early spring day, and sweat gathered under my tunic. I couldn’t wait to divest myself of my cuirass, tassets, and bracers. Not to mention the pauldron that was barely hanging on. I didn’t know how Aven stood it in their brocaded layers and the high lace collar tight around their throat.

The courtyard was empty for the time of day; most of the servants who would normally be bustling by were occupied with the feast. Other than the whinnies from the nearby stable, and the occasional caw from a bird overhead, Aven and I were alone.

“You can’t retire,” they said.

Why did they always have to be so contrary all the time? “You may be royalty, but you’re not the king. You can’t order me not to, you know. I am retiring.”

Their brow furrowed, dark eyebrows pulling together. “But you’re the best.”

“It’s nice to hear you admit it.”

“I’ve always admitted it,” they rebutted quickly. “It’s why I strive to be better. So I can beat you. One day.”

My cheeks heated in the face of their sincerity. I hated how a well placed compliment from them could unravel the solid façade I’d projected for the last several years. “Well. Now you’re the best. Congratulations!” I gestured awkwardly with my hands to convey my false cheer.

“No.” They shook their head. “I don’t want to be the best because you’ve left. I want to be the best by beating you. In the summer competition.”

I pressed my fingers into my eyes, which were stinging from both the sun light and fatigue. “Princet Aven, I smell like dead spider, and I want to go home. Please have your existential crisis on your own time.”

They blinked. “I’m not having an existential crisis.”

“You literally are. In front of me. It’s not cute.” Actually, it was kind of cute, especially when the red of their ears deepened and a blush seeped into their pale cheeks.

“Retirement doesn’t suit you. You’ll be bored to tears in a week.”

“I disagree.” I crossed my arms. “I think it suits me fine. Great, even. It’ll be fun and amazing.”

“What do you even plan to do?”

“Garden,” I said, lifting my chin. “Knit. Bake. Write. And grow old with a bunch of cats.” I didn’t mention the piece about figuring out who I was beneath the Ellinore the Brave mantle. Aven wouldn’t understand. They were born royalty. They knew who they were and who they could be without ever having to question. I had made a life of pretending, of assuming a persona so my family had a chance at a better life. I was an actor, and I was at my breaking point.

“Garden? Cats? That’s not you.”

“You don’t know me,” I shot back. They had no right to say that. They only knew the part I played, not the real me. I barely knew who that was. “Don’t pretend we’re anything other than competitors.”

They matched my defensive posture, their armguard catching on their ornate sleeve. “Fine. Leave. But mark my words, you’ll be back. And I’ll be ready.”

“I won’t, but whatever. Have fun, Princet Aven. Try not to die.”

They squawked in offense as I hastily sped toward the stables.

My steed, a beautiful bay mare with a black mane, was as happy to see me as I was to see her. Declining the help of the stable hands, I pulled her out of the stall by her halter and adjusted my saddle, then tucked the new bag of gold and bundle of food into the saddlebag.

“Come on, Bluebell,” I said, patting her neck. She nickered and pressed the smooth velvet of her nose against my hand. “Let’s go visit our good friend. Then we’ll ride home and make sure Zig isn’t locked in a dungeon or back in the stocks.”

I mounted and rode out of the castle grounds, under the portcullis, and over the drawbridge, until I was on the road headed to my home village on the outskirts of the castle’s looming influence. Though Aven may have been watching, and though the competitions and contests had been good to me over the years and had allowed me to provide for my family, and though the bards had sung charitably of my feats, I didn’t look back.

Not once.

Title: The Last Best Quest Ever
Author: F.T. Lukens 
ISBN-13: 9781665950978
ISBN-10: 1665950978
On-sale date: May 26, 2026
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Imprint: Margaret K. McElderry Books
Ages: 14 and up
Grades: 9 and up

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