I am thrilled to be hosting a spot
on the BALLAD & DAGGER by Daniel José Older Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out
my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Title: BALLAD & DAGGER (Outlaw Saints #1)

Author: Daniel José Older

Pub. Date: May 3, 2022

Publisher: Rick Riordan Presents

Formats: Hardcover, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 384

Find it: Goodreads, Amazon, Kindle, Audible, B&N, iBooks, Kobo, TBD, Bookshop.org

Best-selling author Rick Riordan
presents Daniel José Older’s music-and-magic-filled YA urban fantasy about two
teens who discover each other and their powers during a political battle within
a unique diaspora community.

Almost sixteen years ago, Mateo Matisse’s island homeland disappeared into the
sea. Weary and hopeless, the survivors of San Madrigal’s sinking escaped to New
York.

While the rest of his tight-knit Brooklyn diaspora community dreams of someday
finding a way back home, Mateo–now a high school junior and piano prodigy
living with his two aunts (one who’s alive, the other not so much)–is focused
on one thing: getting the attention of locally-grown musical legend Gerval.
Mateo finally gets his chance on the night of the Grand Fete, an annual party
celebrating the blended culture of pirates, Cuban Santeros, and Sephardic Jews
that created San Madrigal all those centuries ago.

But the evil that sank their island has finally caught up with them, and on the
night of the celebration, Mateo’s life is forever changed when he witnesses a
brutal murder by a person he thought he knew.

Suddenly Mateo is thrust into an ancient battle that spans years and oceans.
Deadly secrets are unraveled and Mateo awakens a power within himself–a power
that not only links him to the killer but could also hold the key to unlocking
the dark mystery behind his lost homeland.

From the author of the award-winning Shadowshaper Cypher series comes the
first novel in the Outlaw Saints duology–a brilliant story that will transport
readers to a world where magic, myth, and gods reign over the streets of
Brooklyn.

EXCERPT:

CHAPTER ONE

“iPUNETA!” TIA LUCIA SNAPS AS I HEAD TO MY ROOM TO GET READY for tonight. At first, I think it’s because I’m just in a towel and dripping all over her floor. But no, she’s reading her shells—divination—and her swear means they said something she didn’t want to know.

Tía Lucia looks up and rolls her eyes. My heart sinks. She’s not coming with me tonight—it’s all over her face. And here I am about to be dressed and ready. “You go ’head, Mateo,” she sighs.

“But, Tía . . .”

Tonight is the Grande Fete, the biggest night of the year for us Galeranos, and my aunt has never missed an opportunity to carry on, gossip, and dance the night away. Plus, she’s one of the three members of the Cabildo, our leadership council, and it’ll be a whole thing, her not showing up.

But something in those cowrie shells told her she has more important matters to attend to. She’s been divining for longer than I’ve been alive, and she doesn’t play around when it comes to messages from the spirits. So she shrugs. “Así es.” That’s just what it is.

Thing is: this isn’t just a regular fete. Tonight, Councilwoman Anisette Bisconte will name her successor on the Cabildo, and everyone knows it’ll be Tolo Baracasa. At just eighteen, he’d be the youngest member of our leadership trinity, but he seems like he was born for it. Tolo comes from a long line of pirates and inherited the nightclub we gather in, along with all the nefarious dealings that go with it.

Yeah, yeah, politics, whatever. The real reason tonight matters—to me, anyway—is that because it’s such an important fete, Maestro Grilo Juan Gerval is supposed to be there. It’s one of those rare nights he’s not off performing at concert halls across the world alongside other icons. And that means he’ll hear me play keys. He might even sing! Maybe he’ll realize I’m destined to bring our music to the world along with him, and he’ll pull me out of high school and away from the local festivities circuit to go hit the road, and I’ll just step on into the rest of my music-filled life . . . right?

What’s wrong? Aunt Miriam asks Tía Lucia, shattering my fantasy in a voice that implies an extinction-level event is at hand (she uses this tone at least forty-five times a day). Dead people are a trip, man. Aunt Miriam has been a spirit almost as long as the sixteen years I’ve been alive. She must’ve been a wisp of a woman in life— long and slender, with aggressive cheekbones and a slight smile. Now you can just barely make out those sharp features on her translucent shroud. The harsh glare of our overhead lamps flushes right through her, only glinting slightly off the edges of her spectral form.

She and Tía Lucia and I all live in this tiny apartment off Fulton Street in Little Madrigal, a hidden-away nook at the far end of Brooklyn. It’s just a couple hundred of us and a scattering of Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, and Ecuadorians who mostly mind their own business and don’t mess much with all the weird politics of the people from the lost island.

You’re not going, Lucia? You’re already all made up and pretty!

And it’s true: a colorful silky scarf conceals Tía Lucia’s short bleach-blond curls. Bright purple lipstick shines from her mouth, and she’s done up her cheeks with rouge. That aquamarine eyeliner is the finishing touch, and I know she spent at least an hour standing in front of her vast makeup selection, going back and forth about what color to use. She’s a small, round woman, my aunt, but when she’s armored up in all that regalia and paint, she seems to tower over everyone around her.

“Nada.” Tía Lucia wraps up the shells and shoves a cigar in her mouth. “I’m still going, just a little later.” She only lights that thing when she’s super–stressed out, almost never. Otherwise she just chews on it till it’s mulch and replaces it every once in a while. Gross. She turns to me. “You go ahead without me, Mateo.”

Suddenly, her eyes narrow, and I realize, a second too late, that I’m still just in a towel, dripping all over her, which means an extinction-level event may now actually be at hand—“¿Y MI PISO, COÑO?” Tía Lucia yelps and stands up, and I scatter into my bedroom and close the door before any chancleta torpedoes can fly through it.

I’m pulling on my suit pants—I hate suit pants—and fussing with my phone to pull up my get-ready music when I hear a muffied argument on the other side of the door. Aunt Miriam trying to convince Tía Lucia to go, probably, but also . . . is one of them crying?

This is none of my business.

I hit Play and lean my phone against the mirror as the video of Gerval comes to life and his voice rises over whatever’s happening in the living room.

It’s from a live show a few months ago. They’re covering an old Galerano bolero, some murder song—all these old ditties are either about praising God, falling in love, or murdering someone (sometimes all three at once)—and the band has fallen into a fierce vamp while Gerval stands at the edge of the stage and just lets out a howl. He’s only a year or two older than me, but that howl over those jangling chords sounds like an ancient battle cry, and the crowd devours it, breathless, screaming.

On the small screen, Gerval flashes a wily grin.

And of course he’s grinning: Gerval went and broke the one rule of San Madrigal’s traditional musicians, the kameros: he blew up. We’re supposed to be heard and not seen, you see. Sea espíritu is what people say to kameros before we go onstage. Say-ah espee-ree-tu—be like a spirit, basically, let the light pass through you. It’s from an old instruction manual by one of the back-in-the-day masters, a great-great-great-grandpa of mine, in fact, Archibaldo Coraje Medina. He supposedly lost his mind and started playing creepy, nonsensical music late at night in the plaza, but before that, he was one of San Madrigal’s number one kama composers. Walking around with a name like Archibaldo is probably stressful, though.

Anyway, what a legacy, right?

But I get it: our work isn’t about us, it’s about the music. And personally, I’m much happier vanishing into the shadows. Besides my family and my best friend, Tams, I don’t really know how to talk to people. Unseen works for me.

But Gerval threw together an album of redone Galerano hits in the little music studio on Fulton, and one went viral and suddenly his face was everywhere we looked, grinning from our TV screens and phones, there onstage with some famous pop star that everyone cared about except us, touring the world.

And since he’s been gone, I’ve been the one playing most of the weddings, bar mitzvahs, funerals, which is cool and all but . . . kind of a dead end, no pun intended.

Tonight, though . . . tonight is my chance to jump on board with Gerval and help bring our music to a wider audience. I don’t want to be in the spotlight like him, just one of the guys in the band, there in the shadows, doing what I love.

I pull on my dress shirt, and it sticks to my still-damp skin, but I barely notice because here comes the part I love most: the howl swings up into a kind of siren-wail and the band jumps keys and unleashes a frenzy of tight staccato hits as Gerval works his way back down the scale. You can see him making eye contact with the drummer, bopping his head in time, and then the camera follows his gaze to a bulky, tall figure at the far end of the stage: Trucks. That’s Gerval’s right-hand man. He’s always wearing a helmet with a visor and all kinds of heavy military gear—just walks around cosplaying a riot cop, basically—but I guess when you’re an icon like Gerval, it makes sense to have someone like that constantly at your side.

Trucks and Gerval trade a nod, and then the band falls into a series of solos.

I finish buttoning my shirt, shaking my head at the way the whole moment comes together. I’m probably responsible for a good half of the eleven million views this video has on YouTube, but it still amazes me the way they move so smooth through all those changes without a word being spoken. If I had to guess, they probably didn’t even rehearse that—they just know.

Goals, man. Goals.

Anyway, the thin line of my goatee has just today reached the thin line of my mustache, which makes today basically my bar mitzvah, and it’s a fresh October night, the kind that’s perfect for entire lives to change forever, so I slide one arm and then the next into my suit jacket, roll my shoulders back to get the whole thing in order, and walk out into the living room.

And the most awkward silence I’ve ever known.

“What’s . . . uh . . . what’s up?” I ask into my two aunts’ inordinately blank stares.

You’re not going to tell him, Lucia? Aunt Miriam demands. “Tell me what?”

Tía Lucia waves off her deceased wife and me. “Nada. Go on. Don’t forget to salute the santos on your way out.” She opens her big fleshy arms for a hug. There’s no getting information out of her she doesn’t want to give. Whatever’s going on, she’ll tell me when she’s good and ready. I cross the room and lean over. It’s like a cloud of Florida Water travels everywhere that woman goes, I swear. The sharp, spicy scent sizzles my nostrils as she wraps around me and then holds me at arm’s length and says, “Escucha.”

Of all the many words in all the different languages my aunt speaks, that’s gotta be her number one favorite. Escucha. I could be, as I am now, staring directly at her, at full attention, completely tuned in, all ears, and she will still command me to listen. “I’m listening, Tía.”

She squints at me, because we go through this constantly. Then she softens. I notice the slightest tremble in her hands. Too much of that good strong Puerto Rican coffee, maybe. Or maybe it’s whatever those shells told her that has her shook, literally. “Be careful tonight, Mateo. A ver no te toquen at ti.”

Predictably cryptic. Make sure they don’t pick you, or touch you, or that it’s not your turn, depending on who you ask and when. Typical tía-type messiness. She loves getting woo-woo after reading her shells. Plus, since I supposedly almost died as a baby, both my tías and my parents get a little extra precious with me sometimes. You can see it in their eyes, the sudden memory of whatever strange illness I had. No matter how much I’ve worked out, or how much taller I am than all of them (a lot), I just become this tiny, fragile thing again, their baby.

Still, this one sounded more ominous than usual. “What do you mean, Tía?”

She nods at the bookshelf, where various soup tureens and vases house her spirits. “Dobale, m’ijo.” Doh-bah-ley—it means salute.

And yeah, the whole setup is beautiful, don’t get me wrong.

She has me wrap them in colorful, silky fabrics every year on the anniversary of her initiation as a Santera (which is coming up, actually), and each is adorned with sacred implements, ceremonial blades, and tacky porcelain animals.

The three original spirits of San Madrigal—the ones that, according to myth, emerged from the ether when our island rose from the sea—glare from paintings on the wall around the altar. There’s the island’s namesake, Madrigal herself, majestic and radiant over the sea in her shimmering, gold-lined magenta robes. Beside her is Okanla, the Destroyer, a badass warrior woman, her face covered by chains dangling from her elaborate silver headgear, and each hand holding a machete—one large, the other shorter. And then there’s Galanika, a stern and ridiculously buff older guy with a scar running down one side of his face and a frown to match it.

I’ll be honest: it’s been about a year since my parents and I agreed it was time for them to stop taking me along to disaster areas all over the world—in part so I could finish high school in Brooklyn—and I’ve been with my aunt here in Little Madrigal that whole time, but I’m still not totally used to all this spirit stuff she’s got going on. Mom and Dad are doctors, science people. They love data, facts, things that can be proven. We always dipped in and out of the neighborhood throughout my childhood. Usually just long enough for me to take some music lessons and, later, play some events. Then we’d be off again, to some new catastrophe. It sounds exciting, but mostly it meant me studying music in a hotel room while they risked their lives at some run-down clinic.

But Tía Lucia’s santos (or orishas, they’re also called)—I don’t really go in for all that stuff. And I know what you’re thinking: Mateo, you literally live with a dead woman. But the dead are one thing, and santos are a whole other. They’re like supercharged spirits, got all kinds of powers and complicated backstories and intertwined connections and stuff. It’s beyond me.

I just play my music, drink lots of water, and mind my business.

I do go through the motions, though, mostly so I don’t get in trouble. But that’s all it is: going through the motions.

My hand taps the wicker mat in front of the altar, and I kiss my fingers. It’s not a full salute, just enough to appease my tía. I blow an air smooch to my dead aunt, nod once more at my living one, and head for the door.

Sea espíritu, Aunt Miriam calls after me, and I know she’s winking because Galeranos can never let something have just one meaning; every possible pun must be mined, and get it? She’s a spirit. I just shake my head with a chuckle.

There’s a little wooden doohickey on the wall, and I tap that, too—yes, it’s called a mezuzah, not a doohickey—and kiss my hand. Then I do a little two-step in front of the small stone head with cowrie-shell eyes that’s glaring up at me from the floor—he’s Elegba, the santo who makes mischief at the crossroads. And finally, that’s it! I’m done! I’m practically out . . .

. . . until I almost trip over a tiny, furry lump sleeping on the doormat. After running the gauntlet of tías and spirits and sacred doohickies, there’s one final boss who must be defeated in order to escape the Medina house. Fwezeeeeeeeeblorppp! comes the only warning I get, and that would be Farts the Chihuahua. Well, his name is Dash, but no one calls him that. We call him his favorite thing to do. “Later, Farts,” I say as I step over him, close the door, then pause in the dim exterior hallway to catch my breath.

Through the thin door, I hear the flick flick and then fizz of Tía Lucia’s lighter.

8

That musty fall smell fills the crisp air—but it’s still just hoodie weather, not too cold—and everybody’s out and about.

In these moments, sometimes I think I have taken sea espíritu a little too much to heart. This place, it’s my home and not my home. I grew up coming and going, endlessly in and out, and those hotel rooms in Karachi, Djibouti, Caracas—the stale air, the ugly carpet patterns and mirror frames, the dullness and aggressively neutral decor—that was home, too. The man at home in every house is never home, one of our old ballads says, and man, I swear it was written about me. Always Home, Never Home: the Mateo Matisse Story.

Usually, learning all the intricacies of our songs, that was how I found home. Even if I wasn’t here physically, I could play the melodies and chords on my little keyboard, and each memory, fantasy, and idea would rise within me, a thread I could pull to find my way back.

And now I am back, and all I want to do is disappear. Because I know my culture, my music, my history, my people . . . but do they know me? Hardly. To almost everyone besides Tams and my tía, I’m just that weird music kid, the one who was gone a lot, the one who doesn’t talk. Stuck somewhere in between, neither here nor there. A ghost.

The train rumbles overhead, and its clanks and growls and squeaks join the chatter of ladies waiting to get their hair done outside the peluquería, which gives way to an old drunk guy humming to himself as cars whoosh past, and a bodega owner yelling about how fresh his mangos are.

It’s so alive, my little corner of Brooklyn, and while I wish Tía Lucia had come along tonight, being alone for the walk gives me a moment to do my favorite thing: listen. This isn’t what my aunt means when she says escucha. She’s talking about doing whatever she tells me, being careful or whatever. This is a different kind of listening—listening to the world. It’s what every kamero, every musician, really, has to learn. That’s what the old maestros teach.

Everyone’s getting ready; the whole neighborhood jitters and banters with the excitement of the night ahead. You can hear it in the squeals of kids in the park running around the much-graffitied statue of some colonizer, and you can smell it in the mix of freshly baked bread, perfume, and coffee. A little farther down, Tortuga Mariscos, the best seafood spot this side of Atlantic Ave., must be making a special enormous platter for tonight, because you can smell that spicy goodness from blocks away.

Little Elegbas peer out from every storefront, and I know there’s a mezuzah fastened on the inner slat of each doorframe.

Neighbors chatter and debate, pray and guffaw. I let their voices slide into the mash-up of sound and add it to the growing tapestry of song inside me.

We’re a messy, upside-down people, the San Madrigaleros. We each hold a hundred contradictions, but we wear them proudly. Our genesis sounds more like a bad joke than the actual founding of a nation: One stormy night centuries ago, a pirate, a rabbi, and a Santero escaped some battle together and watched in awe as the island of San Madrigal arose from the Caribbean Sea. This ridiculous trinity settled on it, and soon more escapees and outlaws showed up—they brought their hopes and fears, gods and demons. They made new ones. They fell in love and fought wars, and managed to stay out of the vengeful, gluttonous glare of empire for ages. Then, fifteen years ago, that island sunk beneath the waves during a hurricane, and we migrated here, where we’ve been in a spiritual crisis and state of constant yearning ever since.

No one really knew about San Madrigal when it existed. It was the stuff of legends, sailors’ delirium, and the dreams of pirates and revolutionaries—a hideaway. But not one that many people found or even believed in. So when it was gone, there was no one to notice except the people who lived there. My people.

But at least most of them have memories to cling to.

Me, I have nothing; don’t remember my birthplace. And because I was gone from Little Madrigal for so much of my childhood, mine feels like a double diaspora, my own personal haunting.

And now a whole new form of diaspora is opening up, as the first generation born here in the States comes of age. They have real documents, unlike their parents, who had to rely on Si Baracasa’s extensive false paperwork hookups. The kids born after the sinking of San Madrigal have never even seen the island we all called home, and they never will, because it’s gone forever.

Yet it’s all around us still.

San Madrigal sings and saunters and simmers through these Brooklyn streets. I can feel that place rattling and clacking all around me as I cross Fulton and head toward Tolo’s club. A tinny old-timey shanty streams out of Barbudo’s Barbershop, and the clack of the clave tack-tacks along beneath it in a series of off-kilter exclamation points while the accordions wail out the harmonies. A rumba sounds from a rooftop nearby, the breezy lows and highs of those congas, voices blending with acoustic guitars and a hoarse wail over the muddled traffic.

I take it all in as I stroll, and a melody forms, just like it always does. Some kind of rising, falling blend of these different worlds that smashed together so long ago, made us what we are, and led us to this weird exile world a thousand miles away.

The melody is just getting going when I stop in my tracks and everything seems to snap into silence around me.

Tolo’s club is just ahead, across the next street. It’s all decked out in Christmas lights and tacky pirate-themed decorations, and the words SAN MADRIGAL GRANDE FETE TONIGHT!! proclaim what’s happening across a bright marquee. Tonight’s a big deal for all of us, and for Tolo Baracasa more than anyone. The guy’s been waiting his whole life to take over his rightful role as pirate leader.

As lit up as the event hall is, though, it’s the figure standing in the alley behind it who stops me cold. He’s tall and bulky, and the orange streetlights glint off the face shield of his helmet.

Trucks. Which means Gerval is somewhere nearby.

Look, I’m not good at the whole talking-to-people thing—just give me a keyboard, you know? But I’m especially not good at talking to people I look up to. Usually, all the words I’ve planned out and practiced mysteriously evaporate the second I open my mouth, so I just end up making gurgley noises instead.

And then puking. Ha-ha, just kidding. Usually.

Point is, if I could get the awkward talking-to-Gerval part out of the way before the performance, I’d actually enjoy the night instead of stressing out, and I’d play better, and then I’d definitely get hired as his new pianist and tour the world!

So I take one step into the street and open my mouth to say hey (or, more realistically, just to gurgle), when something moves through the shadows toward Trucks. It’s so fast, I just catch a flicker against the darkness as the slight form launches into the air.

“Oh, ah, um . . .” I say, my eyes wide, and Trucks looks up at me, then spins suddenly, swings one burly arm out, and smashes the figure hurtling at him.

Who appears to be a girl about my age.

I can’t make out her face as she grunts and lands in the shadows.

It all happens so fast, and Trucks’s bulky frame blocks my view.

I’m not sure whether to run toward them or away; none of this makes sense.

She’s already leaped back up to her feet as he swings again, this time with one of those extendable batons that dudes like Trucks buy online to feel more like cops.

The girl slides nimbly out of the way and then—bap, bap!—I hear the sharp thunks of fists finding their mark, and Trucks stumbles back a step, arms flailing.

It all seems to slow as a rare, trembly music opens up inside me.

Songs just come when they feel like it—there’s no logic to it. This music, the music of their fight, is like nothing I’ve ever heard: shrill and melodic, with a splatter of snare hits beneath and a thunderous bellow throughout.

She’s on him in seconds, climbing his body like a tree. Then Trucks lets out a guttural kind of burp that’s cut off suddenly and becomes more of a whistle. He drops to his knees and keels forward, cracking his face shield on the pavement.

He’s dead. He’s definitely dead.

She stands over him, panting, a blade in one hand. As she looks down at what she’s done, her slim shoulders rise and fall. Her thick red hair is pulled back in two afropuffs, and her face is a few shades darker than mine. Above her round glasses, her brow is creased with fury.

I know her.

That’s Chela Hidalgo.

I grew up with Chela. She’s Rabbi Hidalgo’s daughter, and Tolo Baracasa’s cousin. We don’t know each other that well ’cause she’s super quiet and minds her business even more than I do.

Well, I thought she did, anyway.

She just murdered a man. Right in front of my eyes.

And then, because I’m the biggest schmo in the universe and because, let’s be honest, I’m in shock, I go, “Ahm . . . urg?”

I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. It’s just a useless sound I let escape from my useless mouth, which is hanging open uselessly.

Now we’re staring at each other, ten feet apart with a dead body between us. She’s still out of breath, but her expression is firm, not surprised. It says I will kill again if I have to. And mine probably says about what I’m thinking: OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD WHAT DID I JUST SEE WHAT THE OHMYGOD HELP.

She takes one step toward me, her eyes narrowing, and then a strange blue light erupts in the air like a slo-mo lightning flash, and suddenly standing between us is a shimmering form in a hooded robe looking like Death himself.

Both Chela and I take a step back, our mouths open, our faces lit with that blue glow. I can’t see under the hood.

I’m not sure who to be more afraid of.

And I don’t have time to decide, because with a flash and fizzle, the figure vanishes. I wouldn’t believe it really happened except Chela clearly saw it, too.

Very slowly, very deliberately, she looks at me. Then she turns and walks away, vanishing like a phantom into the shadows of the alley.

As soon as she’s gone, I lean over and puke my guts out.

About Daniel José Older:

Daniel José Older is a New York Times
best-selling author and story architect. He has published fourteen novels and
numerous short stories and essays, and he is a regular comics writer for Star
Wars: The High Republic Adventures and Marvel. He won the
International Latino Book Award and has been a finalist for the Kirkus Prize,
the Mythopoeic Award, the Locus Award, the Andre Norton Award, and the World
Fantasy Award. You can find his thoughts on writing, read dispatches from his
decade-long career as an NYC paramedic, and hear his music at http://danieljoseolder.net, as well as on
YouTube, @djolder on Twitter, @danieljose1 on Instagram, and @danieljoseolder
on TikTok. He and his family live in New Orleans.

Website | Twitter |
Facebook | Instagram | TikTok | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub

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Today we are very excited to share an Author Chat with Crispin Boyer, Author, of the Zeus the Mighty series conducted by Junior YABC staff member, Nathan Reid. Read on for more about Crispin and his latest book:

About: Zeus the Mighty: The Epic Escape from the Underworld, Book 4:

A dark land filled with shadows and strange noises. A multiheaded beast standing guard. A new, sly ruler with a few tricks in store. A lack of Mutt Nuggets to fill Ares the pug’s belly … The Olympians of Mount Olympus Pet Center have never faced a challenge quite like this. With Zeus the Mighty trapped in his palace by an all-seeing guard dog named Cerberus, it’s up to his gaggle of gods and goddesses to figure out how to rescue him. Once the Oracle speaks, the critters know they must venture deep into the belly of the vast Underworld to find the powerful relic that can free Zeus. But with so many new faces along the way, who can they trust? Will their quick thinking and teamwork be enough to save Zeus and themselves? After all, they found a way in, but can anyone really escape the Underworld? Join Zeus the overconfident hamster, Athena the wise cat, Ares the treat-loving pug, Poseidon the proud pufferfish, Demeter the loyal grasshopper, and Hermes the daring chicken on another laugh-out-loud adventure through Greek mythology. And don’t forget to check out the other books in the series : Zeus the Mighty: The Quest for the Golden Fleas (1) Zeus the Mighty: The Maze of the Menacing Minotaur (2) Zeus the Mighty: The Trials of Hairy-Clees (3)

~Author Chat With Crispin Boyer ~

~Interview Questions Created by Nathan Reid, 10 yrs. old (Hamster and Greek Myth Enthusiast!)~

Title: Zeus the Mighty: The Epic Escape from the Underworld, Book 4

Author: Crispin Boyer

Publisher: Under the Stars/National Geographic Kids

Release Date: March 1, 2022

Age Range: 8-12 years

Additional Books in the Series:

Zeus The Mighty: The Quest For the Golden Fleas, Book 1

Greek mythology meets cute talking animals in this first adventure in a hilarious new middle grade fiction series, starring Zeus the mighty … king of the gods … ruler of minions … HAMSTER, and the crazy crew of critters of the Mount Olympus Pet Center.

Welcome to the Mount Olympus Pet Center, which sits high on a hill in Athens … Georgia. The owner, Artie, has a soft spot for animals that need a forever home, and she has rescued a menagerie of creatures, each named after a powerful god or goddess. But these animals aren’t just pets with cool names …

Meet Zeus, a tiny hamster with a mighty appetite for power. His cage sits atop a high shelf so he can watch the other pets from above. But being king of the gods is a tough job: You’ve got to issue orders and decrees, make sure to stay in tip-top shape by running on your exercise wheel, and most importantly, lead your minions on epic journeys. And Zeus the Mighty has one giant task in front of him: Find the “Golden Fleas” and solidify his position before the other gods rebel.

Get ready to laugh, cheer, and learn with this adorable and quirky cast of characters in their unforgettable first adventure — a reimagining of the tale of the Golden Fleece.

Zeus the Mighty: The Maze of the Menacing Minotaur, Book 2

Leap into the world of Zeus the hamster and his gang of gods as they solve the mystery of the labyrinth in the second book in this hilarious modern-day take on Greek mythology. Our story begins in the depths of a winding labyrinth, the domain of a fearsome Minotaur who threatens all who live on Mount Olympus. Can Zeus the Mighty save the day? The critters are back and on the quest of a lifetime! Join Zeus the overconfident hamster, Athena the wise cat, Ares the treat-loving pug, Poseidon the proud pufferfish, and Demeter the loyal grasshopper in this laugh-out-loud adventure. Welcome to Mount Olympus, a pet supply and rescue center that sits high atop a hill in Athens, Georgia. By day, the pets there do what all pets do: Chew on a bone or curl up for a catnap. Under the careful watch of their Greek history obsessed caretaker, Artie, the pets listen in to her favorite podcast, Greeking Out, each night. But under the cover of nightfall, Zeus and his cohorts spring free from their cages and pursue quests bestowed upon them by the magical all-knowing Oracle of Wi-Fi. And once again, she has spoken: There’s a threat in Mount Olympus Pet Center, and it’s going to take guts, smarts, and strength to triumph. Join Zeus and his friends on this rollicking romp through a winding labyrinth (the center’s duct system) and Greek mythology.

Zeus the Mighty: The Trials of Hairy-Clees, Book 3

Our story begins with a challenge: The Trials of Hairy-Clees are only for the bravest and most awesome gods of all. Who among them will become the ultimate champion?
The pets of Mount Olympus Pet Center are a true team: They conquer epic quests as easily as Ares the pug scarfs down Mutt Nuggets and they vanquish enemies who are pricklier than the spines on Poseidon the pufferfish. But when a chicken named Hermes shows up one day, things take a turn, and before the team knows it, the Oracle has spoken and the mysterious Trials of Hairy-Clees begin! Who will become top god? And can Zeus learn to share the limelight to fight alongside Hermes?
Join Zeus the overconfident hamster, Athena the wise cat, Ares the treat-loving pug, Poseidon the proud pufferfish, and Demeter the loyal grasshopper on another laugh-out-loud adventure through Greek mythology.

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Hello YABC’ers!

Welcome to the weekly post by the Staff at YA Books Central called Current Reads Monday!

We love everything bookish and just wanted to share with our readers what books we are currently reading and

obsessing about! So check out what books the YABC Staff are currently reading below and comment to let us

know what book or books you’re reading as well!!

Share, Tweet, and post with the hashtag #YABCCurrentReads!

Happy Reading!!

*Mark’s Current Read*

(Staff Reviewer)

The Unique Lou Fox

Author: Jodi Carmichael

Publication Date: August 16, 2022

Publisher: Pajama Press

Award-winning author Jodi Carmichael, who has ADHD herself, affirms and celebrates those who struggle with their uniqueness and triumphantly discover its gifts

It isn’t easy being Louisa Elizabeth Fitzhenry-O’Shaughnessy—especially with dyslexia. She prefers Lou Fox, the dream name she’ll use one day as a famous Broadway playwright. In the meantime, Lou is stuck in fifth grade with Mrs. Snyder, a total Shadow Phantom of a teacher who can spot a daydream from across the room but doesn’t know anything about ADHD. Mrs. Snyder’s constant attention is ex-cru-ci-a-ting. If only she would disappear.

Fortunately, life isn’t all a-tro-cious. There’s The Haunting at Lakeside School, the play Lou is writing and directing for her two best friends. And soon she’ll be a big sister at last. Nothing could ruin the joy of those things…right?

*Connie’s Current Read*

(Site Manager)

All My Rage

Author: Sabaa Tahir

Publication Date: March 1, 2022

Publisher: Razorbill

From #1 New York Times bestselling author Sabaa Tahir comes a brilliant, unforgettable, and heart-wrenching contemporary novel about family and forgiveness, love and loss, in a sweeping story that crosses generations and continents.

Lahore, Pakistan. Then.
Misbah is a dreamer and storyteller, newly married to Toufiq in an arranged match. After their young life is shaken by tragedy, they come to the United States and open the Clouds’ Rest Inn Motel, hoping for a new start.

Juniper, California. Now.
Salahudin and Noor are more than best friends; they are family. Growing up as outcasts in the small desert town of Juniper, California, they understand each other the way no one else does. Until The Fight, which destroys their bond with the swift fury of a star exploding.

Now, Sal scrambles to run the family motel as his mother Misbah’s health fails and his grieving father loses himself to alcoholism. Noor, meanwhile, walks a harrowing tightrope: working at her wrathful uncle’s liquor store while hiding the fact that she’s applying to college so she can escape him—and Juniper—forever.

When Sal’s attempts to save the motel spiral out of control, he and Noor must ask themselves what friendship is worth—and what it takes to defeat the monsters in their pasts and the ones in their midst.

From one of today’s most cherished and bestselling young adult authors comes a breathtaking novel of young love, old regrets, and forgiveness—one that’s both tragic and poignant in its tender ferocity.

*Jan’s Current Read*

(Staff Reviewer)

The Merciless Ones

Author: Namina Forna

Publication Date: May 31, 2022

Publisher: Delacorte Press

The epic, hotly anticipated sequel to the instant New York Times bestseller The Gilded Ones about a girl with the power to remake her world—or destroy it.

“Fans of Children of Blood and Bone, Mulan, and the Dora Milaje from Black Panther are going to adore [The Gilded Ones].”—BuzzFeed

It’s been six months since Deka freed the goddesses in the ancient kingdom of Otera and discovered who she really is… but war is waging across the kingdom, and the real battle has only just begun. For there is a dark force growing in Otera—a merciless power that Deka and her army must stop.

Yet hidden secrets threaten to destroy everything Deka has known. And with her own gifts changing, Deka must discover if she holds the key to saving Otera… or if she might be its greatest threat.

The Merciless Ones is the second thrilling installment of the epic fantasy series in which a young heroine fights against a world that would dare tame her.

*Kim’s Current Read*

(Staff Reviewer)

Healer and Witch

Author: Nancy Werlin

Publication Date: April 12, 2022

Publisher: Candlewick

After eleven young-adult novels, best-selling and award-winning author Nancy Werlin casts a brilliant new spell in a middle-grade historical fantasy for fans of classic fare.

Nancy Werlin’s first story for middle-grade readers tackles and transcends traditional fantasy tropes: can a young woman gifted with magic learn to manage her powers—and claim her strength—without violence? Sylvie and her mother and grandmother are beloved, trusted healers in their medieval French village, though some whisper that fifteen-year-old Sylvie and her grand-mere deal in more than herbs and medicines. Perhaps they’re a bit . . . witchy? After her grandmother dies, and an attempt to use magic to heal her mother’s grief brooks tragic consequences, Sylvie leaves her village in search of a teacher. The journey subjects her to strange alliances, powerful temptations, danger, and deceit. In the end, there may be only one wise woman Sylvie can trust in a world that would define her limits: herself. Beautifully crafted, this quietly powerful work for younger readers assures a whole new audience for an established author.

What book are you currently reading? Comment below! 

Share, Tweet, and post with the hashtag #YABCCurrentReads!

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 Today we’re spotlighting Very Bad People by Kit Frick!

Read on for more about Kit, her book, and a giveaway!

Meet Kit Frick!

Kit Frick is a MacDowell Fellow and International Thriller Writers Award finalist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She studied creative writing at Sarah Lawrence College and received her MFA from Syracuse University. The author of the poetry collection A Small Rising Up in the Lungs and the young adult thrillers Before We Were Sorry (originally published as See All the Stars), All Eyes on Us, I Killed Zoe Spanos, and Very Bad People, Kit loves a good mystery but has only ever killed her characters. Honest. Visit Kit online at KitFrick.com and on Twitter and Instagram @KitFrick.

Visit Kit’s Website 

Meet Very Bad People!

In this dark academia young adult thriller for fans of The Female of the Species and People Like Us, a teen girl’s search for answers about her mother’s mysterious death leads to a powerful secret society at her new boarding school—and a dangerous game of revenge that will leave her forever changed.

Six years ago, Calliope Bolan’s mother drove the family van into a lake with her three daughters inside. The girls escaped, but their mother drowned, and the truth behind the “accident” remains a mystery Calliope is determined to solve. Now sixteen, she transfers to Tipton Academy, the same elite boarding school her mother once attended. Tipton promises a peek into the past and a host of new opportunities—including a coveted invitation to join Haunt and Rail, an exclusive secret society that looms over campus like a legend.

Calliope accepts, stepping into the exhilarating world of the “ghosts,” a society of revolutionaries fighting for social justice. But when Haunt and Rail commits to exposing a dangerous person on campus, it becomes clear that some ghosts define justice differently than others.

As the society’s tactics escalate, Calliope uncovers a possible link between Haunt and Rail and her mother’s deadly crash. Now, she must question what lengths the society might go to in order to see a victory—and if the secret behind her mother’s death could be buried here at Tipton.

Purchase Book Here! 

~ Excerpt ~

Tuesday morning, three classrooms have been ghosted. All over campus, there are whispers. It’s happening again. And I heard they make initiates drink blood. And it’s just a stupid hoax. The teachers talk too. I bet I know who is responsible. And at least they’re not defacing school property. And there are proper chan- nels here at Tipton.

Three students have completed their initiation rite. Which leaves seven of us. The others have a leg up; they are all beginning their third year here, know the arteries of this cam- pus, its beating heart. I have been here for less than a week, have not yet split Tipton open, seen its anatomy at work.

I have until Thursday night to complete my mission. Part of me wants to get it over with as soon as possible. My stom- ach clenches at the idea of leaving this to the last night, elimi- nating any possibility of a second chance, but I force myself to slow down. Pay attention. For two days, I observe building locations, cleaning schedules, club meeting spots. More rooms have been ghosted when we file into class on Wednesday morning, then Thursday. I collect the whispers, count seven,

eight, nine. I am the last initiate left, but no one said this was a race. By Thursday, my plan is in place.

Perry Cottage is a small academic building off Quadrant East, adjacent to the library. The first floor houses a seminar room, where my Creative Writing class meets, a student lounge, and two faculty offices. Upstairs is an apart- ment, occupied by Mr. Ellis. Like the library, the back of Perry faces a thick row of trees, shielding the south-facing windows from sunlight—and roving eyes. With a faculty residence on the second floor, it’s a risk, but Mr. Ellis lives alone and his car has not returned to its parking spot on the north side of the building until 9 p.m. for the past two nights. Trash is collected from seminar rooms daily. On Tuesday and Wednesday, a peek through the windows reveals that cans have been emptied and rooms locked for the night by the time I’m back from dinner. You can’t ghost a classroom before the janitorial staff comes through unless you want to risk them seeing your work and erasing the whiteboard. But they lock up the rooms, so you either need to hide out in the

classroom or find another way in. I opt for option B.

On Thursday, when everyone is at lunch, I slip back into Perry Cottage and open the locks on the back south-facing window in 100, the seminar room. Then I remove the screen and tuck it into the storage closet in the back of the room and slide the window open, just an inch from the bottom.

I am as ready as I will be. The Linguistics Club meets in the Perry student lounge on Tuesdays and Thursdays at seven thirty, then there is a half hour window between the end of their meeting and the time Mr. Ellis has been getting home.

I sit on Quadrant East with a book and a book light, back pressed against a tree, and listen. Most of the lawn is lit up by lamps, but it’s dark under my tree. At eight thirty-five, I hear voices and the sound of a heavy wood door swinging shut. The Linguistics Club has adjourned.

Eyes still trained on the book in front of me, I wait for three more minutes. Then I switch off my book light and make my move. I wiggle my fingers between the windowsill and the base of the frame and nudge the window up, then up some more. Check to the right; check to the left—all clear. Then I hoist myself up until I’m balanced on my belly and gracelessly worm my way through the window and onto the thin blue carpet. I’m inside.

It’s dark in the classroom, but I don’t want to risk turn- ing on a light. I slide a dry erase marker, pilfered this after- noon from another class, out of my bag. It only takes a matter of seconds to draw the ghost, its angry railroad track teeth. I snap a picture, return the marker to my bag, and freeze. Out- side Perry, a car door slams shut, followed by the beep-beep of the lock.

Mr. Ellis is home early.

I drop to my knees and begin crawling back to the win- dow. The building’s front door opens, then bangs closed. Mr. Ellis needs to pass by the classroom on his way to the stairs, but as long as he doesn’t stop to look through the door’s square window, I’m safe. If he does, though, the whiteboard is plainly visible from the doorway, even in the dark. And fac- ulty carry keys.

So far, I have stayed on Mr. Ellis’s good side, but Lee’s warning is still a low hum. I picked Perry Cottage because I’m here every day, and the classroom is on the ground floor. But maybe I wasn’t being smart. If Mr. Ellis catches me, I’m risk- ing not only my initiation into the ghosts but also my reputa- tion with one of my teachers.

I flatten myself against the floor below the window and stop moving. The blue carpet is scratchy against my cheek, and I try not to breathe in the dust. Footsteps outside, com- ing closer, closer, then stopping. My heartbeat booms in my ears, drowning out all other sounds. Is he at the door? Does he see me?

Then footsteps again, heading up the stairs. Heading away. I let out a long breath, then shove myself to my feet. Tumble back through the window, and I’m gone. A ghost.

I am not a ghost. I am solid, flesh and bone. I am seen.

Not by Mr. Ellis—by Nico Hale.

“Nico, hey.” I lean against the back wall of the library, just a couple yards from Perry Cottage, in a way I hope looks casual but am sure looks staged.

He turns the corner and joins me. A flashlight beam bounces at his feet. Did he see me sliding out of the Perry Cot- tage window a minute ago? Did I just blow this?

“What are you doing back here?” He looks genuinely curious. He doesn’t look like he knows what I’ve been up to. “I cut through Quadrant East,” I fib. “I thought the

library had a back entrance.”

“Nah, this door’s always locked.” Nico leans against the wall next to me and scrapes his hair out of his eyes.

“Right.” I stare at the door Brit led us through on Sunday night. The door that leads down to the Den. “I’m still learn- ing my way around this place. It’s not even that big.”

“No, I get it,” Nico says. “There’s a lot to take in. There are layers to Tipton. Like that building.”

He points to Perry Cottage, and my heart leaps into my throat. “What do you mean?”

“Its official name is Perry Cottage, but no one calls it that.”

“Really?” This is news to me.

“Well, faculty do sometimes. But mostly people just call it the CW.”

I scrunch up my nose. “Like the network?”

“Because it’s the creative writing house. But yeah, also because of the network. Someone started calling it that years ago and it stuck.”

“Oh.” I feel silly. “I should have known that. I have my elective in there.”

Nico shrugs. “This is my third year here, and I’m still learning things. There’s Tipton, and historical Tipton, and Tipton culture and lore.”

“Layers,” I repeat. I wonder how much Nico knows about the Haunt and Rail Society. If it’s as secretive as it claims to be, probably not much beyond whatever “larks” they’ve done on campus over the last two years. It feels strange that there might be a piece of Tipton I know better than Nico, although with Haunt and Rail, I have the distinct feeling that I’ve barely scratched the surface.

“I should let you go,” Nico says, shoving off the library wall. I stare at him blankly. “You were going inside?”

“Right.” Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I was just dropping off a book. I can do it later.”

Nico smiles. I can’t catch the chip in his tooth in the dark, but I know it’s there. “Walk with me then?”

We slip through the break in the trees and out onto Quadrant East. It’s much brighter out here, the lawn lit up by tall lampposts.

“Any luck with those three guys?” he asks. “From the yearbooks?”

“Not really. I asked my family about them, and they were no help.” I don’t tell Nico that I got the strange sense Lore- lei and Dad were keeping something from me. “But then I did some searches online, and I found current photos for the Samuel Pateman and Kurt Devin Wood who graduated from Tipton. The man I saw in town wasn’t either of them. So that leaves Jesse MacDonald, class of 1996. His name is too com- mon; he’s been harder to track down. But honestly, I’m not holding out a lot of hope that it was him.”

“Huh.” Nico frowns. We’re across Quadrant East now, headed back toward our dorms. “I’m sure my Google skills are no more refined than yours are, but let me know what I can do to help.”

“Thanks.” My hand brushes against his in the dark, and he doesn’t pull away. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything.”

MARGARET K. McELDERRY BOOKS

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Text © 2022 by Kristin S. Frick

Jacket illustration © 2022 by Gee Hale

Jacket design by Debra Sfetsios-Conover © 2022 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. Map and ghost illustrations by Mike Hall

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. MARGARET K. McELDERRY BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected]. The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

Interior design by Irene Metaxatos

The text for this book was set in Garamond 3 LT Std. Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Frick, Kit, author. Title: Very bad people / Kit Frick. Description: First edition. | New York : Margaret K. McElderry Books, [2022] | Audience: Ages 14 and up. | Audience: Grades 10–12. | Summary: Sixteen-year-old Calliope Bolan joins a powerful secret society at her new boarding school, hoping to find answers about her mother’s death, but she becomes involved in a dangerous campaign for revenge that threatens her new friendships. Identifiers: LCCN 2021024092 (print) | LCCN 2021024093 (ebook) | ISBN 9781534449732 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781534449756

(ebook) | Subjects: CYAC: Secret societies—Fiction. | Secrets—Fiction. | Justice— Fiction. | Death—Fiction. | Boarding schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction.

| LCGFT: Novels. Classification: LCC PZ7.1.F75478 Ve 2022 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.F75478 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23 | LC record available at https://lccn.loc. gov/2021024092 | LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021024093

~ End of Excerpt ~

Very Bad People

Author: Kit Frick

Publisher: Simon and Schuster, Margaret K. McElderry

 Publish Date: April 4th, 2022

*GIVEAWAY DETAILS* 

*Click the Rafflecopter link below to enter the giveaway*

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Today we are chatting with Laura Marx Fitzgerald (Author) and Jenny Løvlie (Illustrator) of

Wild For Winnie!

Read on for more about them, their book and a giveaway!

Meet Author: Laura Marx Fitzgerald!

Laura Marx Fitzgerald studied at Harvard College and Cambridge University, and works as a copywriter. She is the author of two highly praised children’s novels, Under the Egg and The Gallery. She lives in New Jersey with her husband, their two children, and a dog named Wally.

Visit Laura’s Website!

Meet Illustrator: Jenny Løvlie!

Jenny Løvlie is a Norwegian illustrator, designer, storyteller, and bird enthusiast now living in England. She studied Illustration and Animation at Kingston University, and is the illustrator of several previous picture books. She won the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize for best debut talent for The Girls.

Visit Jenny’s Website!

Meet Wild For Winnie!

 Purchase Book Here! 

~ Author/Illustrator Chat with Laura & Jenny  ~

 Wild For Winnie

Author: Laura Marx Fitzgerald

Author: Jenny Lovlie

Publisher: Dial Books for Young Readers

 Publish Date: April 5th, 2022

*GIVEAWAY DETAILS* 

Three winners will receive a copy of Wild For Winnie (Laura Marx Fitzgerald) ~ (US Only)

*Click the Rafflecopter link below to enter the giveaway*

a Rafflecopter giveaway

1 comment

Today we are chatting with Rachael Lippincott & Alyson Derrick, authors of

She Gets The Girl!

Read on for more about Rachael & Alyson and their book!

Meet Rachael Lippincott!

Rachael Lippincott is the coauthor of All This Time, #1 New York Times bestseller Five Feet Apart, and She Gets the Girl and the author of The Lucky List. She holds a BA in English writing from the University of Pittsburgh. Originally from Bucks County, Pennsylvania, she currently resides in Pennsylvania with her wife and their dog, Hank.

 Instagram  * Twitter

Meet Alyson Derrick!

Alyson Derrick was born and raised in Greenville, Pennsylvania, a town where burn barrels take the place of recycling bins. After making her great escape to Pittsburgh, where she earned her bachelor’s in English writing, Alyson started her own food truck, but soon realized she much prefers telling stories over slinging cheesesteaks. Alyson currently resides in Pennsylvania with her wife and their dog, Hank.

Instagram * Twitter

Meet She Gets The Girl!

 Purchase Book Here! 

~ Author Chat with Alyson Derrick & Rachael Lippincott~

 She Gets The Girl

Author: Rachael Lippincott & Alyson Derrick

Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

 Publish Date: April 5th, 2022

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Today we are chatting with Dante Medema, author of

Message Not Found!

Read on for more about Dante and her book, Message Not Found!

Meet Dante Medema!

Dante Medema is an author of books for young readers. Passionate about stories and helping other writers, she spends entirely too much time on TikTok. She lives in Anchorage, Alaska with her husband, four daughters, two pups, and a room full of alien memorabilia—and books, of course.! When she’s not writing, she dabbles in baking, cake decorating, and reading up on enneagram personality types.

About Message Not Found:

An emotionally complex portrayal of secrets, loss, and grief from Dante Medema, Indies Introduce author of the Indie Next Pick title The Truth Project. 

Bailey and Vanessa shared everything: laughter, secrets, and packets of Pop Rocks to ward off bad days. But that all changed the night Vanessa left Bailey’s, headed for home, and ended up swerving off a cliff nowhere near her house. Now Bailey, who thought she knew Vanessa better than anyone in the world, is left with a million unanswered questions, and the only person with answers is gone.

To help grieve her loss, Bailey creates a chat bot of Vanessa using years’ worth of their shared text messages and emails. The more data she uploads to the bot, the more it feels like she’s really talking to her best friend. That is, until the bot starts dropping hints that there was more going on with Vanessa than Bailey realized—a secret so big, it may have contributed to Vanessa’s death.

This compelling puzzle of a story, filled with engrossing twists and turns, is written in alternating prose and text message formats. Teens will gobble up this fast-paced page-turner.

~Author Chat~

YABC:  What gave you the inspiration to write this book?

DM: A combination of a couple of things. My grandfather’s last words to me were “I’ll text you” even though he never texted. I started getting these random texts from “Unknown Sender” that just say “message not found” and it always makes me feel like he’s still here, you know? I was thinking a lot about the fact that when someone dies, they don’t just stay in your heart. They have a digital footprint too. It was a concept I was toying around with when I stumbled across an article about a woman named Eugenia Kuyda (the creator of Replika) who created a chatbot in her best friend’s likeness after they died. It was like something clicked and I was ready to write it.

YABC: Who is your favorite character in the book?

DM: I’ve tried to respond to this at least a ten times and deleted the answer. I’m going to cheat a bit and say my favorite relationship: Bailey and Vanessa. There’s something about friendships when you’re a teen that feel so much bigger. So much more connected. It’s that feeling of knowing someone better than you even really know yourself. And to lose that person… gosh. It would be horrible. I really wanted to capture that in this story.

YABC:  Thinking way back to the beginning, what’s the most important thing you’ve learned as a writer from then to now?

DM: That it gets easier. When I left my very first conference, I thought there was no way I’d ever be able to remember all the things that need to go on a first page, much less a chapter. Pacing, character, setting, great style—plot!? It was so overwhelming! Years later I can look back and I just know when something isn’t working in a story even as I’m writing it. There’s an understanding that comes with practice (who knew?) and I really have critique partners to thank for that. Trading those pages and practicing really helped me.

YABC: What do you like most about the cover of the book?

DM: I’m obsessed with the cover—I literally gasped when I saw the concept art for it! Everything from the colors to the snow to Vanessa as part of the mountain landscape. And how you almost miss Vanessa there when you see it for the first time. I’m so grateful for David Curtis (the cover designer) and Jack Hughes (the artist)—they created such a beautiful design that I love showing off.

YABC: What’s a book you’ve recently read and loved?

DM: I finished Kip Wilson’s THE MOST DAZZLING GIRL IN BERLIN last night and I’m obsessed. I love a novel in verse, and Berlin is a city that holds a special place in my heart. The writing is beautiful, and it’s so atmospheric! I absolutely can not wait for everyone else to get to read it!

YABC:   Which was the most difficult or emotional scene to narrate?

DM: There’s a scene where Bailey and Mason go to Vanessa’s house to get their things from her room. It wrecks me every time I read it. There’s so much weight in this moment, these two teens leaning on one another during the hardest time of their life. It’s also the first time we really see Vanessa’s parents on the page and see what their grief looks like. I’ve got four kids, so naturally this was a really difficult scene and space to put myself in.

YABC:    Which character gave you the most trouble when writing your latest book?

DM: Being someone who relies heavily on plot, the characters and their arcs are pretty malleable, but I’ll say this… I’ve never written characters who changed this much from concept to finish. The original versions of them in my head shifted so much draft to draft that I felt bad for my poor editor every time I renamed someone or gave them an entirely different backstory. I mean, Bailey’s boyfriend Cade didn’t even exist until my last major revision, and now I can’t imagine a version of this book that he didn’t live in.

YABC:    What is the main message or lesson you would like your reader to remember from this book?

DM: That there’s always hope. I finished writing this book during the worst days of my life, using it as a distraction. I’m not alone in this either. The last two years have been abysmal, and as a world, we’re grieving. But the thing about death and grief is that no matter what we’re left with in the wake of that loss, is that we keep living. Keep moving. And loving, and dreaming, and doing, and hoping. There’s always hope, even when it’s hard to see.

YABC:      What would you say is your superpower?

DM: Oh man. Probably outlining. I feel like the prewriting phase is where I’m gold, but then everything after that is a challenge. I’m a huge fan of making sure I have it all planned out just because I know my motivation to sit in the chair when I don’t know where I’m going with a story is nil.

YABC:   What advice do you have for new writers?

DM: Just keep going. There’s literally no one that tells you “hey, so you have to write a book” –it’s a thing you just feel like you want to do. And it’s HARD. So it’s really easy to stop halfway through or decide that you’re done dealing with rejection and call it quits. But there’s always something to learn. Like getting a better grasp on the market you want to write in, learning to apply that feedback instead of fight it, or crafting a better query letter. If you keep going, and keep learning, you’ll get better and eventually you’ll get where you want to be.

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Today we are chatting with Adam Mansbach & Camila Alves McConaughey, authors of

Just Try One Bite!

Read on for more about Adam & Camila, their book and a giveaway!

Meet Adam Mansbach!

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Adam Mansbach is the author of more than a dozen books for kids and adults, including the #1 New York Times bestseller Go the **** to Sleep and the award-winning Jake the Fake series. He also writes movies, drinks espresso, and cooks delicious meals for his three daughters at his home in Berkeley, California.  

Visit Adam’s Website!

Meet Camila Alves McConaughey!

Camila Alves McConaughey is a dedicated mom who values the importance of healthy eating. She is also an entrepreneur and founder of Women of Today, a lifestyle site and community powered by women around the globe. She lives in Texas with her husband, Matthew McConaughey, and their three children. Camila was a mushroom skeptic for thirty-seven years, until a bowl of veggie Bolognese in 2020 turned her into a mushroom lover. Keep trying those veggies!

Meet Illustrator: Mike Boldt!

Mike Boldt is an author and illustrator from Canada. His books include Bad Dog and Find Fergus, as well as the I Don’t Want to Be a Frog series, written by Dev Petty, and How to Grow a Dinosaur, written by Jill Esbaum. And while Mike really enjoys them now, just one bite of Brussels sprouts used to make him gag.

Meet Just Try One Bite!

 Purchase Book Here! 

~ Author Chat ~

 Just Try One Bite

Authors: Adam Mansbach & Camila Alves McConaughey

Illustrator: Mike Boldt

Publisher: Dial Books

 Publish Date: March 22nd, 2022

*GIVEAWAY DETAILS* 

Three winners will receive a copy of Just One Bite (Mansbach & McConaughey) ~ (US Only)

*Click the Rafflecopter link below to enter the giveaway*

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Hey YABCers and guests from the Interwebs! Thanks for stopping by and celebrating today’s cover reveal with us!

Today we’re revealing John Dixon’s PHOENIX ISLAND, available January 21st, 2014 from Simon & Schuster / Gallery Books. But before we get to the goods, here’s a message from John:

Hi, YABCers!

Welcome to the cover reveal for my debut thriller, PHOENIX ISLAND!

Writing a book takes months, and pubbing the thing takes even longer, so I’ve been dreaming of this moment for a looooong time… Thanks so much for sharing it with me. 

The last couple of years have been such an exciting time. After years of writing short stories and teaching middle school, I landed a great agent, sold PHOENIX ISLAND to Simon & Schuster / Gallery Books, and jumped on board the crazy roller coaster ride that has turned my debut novel into INTELLIGENCE, an upcoming CBS TV series starring Josh Holloway, Meghan Ory, and Marg Helgenberger. Amazing times, indeed… and I’m feeling incredibly blessed. 

One of the most exciting moments was when I heard that the great John Vairo, cover artist for heavy-hitters like Vince Flynn and Stephen King, would be creating my cover. I couldn’t believe it – at least not until I saw the knockout cover that I’m so excited to share with you today. 

Thanks!

~ John

Ready to see this amazing cover? 

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Here it is! 

*** If you choose to share this image elsewhere, please include a courtesy link back to this page so others can enter John’s giveaway. Thank you! ***
 

PHOENIX ISLAND

About the Book

About the Author

Giveaway Details

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Click here to see the cover and enter the giveaway!

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