Title: Love Spell
Author: Mia Kerick
Publisher: NineStar Press, LLC
Release Date: September 17, 2018
Heat Level: 1 - No Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 43300
Genre: Contemporary YA, contemporary, YA, non-binary, bullying, homophobia, coming-of-age, humorous
Synopsis
Chance César is fabulously gay, but his
gender identity—or, as he phrases it, “being stuck in the gray area between
girl and boy”—remains confusing. Nonetheless, he struts his stuff on the
catwalk in black patent leather pumps and a snug-in-all-the-right (wrong)-places
orange tuxedo as the winner of this year’s Miss (ter) Harvest Moon Festival. He
rules supreme at the local Beans and Greens Farm’s annual fall celebration,
serenaded by the enthusiastic catcalls of his BFF, Emily Benson.
Although he refuses to visually fade
into the background of his rural New Hampshire town, Chance is socially
invisible—except when being tormented by familiar bullies. But sparks fly when
Chance, Pumpkin Pageant Queen, meets Jasper (Jazz) Donahue, winner of the
Pumpkin Carving King contest. Chance wants to be noticed and admired and
romantically embraced by Jazz, in all of his neon-orange-haired glory.
And so at a sleepover, Chance and Emily
conduct intense, late-night research, and find an online article: “Ten
Scientifically Proven Ways to Make a Man Fall in Love With You.” Along with a
bonus love spell thrown in for good measure, it becomes the basis of their
strategy to capture Jazz’s heart.
But will this “no-fail” plan work? Can
Chance and Jazz fall under the fickle spell of love?
Excerpt
Love Spell
Mia Kerick © 2018
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
Shine On, Harvest Moon
Just call me brazen.
It occurs to me that brazen—unabashedly
bold and without an inkling of shame—is the perfectly appropriate word to
describe moi right about now. It is, however, the only perfectly appropriate
part of this evening. Which is perfectly appropriate, in my humble opinion. So
get over it.
I lift my chin just enough to stop the
stiff orange spikes of glitter-gelled hair from flopping forward onto my
forehead. Who can blame me? These spikes are razor sharp—best they stay upright
on my head where they belong. And gravity can only do so much to that end.
Okaaaayyyy…sidetracked much? Forces
rebellious thoughts on business at hand.
Chance César is a brazen B.
I stare ’em down, but only after I pop
the collar of the blinding “Orange Crush” tuxedo I’m rockin’ and shrug my
shoulders in a sort of what-the-fuck fashion. Rule of thumb in this queen’s
life—first things must always come first.
Pop, shrug, and only then is it kosher
to stare. I clear my throat.
“Eat your ginger-haired heart out, Ed
Sheeran.”
Based on the buzz of scandalized chatter
blowing about in the crisp evening breeze, I’m reasonably certain that nobody
in the crowd heard me speak. And although several of the girls currently
gawking at me may do double backflips over my red-haired counterpart across the
pond, they don’t give a rat’s ass about Chance César. In fact, I have a
sneaking suspicion that they view my atomic tangerine locks as more reminiscent
of Bozo the Clown than of the smexy singer-songwriter.
They are, however, completely unaware
that this carrot top is going to make Harvest Moon Festival history tonight.
Refusing to succumb to the impulse to
duck my head, I take a single shaky step forward onto the stage that’s been set
up on the dusty ground beside a vast—by New England standards—cornfield. The
stage doesn’t wobble, but my knees sure as shit do. Okay, I’m an honest diva
and I tell it like it is. And I’m what you might call a freaking wreck.
Nonetheless, this brazen B takes a deep
breath, blows it out in a single gush, and starts to strut. This boy’s werkin’
it.
Smi-zeee!! Yeah, my smile is painted on,
just like my trousers.
Chance, you are by far the edgiest Miss
Harvest Moon this ramshackle town has ever had the good fortune to gaze upon. I
am a major fan of positive self-talk.
Using the feigned British accent I’ve
perfected—thanks to long hours of tedious practice in my bathroom—I dish out my
next thought aloud. “I wish I’d put in a tad more practice walking in these
bloody heels before going public in ’em.” And despite one slight stumble—a
close call to be sure—the clicking sound my pumps make is crisp and confident.
I saunter out onto the catwalk.
#TrueConfessions: Faking foreign accents
is a hobby of mine. I can yammer it up in improvised French, German, Mexican,
Russian, and plenty more accents, but I don’t mimic Asian languages, as it
seems too close to ridicule. My plan for the rest of the night is to continue
vocalizing my abundant thoughts in Standard British, with a hint of Cockney
thrown in for charm. After all, New Hampshire is the “Live Free or Die” state,
and I’ll do what I laaaa-like. Yaaasss!
“Introducing this year’s lovely…or, um,
handsome Miss…ter…Harvest Moon. Let’s hear an enthusiastic round of applause
for Chance César!” Mrs. Higgins always speaks using a lolling Southern twang,
although I’m sure she’s lived her entire life right here in less-than-gentile,
way-too-many-dirt-roads, Fiske, New Hampshire. (Like, can you say backwoods
Fiske without it sounding too much like backward Fiske?) TBH, I’m thrilled: it
seems I’m not the only one with an affinity for a colorful accent. But the
applause is disappointingly, but not surprisingly, scattered.
“Woot!” A solitary hoot splits the
night—it’s quite impossible to miss— and I recognize an undeniably shrill and
nasal quality in the sound. I know without a doubt that the hooter is my best
(only) friend, Emily Benson. In my not so humble opinion, Emily’s hooting for
my benefit is as liberating a sound as Lady Gaga bellowing “Born This Way” live
on the Grammy Awards after emerging from a large egg.
My Emily is everything! Not to be
dramatic, but whatevs.
In any case, the single, supportive hoot
is followed by mucho expected heckling. “Chances are, Chance César is gonna
moon the crowd!” It’s a girl’s voice, for sure. I do not have a lot of female
fans here in Fiske.
“Come on, Miss Harvest Moon, bend over and
flash us your full moon!” A dude mocks me next. I’m proud to say I’m an equal
opportunity victim of harassment.
I don’t blink once in the face of the
jeering. This type of inconvenience is par for the course in my life, and thus,
I consider it a challenge of stoic endurance. I simply place one fine
pointy-toed pump in front of the other, my eyes focused on the mountain in the
distance. I’m especially proud that, amidst the chaos, I remember to offer the
crowd my best beauty queen wave.
Yeah, this is some beauty pageant
realness.
“Thank you, lovelies, for coming here
today.” I speak in my most Princess Diaries-esque tone.
“Werk it, girlfriend—werk hard!” Yes,
it’s Emily again. And like always, she’s got my spectacular back.
“Aw, shit, we must be havin’ a lunar
eclipse or somethin’.” It’s another pubescent male voice, and a deep one at
that. “There ain’t no moon to be seen ’round these parts!” The heckler is a
douche I know too well from school named Edwin Darling—whom I less than fondly,
and very privately, refer to as “Eddie the Appalling.” I watch as he looks away
from me to take in the full moon in the dark night sky and shrugs.
The lunar eclipse one-liner is actually
fairly humorous. I toss out ten points for creativity in Edwin’s general
direction by allowing a restrained smile, but I never remove my eyes from the
single treeless spot on Mount Vernier.
Time for a mental detour. Why is this
one spot bare-assed of all trees?
That’s when the music starts, and I’m
more than glad for the downbeat. It helps me focus, plus it’s much easier to
sashay to the sound of a jazzy snare drum than to the unpleasant clamor of
heckling. Not that my backside won’t wiggle righteously to any sound at all.
Because, rest assured, it will.
“Shine On, Harvest Moon.” Whoever is in
charge of the sound system plays the Liza Minnelli version, which may be the
silver lining to this farce. For as long as I can remember, it’s been the more
traditional, not to mention folksy, Four Aces version for Miss Harvest Moon’s
victorious stroll up and down the creaky runway. I will say that tonight is a
first for the Liza rendition, and I’m curious as to whether it is coincidental.
But who really cares? Ring them sparkly
silver bells for Liza M!
On a side note, I wonder: Is it a good
thing or a bad thing that Liza Minnelli’s voice brings out the dramatic streak
in me? Okay, okaaaayyyy…so maybe it doesn’t take more than a gentle nudge to
get me going in a theatrical direction. But, hey, drama ain’t a crime. My mind
is pulled to the back of my bedroom closet (how ironic), where my flapper
get-up hangs. Panic sets in… Should I have worn that instead? But it’s a muted
peach—not a vivid orange—as seems fitting for a pumpkin festival. And then
there’s the whole not-a-single-soul-except-Mom-Dad-and-Emily-has-yet-seen-Chance
César-in-full-female-garb thing that held me back from rockin’ the vintage
coral dress with its spectacular tiers of flesh-colored fringe.
Tonight is Beans and Green Farm’s Annual
Harvest Moon Festival, and for northern New Hampshire, this is a big freaking
deal—the whole town shows up for cheesy shit like this. In light of this
recognition, I confirm that pumpkin orange attire is mandatorbs. I mean, I went
so far as to dye my hair for tonight’s festivities; the least I can do is
choose garments that enhance my Halloween-chic style.
At the end of the catwalk, I indulge the
audience by providing them with their deepest desire. I stand there, still as a
scarecrow—for ten seconds, give or take—so they can drink in the sight of me, from
spiky glittering head to pointy patent leather toes. I allow them this rare
opportunity for freeze-frame viewing pleasure. Whether they admire me for
having the balls to strut around ultraconservative Fiske wearing a scandalously
snug-in-all-the-wrong-(right)-places orange tuxedo and four-inch black
pumps—which I will admit is a public first for me—or they wish the shining
harvest moon would fall on my house and crush me while I sleep, what they all
really want most is a good long moment to study me.
To twerk or not to twerk, that is the
question.
When the spectators finally start to
squirm, I throw out a few of my best vogue fem moves to the tune of some subtle
arm, wrist, and hand action, followed by several full-body poses, avoiding the
death drop move as I haven’t yet mastered it in pumps. And when it’s time to
once again get this glam show on the road, I pivot on my toes and strut
briskly—America’s Next Top Model style—back to the stage where my boss, the
owner of Beans and Greens Farm, stands nervously clutching my crown.
Mrs. Higgins is a tall glass of water,
in the manner of a large-boned Iowa farm girl, but she’s accustomed to crowning
petite high school junior girls, not nearly grown senior boys in four-inch
heels. I crouch beside her politely and, I dare say, delicately, and she
carefully nestles the crystal-studded crown in my spiky mop of neon-orange
hair.
“Be careful, Mrs. H,” I warn beneath my
breath. “Those spikes might look harmless, but they’re sharp enough to slice
off your little finger.”
She offers me half of a crooked smile,
for which I give her credit. I, Mrs. Higgins’ very own “boy with the bad
attitude on cash register three,” have broken about every rule Beans and Greens
has established for its hordes of Fiske High School summer workers, right down
to the “no jewelry at work” clause. But a couple of points go to the lady
because she manages to force out a grimace that could be mistaken for a
smile…if your standard for smiles is on the low side. Besides, I’m not about to
remove my nose ring. It in no way impedes my ability to count, ring up, and bag
cucumbers.
This is when I spin on a single heel to
face the crowd.
“You don’t happen to have any…very
brief…words of wisdom for our audience, do you, Chance?” Mrs. Higgins asks, speaking
into an oversized microphone. But despite the laid-back accent, I can tell
she’s wary. Like a rat in a corner.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.” My
clipped British accent momentarily stuns the woman, and I take the opportunity
to snatch the microphone from her less-than-dainty hand. Realizing it’s now in
my possession, Mrs. Higgins shudders. “I just want to thank you all, my beloved
coworkers at Beans and Greens Farm, for voting me in as this year’s Miss
Harvest Moon.” I wipe imaginary tears from my eyes with my wrist, sniff for
added effect, and, of course, I employ a most gracious, high-pitched tone of
voice. “I am so honored to represent you all here tonight.” I sound like Eliza
Doolittle in the stage play, My Fair Lady.
The crowd is silent. Maybe it’s a
stunned silence. I sincerely hope so.
I follow dainty sniffling with my best
duck-faced lip pout. Mrs. Higgins makes a sudden grab for the microphone, but
I’m more agile. I only have to twist my shoulders ever so slightly to the left
to block her move. She eyes me with a new respect.
And then I lower my voice so it’s all
man—momentarily losing the delightful British inflection—and pose my question
to the crowd.
“So you thought voting for me as Miss
Harvest Moon would humiliate me—dull my shine or rain on my parade, perhaps?” I
wag one well-manicured finger at the crowd while swishing my ass back and forth
in matched rhythm. “Well, in your face, my sorry backwoods homies, cuz I’m here
and I’m queer and I’m shining on—just like that big ol’ harvest moon!”
Without hesitation, I bend, just enough
to grab Mrs. Higgins around the waist, and lift her off her size eleven feet
(by my best visual estimate) and swing the lady around, probs ’til she’s seeing
more stars than the ones in the dark Harvest Moon sky.
I’d bet my ahhh-mazing ass that no other
Miss Harvest Moon has ever given Mrs. Higgins a joyride like that!
Purchase
Meet the Author
Mia Kerick is the mother of four
exceptional children—one in law school, another at a dance conservatory, a
third studying at Mia’s alma mater, Boston College, and her lone son still in
high school. She has published more than twenty books of LGBTQ romance when not
editing National Honor Society essays, offering opinions on college and law
school applications, helping to create dance bios, and reviewing English
papers. Her husband of twenty-five years has been told by many that he has the
patience of Job, but don’t ask Mia about this, as it is a sensitive subject.
Mia focuses her stories on the emotional
growth of troubled young people and their relationships. She has a great
affinity for the tortured hero in literature, and as a teen, Mia filled
spiral-bound notebooks with tales of tortured heroes and stuffed them under her
mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to NineStar Press for providing her
with an alternate place to stash her stories.
Her books have been featured in Kirkus
Reviews magazine, and have won Rainbow Awards for Best Transgender Contemporary
Romance and Best YA Lesbian Fiction, a Reader Views’ Book by Book Publicity
Literary Award, the Jack Eadon Award for Best Book in Contemporary Drama, an
Indie Fab Award, and a Royal Dragonfly Award for Cultural Diversity, among
other awards.
Mia Kerick is a social liberal and
cheers for each and every victory made in the name of human rights. Her only
major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining
her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the
Gods of Technology. Contact Mia at miakerick@gmail.com or visit at
www.miakerickya.com to see what is going on in Mia’s world.
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