I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the THE LIAR’S SOCIETY by Alyson Gerber Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

 

About The Book:

Title: THE LIAR’S SOCIETY

Author: Alyson Gerber

Pub. Date: February 6, 2024

Publisher: Scholastic Press

Formats: Hardcover, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 304

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/THE-LIARS-SOCIETY

The Inheritance Games and One of Us is Lying for middle grade — beloved author Alyson Gerber’s new series is an unforgettable mystery featuring a secret society, a mysterious island, and dangerous family secrets.

Weatherby is a fish out of water. When she lands a scholarship to the prestigious Boston School, she’s excited to be in the same world as her dad, whom she’s never met, and make real friends. But Weatherby has a secret she’ll risk everything to protect, one that could destroy her new life.

Every member of Jack’s wealthy and privileged family has made their mark at the Boston School. Everyone, that is, except for Jack, who is entirely mediocre. He’s desperate to prove his worth to his influential father. But Jack has a secret of his own . . . one with the power to ruin everything.

When the money for their school trip to a private island―exclusive to Boston students―is stolen, Jack and Weatherby are invited to play a high-stakes game and solve the mystery of the missing money. If they win, they’ll be selected to join the oldest, most powerful secret society in the world―and they’ll be Boston royalty forever. If they lose . . . well, they better not lose.

Beloved author Alyson Gerber crafts an unforgettable mystery that asks―are some secrets and lies impossible to overcome?

 

Meet Alyson on tour!

 

 

 

About Alyson Gerber:

Alyson Gerber is the author of The Liars Society series and the critically acclaimed novels Focused, Braced, and Taking Up Space. A former marketing director, Alyson earned her MFA in creative writing at the New School. She grew up in New England and now lives in New York City with her family. Follow her @AlysonGerber and at alysongerber.com

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

 

Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a finished copy of THE LIAR’S SOCIETY, US Only.

Ends March 7th, midnight EST.

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Excerpt

—CHAPTER 1—

WEATHERBY

No one, and I mean no one, expects me and Skip to win the Northeastern District Championship Regatta, especially not the boys with identical f loppy hair in boat number 12. They look exactly like everyone else on the dock today, like they go to prep school.

I’m a public school kid, and Skip, who’s my next-door neighbor and basically my uncle, stands out like a sore thumb with his bed head and too-long khakis in this popped-collar crowd. Skip was a prep school kid too so he knows how they think, even though he couldn’t be more different than them. He’s the opposite of buttoned-up. But I know how we look doesn’t matter. We’re going to win.

This event is open to the entire town. We just had to register a few months back. But there’s a big white tent for the Harbour Club (Members Only) stuffed with people, wearing navy blazers and pearls, eating clam chowder and buttery lobster rolls.

The floppy-haired boys keep glancing back at us and laughing a little too loud. My cheeks burn, anger bubbling up inside me, until I can’t stop my words from spilling out. “I don’t know what you’re laughing about, but whatever it is, you’re not entertaining anyone, so stop.”

The shorter boy with auburn hair smirks, showing off two big dimples. “Whoa. Easy.” His voice is teasing. “We’re just having fun.”

I know they’re laughing at us, and I’m about to tell him that when Skip hands me a life jacket. “Eyes on your own boat, Star.” His voice is low and full of warning. “Those are Charles Hunt’s boys. They’re playing by different rules. But they won’t think we’re funny when we beat them. Stay focused on sailing. It’s almost go time.”

My breath steadies. Just imagining being on the water fills me with energy and hope. I’ve got this. I can win. Normally if kids were laughing at me, I’d be flustered, but near the water, I’m brave. I wish I could feel the way I do while sailing all the time.

When Skip first offered to take me out on his boat, I didn’t know people competed in sailing, and I thought a regatta was a kind of cheese.

Turns out, a regatta is a day of boat races, like a swim meet. And I’m a natural at sailing, like my dad.

Every boat on the water today has two people—a skipper and a crew. The skipper is the driver. And the crew, that’s me. I’m the eyes of the boat, looking out for anything unexpected, and I’m really good at seeing things other people can’t.

This regatta has some teams of all kids, some all adults, some both, all genders, all competing against each other. Sailing with an adult isn’t necessarily an advantage. They can slow you down. And I heard someone say teams with all kids have won three years in a row.

A rush of adrenaline pulses through me as I step into the front of the boat and take control of the smaller sail, the jib. Skip gets in position in back by the mainsail. When it’s time, we push off the dock, and it’s just a short ride out to the starting line.

There aren’t assigned spots, like in a track meet. Each team picks the position that works best for them. Skip and I use this time to figure out our game plan, and we wait until right before the horn to take our place.

My heart hammers as the signal blasts, and we push off the line.

“Big puff coming up,” I shout at Skip, and then we’re hit with a gust. The sails fill with a surge of wind and the boat begins to tip over. I hike, stretching my body over the side of the boat and leaning out as far as I can manage, getting flat and low to the water, to help us sail faster.

As we zigzag up the course, I watch for puffs, dark spots in the water, that move as the wind blows from the shore. “Looks like a puff five boat lengths away,” I shout. “It’s a lift.” That means the wind is going to help steer us closer to the next mark and eventually to the finish line.

When we get to the puff, I’m right, and we speed up. After I’ve been hiking upwind for more than a few minutes, my quads and hamstrings start to burn. Skip says my hiking stamina is stronger than anyone he’s ever met. Once I get in the zone, I feel like I can keep hiking forever, especially since I know pushing myself makes a big difference and can help us win.

Just when I think I can’t lean out for one more second, I spot another crew take a quick break to rest and accidentally capsize, flipping their boat upside down in the water. I breathe in hard and ignore the sting in my legs. I let the salt water whip at my face and pull at my hair as we maneuver toward the mark.

We manage to stay in the lead for most of the race. We just have to go around one last buoy when I notice we’re on a collision course with another boat. “Hunt jerks star- board,” I say.

There are a lot of ways to cheat in sailing. Everyone is supposed to self-police. It’s an honor sport. But Skip and I both know that some people’s honor matters more than others. If the Hunts knock into us and claim we bumped them, everyone will believe them over us, because they’re rich and we’re not.

“We need to get in front and make a tight turn now,” Skip says.

“Good call.” That’ll let us shoot ahead of them.

A second later, Skip counts, “Three, two, one, go!”

On go, we both lean back, pulling the side of the boat out of the water. It feels like we’re going to capsize, and my stomach flip-flops as we balance on the edge.

“Up!” Skip shouts.

I smile as we leap across the boat, duck under the boom, and adjust our sails. We stay in sync, never missing a beat.

This is a dance we know by heart, even though it’s harder than that, because we’re making up the steps as we go. Skip and I manage a tight enough turn to beat the Hunts’ boat to the mark.

Then the wind picks up, and suddenly we’re moving fast. There are no boats in front of us now. A spark of excitement ignites inside me. We’re in the lead. I’m full of jittery energy, practically radiating hope, as we clear the finish line and take first place.

“Victory!” I burst out, my arms in the air. Skip is beaming back at me.

I’m having so much fun. I never want this day to end. And we win every race.

After we dock, I’m still floating. Sailing makes me feel like anything is possible.

The Hunts walk past us, dragging their boat shoes along the pier like they can’t even be bothered to pick up their feet, and I hear the younger one cough and say, “Turd.”

He’s rude, I think. But I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.

I won.

When I step onto shore, the happy crowd erupts with applause and cheers. “Congratulations!” someone shouts.

A blonde woman in big pearls the size of gumballs and a blue Barbour jacket walks over to shake my hand. “How did you learn to hike like that, Weatherby?”

“A lot of practice,” I say.

“We couldn’t believe you didn’t take one break,” she says in awe. “All the other crews, even the adults, kept stopping to adjust, but not you. It was incredible to watch you sail. You’re going places.”

“Thank you,” I say, heart leaping. I don’t mean to sound surprised. I know I’m good. But Skip is always calling me Star, and I guess I just thought he was building my confidence so I’d sail my best. Now I realize his compliments might mean more.

There’s a flutter of hope in my stomach as we say good- bye and I walk over to help Skip de-rig the boat. I can’t stop grinning as I take down the crisp new sails that I asked Mom to order for today.

We only have one bag, so as I start to put the sails away I line them up with our old, brownish ones, running my finger across the stamp, an inky mark that means they’ve been measured and approved for official use in a regatta. Then I look at the new sail, gripping tight, fear hitting me hard, and I grimace as I realize there’s no stamp.

My throat goes dry. I was so excited to start rigging the boat. I couldn’t wait to get out on the water. I didn’t bother checking to make sure the sails were legal, and I should have. But the stamp is a technicality. If the sails are the right size, we didn’t really cheat.

I start to roll the sails, and right away I can see they aren’t the same.

Every muscle in my body clenches. From a distance, no one else would be able to tell. But up close, the ones we used today are slightly bigger. Big enough to give us an advantage. Big enough to help us win. Big enough to get us disqualified.

My heart is pounding in my ears. “Skip,” I whisper and point. “The sails are too big.” My words barely make it out.

He follows my gaze, and immediately his face falls. My stomach plummets.

When his glassy eyes meet mine, I know exactly what he’s thinking. The same thing I keep thinking—we cheated. I can see how much he wishes he could go back and fix this for us—for me. “They’re barely bigger.” His voice is low. “It doesn’t change that we won. It doesn’t change how well you sailed.”

“I know we didn’t mean to cheat, but we did,” I say softly.

“You made an honest mistake that happens all the time in sailing,” Skip says. “It’s as simple as that. There’s nothing more to read into it.”

I bite my lip. I want to listen to him, but my family motto is already in my head: Walkers don’t lie. “I have to report what I did.”

“Star, even though you’re the one turning yourself in, the judges still might not believe you used illegal sails by accident.”

I swallow hard. Skip’s right. I know what those people think about kids like me, any kid who doesn’t run in their rich people circles. They look at us like we don’t belong. But I know they’re wrong, and I don’t want to win based on a lie. It’s not a win. I push myself across the dock to tell the truth, and Skip doesn’t try to stop me.

Then, out of nowhere, a tall man in a big straw boater hat with a green-and-white ribbon is standing in my path. “Miss Walker,” he says.

My heart jumps into my throat when I notice his blazer is embroidered with the hunter-green Boston School crest—a shield with a lion wearing a crown.

I’ve wanted to be a student at the Boston School ever since Dad’s journal was sent to me a few months ago, just after Skip and I signed up to sail in this regatta and our names were listed in the paper. Everything about my dad is mysterious like that. I never met him. Peter Graff. He moved to Switzerland before I was born, and then he died. Mom doesn’t like to talk about Dad, and I know she’d be freaked out that his journal was delivered with no return address and a note that said: Weatherby, this is your dad’s journal. I still don’t know who sent it. I called UPS, FedEx, USPS, even DHL, but no one could find a record. I feel a prick of guilt the way I always do when I think about how I didn’t tell Mom—but it’s too late to go back now.

Mom did tell me that Dad went to Boston. But Skip didn’t know him. They were too many grades apart. And it’s obvious from Dad’s journal entries that he wasn’t snobby like the Hunts. He loved his school. The tight-knit community. The sailing team. The magical trip to Hart Isle. Boston even has an environmental science program now, and I want to be a climate scientist one day to help save the ocean, aka my favorite thing in the world. Too bad Mom and I don’t have money for private school. I’ll just have to wait until high school to really study my passion.

“Impressive win.” The tall man’s ice-blue eyes meet mine, and instantly I recognize his face. I think I’ve seen him on the Boston School website.

I hesitate. “Thank you,” I say, feeling itchy.

“You’re a very talented crew. The crowd was excited to watch you sail. We haven’t seen anyone like you in a long time. Are your parents here? I’d like to talk to them and to you about an opportunity,” he says. “I’m Dr. Fairview.”

The second I hear his name, I know who he is. “You’re the head of school,” I blurt out.

“That’s right.” Dr. Fairview grins. “Then you’ve heard of us, the Boston School?”

“Of course,” I say. “Everyone has.”

He nods. “Well, I have an anonymous donor who’s passionate about sailing and interested in funding a scholarship for someone exactly like you. That is, if you’d be interested.”

For a second, I can’t breathe.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be real. “A full scholar- ship?” I ask, straining to find air.

“Yes,” he says. “We’re looking for a student in excellent academic standing with the one caveat that they would have to join our sailing team.”

I bite down inside my mouth to stop myself from screaming, Yes! Pick me! I have As in every subject, except gym, and everyone knows gym doesn’t count. This is my chance to join a real sailing team and study environmental science and share something with Dad. And being a student at Boston is the only way to get to Hart Isle—the private island that Dad visited—and I want to be part of that too.

“Don’t worry that much about grades.” Dr. Fairview’s voice softens. “The fact that your boat came in first place in every single race today is the reason we want you. You’re a winner. That’s clear to everyone here.”

My throat tightens. Dr. Fairview is offering me a scholarship because I won this regatta. Except I didn’t win. I need to tell the truth. I should turn myself in. But I didn’t mean to cheat. It really was an accident. The races are over. No one is going to find out our sails were too big now. I keep thinking about what Skip said, how if I get us disqualified, the judges probably won’t believe I made an honest mistake. I’ll just be proving them right that I don’t belong at this regatta or at a school like Boston, but I want to and now I’m being given the chance.

All I have to do is lie, and I can go to the Boston School.

Copyright © 2024 by Alyson Gerber

All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.,

Publishers since 1920. scholastic, scholastic press, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the CITY SPIES: MISSION MANHATTAN by James Ponti Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

 

About The Book:

Title: CITY SPIES: MISSION MANHATTAN

Author: James Ponti

Pub. Date: February 6, 2024

Publisher: Aladdin

Formats: Hardcover, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 430

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/CITY-SPIES-MISSION-MANHATTAN 

In this fifth installment in the New York Times bestselling series from Edgar Award winner James Ponti, the young group of spies take on New York City in another international adventure perfect for fans of Spy School and Mrs. Smith’s Spy School for Girls.

The City Spies head to the Big Apple when a credible threat is made to a young climate activist who is scheduled to speak in front of the upcoming United Nations General Assembly. With Rio acting as alpha and a new member in their ranks, the team’s mission to protect a fellow teen takes them on an exciting adventure in, around, and even under the greatest city in the world as they follow leads to the outer boroughs, the UN Headquarters, and even the usually off-limits stacks that extend deep under the main branch of the New York Public Library.

 

Grab the rest of the CITY SPIES BOOKS now!

 

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Excerpt

The Swarm 

Spy missions were nothing like spy movies. All Cairo had to do was look in a mirror to see that. He was about to go undercover for the first time, and rather than a tuxedo or finely tailored suit, he was wearing a bumblebee costume. It was a padded onesie over a pair of black tights and was very much not tailored. 

“This thing’s giving me a wedgie,” he complained, tugging at the seat of his costume. 

“It was the best we could do on such short notice,” replied Paris, who wore a matching outfit and was smearing black and yellow greasepaint on his face. “When it comes to spycraft, the bottom line is that comfort takes a backseat to blending in.” 

“Maybe so,” Cairo replied. “But right now, my backseat and bottom line are blending in with my underwear.” 

Paris laughed. It was a good sign that Cairo was able to joke right before his first official mission. Most people would’ve been too nervous. “Welcome to MI6,” he said. “It’s oh so glamorous.” 

They were in Venice, Italy, because the Secret Intelligence Service had gotten word of a potential threat at a global warming demonstration scheduled for St. Mark’s Square. The event was organized by a group of teenage environmental activists known as the Swarm, whose members dressed accordingly at protest rallies. 

“You ready?” Paris asked once he’d finished putting on his makeup. 

Cairo nodded, gave his costume one final tug, and said, “Let’s get buzzing.” 

This was their first time in Venice, and it would’ve been easy for them to get lost because the city was spread across more than one hundred small islands, but they had help navigating its baffling blend of bridges and alleyways. As they stepped out of their safe house, they heard a loud buzzing that sounded as though a massive swarm of bees was overtaking the city. 

“What’s that noise?” Cairo asked. 

“Vuvuzelas,” answered Paris. 

“You mean those plastic horns fans play at soccer matches?” 

“The Swarm uses them whenever they march to a rally,” Paris explained. “All we have to do is listen and follow.” 

“Helpful,” Cairo said. “Annoying, but helpful.” 

As they tried to catch up with the Swarm, the rest of the team was getting ready in St. Mark’s Square, which the Italians called Piazza San Marco. Sydney and Brooklyn were stationed near the security gates through which all the protesters had to pass, while Rio and Monty were backstage keeping an eye on the speakers scheduled to talk at the rally. 

Kat was the alpha, which meant she’d call the shots once the mission got underway. She was positioned on the observation deck atop the bell tower overlooking the square. Four hundred years earlier, this was where Galileo looked to the heavens with his newly invented telescope and discovered order in the universe. Now it was where a fourteen-year-old spy looked across a sea of demonstrators, hoping to figure out which ones were a threat to the others. 

“Testing comms, one, two, three,” she said into the microphone hidden in her jacket collar. “Can everyone hear me?” 

“Roger that,” replied Sydney. 

“Loud and clear,” Brooklyn added. 

“All good,” said Monty. 

“Good for me, too,” answered Rio. 

Kat waited a moment before prodding, “Paris, Cairo, are you in range?” 

“You’ll have to speak up,” Cairo said, trying to be heard over the noise around them. “It’s pretty loud over here.” 

He and Paris had just joined up with dozens of protesters dressed as bees and making a ruckus as they paraded through the city. In addition to blaring vuvuzelas, some of them pounded drums, while others chanted, “Be-a-triz! Be-a-triz!” in honor of their leader. 

“We’re on the Rialto Bridge crossing the Grand Canal,” Paris said, raising his voice. “We should reach St. Mark’s in about ten minutes.” 

“What about you, Mother?” Kat said. “I know you can’t answer directly, but if you can hear us, let us know by asking someone a question.” 

Mother was one of the two adult agents who oversaw the team. MI6 had managed to place him inside Venice’s state-of-the-art Control Room. This was the highly secretive—and somewhat controversial—location where local authorities used a web of sensors, CCTV cameras, and mobile-phone trackers to monitor every person visiting the city. It would’ve caused an uproar if the Italians found out a British agent was running a mission from here, so Mother couldn’t be overheard communicating directly with the others. Instead, he turned to a nearby police officer and asked, “Dov’é il bagno?” 

“Seriously?” Sydney said with a laugh. “That’s the best you could come up with?” 

“You know what that means, don’t you?” Kat asked. 

“Yes,” answered Sydney. “It means ‘Where’s the bathroom?’” 

“True, but it also means that the comms are set and everyone’s in position,” Kat said. “And that means ‘This operation is hot. We are a go!’” 

This was the phrase the alpha said to launch every mission for the City Spies, an experimental team of six covert agents, aged twelve to sixteen, who British Secret Intelligence sent on assignments in which adults would stand out. 

“Chills,” Brooklyn replied. “Every. Single. Time.” 

Shy and awkward by nature, Kat had come into her own as the alpha on some recent high-value missions. She’d been surprised by how much she’d enjoyed the role. “We are underway, and the rally is set to start in twenty-three minutes,” she said, taking charge. “That means open eyes and open minds. This is not a typical assignment.” 

“And by that, are you referring to the part where we’ve been told to look for zombies?” Rio replied. 

There were snickers on the comms. 

“Not just zombies,” Kat replied. “I’ll settle for vampires, flesh-eaters, or any undead creatures you may come across. We’re casting a wide net here.” 

And that was the problem with the mission. They didn’t really know what they were looking for. 

Five days earlier, MI6 intercepted a partial message sent between criminal syndicates in Kazakhstan and Turkey that discussed an attack in St. Mark’s to be carried out on this date by . . . the walking dead. 

That was literally what it had said. 

British analysts probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to it if it weren’t for the fact that the protest was happening at the same time world leaders would be in Venice for the United Nations Climate Change Conference, which was being held across the Giudecca Canal on the island of San Giorgio Maggiore. 

The threat sounded like a joke but couldn’t be ignored. 

“The walking dead?” Mother had asked when the team was given the assignment by his superior. “Are you being serious? What does that even mean?” 

“There are several possibilities,” responded Tru, one of only a handful of high-ranking officials at the Secret Intelligence Service who even knew that the City Spies existed. “It’s either a code, a message that’s been garbled in translation from Kazakh to Turkish to English, or the first sign of the zombie apocalypse. Whichever one, we’re going to need someone there to keep an eye on things.” 

The City Spies were chosen to be that “someone” for two main reasons. First, because the rally was sponsored for and by young people, it was easy for them to blend in. Second, the team’s official cover was that they were all on student fellowships with the Foundation for Atmospheric Research and Monitoring, a weather research center in Scotland that was actually the headquarters for a covert MI6 operation. The FARM, as it was known, was active in promoting climate change awareness, which is how Monty and Rio were able to get backstage with the speakers. 

“Você está nervosa?” Rio asked Beatriz Santos, the sixteen-year-old activist who was scheduled to give the main address at the rally. 

She smiled, pleasantly surprised to hear someone speak in her native language. 

“Um pouco,” she replied, admitting that she was a bit nervous. “Você é brasileiro?” 

“Eu sou carioca,” he replied, which meant that he was from Rio de Janeiro. 

Her eyes lit up and she beamed. “Eu também sou!” she said. So am I. 

Although Kat was the alpha, Rio had the most important assignment. He was supposed to get close to Beatriz and watch over her since she was the most likely target of any attack. For him, this was huge, not only because it was rare for him to get such an important responsibility, but also because he was a massive fan of hers. He had to fight feeling starstruck as they talked. 

“Rafael,” he said introducing himself with his cover name. “But you can call me Rafa.” 

“I’m Beatriz,” she replied. 

He laughed. “Yeah, I think I heard that somewhere.” 

The chants of “Be-a-triz! Be-a-triz!” were ringing through the crowd, and she gave an embarrassed cringe. 

“That must feel incredible,” he said. “People just cheering your name.” 

“It’s good for the cause,” she replied. “But I don’t like the attention.” 

“Really?” he asked, surprised. “That’s too bad, because you sure get a lot of it.” 

In just over two years, Beatriz had gone from unknown concerned teenager to world-famous environmental activist. What started as a one-person protest outside the Brazilian National Congress had grown into a global organization with members in ninety-seven countries. Officially, she was the director of the International Student Coalition to Protect Rainforests, but among her ardent supporters, she was simply known as Queen Bea, which is why they called themselves the Swarm. 

“Still,” Rio continued, “you shouldn’t feel nervous about talking to a crowd that loves you so much.” 

“I’m not too worried about the speech in the piazza,” she said. “But there are people across the water who do not love me so much. It’s important that I don’t make any mistakes that give them an excuse to ignore what I have to say.” 

After her speech Beatriz was scheduled to take the five-minute boat ride across the lagoon to San Giorgio Maggiore so she could address the world leaders at the UN conference. It would be an intimidating audience that included the US president and British prime minister. 

“How do you keep calm when you have to speak to a group like that?” 

“I think of the bees,” Beatriz said. 

“The ones who dress up and chant your name?” 

“No,” she replied. “The bees who pollinate a third of the food we eat. They are essential to feeding the world. Thinking about them reminds me that even if you are very small, you can still be very important.” 

Rio flashed a charmer’s smile and said, “Você vai fazer fántastico.” You’ll do fantastic. 

She held up both hands with her fingers crossed. 

Meanwhile, the crowd continued to fill into the piazza. 

“In case the incredibly loud buzzing didn’t give it away, the Swarm just arrived at security gate number one,” Sydney informed the others. 

Fences had been erected so that anyone entering the square had to pass through a series of metal detectors and magnetometers as well as get patted down by officers in black jackets that read polizia on the back. 

“I can even see our busy little bees,” Sydney added once she spotted Paris and Cairo enter the pat-down area. “Bumble One and Bumble Two.” 

“Make sure to get photos of them both,” Kat said. 

“To document the mission?” Brooklyn asked. 

“No, for future blackmail opportunities.” 

“Gotta love Kat,” Sydney said as she snapped some pictures. “Always thinking ahead.” 

“You’re all hilarious,” Paris responded. “Besides, compared to the others, I think we look pretty good.” 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Sydney said. “But you may be mistaking this for our mission in Egypt.” 

“Why do you say that?” he asked, confused. 

“Because you’re swimming in ‘da Nile,’” she joked, eliciting more laughter on the comms. 

“You walked right into that one,” Rio said. 

“All right, that’s enough,” Monty said, laughing with them. “Loose is good, but this mission is important. We need to focus.” Monty was the other adult with the team. She was the director of FARM and was backstage gathered with the parents and advisors who’d accompanied the speakers. 

“All kidding aside, I’m wondering if more of us should’ve worn costumes,” Brooklyn said. “We would’ve blended in better.” 

“Why’s that?” asked Monty. 

“So many people are wearing them,” she responded. “In addition to all the bumblebees, there are people dressed as endangered animals, environmental superheroes, and even some with giant papier-mâché heads of the world leaders. It looks like Halloween at security gate two. Right now, the police are trying to figure out how to deal with two creepy bird-people pushing a giant globe.” 

“What’s the problem with it?” Sydney asked. 

“It’s too big to fit through the metal detectors,” she replied. 

“What do creepy bird-people even look like?” Cairo asked. 

“They’re wearing black cloaks, black hats, motorcycle boots, and white masks with big round eyes and long beaks.” 

“Those aren’t bird-people,” Paris said. “They’re plague doctors.” 

“What?” asked Brooklyn. 

“In the Middle Ages, doctors wore outfits like that when they treated patients who had the plague,” Paris said. “They packed the beak with herbs and flowers to counteract the smell, which is what they thought carried the disease.” 

“They may not be birds, but the masks are still creepy as all get-out,” Brooklyn responded. 

“That’s what people thought in the Middle Ages too,” Paris answered. “They freaked out when they saw one of the doctors arrive in their neighborhood because it meant someone nearby had the plague and was sure to die. It was like a real-life grim reaper.” 

There was a beat, and then Kat said, “The walking dead!” 

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the DRAWING DEENA by Hena Khan Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

 

About The Book:

Title: DRAWING DEENA

Author: Hena Khan

Pub. Date: February 6, 2024

Publisher: Salaam Reads / Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

Formats: Hardcover, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 240

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/DRAWING-DEENA

From the award-winning author of Amina’s Voice and Amina’s Song comes a tenderhearted middle grade novel about a young Pakistani American artist determined to manage her anxiety and forge her own creative path.

Deena’s never given a name to the familiar knot in her stomach that appears when her parents argue about money, when it’s time to go to school, or when she struggles to find the right words. She manages to make it through each day with the help of her friends and the art she loves to make.

While her parents’ money troubles cause more and more stress, Deena wonders if she can use her artistic talents to ease their burden. She creates a logo and social media account to promote her mom’s home-based business selling clothes from Pakistan to the local community. With her cousin and friends modeling the outfits and lending their social media know-how, business picks up.

But the success and attention make Deena’s cousin and best friend, Parisa, start to act funny. Suddenly Deena’s latest creative outlet becomes another thing that makes her feel nauseated and unsure of herself. After Deena reaches a breaking point, both she and her mother learn the importance of asking for help and that, with the right support, Deena can create something truly beautiful.

 

 

About Hena Khan:

Hena Khan is a Pakistani American writer. She is the author of the middle grade novels Amina’s Voice, Amina’s Song, More to the Story, and the Zara’s Rules series and picture books Golden Domes and Silver Lanterns, Under My Hijab, and It’s Ramadan, Curious George, among others. Hena lives in her hometown of Rockville, Maryland, with her family. You can learn more about Hena and her books by visiting her website at HenaKhan.com or connecting with her @HenaKhanBooks.

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Excerpt

I open the door and Parisa bounds inside. My cousin is always in a hurry, whether she’s running for the bus, walking to a store at the mall, or racing down the halls at school. I struggle to keep up with her wherever we go together. It doesn’t help that she’s at least two inches taller than me and has super long legs.

“Be careful, this is still hot,” Saima Khala says, handing me a pot with two worn oven mitts. “Put it on the stove.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Chicken pulao. Your mother said she didn’t have time to cook, and I was already making this.”

“Yum.” My aunt’s pulao is the best, but I’d never admit that to Mama.

I take the pot, heavy with rice, and carry it to the kitchen, and Parisa sets a bag filled with containers on the counter. Some are full, and others are empty and will probably go back

full. This is how it works between our families, there’s a constant exchange of food.

“Leave the daal out and put the rest in the fridge. Where’s your mother?” Khala asks as she opens a drawer and takes out a big spoon.

“I think she’s upstairs. Rubina Auntie just left,” I say.

Khala smiles and pats my cheek. She looks like a younger and more stylish version of my mom although she’s a couple of years older than her. That’s something else I’d never tell Mama.

“How are you?” she asks, her eyes piercing in a way that makes me feel like she cares, and that she remembers what it’s like to be my age.

“Good,” I say, smiling back. “But I haven’t started my homework or studying for my test. We went to the dentist after school.”

“What kind of test?”

“Science.”

“Go study. Parisa can help you. She remembers what she studied last year, right?”

“Oh yeah, of course,” Parisa says. “I remember every single thing I’ve ever learned in school.” She grins at me.

“Okay, smarty-pants, well don’t distract her then!” Khala smacks Parisa playfully on the shoulder. “I’ll take care of this and help your mom.”

“Come on,” I say to Parisa.

Parisa beats me up the stairs and heads to my room. It’s the smallest one in the house, but I have a bigger closet than Musa. My cousin plops down on my bed and sticks out her

hand. Her nails are purple with a gold streak running through them.

“What do you think?”

“Did you do them yourself?” I ask, taking her hand and looking at it closely.

“Of course.”

“It totally looks professional.” I’m seriously impressed with Parisa’s nail art skills. She’s been doing her nails since I was ten and she was eleven, and she’s gotten better and better over time. It looks like she got them done at a salon, which she basically did.

Parisa’s mom started offering eyebrow threading to ladies in the community from home a few years ago. She gradually added waxing, facials, and other skin care services. Now, my Khala’s got a legit home-based salon and is always busy. Parisa knows a lot about it and helps her mom out with booking appointments and other stuff. My cousin is the reason I’ve been taking more of an interest in Mama’s boutique lately. Maybe I can help her business take off the same way.

“You should let me do yours,” Parisa says, glancing at my nails, jagged in places from where I chew on them. I try not to, but it’s a bad habit when I’m nervous.

“I’m good.” I clench my fists and hide my nails.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ve got a bunch of new colors,” Parisa says.

“It’ll get messed up when I do my art projects.” I shake my head. I don’t add that I’m more interested in painting a canvas than either my nails or my face.

“Fine.” Parisa fake pouts. “But you have to let me do your hair then. Honestly, Deena, you would look so pretty if you curled your hair and put some anti-frizz in it.”

I try not to react, even as her words grate on my nerves. My cousin’s always pointing out how much better I’d look if I only did something to change myself.

“My hair’s fine,” I mumble, noticing how Parisa’s hair is shiny and smooth with loose curls on the ends. I picture my own head, filled with tighter curls, topped with a layer of frizz. But it takes too long to fight my hair into submission. And the few times I ever had it blow-dried straight, I hated the way it made me look like a different person. I’m not interested in doing that again, so Parisa can make me her project. No, thanks.

“You’re in seventh grade now, Deena. You should pay a little more attention to the way you look. I didn’t care when I was younger either, but now I realize my mom’s right. It’s good to take pride in your appearance.”

Is it though? I want to say. How much pride?

But instead, I swallow my irritation and try to think of a way to change the subject.

“Want to help me choose which photo of you to use for my art assignment?” I ask.

“Sure, Deenie Beenie.” Parisa is instantly interested, and she uses the nickname she’s had for me since we were little. I pull up the photos of Parisa on my phone and swipe

through them. There’s one of her seated on my bed, another in a big chair, her gazing directly into the camera, and my favorite, her reading a book.

“That one,” Parisa says, pointing. It’s the one of her looking directly into the camera. She’s got a teasing smile, like she’s hiding a secret.

“Not the one with the book?”

“I look like a dork in that one. Plus, I like the way my hair is falling over my eyes here.”

Parisa made this decision easy. I pull out my pencils and my drawing pad. I’ve already made a big grid with rulers on the page like my teacher Mr. Carey instructed. He said that

for portraiture it helps to make sure that you get proportions right. I prefer to freehand, but he’s going to be checking our progress, so I have to do it this way.

I start to sketch out a basic outline of the photo while Parisa watches.

“Can you make my eyes a little bigger?” she asks. “And my nose a little smaller? Right there.”

She points at the photo.

“I’m getting graded on how much it looks like the photo,”

I laugh.

“Yeah, but can’t you, like, put a filter on it?” Parisa grins.

Every time Parisa takes a picture of us, she messes around with it for a while using a glam app. It makes your skin glow and does other things. By the time she’s done with it, we almost look like different people, and then she posts it on her socials.

I’m not allowed to have any accounts until I’m in high school but I wonder if her followers would recognize me if they ever met me in real life.

“Well, just make me look good,” Parisa says after I stare at her and don’t respond.

“You always look good,” I finally say. And I mean it. Parisa is a pretty girl, and she knows it. At least I think she does. Because she also acts like she needs other people to remind

her.

I’m going to make sure her portrait is beautiful. But I’m not changing the way she looks.