bonus love spell thrown in for good measure, it becomes the basis of their strategy to capture Jazz’s heart.
Mia Kerick's Love Spell is a very poignant young adult romance.
Chance is not your average teen, as he's not only dramatic and fabulous, he's also confused about his gender identity. He doesn't want to talk anyone about it, as it's too confusing to him. He's happy with his body as it is, but somedays he feels like a girl.
When he meets Jasper, he's suddenly attracted to this boy who he's never noticed before. What follows is his crazy plan to make Jazz fall in love with him, as well as a whole lot of confusion over his gender. He's afraid Jazz can't be attracted to him as he is, floating between the genders, but he's also not ready to define his gender.
Chance is a fun, snarky teen, who wears a mask of confidence, but internally struggles. Jazz is just an honest and sweet young man, who sacrifices everything to care for his family. Their budding friendship is wonderful!
As Chance is bullied pretty much everywhere, by everyone, there's a lot of discussion about the bullies. And from one of these conversations comes a great quote, "There's cruelty in silence." In today's world this is more prevalent that ever. It is our job to stand up for people and for what we feel is right.
Love Spell is a fantastic story for any gender fluid teens who are also confused. Mia Kerick did a great job of writing this with understanding and heart.
part of this evening. Which is perfectly appropriate, in my humble opinion. So get over it.
on my head where they belong. And gravity can only do so much to that end.
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 reminiscentof Bozo the Clown than of the smexy singer-songwriter.
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.
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!
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.
(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.
fans here in Fiske.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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-orangehair.
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.
she’s wary. Like a rat in a corner.
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.
Meet the Author
Indie Fab Award, and a Royal Dragonfly Award for Cultural Diversity, among other awards.
her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology. Contact Mia at firstname.lastname@example.org or visit at www.miakerickya.com to see what is going on in Mia’s world.