Leah on the Offbeat (Creekwood #2)(79)
This book wouldn’t be a book without the combined powers of so many incredible people. Infinite thanks to:
Donna Bray, aka Leah’s mom, aka rock star editor, aka I’m the luckiest author in the world.
Brooks Sherman, my fiercest advocate, and the best and most badass agent in the business.
My brilliant, passionate teams at HarperCollins, Janklow & Nesbit, the Bent Agency, Penguin UK, and my other incredible international publishers: Caroline Sun, Alessandra Balzer, Patty Rosati, Nellie Kurtzman, Viana Siniscalchi, Tiara Kittrell, Molly Motch, Stephanie Macy, Bess Braswell, Audrey Diestelkamp, Jane Lee, Tyler Breitfeller, Alison Donalty, David Curtis, Chris Bilheimer, Margot Wood, Bethany Reis, Ronnie Ambrose, Andrew Eliopulos, Kate Morgan Jackson, Suzanne Murphy, Andrea Pappenheimer, Kerry Moynagh, Kathleen Faber, Suman Seewat, Maeve O’Regan, Kaiti Vincent, Cory Beatty, Molly Ker Hawn, Anthea Townsend, Ben Horslen, Vicky Photiou, Clare Kelly, Tina Gumnior, and so many more.
My Simon film team, who brought Creekwood High School to life: Greg Berlanti, Isaac Klausner, Wyck Godfrey, Marty Bowen, Elizabeth Gabler, Erin Siminoff, Fox 2000 Studios, Mary Pender, David Mortimer, Pouya Shahbazian, Chris McEwan, Tim Bourne, Elizabeth Berger, Isaac Aptaker, Aaron Osborne, John Guleserian, Harry Jierjian, Denise Chamian, Jimmy Gibbons, Nick Robinson, and the rest of the cast—especially my Leah, Katherine Langford. I’m so grateful to the hundreds of people in front of and behind the cameras who made miracles happen.
My friend and hero, Shannon Purser, who made all my audiobook dreams come true.
My earliest readers, who made this book a million times better: David Arnold, Nic Stone, Weezie Wood, Mason Deaver, Cody Roecker, Camryn Garrett, Ava Mortier, Alex Davison, Kevin Savoie, Angie Thomas, Adam Silvera, and Matthew Eppard.
The librarians, booksellers, bloggers, publishing professionals, teachers, fanfiction writers, artists, Discord members, group chatters, and readers who make this job so off-the-charts wonderful.
To the friends who carried me through the hard stuff: Adam Silvera, David Arnold, Angie Thomas, Aisha Saeed, Jasmine Warga, Nic Stone, Laura Silverman, Julie Murphy, Kimberly Ito, Raquel Dominguez, Jaime Hensel, Diane Blumenfeld, Lauren Starks, Jaime Semensohn, Amy Austin, Emily Carpenter, Manda Turetsky (who gave Garrett the idea for his epic prom dinner), Chris Negron, George Weinstein, Jen Gaska, Emily Townsend, Nicola Yoon, Heidi Schulz, Lianne Oelke, Stefani Sloma, Mark O’Brien, Shelumiel Delos Santos, Kevin Savoie, Matthew Eppard, Katy-Lynn Cook, Brandie Rendon, Kate Goud, Anderson Rothwell, Tom-Erik Fure, Sarah Cannon, Jenn Dugan, Arvin Ahmadi, Mackenzi Lee, and a gazillion more.
To Caroline Goldstein, Sam Goldstein, Eileen Thomas, Jim and Candy Goldstein, Cameron Klein, William Cotton, Curt and Gini Albertalli, Jim Albertalli, Cyris and Lulu Albertalli, Gail McLaurin, Adele Thomas, and the rest of the Albertalli/Goldstein/Thomas/Berman/Overholts/Wechsler/Levine/Witchel crew.
To Brian, Owen, and Henry, my forever favorites.
And for you. Keep resisting.
Excerpt from What If It’s Us
Turn the page for a sneak peek at Becky Albertalli’s next book, in collaboration with New York Times bestselling author Adam Silvera:
WHAT IF IT’S US
Chapter One
ARTHUR
Monday, July 9
I AM NOT A NEW YORKER, and I want to go home.
There are so many unspoken rules when you live here, like the way you’re never supposed to stop in the middle of the sidewalk or stare dreamily up at tall buildings or pause to read graffiti. No giant folding maps, no fanny packs, no eye contact. No humming songs from Dear Evan Hansen in public. And you’re definitely not supposed to take selfies at street corners, even if there’s a hot dog stand and a whole line of yellow taxis in the background, which is eerily how you always pictured New York. You’re allowed to silently appreciate it, but you have to be cool. From what I can tell, that’s the whole point of New York: being cool.
I’m not cool.
Take this morning. I made the mistake of glancing up at the sky, just for a moment, and now I can’t unstick my eyes. Looking up from this angle, it’s like the world’s tipping inward: dizzyingly tall buildings and a bright fireball sun.
It’s beautiful. I’ll give New York credit for that. It’s beautiful and surreal, and absolutely nothing like Georgia. I tilt my phone to snap a picture. Not an Instagram Story, no filters. Nothing drawn-out.
One tiny, quick picture.
Instantaneous pedestrian rage: Jesus. Come on. MOVE. Fucking tourists. Literally, I take a two-second photograph, and now I’m obstruction personified. I’m responsible for every subway delay, every road closure, the very phenomenon of wind resistance.
Fucking tourists.
I’m not even a tourist. I somewhat live here, at least for the summer. It’s not like I’m taking a joyful sightseeing stroll at noon on a Monday. I’m at work. I mean, I’m on a Starbucks run, but it counts.
And maybe I’m taking the long way. Maybe I need a few extra minutes away from Mom’s office. Normally, being an intern is more boring than terrible, but today’s uniquely shitty. You know that kind of day where the printer runs out of paper, and there’s none in the supply room, so you try to steal some from the copier, but you can’t get the drawer open, and then you push some wrong button and the copier starts beeping? And you’re standing there thinking that whoever invented copy machines is this close to getting their ass kicked? By you? By a five-foot-six Jewish kid with ADHD and the rage of a tornado? That kind of day? Yeah.