All stories that are centring queer kids and their experiences are all valid whether it’s dealing with the trials of having parents who aren’t as welcoming about it or parents who are totally chill about it, which is obviously the hope for all teenagers. I think there are some things that could be said too, especially culturally, like there’s a lot of stigma in the Puerto Rican community that fathers especially are so hyper masculine that they will always be uncomfortable with their children being gay…
American author
Adam Silvera (born June 7, 1990) is an author of young adult fiction.
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It took me hours to finally work up the nerve to call. I didn't feel justified because I wasn't an immediate danger to myself. But as my mentor told me: I was indeed at risk during these very charged days, and it was important that I build relationships with professionals instead of carrying all this unchecked weight by myself. I also hesitated to call because I felt as if some of my reasons- which I'm keeping to myself- were stupid and weren't worth their time. I really hope anyone reading this understands that if your "stupid" reason is eating you alive, then it's far from stupid. I hope we can all be smarter about this in the future.
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That's not our story." Mateo squeezes my hands. "We're not dying because of love. We were going to die today, no matter what. You didn't just keep me alive, you made me live." He climbs into my lap, bringing us closer. He hugs me so hard his heart is beating against my chest. I bet he feels mine. "Two dudes met. They fell in love. They lived. That's our story." "That's a better story. Ending still needs some work." "Forget about the ending," Mateo says in my ear. He pushes his chest away from mine so he can look me in the eye. "I doubt the world is in the mood for a miracle, so we know not to expect a happily-ever-after. I only care about the endings we lived through today. Like how I stopped being someone afraid of the world and the people in it." "And I stopped being someone I don't like," I say. "You wouldn't have liked me." He's tearing up and smiling. "And you wouldn't have waited for me to be brave. Maybe it's better to have gotten it right and been happy for one day instead of living a lifetime of wrongs.
I am a little concerned about spending my End Day with someone who's accepted dying, someone who's made mistakes. I don't know him, obviously, and he might turn out to be insanely destructive- he is outside in the middle of the night on a day he's slated for death after all. But no matter what choices we make- solo or together- our finish line remains the same. It doesn't matter how many times we look both ways. It doesn't matter if we don't go skydiving to play it safe, even though it means we'll never get to fly like our favorite superheros do. It doesn't matter if we keep our heads low when passing a gang in a bad neighborhood. No matter how we choose to live, we both die at the end.
"Why are your books so sad? You seem so happy!" I've gotten variations of this question ever since publishing my first book. The people who are confused about how I can write about so much sadness when I appear to be leading a happy and charmed life are the same people who are confused about how a comedian could be so depressed that they've died by suicide. The happiness someone wears and puts out into the universe should never be trusted to be the same amount of joy one has within.
It's not uncommon for me to sink when good things are happening in my life, something I'm positive others experience, as well. That rewarding high can leave you wanting more and when "more" doesn't show up, you're left disappointed. After the book's publication, dozens of these moments eventually avalanched and left me feeling worthless and hopeless and crushed and alone despite having some of the greatest friends ever.
I succeeded in making you care. If you feel nothing, I failed you as a storyteller. I love happy endings, but some readers need the darker stories, too. The stories that don’t make them feel disturbed by their own reality because it doesn’t reflect what they’re used to seeing in fiction. There’s some comfort in harsher stories, and witnessing how one character rebuilds after tragedy can provide hope for the reader.
Teo is coming to terms with the fact that not being able to father Mateo doesn't mean he can't be a paternal father figure to others. Such as Lidia whose parents still aren't involved in her life. Or Penny whose father and godfather have passed too soon. Maybe even these Plutos that Teo has been hearing about in honor of Rufus. He knows this is what Mateo would have wanted. Mateo lived for everyone, and now, Teo will live for Mateo. Teo kisses his wife's and son's headstones. He points at the space between their headstones and then up at the sky. "I love you from here to there."
Death-Cast isn't calling Orion because he's not going to die today, and I think I know why.
This night is unfolding like a photo shoot coming together. For once, I'm not the subject. I'm the photographer, and everything is zooming into focus, like I'm switching out lenses until I land on the best one. The background is still blurry, but if I adjust the aperture just enough, light enters and exposes the true model of this photo shoot. The boy with the constellation name. I've only seen some of his stars at work, but I understand the beauty. Orion is the focal point, so I stare at him and the sharpness of his hazel eyes and the hunched framing of his body, and once everything is aligned, just like stars in a constellation, everything becomes clear.
"You're going to live," I say. "Until tomorrow, I guess." "You're going to have much longer than you think." "So you got some psychic Death-Cast powers or something?" "No, but I think destiny brought us together so I can change your future." "I don't get it." "You don't need the waitlist anymore, Orion. I'll give you my heart."
It's storming outside right now. I stare out the window. I can't tell you if it rained yesterday or even what day it is. It always feels like I'm waking up, minute after minute, like I'm in my own little time zone. But as I trace my smiling scar- unable to do so without remembering the time Thomas poked two eyes onto my wrist with dirt- I still have hope in what Evangeline and Leteo hope for, too. And while I wait, happiness exists where I can get it. In these notebooks, where worlds of memories greet me, almost like a childhood friend who moved away for years and finally came back home. I'm more happy than not. Don't forget me.
I hear police sirens and keep pedaling. I hope something else is happening. I give it a few more minutes before I take a break, stopping between a McDonald's and a gas station. It's mad bright, maybe kneeling over here is stupid, but staying in plain sight might be a good hiding spot. I don't know, I'm not James Bond, I don't have some guidebook on how to hide from the bad guys. Shit, I'm the bad guy.
"This is pointless," Tagoe says in the back of the cop car. He's no longer sucking his teeth or shouting about how he did nothing, the way he did when the handcuffs first went on, even though Malcolm and Aimee urged him to shut up. "They're not gonna find Rufus. He'll dust them on his-" "Shut up." This time Malcolm isn't worried about extra charges coming Tagoe's way. Malcolm already knows Rufus managed to get away on his bike. The bike wasn't there when they were being escorted out of the house. And he knows Rufus can dust the police on his bike, but he doesn't want them keeping an eye out for boys on bikes and find him. If they want him, they're gonna have to work for it.