As If on Cue

A pair of fierce foes are forced to work together to save the arts at their school in this "enemies-to-lovers rom-com of my dreams" (Rachel Lynn Solomon, author of Today Tonight Tomorrow) that fans of Jenny Han and Morgan Matson are sure to adore.

Lifelong rivals Natalie and Reid have never been on the same team. So when their school's art budget faces cutbacks, of course Natalie finds herself up against her nemesis once more. She's fighting to direct the school's first ever student-written play, but for her small production to get funding, the school's award-winning band will have to lose it. Reid's band. And he's got no intention of letting the show go on.

But when their rivalry turns into an all-out prank war that goes too far, Natalie and Reid have to face the music, resulting in the worst compromise: writing and directing a musical. Together. At least if they deliver a sold-out show, the school board will reconsider next year's band and theater budget. Everyone could win.

Except Natalie and Reid.

Because after spending their entire lives in competition, they have absolutely no idea how to be co-anything. And they certainly don't know how to deal with the feelings that are inexplicably, weirdly, definitely developing between them...

Autorentext
Marisa Kanter is a young adult author, amateur baker, and reality television enthusiast. She is the author of What I Like About You, As If on Cue, and Finally Fitz. Born and raised in the suburbs of Boston, her obsession with books led her to New York City, where she worked in the publishing industry to help books find their perfect readers. She currently lives in Los Angeles, writing love stories by day and crocheting her wardrobe by night. Follow her at MarisaKanter.com.

Klappentext

A not-so-friendly competition quickly devolves into an all-out prank war in Marisa Kanter’s sophomore YA, an enemies-to-lovers romance that fans of Jenny Han and Morgan Matson will adore.

Leseprobe
Chapter One CHAPTER ONE
It is six a.m. and I am debating the opposite of frozen with Reid Callahan.

“It’s ‘melted,’?” I mumble into my pillow, salty, because how dare he wake me up before the sun on a Monday? In my current state of bleary-eyed rage, I throw a pillow vaguely in the direction of my doorframe, where Reid is standing.

“No way. The opposite of frozen is definitely boiled. I’m serious. ‘Boiled’ is the only valid title if you’re going for parody. ‘Melted’ is fundamentally flawed.”

“You’re fundamentally flawed.”

He snorts, and I hear the clink of metal against ceramic. A spoon swirling in cereal. By now, I’m used to Reid in my house in the early hours of the morning, mastering complex arpeggios on the clarinet under the instruction of my father. Reid is pretty much the only person in the entire universe who matches Dad’s intensity for a musical instrument. Which means he’s always here.

It’s kind of unbearable.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“It’s Monday,” Reid says slowly, as if I don’t know the days of the week. Monday morning lessons have been a thing since school started two weeks ago—and will continue to be a thing that makes Monday even more Monday for the duration of my junior year.

“I mean here, Reid. Why are you in my bedroom?”

“To pay up,” he says.

He nods toward my desk, where a large iced chai from Kiskadee sits on top of an elephant coaster. Of course, he decides six a.m. is the perfect time to deliver my Wow, you actually wrote a play chai. Winning a bet against Reid Callahan is still always losing, in a way.

“Your timing is impeccable.”

I fall back onto my mattress and roll over, facing the wall and closing my eyes in an attempt to return to my dreamscape. Before Reid woke me up with three staccato knocks, I was sitting at a table read for my big-budget Broadway play featuring the Chrises. We were staging a fight scene between Pine and Evans. Hemsworth leaned over to whisper in my ear, You’re bloody incredible, Jacobson. And I didn’t brush off his praise or downplay my talent—I owned it. Thor called me, Natalie Jacobson, incredible. I felt incredible. In my dream, playwriting is more than a high school hobby. It’s possible.

Reid flips the switch next to my door and my eyelids twitch as synthetic light tries to push through them. “Don’t want you to oversleep!”

“Thanks,” I deadpan, sitting up because I am now officially awake and Reid has Won. I reach for my glasses while my eyes adjust, already plotting my revenge for his ruining of the epic Pine-Evans fight scene.

“You’re welcome.” Reid’s hazel eyes meet mine. They seem to change color depending on what he’s wearing. This morning, they pick up his green button-down. “The least you can do is be on time, considering you’re wasting Mrs. Mulaney’s.”

It’s so elementary, I almost laugh as I move from my bed to the adjacent desk and start weaving my disaster curls into two disaster braids. Any other day, I’d fire back a snarky retort. Not today. Because today is the culmination of an entire summer writing with my best friend, Henry Chao. Before homeroom, we’ll enter scene and deliver a dialogue to Principal Mulaney about why Melted deserves to be our fall play—a performance that has the potential to shift the entire fate of Lincoln High School’s drama department.

I can’t afford to be distracted.

“Bye,” I say.

I shut the door on Reid and reach for the chai on my desk. Straw between my lips, I take a long sip. It doesn’t quite taste like victory, but it’s still a Kiskadee chai. Therefore, delicious. I enjoy it, unfazed by Reid’s basic insult because with Melted I have a chance—a real chance—at convincing Mrs. Mulaney that keeping LHS’s drama department intact is just as valuable as new band uniforms.

Seriously, Reid’s biggest problem is being an outfit repeater. When the school committee announced that “significant budget cuts” were coming for extracurricular activities at the end of sophomore year, the drama club had an emergency meeting. It was initiated by me and our former advisor, Miss Bryant, who quickly jumped our sinking ship of a drama program for a full-time faculty position teaching theater at Boston Arts Academy. But when Reid heard about the cuts, he didn’t flinch. It’s that obvious the band is relatively immune from total destruction, thanks to a passionate band director who, over the course of a decade, revitalized the music program from the ground up.

That teacher? It’s none other than Aaron Jacobson. Reid’s teacher. My dad.

It’s complicated.

I pick up the pillow I launched at Reid and toss it on my bed on the way to my closet. Today’s aesthetic is comfy and confident, like how Mom would style herself for meetings with her publisher. This is that important. I pull a new floral T-shirt dress off its velvet hanger, rip off the tag, and pair it with a denim jacket and white sneakers. To complete the look, I swipe a clear pink gloss over my lips.

Satisfied, I stuff my laptop into my backpack and I’m on the move. Downstairs, the kitchen smells like raspberry hazelnut coffee and burnt toast, the scent of creative anxiety.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs when I catch sight of the kitchen table scene.

Mom sits at the head of the espresso wood table, staring intently at her laptop screen. Reid’s next to…