Spells to Forget Us - Hardcover

Brophy, Aislinn

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593354559 ISBN 13: 9780593354551

Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

A witch and a non-magical girl get stuck in an endless cycle of meet-cutes and breakups in this heart-stopping romantic young adult fantasy.

"A seamless, mind-bending exploration of love and identity that manages to completely re-invent the time-loop story....You’ll never read a book quite like this again." —Mark Oshiro, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Into the Light

Luna is a powerful witch. Known for her skills and feared for her temper, she’s set to preserve her family’s legacy by becoming the head of Boston’s Witch Council—a job she does not want.

Aoife is a non-magical girl. Raised under the lens of her influencer family, she’s grown up in the public eye. Now she yearns for privacy—but knows her parents won’t oblige.

Just when they are at their lowest, Aoife and Luna find each other and start dating. As decreed by magic law, Luna casts a spell that will erase Aoife’s memories of their history together if they ever break up. But when Aoife and Luna end things, it’s both of them who forget . . . that is, until they meet again, fall for each other, and recover all the memories of their last attempt at dating.

So begins the story of two star-crossed lovers who keep finding their way into each other’s orbits, even as the universe pulls them apart. When they set out to break the cycle, will they be strangers forever or together at last?

"A whirlwind of whimsical romance and examinations of autonomy and familial duty." —Jas Hammonds, award-winning author of We Deserve Monuments

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Aislinn Brophy (she/they) is an actor, writer, and the author of How to Succeed in Witchcraft. She was born and raised in South Florida, but made her way up to the frigid northeast for college. Their hobbies include pawning off their baking on anybody nearby, doing funny voices, and dismantling the patriarchy. Aislinn has a degree in Theater, Dance & Media, and her experiences as a performer consistently wiggle their way into her writing. In all aspects of her work as an artist, she is passionate about exploring identity and social justice issues.

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? Aoife ?
 
 
I’m an expert at saying yes. When your parents’ livelihood depends on you, you get used to doing it. Yes, it’s fine to tell our 1.2 million followers about taking me to buy my first bra. Yes, I’d love to be filmed after my wisdom tooth surgery so you can post the hilarious things I say on social media. Yes, you can totally come along to the football game tonight to get pseudo-candid content of me.

“That took so long,” I say, plunking myself down in the stands next to my friend Karim. “My dad just wouldn’t stop taking pictures.” I slump over tiredly and swipe a hand across the back of my neck to unstick some of my curls from my skin. My parents run a popular parenting blog slash social media empire. The Wonderful Walshes documents our family’s lives on our website, Instagram, TikTok, YouTube—anywhere that can be monetized. So that’s why, on this humid September night, I spent most of the first quarter of this football game posing for photos at the edge of Russell Field instead of hanging out with my friends like I’d planned.
Karim leans in toward me. “You alive there?”

“Barely.” I wheeze and clutch my chest, widening my eyes to comical proportions. “Help me . . . The content factory . . . It’s killing me!”

“RIP, Aoife,” he deadpans back. “It was good knowing you.” Important things to know about Karim: He’s a Persian boy with an angular face and thick dark hair. He’s pretty cute but isn’t confident about it, since some of his friends make fun of him for having a big nose. (The nose is a feature, not a flaw. Those people just suck.) We’re in band together—he plays the trumpet, I play the flute—so we’ve always been part of the same large, amorphous friend group. Over the summer, though, the two of us hung out a bunch, so we’ve gotten way closer.

“Are we winning?” I say, turning to look at the scoreboard. He laughs derisively. “Of course not,” he says as I clock exactly how much we’re not winning. Twenty-one to seven? Before the end of the first quarter? Rough. “The love of your life scored a touchdown, though,” he adds, and he’s devastatingly casual about dropping that little detail. “Love of my life?” I echo, cringing.

Karim flaps a hand generally toward the field, right as our quarterback throws a Hail Mary to absolutely nobody. “You know. Mr. Meathead. Nathan Sorenson,” he says, like I needed clarification on who he could be referring to. It’s not as if there are any other football players I’ve made out with recently. “Is he not your one true love?” Karim continues. “I’m just wondering if I should be planning to talk to him in the future. I can kill some of my brain cells to prepare.”
“Come on, Karim, Nathan’s not stupid,” I say, shooting him a disparaging look.

He fidgets with the big over-ear headphones that live semipermanently around his neck. “Okay, sure, whatever. So I should be ready to make nice with him?”

I sigh. “No, he’s . . . He’s avoiding me. I think.” And he has been ever since we made out at his back-to-school party last weekend.

“Okay. Cool, I hate him, then,” Karim pronounces.

“Don’t hate him,” I protest. “He probably has a reason why he’s avoiding me. It’s just kind of frustrating.” He must have realized that while he thought I was hot, he wasn’t into me as a person. Unfortunate. But not unexpected, since this has happened several times before.
“Nah, the reason he’s avoiding you is because he’s an ass- hole,” Karim says. “Trust me. I’m an asshole. I know how we operate.”

“You’re not an asshole,” I say, because Karim really isn’t. Mildly judgmental and totally pretentious? Yes. But not an asshole. “Anyway, I don’t love that he’s avoiding me,” I con- tinue. “We could just be friends. That’s cool with me. But since we made out at that party, it’s totally impossible for us to ever talk again?”

Karim looks as if he’s going to respond—likely some- thing cutting about my terrible romantic taste—but our team catches an interception and our conversation fizzles out as the crowd goes berserk around us.

Once it becomes clear that the interception isn’t going to turn into any sort of momentum for our side, I stand up. “I’m going to get a snow cone. Want one?”

“No, I’m good,” Karim says.

I begin the process of edging past all the other people sitting in our row. We’re in the center of the stands, so this takes a bit. Right at the end, when I’m nearly into the aisle, things take a turn for the worse. The world slows down for a fateful instant as I trip over a pair of black Doc Martens.

“Oof,” I wheeze out, tumbling into someone’s lap. Some- thing cold hits my bare legs. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I lift my head, and there’s the owner of the Doc Martens trip haz- ards blinking down at me. For a brief moment I’m entranced. Her face keeps presenting new and fascinating things for me to look at. Smooth brown skin, several shades darker than my own. An ornate silver septum piercing. Full lips painted with black lipstick. The round, soft curve of her cheeks, in sharp contrast to the severe angle of her brows. She looks interest- ing—a person I’d like to know.

But also, I should get out of her lap.

“Sorry!” I repeat, extricating myself from her. “I should leave the tackling to the football players.”
Her black-rimmed eyes widen, and she stares at me like I’ve clubbed her over the head unexpectedly. Now that I’ve put a little bit of space between us, the rest of her comes into focus. She’s a plus-sized girl dressed all in black—a black graphic T-shirt layered over a fishnet long-sleeved top and black jean shorts with rips going up her thigh. Her long locs are dec- orated with silver cuffs and other jewelry that matches her septum piercing. Does she go to our school? I feel like I would have noticed her.

“Are you okay?” I ask after a few moments of silence. “Your skirt,” she says, pointing at it.
I look down and find that the cold thing I felt on my legs was ice from a red snow cone. “Oh my god, I’ve sabotaged myself,” I say, wiping at the splotches on my pleated skirt. “I should never have worn white. I’m always worried the whole time, and then it’s like I attract disaster because I’m so paranoid about getting my clothes dirty.” I shake my head, laughing.

At the sound of my laugh, she somehow manages to look even more gobsmacked for a second. Then her face resolves itself into an imperious frown. “Let me—” she says, moving her hand toward her pocket. She freezes momentarily, and a little divot forms between her brows. Then she shakes her head and pulls an embroidered purple cloth from her pocket. “A handkerchief?” I say, surprised. She starts dabbing lightly at my skirt. It’s strangely charming, watching this hardcore-looking girl fuss over me in such an old-timey way.

“Do you normally carry that around with you?” “No,” she says. “Lucky I had it today, though.”
When I look again, my skirt is pristinely white. Almost whiter than it was before....

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2024
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593354559
• ISBN 13: 9780593354551
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 432
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar