Build a Girlfriend - Softcover

Luz, Elba

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1665942525 ISBN 13: 9781665942522

Verlag: S&S Books for Young Readers, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

A teen deep-dives into her dating history to uncover her mistakes, become the perfect girlfriend, and get revenge on the wrong guy so she can ride into the sunset with the right one in this debut rom-com “brimming with heart and comedy” (School Library Journal).

To the surprise of no one, Amelia Hernandez is once again single. It’s her family curse at work; whether it’s by heartbreak, scandal, or even accidental death, every romantic relationship that a Hernandez woman has will meet its demise eventually. And that may be fine with Amelia’s sisters, mom, and aunts, but definitely not with Amelia.

In an effort to cheer her up, Amelia’s aunts and sisters develop the Hernandez Romance Boot Camp. Amelia will embark on an Ex Retrospective: tracking down her exes, finding out where she went wrong, and using that information to finally become un-break-up-able for whenever her next relationship comes along. By the end, Amelia should be free of the curse. Secretly, she also hopes her quest for self-improvement will give her the confidence to tell her loved ones she wants to take a gap year instead of working in the family café.

However, when Amelia is unwillingly reunited with Leon, the ex to end all exes, she can’t resist having a little revenge on the side, too. After all, what better way to test out her new persona of perfect girlfriend traits than on the boy who broke her heart?

But old loves die hard, and as Amelia’s feelings grow more complicated, she suspects that she may be in for more than she bargained for.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Elba Luz is a Puerto Rican author and a lover of stories, whether in the form of anime, manga, video games, or, of course, books. Speaking of books, she should be writing her own. Instead, you’ll probably find her replaying Final Fantasy, listening to classical music, or cuddling up with her adorable pit bull, Stormy.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1
To a stranger, the noise vibrating the foundation of the Hernandez household at five in the morning is chaos. For me, one of eight people in the five-bedroom and two-bath brick building, it’s a typical day. All aside from my sister Sofia, we Hernandez women are hardwired to rise before the sun does.

Titi Sandra, the unofficial leader of the house, always says, “El camarón que se queda dormido siempre se lo lleva la corriente.” Its exact translation is “The shrimp that falls asleep is swept away by the current,” but in simpler terms, it just means, “You snooze, you lose.”

I haven’t done a lot of snoozing these days.

My girlfriend and I have been recreating our favorite moments from the rom-coms we watched last week. Yesterday we made cupcakes inspired by some random made-for-TV movie about a baker who falls in love with a divorce lawyer. Before that, we snuck into a park at midnight and painted our names along the slide. Today, we’re going to watch the sunrise.

Depending on what music builds the earthquake under me and my sister Sofia’s carpeted bedroom, I always know which aunt is in the kitchen. Daddy Yankee thumps under my sandals as I leave Sofia in the bottom bunk to snore, which means Titi Neva woke first to smack pots and pans around.

To get to our bedroom door, I hop over the 3D puzzle of colorful witches that’s sitting at the center of our carpet. It’s three hundred pieces, which would have taken me maybe an hour, but my little sister wanted us to do it together, and we’re on day three now. Marisol’s lucky that she’s five years younger than me and her puppy dog eyes still work, otherwise, I would have never allowed my puzzle record to be ruined like this.

Like she hears my thoughts, Marisol jumps out at me when I open the door.

“Jesus.” I slam my back onto the floral wallpaper, pressing my palm over my pounding heart. “What the hell, Mari, were you waiting at the door?”

“Amelia,” she says, brown eyes wide, two space buns pinning her dark hair back, “do you want to read the next chapter of Ghost versus Witch with me? You promised we’d read chapter ten today.” I’m pretty sure Mari’s reading level is higher than Sofia’s and mine combined. I caught Sofia making Mari proofread her essays multiple times this past year, and I’m not going to lie, I was pretty tempted to do the same after I piled up a few too many Cs.

“The day has barely begun.” I rub her head, and disappointment clouds her eyes. “Later,” I promise.

“You always say later.”

“I always mean it.” I ditch her to fly down the steps, Daddy Yankee’s voice growing louder as I swiftly dodge Mom holding my one-year-old sister, Zoe, to her bare chest and enter the kitchen.

“Do not run in this house,” she shouts after me, just as Zoe coughs up milk over Mom’s knotted dark curls.

Titi Sandra had workers remove the doorway to the living room three years ago to make the kitchen even bigger, with a single L-shaped couch at the corner by the front door across a coffee table so we could pretend we have a sala.

You wouldn’t know the long countertop is stainless steel with the amount of flour, bread, and pastries hogging the space like salchichas in a can. My family is opening a bakery beginning this fall in the very heart of West Springfield. Every day is nonstop practice perfecting the menu and paying the construction workers at the shop—and secretly testing their reactions to the dishes—with treats and flirting. The latter is led heavily by Titi Ivy.

Another thing the Hernandez women know how to do is flirt. That’s easy. It’s keeping a relationship that’s impossible.

“My firstborn,” Titi Ivy, in a shirt she wears like a dress, greets as she presses a kiss onto my forehead. “Settle the vote. I say scratch ticket, Neva says lottery.”

The aunts love to play the weekly lotto and bicker over which gamble feels the luckiest that week. Usually Titi Ivy goes lotto—higher reward, less chance to win. She must be choosing to scratch now because she lost too many weeks in a row.

“Scratch,” I choose, mainly because I like to be the one to scrape off the skin of the ticket with the “lucky” dime in the kitchen drawer.

“Perfect.” She pulls me with her. “Come help me prepare the flan. You’ll need to memorize the recipe for when you help out at the bakery.”

Titi Ivy moved in four months ago when her third husband died. The other two left. After eating a carrot cake, the third passed away, not knowing it was filled with his death sentence—macadamia nuts—because the bakery forgot to read Titi Ivy’s special requests.

You can imagine the rise and fall of that party. Happy Birthday, Michael; we love—oh no, oh no. That’s pretty much how Titi Ivy described it, her brown eyes brimming with unspilled tears. Which we didn’t think was suspicious until the tears finally did fall—happy ones—when she told us how much money she got after suing the shop that will now allow my family to build their own.

Not that I’m accusing my aunt of being a murderer. Or uncaring. But I’m also not not doing that.

I rub off her signature red lipstick I know stains my head. “Sorry, Perri is almost here. She’s taking me to the lake to watch the sunrise.”

“Romantic,” she croons while she leads me to the counter and shoves a powdered empanada straight into my mouth, “but breakfast is more important. Tell her to come and eat, and then you can go.”

I only have the choice to chew or choke, so I chomp on the crispy edge of the pastry. Before the warmth of the sugar gets too dry, the filling of sticky, chunky pineapple meets my tongue. The edge of Titi Ivy’s nail digs into my chin as she wipes crumbs from me, then finishes off the rest of the empanada herself.

Titi Sandra, an apron around her waist with the Puerto Rican flag running across it, rubs a hand over her face, leaving flour residue on her brown skin. A circle of it dots the tip of her square jaw.

“Knead the dough,” she says to me, her chin gesturing to the ingredient on the table. Nobody in this family points with their fingers. It’s always the chin, even if their hands are free. “I have to season the meat.”

“Sorry, Titi Sandra, I have to go.” I’m going to get hell for passing on an order from Titi Sandra of all people, but that’s a problem for future me.

“What is this?” Titi Neva shuts the double fridge covered in sticky notes and awards from school. Mainly Marisol’s, because I’m too busy talking my way out of detention, and Sofia is often pried away from whatever cheerleader she’s making out with, so we’re clearly not the academic stars here. “You think we’re one of those white families in the movies slaving away in the kitchen for you to grab a piece of toast and run out the door? You sit, and I’ll make you pancakes.”

Titi Neva steps in front of me, placing her hands on her wide hips, the tight ponytail at the top of her head unable to tame her ashy-brown curls, a trait she shares with Titi Sandra—they’re the only ones with the same father. They like to lie and say they’re twins, though no one would ever think so. Titi Neva has a lighter complexion and dresses in vibrant maxi dresses with bangles along her arms, and Titi...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: S&S Books for Young Readers
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2026
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1665942525
• ISBN 13: 9781665942522
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 368
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Simon and Schuster Netherlands BV; info@simonandschuster.nl; ; Herculesplein 96; Utrecht; 3584 AA; Niederlande