Welcome to my stop on the SURVIVING HIGH SCHOOL tour! Today I have a great excerpt from the book to share with you - and don't forget to enter the giveaway! To follow the rest of the tour, click on the banner above.
Surviving High School
Author: Lele Pons & Melissa de la Cruz
Genre: YA Contemporary
Release Date: April 5, 2016
Publisher: Gallery Books
Description:
Ten million followers and I still sit alone at lunch. Lele is a bulls-eye target at her new school in Miami until, overnight, her digital fame catapults the girl with cheerleader looks, a seriously silly personality, and a self-deprecating funny bone into the popular crowd. Now she’s facing a whole new set of challenges—the relentless drama, the ruthless cliques, the unexpected internet celebrity—all while trying to keep her grades up and make her parents proud.
Filled with the zany enthusiasm that has made Lele into Vine’s most viewed star, this charming novel is proof that high school is a trip. From crushing your crushes (what’s up with that hot transfer student Alexei??) to throwing Insta-fake parties with your BFFs and moaning over homework (GAH) with your frenemies, high school is a rollercoaster of exhilarating highs and totally embarrassing lows. Leave it to Lele to reassure us that falling flat on your face is definitely not the end of the world. Fans of Mean Girls will love this fun and heartwarming fish-out-of-water story.
1
Aaar,
That’s Quite a Black Eye, Matey
(0 Followers)
The first thing you need to know about me is that I wasn’t always
the gorgeous, sexy, cool, breezy blonde you know today. I know, I know, it’s
shocking. The truth is, it wasn’t so long ago that I was an awkward outcast
wearing braces and last season’s clothes two sizes too big. “No!” I can hear
you disagreeing. “Lele has always been perfect.” Well, you’re right, I
have always been perfect, but that’s an- other story for another time. Let me
take you back to the dark days so you can see that once upon a time my struggle
was deep and my struggle was real:
I’m
sixteen and it’s my first day at Miami High. The hallways are long and the
student body is . . . intimidating. See, my last school (St. Anne’s School for
Girls) was small—you might even say cozy, intimate. Oh, right, and Catholic. I
come from a small Catholic school and a sheltered Catholic family; until today
all I’ve known are the sweet, familiar faces of the same twenty kids I grew up
with, plus everything that’s ever happened on the Disney Channel (#TBT Zenon:
The Zequel #NeverForget).
My
parents, Anna and Luis Pons, decided, abruptly and unjustly, that I should move
to a bigger school so I could meet more people, broaden my horizons, blah blah
blah, before I go to college. Didn’t anyone tell them you can get into college from any old high school
just as long as you have a dope internet presence? Welcome to the twenty-first
century, Mom and Dad, please take a seat.
Okay,
I didn’t mean that, sometimes I let sassiness get the better of me. Obviously
college is a good and important thing—but is it for me? I’m super eager to
become an actress and would get so impatient having to put that off for an
extra four years, so I don’t know. I’m ready to put on a show for the world;
I’m ready to seize life by the horns and make jazz hands.
Anyway,
I’m a good Catholic girl and I respect my parents’ wishes (look, I do my best,
okay?), which is how I got here, day one at Miami High, epicenter of pretty
girls and some of the most unrealistically good-looking guys you will ever see.
I
wake up late (typical) and fail to get my first-day outfit down the way I had
envisioned. The frilly white blouse, black pants, and knee-high boots that
Rihanna had pulled off so effortlessly have me looking less like a pop star and
more like a pirate. But I figure, hey, YOLO, right? And head out to Hot-Guy
High in disguise as Captain Jack Sparrow. (I know YOLO is dated, but come on,
you only live once! Heh.)
First
things first: my schedule. A lady who looks like an old potato with glasses
and unevenly applied lipstick hands it to me at the front desk.
“Welcome
to Miami High,” she says, like she’d rather kill herself than even open her
mouth to speak these words. She smells like strawberry candy and cloves, and
it’s a little too much to handle first thing in the morning to be quite honest.
Anyway, here it is, my educational fate for the next ten months:
1st
period: English
2nd period:
World History 3rd period: Calculus
4th period: Gym
5th
period: Marine Biology 6th period: Spanish
Right
away, I stand out like a sore thumb. And yes, I get the looks. You know what
I’m talking about: those evil stares kids love to give that say “Ew, who the F
is she?” In first period, English, a boy with spiky blue hair throws a crumpled
ball of paper that bounces off my head. During second period, world history, a
kid with a backward baseball cap calls out, “Hey, why do you talk so weird?”
When I explain to him that I have a Venezuelan accent, he calls back, “I dunno,
it sounds like you just don’t know how to talk.”
“You
mean speak,” I say.
“Huh?”
“You mean to tell me that I don’t know how to speak.
Grammatically, I mean. It’s speak, not talk. In this context.”
“Oh my God, what a freak,” the boy mutters to a cluster of equally
jaded, pimple-faced boys who laugh and nod their heads.
In
third period, calculus, a redheaded girl with glasses approaches me to say,
“Everyone here dresses kind of more . . . subtle. Just so you know. For
tomorrow.” Then she scuttles away to join her gaggle. Everyone has a gaggle.
Except me. Lele Pons, lost and friendless, small fish in a big pond. Sigh. Here
we go, junior year, I think to my- self, then drown my woes in an ice-cold
Pepsi.
After
third period comes lunch. Now, reader, I don’t know how long it’s been since
the last time you were in a public school cafeteria, but let me tell you: it is
one of the single most frightening places in the world. Literally, high school
cafeterias deserve their own season of American Horror Story. Reader,
please let me have the honor of describing the diverse array of atrocities
within the Miami High cafeteria:
--Lunch
ladies: Mean, scowling women who seem to hate their
lives and hate us just for being who we are. One with a name tag that reads
“Iris” yells at me for not having my money ready in time. Then yells at me more
for not having my money transferred onto a One Card (which apparently is like a
debit card specifically for gross high school cafeterias?)
--Hairnets: The lunch ladies wear hairnets that get
sweaty and oily and make me think of nets used to catch fish—I can’t look at
their heads without imagining fish out of water flap- ping around desperately
for their lives. Appetite = gone.
--Inedible food: This food is
practically criminal. I honestly, honestly don’t know what it is. It
looks like a mound of Styrofoam covered in gravy and topped with cubes of
something that could or could not be chicken. It comes with a side of
“tangerines” that are actually just shreds of tangerine floating in corn syrup.
--Atmosphere:
It smells bad; it’s loud; there isn’t a fair
amount of oxygen to go around.
--High
school kids: Never will you see as many high school kids
packed into one place as in a cafeteria. If you’ve seen Mean Girls, then
you know about the clique labels (sexually active band geeks, preps, girls who
eat their feelings, hot Asians, etc.), but at Miami High there’s none of this.
At Miami High, nothing is simple. Everyone is clumped together, each clique
infringing on the personal space of the one next to it, so that you can’t tell
where the jocks end and the nerds begin. School administrations won’t ever be
able to abolish cliques, but they can force them to sit together, and this
nightmare is the result. Unlike in Mean Girls and also Every High
School Movie Ever Made Ever, where the main character and often new girl
doesn’t know where to sit because none of the cliques will welcome her, I don’t
know where to sit because there are literally no places to sit. Even if
a clique were to welcome me, I would have to sit on someone’s lap. Dear God, this place is a
zoo.
With
nowhere to sit and no desire to eat my food, I toss my cardboard tray in the
trash and hurry outside to get some air before I have a panic attack or
accidentally stab someone out of fear and confusion. I sit down outside with my
back against the wall and count down the minutes until this weirdness is over.
But of course a watched pot never boils, and there’s no rest for the weary. A
very professional woman in a blue blazer and patent-leather heels and a Hillary
Clinton–type haircut clicks by clutching a walkie-talkie like she’s headed to
diffuse a bomb. When she sees me, she comes to a startling halt.
“Excuse
me, why are we outside?” She sounds vengeful and thirsty, like she wants to
suck my blood.
“Ermm
. . . I don’t know why you are. I am outside because I couldn’t breathe
in there.”
“That
doesn’t matter; you know the rules. No students allowed outside the cafeteria
during lunch hour.”
“Oh,
see, this is my first day. I didn’t know.”
“Well,
now you know. Get back in there so I don’t have to write you up.”
“Write
me up? Like in jail? I really don’t want to go back in.”
“Listen,
I don’t know how they did things at your old school, but we don’t make
exceptions for Miami High students. If I treated you like a princess, I’d have
to treat everyone like a princess. You’re just going to have to eat inside like
everyone else.”
“Because
I want fresh air I’m asking to be treated like a princess?”
“Please
don’t take an attitude with me, I haven’t written up anyone today and I don’t
want to start now.”
“Good
Lord.” I’m practically laughing at this point, the absurdity of this woman and
the situation is too much to handle. “I guess I’ll have to start a rebellion.”
“No
need to be so dramatic. Stop by the main desk after school to pick up an
off-campus form. Have your parents sign it and you’ll receive off-campus
privileges during lunch. You don’t have to eat in the cafeteria, but you can’t
be on campus. It’s for safety reasons.”
“Thank
you. I’m so glad I didn’t have to turn this into something dramatic.”
She
huffs and clicks away, her head leading her body so that she was practically a
diagonal line. Gotta admire that delusional determination.
The
bell rings and I’ve never been so excited to get back to class. I notice a
kind-looking African American girl walking back on campus with impeccably
braided hair and indisputably nerdy glasses.
“Hey,”
I call to her, “do you go off campus for lunch?”
“Oh,
yeah, there’s no way I could survive going in there every day.” She gestures to
the cafeteria.
“It’s
disgusting, right? I thought maybe it was just my imagination.”
“No,
girl, you’re right on track.”
“For
the first time in my life, maybe. I’m Lele Pons.”
“I’m Darcy Smith. Nice to meet you. Make sure you get an off- campus pass ASAP, you seem nice and I would
hate to lose you to that place.”
Note
to self: get an off-campus pass or perish. Note to self: I don’t like this
school.
Note to self: But I sort of like Darcy.
Fourth
period is gym. Coach Washington is this boxy-shaped woman with a bowl haircut
and two silver teeth. Oh, and she’s missing the pinkie finger on her left hand.
She passes out these ugly neon uniforms and then marches us to the locker room
where we are actually supposed to get naked in front of each other. Ew. Being a
Catholic, I’m modest, and I try to be as discreet as possible—I don’t even know these girls’ names yet, and I
don’t want their very first impression of me to be this beige Nike sports bra.
But it’s too late. A slender-though-curvy brunette with big, bright brown-green
eyes and fluttery eyelashes spots me in the crowd and, sensing my weakness,
pounces.
“Hey,
new girl.” She smirks. “I think my grandma has that same bra.”
“Congratulations
on knowing so much about your grandma’s underwear,” I say right back, without
thinking. The room goes silent and Bright Eyes raises her eyebrows at me in a
way that, I have to admit, freaks me out a little. Have I messed with the wrong
chica? She shuts her locker door slowly and deliberately, as if sending me some
kind of warning sign, then flips her hair and turns to leave. “Yo’ mama wore
this bra last night,” I mutter to myself and whoever is still listening. Great
one, Lele, great one.
Out
on the field, Coach Washington takes roll and I learn that Bright Eyes actually
goes by the name Yvette Amparo. Washington pronounces my name like “Lee Lee”
and I just absolutely have to correct her. That’s the second thing you need to
know about me: I can really lose it when bitches call me Lee Lee. Some dimwits
even call me Ley Ley or Lilly. Does nobody know how to read? It’s Lele . . .
like, Leh Leh, or like “you can stand under my umbrella ella ella eh eh eh,”
except if you add some L’s: “You can stand under my umbrella ella ella Lele
Lele.” That’s how you can remember it whenever you’re struggling. Leh, like
heh. I try to explain this all to Coach Washington, but she loses patience
quickly and moves on.
I
gotta tell you, tackle football seems a little intense for a first- day sport.
Couldn’t we just stick to something safe, like jumping jacks? Apparently not.
Apparently gym teachers in large public schools enjoy torturing their students.
As soon as Coach Washington puts Yvette and me on opposite teams, I know I’m going
to have to take her down. That’s the third thing you need to know about me: I’m
a physical person. I’m not saying I’m not smart, I’m just saying I prefer to use my body to work out issues.
You know, go on a run, have a solo dance party, punch someone if necessary.
I’ve seen the way boys resolve their discrepancies: a little roughhousing and
it’s all in the past. They’re like lions in the wild. But us girls, for whatever reason, we’re expected to talk it out like little ladies. Gah!
Anyway,
so we get out on the field and I’m all in. Suddenly it’s like if I don’t win
this game for my team, I will have officially failed my first day. If I win,
however, I’ll be my own personal hero and will triumph over the brutal
awkwardness leading up to this moment. As soon as Washington blows her whistle
I’m running and jumping and diving and clawing my way through the field with so
much enthusiasm that I forget I don’t actually know the first thing about
tackle football. Oops. Through my veil of adrenaline I can see someone toss
Yvette the ball, and I go for it. Maybe I shouldn’t, maybe it’s wrong, but I
throw my body on top of her, tackling poor skinny Yvette to the ground. But she
doesn’t go down easily. She puts up a fight, thrashing her head all around
until CLONK, her skull knocks into my face with the weight of a bowling ball. I
bite my lip, trying not to scream. Stars spin around my head cartoon-style and
Coach is blowing on that stupid, shrill whistle.
“Okay,
okay, time out. What’s going on here?” she says, ramming her hands together
perpendicularly in the “time out” gesture.
“Lee
Lee attacked me.” Ugh.
“I
didn’t attack you; I tackled you. Like how you do sometimes in tackle football.
Which we are currently playing.” I put my hand to my right eye, which already feels
bruised. Yvette gets all huffy and Coach makes me sit down, and then I get
huffy all by myself in a corner, mad at Yvette and Coach Washington and the kid
who threw a paper ball at my head earlier and my stupid parents for making me
come to this evil, awful place.
By
the time I’m changed back into my regular (a.k.a. pirate) clothes, my right eye
is completely swollen shut. Bitch gave me a black eye!
“You
know you look like a pirate, right?” Yvette snarls, sauntering out of the gym.
“Arrrrr!”
I holler after her. I want to make her walk the plank.
At
home my parents ask me that awful question every kid dreads hearing, the
question that sounds like nails on a chalkboard: “How was your day?”
“Fine,”
I say. Then I change my mind, suddenly inhabited by the spirit of honesty.
“Actually, it was terrible. The place is ginormous and everyone thinks they’re
so cool.”
“Oh,
Lele”—my mom says my name perfectly, always a comfort, albeit slight—“I’m sure
none of them are as cool as you.”
“Thanks,
Mom, I’ll make sure to tell them my mom thinks I’m super cool.”
I go
to my room and collapse onto my bed, groan into the pillow, kick my feet a
little bit for dramatic effect. After my self-pity party I decide I’ve suffered
enough for one day. It’s time to shake it off like Taylor Swift, time to let it
go like Elsa.
It’s
time to go to my happy place: Vine. In Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Audrey
Hepburn says that nothing very bad can happen at Tiffany’s, and that’s exactly
how I feel about Vine. Nothing very bad can happen on Vine, at least not to me.
Vine is the one place I feel untouchable. I sign into my account and type in
the title of tonight’s Vine: “The Advantages of Being a Boy.”
Lele Pons was born in Caracas, Venezuela and moved with her
family to Miami when she was five years old. She got her start when she
created a page on the video-sharing app Vine in December
2013. Originally intended as a fun outlet to showcase her creativity,
her vines evolved into comedic sketches and pulling practical jokes on
family and friends. Her following grew from five thousand
local followers to more than ten million by November 2015.
Today she is one of the most recognizable names on social media, and has been featured in Vanity Fair, The New York Times, Teen Vogue, Time, and more. Lele has been nominated for three Teen Choice Awards, a People’s Choice Award, and a Streamy Award. In 2015, she was invited to the White House by First Lady Michelle Obama to help launch her campaign for disadvantaged kids to go to college. Lele graduated from high school in 2015 and currently resides in Los Angeles, CA.
Melissa de la Cruz is
the #1 New York Times bestselling author of books for readers of all
ages, including the Witches of East End, Blue Bloods, and Descendants
series. Purchase:
Tour Wide Giveaway: (2) Print copies of Surviving High School - Open to US only!
Thanks for being on the tour! :)
ReplyDeleteThe cover is fun and the synopsis sounds like this will be a humorous read.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the giveaway!
ReplyDeleteSounds very funny , Oh how I wish I was that witty in school lol.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the giveaway!
ReplyDeleteThis sounds like such a fun book! I have always enjoyed Lele's vines!
ReplyDeleteThis looks so fun!!
ReplyDeleteSamantha D