I Was Told There Would Be Romance

by Marie Arnold

Genres: YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

For fans of Never Have I Ever and To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before comes a hilarious and heartfelt novel about a young Haitian girl navigating high school, friendship, and crushes.

Fifteen-year-old Fancy Augustine is a Haitian American girl with simple desires. She’d like to trade in her floppy, oversize boobs for cute, perky ones. She’d love a boyfriend. And she’s desperate for an invite to the biggest event of the school year: Imani Park’s birthday party. When Fancy learns her BFF, Tilly, has received a coveted invite and has a secret boyfriend, she is (understandably) devastated and wholeheartedly determined to do whatever it takes to get her own happily ever after.

So what if she makes a deal with the devil (Imani) that guarantees her an invite—but only if she can bring a boyfriend? And what’s so bad about letting her crush, Rahim, believe that she can create a voodoo potion for him in exchange for him posing as her boyfriend? And, yeah, maybe she’s destroying her friendship with Tilly and falling hopelessly behind in her schoolwork, but Fancy knows it’ll all be worth it in the end. Plus, it’s not like Fancy’s parents would really make good on their threats of sending her back to Haiti...right?

Release date: October 15, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 224

Sample

“I’m not a stalker,” I assure my school counselor. She looks at me from across her desk and nods in a way that leads me to think she may not completely believe me. She starts talking, but I tune her out; something has changed in her office. The poster behind Mrs. Washington, of kids playing on a sunny beach, has been moved about six inches to the left.

“You moved that poster.”

“I think it’s better where it is now,” she replies.

I nod and try to forget about it. I can’t. I find my eyes darting between where the poster is and where it used to be. Now that it’s been moved, the room feels wrong.

Mrs. Washington studies me, sighs, and says, “Would you like me to move it back to where it was?”

I shrug. “Only if you want to.”

She gets up and moves the poster back to its original place. Everything is okay again.

“Now, where was I?” I ask.

“Stalking,” Mrs. Washington replies.

“Oh, yeah, I’m not a stalker,” I say with renewed conviction.

Mrs. Washington clasps her hands together and eyes me with mounting suspicion. I wonder what it’s like being her. I’m sure she has a charmed life; I think all pretty people do. Mrs. Washington has delicate features, a straight perm, and dark skin. She’s basically a Black Barbie doll.

Me, on the other hand, I’m Barbie’s curvy, big-breasted, natural-haired distant cousin. You know, the kind of doll that’s giant compared to the small, dainty ones on the shelf? The one whose hair never stays on her head because the manufacturer didn’t take the time to fit it properly? That’s me—off-brand Barbie.

“You do realize that most of our conversations start out with you telling me all the things that you aren’t?” she says.

“All of them? I doubt that.”

She opens her cabinet and takes out a green folder with my name clearly printed on the front: Falencia Marie Augustine. She takes a look inside the folder and then looks back at me.

“Fancy, the last time you were in my office, it was because you failed to hand in several homework assignments for Mr. Doyle. You started out by saying, ‘I’m not a slacker.’ The time before that, you were in here because you were caught in the boys’ locker room. You started that meeting by saying, ‘I’m not a pervert.’”

“I admit, I’m a little behind on schoolwork. I’m working on it,” I say. “And as for the locker room thing, it was an innocent mistake. I was reading this romance book called The Many Loves of Lucy Luckless and got so into it, I walked into the wrong locker room.”

“And once you found yourself in the boys’ locker room, did you quickly scurry out or linger?” she asks me.

I bite my lower lip. “Define linger.…”

She groans with disapproval. “And what about today? Why did I catch you following Rahim at lunch?”

I raise my eyebrow suggestively. “Mrs. Washington, we both know why I followed Rahim.…”

Rahim Robinson is a yummy, chocolate-covered knight, filled with a gooey center. Normally I don’t like describing a Black person’s complexion using food, but in this case, it’s apt. Rahim was blessed with searing, dark-brown bedroom eyes, a sculpted jawline, and full, kissable lips. He’s on the basketball team, where his tall, athletic build is displayed for all to adore. He swaggers down the school halls like he has the answers to questions the universe hasn’t even thought to ask.

“Fancy, you have to stop following Rahim!” Mrs. Washington insists.

“Don’t worry, I always keep a safe ‘tailing distance’ the whole time. He never knows I’m there,” I reply proudly.

“That’s not the reassurance I was looking for.”

“And for the record, other girls follow him around, too,” I reply.

“None of them follows him inside the locker room!”

“Well, obviously, they lack dedication,” I mumble.

She smiles but quickly catches herself and goes back to “adult mode.” She clears her throat and straightens her posture.

“I won’t deny that Rahim is a handsome young man. But following him is unacceptable. Have you ever considered just talking to him?”

“How do you talk to a god?”

“I know that drama and hormones are the fuel on which high school runs, but Fancy, we’re only a few weeks into the school year. Pace yourself,” she pleads.

“I’ll try.”

“You need to start focusing on your work—in every class, not just in English, where you excel. And you need to stop going along with every whim that hits you.”

“Like what?” I ask, insulted.

“Well, like the time Imani caught you trying on her bra in the girls’ locker room.”

“I didn’t try it on. I just placed it in front of me to see what it would look like.”

She creases her forehead and leans in closer. “You see how that’s weird, right?”

“Of course you don’t get it,” I mutter. “You’re part of the bra parade.”

She tilts her head, curious. “The what?”

I explain to her that the bra parade is an unofficial event that takes place in the center aisle of the girls’ locker room. The girls strut up and down showing off their Insta-worthy bras.

“You can join the parade and strut if you so choose,” Mrs. Washington replies.

“Nope! Everyone else’s bras are sophisticated, stylish, and distinctly feminine—the kinds of garments delicately crafted by a master seamstress in a quaint boutique in Paris. My bras require a team of structural engineers. They need fewer people to build bridges.”

“Fancy, you’re making too big a deal about this bra thing.”

I scoff. “Spoken like a 34D.”

Her jaw drops. “How did you know my—”

I shrug. “It’s a gift. And a curse.”

She squirms slightly in her chair and then pulls the lapels of her blazer closer together.

“I’m sure you can find places that custom-make pretty bras in your size,” she continues.

“Mrs. Washington, there’s freedom in being able to get your exact size in any and every store. A freedom I have long been denied,” I reply wistfully.

She groans and rolls her eyes hard.

I jump up, eager to be heard. “Pretty. Perky. Perfect. Boobs. That’s always been my dream. And we both know what happens to a dream deferred.…”

She frowns deeply. “You’re not dragging Langston Hughes into this.”

“Okay, fine. But for the record, trying on Imani’s bra once is not a good enough reason for her to despise me.”

“Fancy, you know the way Imani feels about you has nothing to do with the bra situation.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s the spider…,” I lament.

“Yes, the spider.”

When I was in third grade, I saw a spider that freaked me out, and I tossed a ball at it. The ball bounced and hit Imani. Her loose tooth fell out; it didn’t help that it was picture day.…

“It could have happened to anyone.”

Mrs. Washington gives me the side-eye. I get it.

“Here’s the deal,” she says, dragging me out of my thoughts. “You’ve been coming to my office for one infraction or another way too often. I think it’s time I call your parents.”

A wave of panic hits me. I feel cold beads of sweat forming on my forehead and upper lip. I try to reassure myself that I didn’t hear what I just heard.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Washington, can you repeat that?”

“You heard me. I remember you telling me that your parents are kind of strict, but I think—”

“Kind of strict? North Korean dictators are kind of strict. My parents are Haitian! Did you know there’s a list of all the places Haitian kids are allowed to go? Lekòl. Legliz. Lakay. That means: School. Church. Home. You would not believe the acts of subterfuge I have to commit just to hang after school.”

“Well, you have to—Wait, what subterfuge?” she asks.

Damn.

“Your point is, I’ve gone too far and I need to pull back. I’m on it. You won’t see me in your office again,” I promise her.

“I’m not sure you can stay out of my office,” she replies.

“I totally can! Just promise you won’t call my parents. If you call them, it’s only a matter of time before they start thinking I’ve become ‘too American’ and send me back to Haiti.”

“I’ve heard how rough life can be over there,” she replies sadly.

“That’s just it: I’ve gone to Haiti before and it was dope! I ate fresh seafood by the beach, went hiking up resplendent mountains, and drank coconut water right from the coconut.”

“If you love it that much, why would you be upset at the thought of getting sent back by your parents?”

“Because ‘vacation Haiti’ and ‘sent-back Haiti’ are two very different things,” I tell her. She looks at me totally confused. “Simply put, when I go to Haiti on vacation, I note all the good things it has to offer. However, when you get sent back for acting out and disgracing your family… let’s just say you start to notice the things Haiti doesn’t have—like child labor laws and child protective services.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re being dramatic. In fact, I’m positive you are,” she replies.

“I knew this guy, Jean-Louis. His parents sent him back because he was cutting school and stealing. He thought he was going back to ‘vacation Haiti.’ But he soon learned about the other version of Haiti. It’s a sad tale. I call it ‘The Ballad of Jean-Louis.’ It’s a song I’ll never sing. I promise you, Mrs. Washington.”

She throws her hands up in defeat. “Okay, I won’t call your parents—this time. But if you get sent back to my office—”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Also, Mr. Doyle tells me you have a report due this week. I expect you to hand that in.”

“Yup, I’ve already started.”

She arches her eyebrow. How does she know I’m lying?

“Okay, I started it in my head. But it’s there, Mrs. Washington. It’s in the ether.”

“Well, you better get it down on an actual document. Or else.”

“I’m on it!”

“Good. Now go on, get out of my office. I have work to do.”

“Okay, I’m going,” I reply as I gather my things. “Following Rahim around is its own reward, but I have to admit, it’s turned parts of my brain into mush. Like today, I almost forgot it’s Weeping Wednesday.”

Every year, a batch of bright red envelopes with engraved gold calligraphy circulates around the school. The first year this happened, it was on a Wednesday, hence the name Weeping Wednesday. It’s an invitation to the social event of the year—Imani Parker’s birthday party. Imani is to our school what Anna Wintour is to the fashion industry. Her birthday party is as exclusive as the Met Gala.

The invite comes to a chosen few, and the ones who don’t make it are, in a word, devastated. It’s like the scene from Scarface where Tony Montana brutally kills everyone—Weeping Wednesday is that, except social lives get slaughtered. Every year, dozens of girls break down in tears because Imani assured them a place, only to find that they’ve been left out in the cold. Imani and I have gone to the same school since kindergarten. I have never received an envelope, but it would be nice. Actually, it would be more than nice. I heard she has a foyer, perfect for making a grand entrance! I may or may not have pranced around my room countless times, working on my entrance.

Mrs. Washington looks out with dead eyes. “Weeping Wednesday is today? No! It can’t be!” she says, shaking her head in pure terror.

“Yeah, it is. This year, Imani has travel plans on her actual birthday, so they’re moving up her party date. Invitations are out today. It’s all anyone’s been able to talk about around here. I’m surprised you missed that,” I reply.

“I was swamped with work. This is a nightmare! My office overflowing with emotional girls who won’t stop crying. Students demanding to change schools to get away from the stigma of not getting an invite,” Mrs. Washington says, clearly traumatized. She runs to the door and swallows hard, as if to gather her courage, before peeking outside. I take a quick look, too. And sure enough, there’s a line of devastated students that goes around the corner. They’re all waiting to talk to her. Mrs. Washington quickly closes the door and leans against it for support. “I’m not ready.”

“Where’s your stash?” I ask.

“My what?”

“Your ‘break glass in case of emergency’ candy. C’mon, everyone on the staff has some.”

She looks at me and is about to confess, but at the last moment she shrugs and says, “I don’t handle emergency situations by eating my feelings; I handle them with calm thoughts and deep, cleansing breaths.”

A girl cries out from the other side of the door, “My life is over!” Loud sobbing quickly follows.

Mrs. Washington says, “It’s on the shelf, behind the book titled School Code of Ethics.”

I look, and sure enough, there’s a wrinkled brown paper bag hidden in the corner. I take a peek inside and then hand it over to her. “I’m not upset that you lied to me. I am, however, disappointed that your guilty emergency treat is candy corn,” I scold.

She rolls her eyes as she takes the bag from me. She goes on to pop a handful of candy into her mouth a. . .