The Donut Prince of New York

by Allen Zadoff

Genres: Young Adult; YA Contemporary; YA Social Themes; YA Coming of Age

Synopsis

"A masterful page-turner. You’ll root for Eugene long after the final chapter. Chef’s kiss!"—Lisa Fipps, author of Starfish

 Eugene Guterman's junior year in high school is off to a rocky start.  No love life, no new theater production, and if his mother has her way, no more of his favorite comfort food—donuts. Eugene would just as soon spend the year playing small, but that’s hard to do when you’re the biggest kid in your class. 

Things change when he accidentally tackles the school’s star quarterback and Coach sees the possibilities and recruits the plus-size playwright onto the varsity football team. Eugene is suddenly catapulted into the world of the “The Pops,” the exclusive clique of popular athletes known for their parties and dating scene. Best of all is the new and mysterious girl Daisy who seems to be noticing him.

Then Eugene discovers that life at the top is more complicated than he imagined— there’s pressure to excel, to fit in, and to uphold a certain image—and Eugene misses his former life and his old friends. Can he find the courage to give it all up, write something real, and maybe, just maybe, be the big guy who actually gets the girl?

"A heartbreaking coming of age tale that finds triumph in failure. Football, first crushes, theater and donuts. I love this book.”—Yehudi Mercado, author of Chunky and Sci-Fu

Release date: November 5, 2024

Publisher: Holiday House

Print pages: 352

Sample

CHAPTER ONE:I DON’T BELIEVE IT

I’m at the Donut Prince on Eighth Avenue in Times Square, its famous neon crown glowing like a beacon of sugary hope. It’s the end of summer, the final long days of August reminding you of the summer you had—or the summer you wish you’d had. Guess which team I’m on?

Until now.

I’m sitting in the window holding a half-eaten double chocolate, more frosting on my shirt than on the donut, when this girl walks in.

She’s all curves and caramel hair, laughing like she’s in on a secret joke with the universe. Despite the heat outside, she’s wearing a leather jacket over biker shorts, and her fingers dance across her phone’s screen as she waits for her order. She loves donuts, so it’s clearly a match.

I try not to stare, but every once in a while, I sneak a glance. In my head, I’m already up at the counter.

I noticed you ordered the strawberry rhubarb jelly–filled. Bold move. They are the Hamlet of donuts: complex, moody, yet worth the emotional investment. Like me.

She laughs and her eyes sparkle.

I tell her I’m going to be a famous playwright someday, and she tells me she loves theater. And just like that, my entire life changes.

A honking cab interrupts my fantasy. I look down at the half-eaten donut, then back at her paying at the counter.

You’re supposed to be a playwright, Eugene. Just say something funny.

I slip off the stool, ready to make my move, when I catch sight of my reflection in the front window—a very large teenager clutching a donut like a life preserver.

I know there are big people who love their bodies—but for whatever reason, I’m not one of them.

I try to find some inspiration in my head, a film or play where a big guy gets the girl without it being a joke—but I’m drawing a blank. There are no love stories with people who look like me.

So even if I talked to her, what good would it do?

I look at the reflection of my large body in the window with her smaller body framed behind me—and I sit back down.

A bell dings. She’s going out the front door, phone in one hand, a donut bag in the other. I don’t believe I’m letting the girl of my dreams walk away, but that’s what happens. I watch her through the window, and I do nothing.

I take a deep breath and put my head on the counter. I’m so angry with myself, I can barely think straight.

I make a silent vow that I’m going to change. Eugene Guterman, man of action. The man who put down donuts and picked up courage.

But when I sit up, there’s half a double chocolate still in my hand. What kind of monster leaves half a donut?

So I down it in two bites, promising myself it’s the last one.

I stop at the counter to say goodbye.

“You ready for another, hon?”

It’s my friendly donut dealer in a white cap. Sweet, nonjudgmental, and about three decades too old for me. Oh well.

“I shouldn’t—” I start to say.

“—but they’re the best in the city.” We finish my sentence in unison.

I sigh. We have so much in common.

“One more for the road,” I say. “Make it a maple-glazed.”

 

CHAPTER TWO:THE DREADED FRITTATA

“Eugene!!! Breakfast!” It’s the shrill voice of Miriam Guterman, MD, echoing through our apartment like an ambulance siren.

I snap awake, squinting at the morning light streaming through the blinds. I’m pretty sure I was back at the Donut Prince in my dreams, only I was brave this time. I talked to that girl in the leather jacket and I got her number.

Now that I’m awake, I realize that didn’t happen.

Reality rushes in. The last day of summer break has become the first day of school. So much for my summer plans.

Mom pops her head in the door without even knocking. She’s perpetually wearing scrubs, and her goal seems to be to get me to wear them, too. The sooner the better.

“Privacy, Mom.”

“You don’t want to be late on your first day of junior year, do you?”

“I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”

Mom looks at me, suddenly concerned. “What’s up with you today?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “I can’t wait to get this year started.”

“I detect a note of sarcasm.”

“More than a note. I could write a Broadway musical on the subject.”

I glance at the blank notebook perched on my desk across the room. Who am I kidding? I haven’t written anything all summer.

“Healthy breakfast for two, coming right up,” Mom says, and she goes back to the egg white cooking facility she calls our kitchen.

I force a smile. Healthy breakfast for two. That’s a double dig—“healthy” because I need to lose weight, and “two” instead of three because Dad left last year.

My parents met way back when Mom was in medical school at Columbia and Dad was a promising screenwriter at NYU.

Science and art. Opposites attract.

They got married, had me, then lived happily ever after. For exactly sixteen years, at which point my dad fell in love with an actress a decade younger and moved to Astoria.

He traded soaring views of Lincoln Center for the odor of Queens. That does not seem like an upgrade to me, but what do I know?

I roll out of bed and confront my dresser.

Some days it feels like clothes are my enemy. And by some, I mean every day since middle school.

I’m halfway through a wrestling match with a pair of stiff jeans when I look back at my desk. My writing notebook is sitting open, the blank pages mocking me.

I get a pang as I think about my summer dreams. Meet a girl, write a great play that will redeem my reputation at school—

I didn’t do either of those things.

A lot of kids won’t write, even under court order. But I spent all summer trying to create this new play. The actors are counting on me. The theater club is counting on me.

I just have to finish it. And also change my name because Eugene Guterman doesn’t sound like a famous playwright’s name to me. It sounds more like a roofing contractor in Long Island.

“Eugene, I made you an egg white frittata!”

Ugh. Another frittata. There hasn’t been a decent breakfast pastry in this house since the Obama Administration.

“The frittata is hot and delicious,” Mom shouts, elongating the word into a dramatic cry of maternal hope and desperation.

It’s a good performance, but I’d still rather have a donut.