The Fall of Whit Rivera

by Crystal Maldonado

Genres: YA Coming of Age; YA Social Themes

Synopsis

Could you plan the Fall Formal with your (hot) nemesis? Whit Rivera is about to find out.

Frenemies Whit and Zay have been at odds for years (ever since he broke up with her in, like, the most embarrassing way imaginable), so when they’re forced to organize the fall formal together, it's a literal disaster. Sparks fly as Whitney—type-A, passionate, a perfectionist, and a certified sweater-weather fanatic—butts heads with Zay, a dry, relaxed skater boy who takes everything in stride. But not all of those sparks are bad. . . .

Has their feud been a big misunderstanding all along?

Blisteringly funny and profoundly well-observed, The Fall of Whit Rivera is a snug and cozy autumn romcom that also tackles weightier topics like PCOS, chronic illness, sexuality, fatphobia, Latine identity, and class. Funny, honest, insightful, romantic, and poignant, it is classic Crystal Maldonado—and it will have her legion of fans absolutely swooning.

A Junior Library Guild Gold Standard Selection

"Meaningful. . . Multidimensional. . . An important addition to YA literature."—Kirkus Reviews, starred review

"A celebration of love in all its forms—family, friends, romance, and (especially!) self. Whit Rivera's wry, optimistic voice will linger happily in your mind long after you turn the last page."—Monica Gomez-Hira, author of Once Upon a Quinceañera

"Satisfying and delightful... Maldonado shines!"—Kelly Jensen, editor and author of (Don't) Call Me Crazy, Body Talk, and Here We Are: Feminism for the Real World

Release date: October 10, 2023

Publisher: Holiday House

Print pages: 352

Sample

CHAPTER 1

 

What is it about fall that makes me SO basic?

Well before the sticky summer days have cooled, I’m salivating over leaf-peeping and farmers’ markets and cider tastings. At the stroke of midnight on the eve of autumn, I turn into an apple-picking, pumpkin-spice-craving, boot-and-oversize-sweater-wearing fanatic.

Autumn is when my sleepy Massachusetts town sheds its old life: the leaves become a symphony of reds, oranges, and golds, then let go. I love the colors; the crisp breeze; the pumpkin patches; the bonfires; the delicious scent of apple cinnamon; the melody the trees make when they rustle in the wind.

Fall is catharsis: it’s paying tribute to what was while making room for what’s to come. It’s possibility, wrapped in a crimson bow.

The season is honestly in my top five favorite things ever.

Whit Rivera’s All-Time Faves

1. My tiny little family: me; Abuela; Abuelo (who we miss every single day); my little sister, Lily; and our cat, Patch.

2. My ride-or-die besties, Sophie and Marisol, and my (super-hot) boyfriend, Aiden.

3. Fall and every single thing about it, including the high school’s beloved Fall Fest, a weeklong celebration.

4. My notebook collection and all my infinite lists.

5. Gilmore Girls.

6. (And a final secret sixth addition: Intonation, the bestselling boy band that Lily, Abuela, and I have loved since I was in eighth grade. Shhh.)

At this time of year, everything feels hopeful. And right about now, I could use a little hope—because my summer kind of sucked.

I had been ready for a productive yet charming summer. I pictured hard days at the coveted internship I’d secured at Empower(ed) Teens—a selective summer program for aspiring special needs educators and therapists—where I’d be praised for my organizational skills, leadership, and compassion. I envisioned late-night bonfires, spontaneous road trips to the beach, the sweet taste of ice cream cones, refreshing dips in the pool, sandy toes, and laughter with my friends and boyfriend.

How incredible does that sound?

But I didn’t get any of it.

Because my summer kicked off with a heartbreaking goodbye. My boyfriend, Aiden, moved two hundred miles away for his mom’s new job at the University of New Hampshire.

This then made me feel like a fifth wheel with my best friends, who turned out to be joined at the hip with their partners from May straight through August.

And then came the doctors’ appointments...which I was too embarrassed to talk about...so maybe I retreated a little.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that the second my junior year concluded, my whole body suddenly felt off. Actually, if I’m honest with myself, I had been ignoring signs that something was wrong for

a while. I could no longer pretend it was normal that I hadn’t gotten my period in months. I was sprouting body hair everywhere, and I was gaining weight really fast, mostly in my belly.

It was like I’d lost total and complete control over every facet of my life, in a way no Whit Rivera list or color-coded binder was going to fix.

I couldn’t even work up the courage to tell Sophie and Marisol, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell Aiden: the move had put enough of a strain on our relationship. I didn’t even tell Abuela—too ashamed, too fearful, too reluctant to add anything to her already full plate. She had enough to worry about between being the sole provider, her own health, and her business.

But Abuela sensed something, as Latina matriarchs always seem to, and a few obsessive internet searches later, we had three words to describe what might be wreaking havoc on my body: polycystic ovarian syndrome, or PCOS.

I should’ve been relieved to have a name for this experience, to be able to point to a reason why my body no longer felt like my own. But the more I read about the syndrome, the more I realized that the medical world seemed utterly mystified by it. There were few answers and no treatments.

Still, we diligently went to doctors. In appointment after appointment, under offensively bright lighting with parts of my expanding body spilling out of a blue gown, I’d be told the same thing: lose weight.

The whole summer vanished as we careened from doctor to doctor. They couldn’t—or wouldn’t—confirm that there was anything medically wrong with the soft brown girl standing before them, insisting instead that it was the circumference of her hips that was her grave undoing. Over the course of the summer, I was referred to four nutritionists, two different fat camps, and no less than seven bariatric surgeons.

I spent so much time in and out of doctors’ offices trying to get a confirmed diagnosis of what I knew was polycystic ovarian syndrome that I ended up having to resign from the Empower(ed) Teens internship I’d been so excited about. I burrowed into the comfort of our family shop instead, working there whenever I could.

It was the nail in the freaking coffin of what was supposed to be Whit’s Perfect Summer.

But finally, a ray of hope: Dr. Dianalys Delgado, a slim, dark-skinned Afro-Dominican woman with the most beautiful accent. The first doctor to let me share all of my symptoms without interrupting. The first doctor to ask how I felt. The first doctor to actually look up at me from her notes and meet my gaze. The first doctor to see me. Dr. Delgado nodded as I spoke and was ready with a tissue when I started crying. She told me it sounded like my self-diagnosis was correct, and that she was proud of me for being so proactive. It would only take one follow-up test, she promised, and we’d know for sure.

Dr. Delgado was right. And so was I. But even with the official diagnosis to explain what was happening in my body, I couldn’t bring myself to utter the words out loud. I didn’t want it to be real. PCOS was my little secret—a weight I quietly shouldered throughout a season I wished would just end already, as if summer were the real cause of all my problems.

But that had to be it, right?

Because fall and I kind of

have a thing. It would never treat me this way.

“Hey. You there?” Aiden’s voice startles me out of my thoughts.

I let him recenter me, focusing my gaze on his hazel eyes, angular jaw, crooked nose; on the lips I’ve grown so fond of kissing; on the curly brown hair I’ve loved running my hands through; on the wide shoulders and muscular arms he’ll wrap around my waist.

Suddenly, I’m being swept away by a special kind of daydream. I shake my head and rearrange my face into a grin. “I’m here! Sorry. Just mentally planning my back-to-school ritual. You know how I am about new school supplies.” A little shrug with my left shoulder, a shy glance away; I hope it’s the perfect mix of sheepish and sweet. Because, yeah, I totally zoned out while Aiden was filling me in on the latest details from his amazing life in New Hampshire.

It’s not that I’m not happy for him (I am!); it’s just that it’s really hard to listen to Aiden talk about how much he loves his new town, his new house, his new friends, and his new adventures, when my life is now tragic enough to require its own commemorative holiday.

Aiden breaks into a dopey grin, and part of me aches for him, wanting to see that grin up close. “You do love your pens. What’s that one you really like called?” Aiden’s brows crinkle while he thinks.

“The Pilot G2 bold point?” I offer. It’s definitely in my top three—the ink glides easily and holds up to the pressure when I’m notetaking. The .3 mm Le Pen series would be my favorite if it didn’t bleed through most paper.

He snaps his fingers. “That’s the one! You said it ‘writes like butter.’”

“If butter were a pen!” I laugh.

“I’ve never met a girl who can rattle off pen names like you.” Aiden grins. “You still have those sticky notes on your laptop, too?”

My eyes glance down to the reminders I’ve taped to my ancient laptop, an old Chromebook I inherited from Abuela’s shop when she needed to upgrade. The notes read: YOU’VE GOT THIS and FLOWERS BREATHE AND SO SHOULD YOU.

“Sure do.” I catch myself smiling—a real smile this time—at Aiden, fondly remembering things that might seem insignificant to someone else, but that matter to me. Aiden is my first real relationship. Sure, I’ve kissed people before, and I’ve had plenty of crushes on both guys and girls, but when it comes to the going-on-dates, holding-hands, making-googly-eyes-at-each-other type of relationship, this is a first for me.

At times, Aiden can be really thoughtful—like last year right after winter break when he surprised me with an impromptu road trip to a specialty stationery store. Or the time when I told him I wanted to be kissed under a streetlamp in the pouring rain and, during the next rainstorm, he made it happen.

I’m good to him, too. I’ve gone out of my way to learn about some of his favorite football teams so I can listen when he talks about Fantasy Football. I’m supportive whenever his little brother’s pranks have gone a bit too far, and I always let him choose the music in the car because I know how much he loves introducing me to new bands.

But lately it feels like it takes so much effort to ensure that we still know each other, and the little nuances seem gone altogether. It’s like he and I were just finding our footing as a couple, only to have it all ripped away. Now we’re sort of struggling along without the thrill of shared kisses and, quite frankly, it sucks.

“It’s sweet you remembered the notes,” I admit.

He tilts his head. “Of course, babe. How could I forget?”

I give him a soft smile. “Well, it just sounds like things are going really, really well for you, so maybe part of me thought you might—I don’t know—forget me?”

Aiden shakes his head. “No way! Even though, yeah, things are pretty awesome out here.”

“That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you,” I say, doing my best to mean it. Can I help it if there’s a small part of me that resents it?

“Aw, thank you, babe. You’re so supportive.”

That elicits another pang of guilt. “I miss you. Do you think you’ll come visit soon? You’re only a few hours away.” He’s the only one of us with a reliable car. I doubt my junker would survive a long drive.

He nods. “Definitely. Soon. It’s just that I’ve been so busy, you know?”

Oh, I know.

Aiden’s new best friend—who goes by the nickname of Moose, of all things—has basically cannibalized every spare second of my boyfriend’s time: boat trips and cabin retreats and whatever the hell else people do in New Hampshire. (I wouldn’t know.) The fact that Aiden’s off hiking with some man named MOOSE just emphasizes how separate our lives feel now. With Aiden’s social profiles practically defunct, I can’t even keep up with him that way.

“And with football starting up...” Aiden’s voice trails off.

I arch a thick eyebrow in surprise. “Football?” What I mean is: More football? Haven’t I suffered

enough with the whole Fantasy Football thing?

His eyes sparkle at the mention. “Yeah! I didn’t want to tell you until it was official, but I made the team!”

Aiden looks so giddy sharing this, pushing his curly hair out of his face excitedly before launching into what position he’s playing and what Coach has been saying and how he’s been getting so strong. I let him talk, watching his hands as he animatedly mimics throwing a football and makes sound effects to illustrate some mind-blowing catch his teammate made. I try to nod at all the right parts.

In the back of my mind, though, I’m wondering how much longer our relationship can survive when it feels like we’re two buoys in an ocean, drifting apart.

“All of that sounds incredible. I’m so proud of you, Bean,” I say. “But let’s try to figure something out soon, okay?”

“Absolutely,” Aiden says, nodding. “And...”

“Yes?” I ask.

He hesitates for a moment. “Well, it’s just that everyone’s been calling me Ace now. And I really like it.”

I blink at him.

“What?”

“Yeah, I was hoping you could call me that, too.”

“But I’ve been calling you Bean forever,” I blurt. “And I’m Jelly!”

I know I probably sound like a child, but come on. Don’t take this from me, too!

“I know. I know! And, like, I want us to have our own special nicknames or whatever, but, like...it just feels like we’re outgrowing those a little, you know? We’re seniors.”

I swallow. He’s acting like we came up with our nicknames Jelly and Bean as children or something, when really they’re nicknames he came up with when we started dating last fall. Are they obnoxiously cheesy? Yeah, totally. But I like them. When he asked me to the Fall Fest for our first-ever date, he gave me a ton of jelly beans that each read FF? He knew I loved jelly beans, so it was really sweet. (Never mind that he wrote in Sharpie on each one, making them totally inedible. I was still touched by his efforts.)

“I guess,” I say, frowning. “So...am I not going to be Jelly anymore, either?”

He shrugs. “Your call. Why don’t you think on it and let me know?” His face brightens suddenly. “Maybe Marisol and Sophie would have some ideas!”

Right. Because I want my friends to help me come up with a romantic pet name for my boyfriend to call me.

“Yeah,” I say, trying not to take this request too personally. “Maybe. I’ll think about.”

My gaze darts to the clock at the top right corner of my screen and I see that it’s nearly eight now. Since this call is doing nothing except give me a stomachache, I’d really like to get started on my annual pre–first-day-of-school ritual of organizing my belongings and backpack, selecting an outfit, performing my nighttime beauty routine, and finishing up with pre-bed meditation.

“You’re the best.” Aiden gives me a thumbs up, which is just about all I can stomach.

I cut in. “I should get going.

You know how I am with my rituals and all.”

He slaps his forehead. “Oh, right! Okay. See ya later, alligator!”

“Uh...after a while, crocodile?” My voice lilts up in a question.

And then his little box on my screen is gone. No heartfelt goodbyes, no whispered sweet nothings, no plans for another chat. Just...see ya later, alligator?

Cool. Cool, cool, cool.

I mean, am I overthinking this? Probably. I tend to do that.

Which is why I turn to my phone, which I had propped up just beside my laptop, and ask, “So, how was it?”

Sophie and Marisol are both grimacing on their ends.

“Could’ve been a little better...” Sophie starts, her voice trailing off.

“That was a freaking train wreck,” Marisol blurts out. “I mean, no offense. But holy shit.”

Ugh. We’re doomed. That’s why I all but begged (okay, fine, actually begged) Sophie and Marisol to listen in on this call. Maybe that’s pathetic, but hello? My perfectly put-together life has gotten so far away from me that that’s kind of the level I’m at right now.

Sophie shoots Marisol a look before gently asking me, “Have you guys talked, like, at all this summer?”

“Of course we have!” I insist.

Marisol arches an eyebrow. “How often do you guys FaceTime?”

I don’t want to admit that this is only the third time we’ve video-chatted since Aiden left. I grab a hair clip and twist my curls into a messy bun on top of my head before answering carefully. “I’m not sure.”

“Maybe you should try making that more regular? You could choose one night a week or something. Like a date,” Sophie suggests. “You guys just need practice figuring out how to be boyfriend and girlfriend now that you’re long-distance.”

Marisol crosses her arms. “I assumed that’s what you’d been doing all summer. Because you definitely weren’t hanging out with us.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I’ve been working at El Coquí a lot with Abuela. And helping Lily with summer school.”

“Well, nothing says you can’t focus on making things better with Aiden now,” Sophie says. “It sounds like he’s going to visit soon.”

I nod. “I’m hoping I’ll be able to see him before the Fall Fest dance.”

I leave out the part where I haven’t pushed for Aiden and me to meet up this summer because it’s saved me from having to reveal my bigger new body.

I hate to admit that, even to myself. The thing about Aiden is he’s so freaking hot—like, conventionally hot, and muscular, and he always made me feel so tiny and delicate, as if I were a little ballerina. I may not have been small when we were together, but there’s a part of me that’s terrified he’d see me now and instantly be turned off.

I’ve been embarrassingly, shamefully hiding my blooming stomach and softening jawline with tricks of the light and camera angles in hopes of—well, I don’t know what. Stalling, I guess. Rebuilding a foundation that isn’t so physical.

“That’s something!” Sophie enthuses. “Hopefully things feel better between you two soon.”

Marisol uncrosses her arms and nods. “Yeah. Hopefully.”

I can’t blame Marisol

for what is only a half-hearted attempt at making me feel better about this floundering relationship—especially not when she’s upset with how MIA I’ve been. Suddenly, it hits me how selfish I was to ask them to give up part of their night on the eve of the first day of school just to listen in on my call with Aiden.

“Thank you so much, guys. And thank you for doing this. I really appreciate it,” I say. “I’ll let you go so you can get everything ready for tomorrow.”

“Are you still planning to meet up with us in the courtyard before homeroom?” Marisol asks. It’s our tradition, and I take it as a promising sign that Marisol wants to continue with it.

Without hesitation, I nod. “Promise. I wouldn’t miss it.”

And at that, Marisol gives me a small smile. “You better not.”

Sophie smiles, too. “See you tomorrow!”

“See you,” I say with a small wave, before all-too-happily ending my second disastrous video call of the night.

 

Chapter 2

 

Down the hall, I can hear Lily and Abuela chattering above the jarring sound of a local furniture commercial, and I find myself annoyed that its stupid jingle will be playing in my head over and over all night long.

I’m not really annoyed at them. Or the commercial (even though that is kind of irritating). I’m more annoyed at myself, I think, for being so emotionally drained after talking to the people I should love talking to.

That’s what I get for isolating myself so much this summer. Of course things feel off.

Right now, I should be focusing on my pre–first-day ritual so that I can clear my mind and be forward-thinking. Instead, I glance over at my laptop, at the way I angled it perfectly so that my double chin wouldn’t be as visible on the call with Aiden, and imagine everything I won’t be able to ignore any longer with the start of the new year.

Patch, our chubby tabby cat, nestles up to my hand. “You’re plump and you rock it,” I whisper, scratching between his ears until he purrs. “So why can’t I, too?”

But I know that’s easier said than done.

I’ve been this fat before, in tenth grade. But then I shrank. Don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t thin by any means. Just thinner. And in this fatphobic society, that matters. I had small-fat privilege.

The world was suddenly a little kinder. I didn’t just see the shift in how everyone—classmates, teachers, strangers—looked at me, I felt it. I felt it in the way I was given spare smiles. I felt it in the way people no longer scooted away from me whenever I took the bus downtown. I felt it in the way people just let me do my thing without aiming glares at me.

I’ve tried to brace myself for what it’ll be like when I step into school tomorrow: the whispers and the knowing looks and the loaded glances as everyone realizes I’ve gotten bigger. It doesn’t matter that I don’t actually mind so much, because others will have opinions. Even if no one says anything at all, can we all agree that the silence is its own special kind of torture?

When I lost a lot of weight the summer before junior year, everyone seemed to comment on it: the classmates I’d never exchanged a word with, the people I’d known all my life, my tías, my teachers. It was like my body had suddenly become public property and every single person felt it was their right—no, duty—to inform me that I had vastly improved it.

I’ll admit that I reveled in the compliments. I took so many selfies. I hung notes on the corkboard near my desk that said things like IF YOU’RE NOT HUNGRY ENOUGH TO EAT AN APPLE, YOU’RE PROBABLY NOT HUNGRY and FACE YOUR STUFF; DON’T STUFF YOUR FACE. I was so smug about it, even donating all my “fat” clothes. I gave lip service to fat folks deserving dignity while reveling in my newfound smallness.

Fat hate, always internalized, sinks into every pore like poison.

It’s only because I’m big again that I’ve had to have an internal reckoning with myself. Like, girl, you thought you had healed from the trauma society places upon you, but really, you just got better at fitting into society’s expectations of beauty.

What a hard pill to swallow

 this summer, alongside...I don’t know? The rest of my life being in total and utter shambles?

I gulp as I walk over to my closet, which used to be brimming with cute thrifted items. Now the selection is much more curated, a mix of Goodwill gems Abuela and I managed to find among a sea of matronly dresses and unsold MLM merchandise. The best items I have, Abuela has carefully tailored for me. Because each was altered with so much care and love, I treasure them...though I admit I find myself missing the days when I could waltz into any secondhand shop and enjoy a huge range of options.

Thankfully, I feel good about the outfit I’ve chosen for tomorrow. Since summer in New England has a tendency to linger well into September, I’ve opted for a sleeveless black bodysuit tucked into boot-cut jeans under an oversize houndstooth blazer. Paired with some chunky white sneakers, loose curls, gold hoops, and beautiful makeup, it’s giving just the blend of sophisticated and stylish that I’m going for.

I hold the bodysuit up to myself in the mirror to confirm it was the right choice, and I smile. I’m going to look great. I just hope others can see that, too.

Mostly, I haven’t changed:

My giant pile of dark hair—a melting pot of S Curls, DNA spirals, and waves like the ocean, hair that springs to life with even the subtlest of movements. (Abuelo would sometimes grab a strand, usually one of the curly Qs, and pull it just to “watch it dance.”)

My carob-colored eyes that glisten like fire in the sun and darken like onyx when I’m sad.

My legs, which may be short but which are also strong and muscular.

My dimples, which hide when I’m expressionless but reveal themselves when I smile—something I inherited from Abuela.

I step closer to my mirror, examining my face and double-checking that a pimple hasn’t decided to start forming because that would be Just. My. Luck.

My brown skin looks smooth and mostly blemish-free, except—

I toss the clothes I’ve been holding over to my bed and squint.

Is that a SMATTERING OF GIGANTIC BLACK HAIRS ON MY CHIN?

I practically smash my face into the glass trying to get a better look, but it’s hard to see in the dim light of my room. I whip my bedroom door open and rush to the bathroom.

“Everything okay?” I hear Abuela call from down the hall, likely startled by the sound of me practically Kool-Aid Manning my way through the door.

“All good!” I shout. The last thing I need or want is for Abuela or Lily to come down to the bathroom while I get up close and personal with my hairy face in the mirror.

Dr. Delgado said the unwanted body hair on my stomach was totally normal, and she gently explained it could also pop up on my face. I guess I latched onto the tiny glimmer of hope in could, because I was not prepared for this. Why me? And why now?

My eyes blur as I examine the small but very-much-there dark hairs peppering my jaw. How long have these been there?

It’s no use; the tears I’ve been fighting escape from the corners of my eyes and roll down my cheek. This is not the revelation I needed to have on the night before my first day of my senior

year—not after everything else.

All I can think is that I need to shave ASAP. I turn on the water in the sink and grab my shave gel, squirting some in my palm. But only a small lump of foam comes out before it fizzles.

I’m out of shave gel. Of course.

Someone thunders down the hallway. I can tell it’s Lily by the cadence of her steps. ...