The Minus-One Club

by Kekla Magoon

Genres: YA Contemporary; YA LGBT & Pride; YA Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Fifteen-year-old Kermit Sanders knows grief and its all-encompassing shadows.
After losing his beloved older sister in a tragic car accident, nothing quite punctures through the feelings of loss. Everywhere Kermit goes, he is reminded of her.
But then Kermit finds a mysterious invitation in his locker, signed anonymously with “-1.” He has no idea what he’s in for, but he shows up to find out. Dubbed the “Minus-One Club,” a group of his school-mates has banded together as a form
of moral support. The members have just one thing in common—they have all suffered the tragic loss of someone they loved.
The usual dividing lines between high school classes and cliques don’t apply inside the Minus-One Club, and Kermit’s secret crush, the handsome and happy-go-lucky Matt (and only out gay student at school), is also a part of the group. Slowly,
Matt’s positive headstrong approach to life helps relieve Kermit of his constant despair.
But as Kermit grows closer to Matt, the light of his new life begins to show the cracks beneath the surface. When Matt puts himself in danger by avoiding his feelings, Kermit must find the strength to not only lift himself back up but to help
the rest of the group from falling apart.

Release date: January 24, 2023

Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.

Print pages: 361

Sample

It Be���S

The room is as cold as a secret, but nowhere near as dark. I
see their faces clearly, and I recognize them, and it’s strange
because they’re all looking directly at me, too, as the door closes
fi rmly behind me.
It smells like hunks of clay in here. I know the smell because I
took an art class in this room last semester. It’s a damp, earthy,
springing aroma that adds to the weirdness of things.

The others are sitting at a round tabletop near the chalk-
board. It’s the table where the art teacher, Ms. Hanover, lays out

samples during class. I’ve never seen it empty of artwork before.
It’s not totally empty now. In the middle of the paint- fl ecked
wooden surface stands a deck of cards and a small brown box.
And everyone’s hands, resting loosely around the edges.
There are four people seated, plus two empty chairs. They
are all juniors and seniors.
Janna Collins, co- captain of the Spirit dance team, holds out
one hand, palm up, indicating that I should join them. Her hair
hangs perfectly, a dark curtain around her face. No bangs, just a
part down the middle like one of those seventies pop singers my
sister got really into right before she went off to college. Totally
randomly, I picture Janna’s would- be album cover— featuring

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pom-poms and a really short flouncy skirt. My sister’s voice
pops into my head: She’s got the looks all right, but can she sing?

I shake off the thought and slide into the chair Janna indi-
cated, which is next to Simon Rogers. He’s a year ahead of me,

a junior. I don’t know him well at all. He’s on the chess team
or math league or something geeky like that, and he was voted
junior class treasurer, so he must have a lot of friends.
The others are Celia Berman and Patrick O’Halloran. Celia’s
a junior, and that’s all I know, although she has clay under her
fingernails and brown stains on the tips of her fingers so maybe
she’s in art class, which tells me she’s not a lost cause. Patrick’s
a senior. He plays football and runs track or cross-country or
something, I think. He’s a big deal in the school sports world,
which is far on the other side of what I know.
They all look at me. Celia picks at the remnants of clay on her
hands. Simon drums his fingers on the table. Patrick remains
perfectly still, hands folded. Maybe it’s an athlete thing. Janna
gazes at me, quiet and steady, and the whole thing gets weirder
by the second.
“Hi,” I say.
No one answers.
All told, this is one of the more surreal things that’s happened
to me this week. Which is saying something.
The deck of playing cards on the table is the traditional kind,
with the familiar red design on the back. My eyes stray to it,
over and over, and away from everything—everyone—else.
The small brown box is similar to the file on our kitchen
counter where my mom is supposed to keep her recipes neatly
organized and printed on index cards. Really, most of them are

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in a Tupperware case on the middle shelf of the pantry, torn
loose leaf out of magazines or scrawled on scraps of paper
where she or my sister jotted something down while watching
TV or surfing the internet.
I’m scared to speak again, into the silence. It isn’t really
silent, though, because outside the art room door, I can hear
lockers slamming and kids talking and sneakers squeaking and
the after-school bell ringing for reasons I’ve never understood.
Does it ring every forty-two minutes all night long?
I reach into my pocket and pull out the index card I found in
my locker this morning, with its cryptic message. I read it again,
for the thousandth time, fold and unfold it. Try to remind myself
that I was summoned here, and there must be a purpose. Plus,
they all outrank me by like a dozen rungs, popularity wise. So
I keep my mouth shut and sit and wait and try not to think too
hard about things like pickup trucks and funerals.
The door blasts open, bringing a fresh wave of outside noise.
“I’m so sorry, guys. So sorry. I got held up after class. I mean, geez,
once Mrs. Markey gets on a roll there’s just no stopping her.”
My throat clogs instantly at the sound of his voice. Oh God.
Oh God. It chokes me like a prayer, although I stopped believing
in God six and a half days ago.
Matthew Rincorn tosses his gorgeous, sculpted self into the
empty seat next to me. “Why is nobody talking?”
Still no one speaks. Janna reaches for the small brown box
and flips it open. Sure enough. Index cards. A very thin stack.
“Geez, you guys,” Matt says. “Are you trying to freak him out?”
“It’s a ceremony, Matthew,” Janna says super seriously. “Get
with the program.”

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“You sadistic freaks,” Matt says. Simon and Celia start to
laugh.

Matt touches my shoulder. Actually touches me. I get goose-
bumps all over. “Hi, Kermit,” he says. “Welcome to the Minus-One Club."