With Love, Miss Americanah

by Jane Igharo

Genres: YA Social Themes; YA Coming of Age; YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

With Love, Miss Americanah—the Young Adult contemporary romance debut from Jane Igharo—sees a teenager move from Nigeria to America and navigate her senior year with the help of classic teen movies and a new crush, all while working through grief and the rigid expectations of her mother.

17-year-old Enore Adesuwa doesn’t dive into things, she walks in carefully. So when she, her mother, and her sister move from Nigeria to America shortly after her father’s death, she wants to be extremely prepared before attending an American high school. Her cousin, Adrian, doesn’t have time to explain the ins and outs to her but, luckily, he recommends the perfect research tool: teen movies.

Still dealing with grief but armed with a set of rules of survival gathered from these movies (including the crucial rule of keeping a low profile), Enore is ready for her senior year. But when she meets Davi Santiago, it may be much harder than she thought to keep to her rules. Because not only is he super thoughtful (and okay, very good looking), he constantly encourages her to share her incredible singing talent. Enore prefers the background but it just might be time for her to take center stage, even in spite of her mother’s strict expectations.

Maybe it would be easier to follow all the rules, the ones Enore set for herself and the ones her mom imposes, but as every teen movie has taught her, a coming-of-age is nothing without a little rebellion. And with help from her crush, her sister, and some new friends who don’t quite fit the roles she expects them to play, Enore’s senior year might indeed be cinematic.

 

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Release date: June 18, 2024

Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

Print pages: 314

Sample

Chapter One

IFEELLIKEANIDIOT
I’m walking down the busy street with an urgency that makes
my movement uncoordinated. My legs fumble over each other in a
hasty attempt to pass the elderly couple in front of me and get to my
destination.
I’ll admit, this is a low point for me. I’ve hardly left the house
since my family and I moved to America a month ago. But today, I
threw on a stain- free sundress, quickly slicked down my edges with
my favorite fruit- scented gel, and rushed out the front door looking
like a civilized person.
All this to save an old DVD player.
At first glance, a passing stranger might look at the blanket in my
arms and assume I’m cradling an adorable baby or a helpless puppy.
Their last guess would be a DVD player on the verge of death. The
chunky, outdated technology has a disc stuck inside it, and while
the situation might seem trivial, to me it is a full- blown emergency.
Hence my clumsy march to the tech repair shop.
A mild breeze, laced with the smoky scent of barbecue, tousles
my long braids, and I shake the displaced locks from my line of
vision, squint against the sun’s glare, and hurry past a restaurant with
a grinning cartoon pig on its front window. When I arrive at my

destination, I release a deep breath. Before leaving my house, I goo-
gled “DVD player repair.” That search brought me here— to Tech

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and Techies. I open the door, and a bell chimes. There are only a

few customers in the small space; some examine the displayed com-
puters, while others go through the products that seem to be in an

unorganized cluster on shelves.
“Hey,” the girl behind the counter says, jutting her chin to me.
“I . . . um . . . er . . . hi.”
Upon arriving in America, I developed a new personality trait:

extreme awkwardness. It started in the airport. In the swarm of trav-
elers, I became very aware of myself— of the color of my skin and

my intonation— for the first time in my life. In the melody of Amer-
ican accents, my Nigerian accent stood out like an off- key note.

When a uniformed man with an air of authority requested to see
my passport, I froze and babbled. Thankfully, my mother and sister
intervened.
Since we arrived, I’ve noticed Esosa, my younger sister, speaking
with a convincing American intonation. I can’t do that. I only know
how to sound like myself.
“Need something?” The girl at the counter speaks again. She
looks about fifteen. She’s wearing heavy, dark makeup that’s harsh
against her lily- white complexion. When she blows her bubble gum,
it pops, then flattens on her pierced nose.
“Um . . . yes. I need help,” I answer in an unsteady voice.
“Yeah. We don’t do animals. The vet’s a few blocks down.”
I look at my arms and instantly understand her assumption. “It
isn’t an animal.”
“Okay. Well, we don’t do babies either. Dr. Mason’s across the
street.”
“It isn’t a baby.”

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The girl blows another bubble. She watches me blankly as the
pink gum expands and pops. Clearly, she isn’t willing to waste any
more words on our exchange.
I approach her and place the bundled DVD player on the counter.
“I need this fixed. Please.”
“O-kaa-aa-aay.” She drags the word, extending the two syllables
into six. “A few questions. One, what is it?”
“A DVD player.”
“Okay. Why is it in a blanket?”
“I walked here. I wanted to give it some cushion just in case I
dropped it.”
“Right.”
Even with her deadpan expression and flat tone, her judgment
comes off clearly. I really regret leaving the house, but there’s little
I can do about that now. I sigh and shift my weight from one leg to
another. “So? Can you . . . fix it?”
“We repair phones, computers, game consoles. Not that.”
“Um . . . I don’t understand. Why not this? According to Google,
you fix electronics. This is an electronic.”
“But is it? Or is it just a piece of junk?” She pulls a lock of brown
hair behind her multi- pierced ear and shrugs.
“Come on, Jade, just look at it.” The disembodied voice that
comes from behind makes me flinch. The guy standing two feet
from me is tall. He’s wearing sunglasses, a baseball hat, and a large

hood over the baseball hat. Only the lower half of his face is vis-
ible. He’s left a lot to my imagination when I would rather see the

face of the person coming to my aid. “Just plug it in and have a look,”
he goes on.

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“Ugh,” the girl— Jade— grumbles, then grabs the cord and plugs
it into a socket. “What exactly is the problem?”
“There’s a disc inside,” I explain hurriedly. “It’s stuck and won’t
come out.”
She pushes multiple buttons with no true coordination, like I did
at home. When nothing happens, she scoffs. “Like I said, it’s a piece
of junk. Toss it.”
“What about your dad?” the hooded guy says to Jade. “Maybe he
can figure it out?”
“He’s at an appointment. Won’t be back for another hour.”
“An hour.” I frown, but nod. “Okay. I’ll come back.”
“Mind if I try something?” the hooded guy asks, moving to my
side.
“Um . . . I . . . I . . .” Surprised by both his question and his sudden
proximity, I stutter.
“Promise I won’t destroy it. Well, I’ll really try not to.” He smiles.

It’s a nice smile, infectious too, because the corners of my lips imme-
diately turn up. He accepts my smile as permission, and then he fists

his hand and bangs it on the DVD player.
“Oh, my God!” My eyes go wide. “What are you doing? Do you
want to destroy it completely?”
“Nah. That was definitely not the plan.” His lips shrink into an
apologetic smile. “I was just trying something, and I really hope it
works.” He presses the Open/Close button, and to my surprise and
total relief, the disc slides out.
“Oh, my God.” I expel a loud breath. “It worked.”
“Yay,” Jade says in a monotone. “Hooray.” She grabs her phone
and stares at the screen.

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I ignore her and celebrate by bouncing on my toes. “I can’t
believe you fixed it. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it. I think I just got lucky.” He looks from me
to the ejected disc and smiles. “Sixteen Candles. My mom’s always
going on about this movie. Never seen it, though. Is it good?”
“It is. I had a few minutes left when it stopped working.”
It really was a shame when the DVD player malfunctioned at
a pivotal moment in the movie— just when Jake Ryan surprises
Samantha at the church. The urge to know what happened next
pushed me to declare a state of emergency.
“Well, let’s hope it’s good now.” He presses the Open/Close
button several times to confirm the device does exactly what it’s
supposed to do. Thankfully, it does. He reaches behind the counter
and unplugs the cord. After wrapping the blanket around the DVD
player, he extends it to me. “Protect it at all costs.”
I laugh. “Of course. Thank you.”
“Still think it’s a piece of junk,” Jade adds, without looking away
from her phone. “Ever heard of streaming a movie? Life made easy.”
I roll my eyes, and even though the hooded guy is wearing tinted
glasses, I have a feeling he does too.

Outside the store, the sun hangs a little lower than it did min-
utes ago. The barber across the street flips the sign on the shop door

from open to closed, and the dry cleaner two stores down does
the same. The once busy street is growing empty, many customers

and shop owners ending their day at five o’clock. While some cit-
ies never sleep, Bellwood, where my family immigrated to, has an

unofficial yet respected curfew. The scenic town is located in New
York State’s Hudson Valley and has a mixture of groomed greenery

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and picket- fence houses. Lampposts with ornate designs almost
seem like accessories on the impeccably clean streets lined with
small commercial buildings that are white or brick. It’s the kind of
close- knit, my- nose- in- your- business town where everyone knows
everyone, where news travels too fast, and neighbors gift each other
pies and casseroles and other American dishes I have only heard of
but have never tried. It’s also the kind of town where a very small
percentage of the residents look like me.
My father would not have liked it here. His picture of America
involved neon lights and glass skyscrapers, a multicultural hub with
a liveliness that wasn’t set to start and end by a clock.
When I asked my mother why we couldn’t live in New York City
like Dad would have wanted, she told me to be grateful we didn’t

have to struggle like many new immigrants. She told me to be thank-
ful my uncle— my father’s older brother, who has lived in America

for twenty- four years— is a generous and kind man with the means
to take care of us. I am grateful. But sometimes I think if we lived in
the part of America my father imagined, he would feel more present.
Alive.
I sigh and look over at the children’s performing arts studio
beside the dry cleaner— Little Big Star. Through its large window,
a group of girls dance in sync; they leap in the air and then twirl on
their toes. I stop walking and watch, immersed in their performance.
I’ve walked past the studio a few times, during the rare occasions my
mom forces me to leave the house and run errands with her. Each
time, I’ve stared through the window and watched either a dance
routine or a musical performance. The music and voices always fill
the streets, faint but still audible. Usually, I’m captivated until my

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mom calls for my attention. Today, the thing that diverts my focus
from the studio is the sound of quick footsteps moving toward me.
“Hey.” The hooded guy from Tech and Techies jogs forward and
stops once he reaches me. His breath is quick and short. He looks at
the studio briefly, a small furrow between his eyebrows, then turns
to me. “Don’t judge me,” he says with a hand on his chest. “I’m a
little winded. Coach’s gonna have to whip me back into shape during
practice.” He laughs, but I frown, completely confused and slightly
uneasy.
Why is he following me? To be more precise, why is he running
after me in a disguise?
As if sensing my apprehension, he takes a step back. “I must be
freaking you out right now. I didn’t mean to. I was just . . . um . . .
sorry.” He smiles timidly, and I relax. Despite his getup, he doesn’t
seem like a threat.
I study him through narrowed eyes. “Why are you dressed like a
burglar on a budget?”
He chuckles. “What?”
“You know— the glasses, the hat, the hoodie. It looks like you’re
about to rob a house but can’t afford a proper disguise? Hence being
a burglar on a budget.”
“Well, I would like to point out that most burglars are on a budget.
Hence them being burglars.”
“And I would like to point out that smart burglars invest in good
disguises and really commit.”
“Well, I guess I’m not a very smart burglar.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It seems like you aren’t.”
It occurs to me, as we’re both smiling, that I haven’t stammered

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or paused awkwardly since we started speaking. I’ve forgotten about
my accent and the feeling of inadequacy I developed since moving
here. I don’t know where that feeling has gone, but I hope it stays at
bay until this conversation ends.
“I’ll admit,” he says, “this is a terrible disguise. But I’m not a burglar.
Promise. I’m actually trying to avoid some people.” He turns around
and surveys the street. When he’s satisfied with his inspection, he
faces me again. “My friends.”
“You’re trying to avoid your friends? Why?”
“I’ve spent the whole summer with them. I just needed a break,
you know? Some time to myself. So I planned to grab a video game
from Tech and Techies and go home to chill before any of them
see me.”
“Oh.” I glance at his empty hand. “Where is the game?”
“Well, I didn’t get a chance to grab one. I was looking through
the stack when . . .”
“You came to the rescue of my DVD player.”
He laughs. “Yeah. And then after you left, I— ”
“You ran after me.” I frown, then lift an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Well, I noticed your accent. I wanted to tell you I like it.”
“Accent? What accent? I don’t have an accent.”
“Um . . . I . . .” He bites his lip. “Right. Sorry. My mistake.”
“Relax. I’m just joking.” I smile, and my cheeks grow warm. He

likes my accent, one of two things that make me stand out in Bell-
wood. “I’m from Nigeria. I just moved here.”

“Really? That’s cool. Did your whole family move too?”
I consider the question, then shake my head. My father’s absence
is still new to me. Sometimes I forget he’s gone. I laugh; I get wrapped

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up in a movie about American teenagers; I meet a peculiar guy in a
terrible disguise, and my grief is temporarily suspended— hanging
over my head like a hammer, waiting for the precise moment to fall
and hit me with a staggering force.
This is the moment.
A tightness gathers in my chest, and my heart thumps. I have
taught myself how to survive these moments, how to contain my
grief until I am alone, behind a closed door.
First, I shut my eyes.
Second, I breathe with intention.
In and out.
Slow and steady.
Third, I imagine my breaths as a tide of cool blue water flowing
through me— dousing the flare of emotion and then soothing the
disquiet.
“Hey.” His voice is gentle, laced with a touch of concern. “Are you
all right?”
I open my eyes and nod. “Yes. But I need to go. Thank you again
for your help.”
“Yeah. Sure. And sorry for . . . you know. Keeping you.”
I start to leave, then stop. “You know what’s unfair?”
He shakes his head.
“The fact that you’ve been staring at my face this entire time, and
I don’t know what you look like.”
“Yeah.” He smiles, nodding. “I guess that’s unfair.” In one swift
motion, he pulls the sunglasses from his face.
I don’t mean for it to happen, but it does— automatically, as if
my body is programmed to react to his striking hazel- green eyes.

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Soft flutters explode in my stomach, then intensify and travel like a
ripple through my whole body. I’m dazed until he takes a small step
toward me.
“Are you okay?”
“Um . . . yeah . . . yes.” I force my eyes away from his and look
toward the path that leads home. “I should go. Bye.”
With the DVD player pressed to my chest, I rush down the street.
There’s an irrepressible urge at the pit of my stomach, compelling
me to turn around. To look at him. One more time.
So I do. ...