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Informationen zum Autor Adib Khorram lives in Kansas City, Missouri. When he isn't writing, you can probably find him trying to get his hundred-yard freestyle under a minute, learning to do a Lutz jump, or steeping a cup of oolong. His debut novel, Darius the Great Is Not Okay , earned several awards, including the William C. Morris Debut Award, the Asian/Pacific American Award for Young Adult Literature, and a Boston Globe-Horn Book Honor. He is also the author of Darius the Great Deserves Better and the picture book Seven Special Somethings: A Nowruz Story . Klappentext " Kiss & Tell is a total rush! Perfectly sweet and swoon worthy. I loved every page!" – Julie Murphy, New York Times bestselling author of Dumplin’ A smart, sexy YA novel about a boy band star, his first breakup, his first rebound, and what it means to be queer in the public eye, from award-winning author Adib Khorram Hunter never expected to be a boy band star, but, well, here he is. He and his band Kiss & Tell are on their first major tour of North America, playing arenas all over the United States and Canada (and getting covered by the gossipy press all over North America as well). Hunter is the only gay member of the band, and he just had a very painful breakup with his first boyfriend--leaked sexts, public heartbreak, and all--and now everyone expects him to play the perfect queer role model for teens. But Hunter isn't really sure what being the perfect queer kid even means. Does it mean dressing up in whatever The Label tells him to wear for photo shoots and pretending never to have sex? (Unfortunately, yes.) Does it mean finding community among the queer kids at the meet-and-greets after K&T's shows? (Fortunately, yes.) Does it include a new relationship with Kaivan, the drummer for the band opening for K&T on tour? (He hopes so.) But when The Label finds out about Hunter and Kaivan, it spells trouble—for their relationship, for the perfect gay boy Hunter plays for the cameras, and, most importantly, for Hunter himself. Leseprobe 1 Vancouver, BC March 25, 2022 I can hear them out there: the buzz of excitement, the occasional whistle or shout. The electric anticipation, humming against my skin, as 36,000 people wait for us to take the stage. I used to feel this way before games, too, and that was only a few hundred people at best: parents and grandparents, friends if they’re not too busy, siblings if they’re not pissed off that day. But this is the home game to end all home games. This is BC Place. We’ve never played a stadium before. Owen’s bouncing on his feet in front of me, rolling his mic back and forth between his hands. I can’t see the rest of the guys in the dim blue backstage light, but I’m sure they’re just as anxious. The vibration of the audience makes its usual preshow shift, like they can tell we’re about to start. Shaz, our stage manager, says something into her radio. The brim of her cap casts her face in shadow. The preshow video starts, a bass drum beating out a low heartbeat. Slow-motion video of us laughing, singing, goofing off fills the screens on stage, not that we can see them from back here. The audience goes wild, clapping and screaming so loud I can’t hear anything else. I pop my in-ear monitors in, make sure they’re snug. At the front of the line, Shaz taps Ashton on the shoulder, and we take our places in darkness. Haze condenses against my eyelashes and I blink the moisture away. Drumsticks click. The guitars kick in, and then the keyboards, for the first chords of “Heartbreak Fever.” The audience cheers even louder. I find my mark, a little spot of glow tape, and glance offstage out of habit. Last time we played a show at home, Aidan was watching from the wings, cheering me on. N...
