In Our Bones

By Nora Fares

Juneau (Juno) has always come in second; second to her perfect sister, and second to her beautiful best friend, Kansas. Bonded over having weird names, the two quickly became fast friends in kindergarten. From there started a friendship that would last a lifetime, only tested by the one thing that always manages to get between girls: a boy.

 

Caspian, named after the Caspian Sea, goes only by his last name, Booker. He's quiet and brooding, dark-haired with honeyed golden eyes, like a tiger stalking in the night. Kansas has always been in love with him, and for most of her youth, Juno just thought he had cooties. The three are thick as thieves, best friends from elementary school, and for a while, everything seems fine.

 

Until Kansas and Booker start dating in high school, which, in the natural course of things, doesn't seem too bad, does it? Except Booker is in love with Juno. Booker has always been in love with Juno.

 

So why does he marry Kansas? And why does it take Juno until then to realize she's in love with him too?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nora Fares
• Release date: Nov 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393887881

Nora Fares

Nora Fares first began writing as a child, publishing her first book, a book of poetry, at age eleven. She has since written a number of Young Adult and Children's books under numerous pen names. She now resides in the Alamo region of Texas with her husband and their cat, Casper.

Book preview

In Our Bones

By Nora Fares

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I am not the heroine of this story.

I’m a suffering of cells, made up of bloodshot monkey-brown eyes, a tangled mess of dark hair, and skin like melted horchata with all the spice of cinnamon and the paleness of fresh rice. I’m slender butterfly limbs, soft curves and long sad lashes, little hands and littler mouth, all small and pouty, just like my momma’s. I’m sadness rolled up into a human cigarette—something you want to light up and breathe and then throw to the ground to put out its fire. You’ll want to take me in, and then when I get too close, when I burn you, you’ll want to drown me, drown this growing wildfire.

I will hurt you, just like I hurt them.

Because I’m not a heroine.

I’m a fucking disaster.

—

My name is Juneau, but no one spells it that way; Juno is much easier.

I’m named after the capital city of Alaska, and when some kid in elementary school Googled it and found out that it was the second-largest city in the United States, they thought it’d be hilarious to call me the second-largest girl in Arthur F. Corey elementary school. The first, of course, was taken up by the other girl named after a place: Kansas Summers, a name almost as weird as mine, if even a little weirder. We were the two big girls, not because we were big-boned or anything, but because we were tall and we were heavy as fuck. Kids could come running at us, but we were tanks, and they’d bounce right off us like plastic bullets. We’d both been skinny as babies, but hell, as soon as we hit kindergarten, we’d sprouted like weeds, tall and thick-fisted with big heads and bigger mouths, yapping off like chihuahuas to any motherfuckers that dared to pick on us.

Because we weird-named kids had to stick together.

Kansas and I were as thick as thieves. She was blue-eyed and blonde-haired, the poster child for a curvy kid model, and I was... well, me. Chubby brown-eyed-brown-haired mousey kid with the delicate older sister, who—get this—was also named after a city: Aspen. She got the thin bones with long fingers that swept over piano keys like water, drowning out everyone and everything with the sweet sound of music. Her hair was less mousey, redder, a little auburn, and she got blue eyes like Daddy. I guess what I’m trying to say is that they were always beautiful, and I was a late bloomer... like really, really late.

I hadn’t bloomed yet when we first met the other kid who was named after a place. He moved to Buena Park, California in the summer of ’98 when we were in the fourth grade, and his name was Caspian, like the Caspian Sea, but no one ever called him that because he went by his last name, Booker. No one made fun of Booker because he could lay a sixth-grader on the ground with one punch, and he’d done just that the day he’d moved here.

New dude just got sent to the principal’s office, some kid had said, Victoria Ferris, I think, the girl who would probably make a good wife for a senator or something eventually. Prim and proper, always dressed like she was going to church.

For what? I’d asked.

Sixth-grader snapped Kansas’s bra strap. New kid didn’t like that, Victoria said, and I could hear an edge of jealousy in her tone. I didn’t know if she was jealous that Kansas hit puberty before all of us, or because Booker had defended her. He was in another class so I didn’t know him, didn’t even know what he looked like. Victoria obviously did.

Where are you going? Victoria asked as I took off.

To find Kansas, I yelled over my shoulder. I ran through the school until a teacher yelled at me, and then I power-walked through the halls until I reached the front office. Sitting on a chair across from reception was Kansas, her hands folded in her lap, tears streaming down her face.

Kansas, I whispered, taking a seat beside her. I slung an arm around her shoulder and she immediately sobbed into my chest, taking me by surprise. Kansas was a strong girl; she didn’t often cry. Whatever had happened that day had scarred her.

It’ll be okay, I said, lowering my voice when the secretary caught sight of me from over the reception desk. We’re gonna kick that fucker’s ass.

"Miss Garner, the secretary said sternly. You are a young lady. Act like it."

Sorry, Mrs. Ridley, I replied, my face turning red. Okay, change of plans. We’re not kicking any, uh, butt. We’ll go get ice cream, okay? I have money, and I’ll ask my sister to drive us.

We were fat-asses, Kansas and I, so ice cream should have made her perk up, but it didn’t. She still looked dejected and all I could do was hold her, my little nine-year-old brain firing with ideas of revenge. Who’d done this to her?

When a dark-haired kid exited the principal’s office, I sprang to my feet and shouted, You dick!

Miss Garner, come into my office, the principal said, stepping out from behind the kid. No one in the room looked amused. That was fine; I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was serious. Fuck that kid.

He’s not a dick, said a soft voice from behind me. He’s the one that defended me, Juno.

Oh, I said. I looked at the dark-haired kid, trying to see him in a new light, and realized that I’d never, not once, seen this kid before. He had to be Booker.

And I’d called him a dick.

I’m sorry, I said sheepishly as I made my way to the principal’s office. Mr. Straughn. God, how I hated Mr. Straughn; he had one of those punchable faces, all twisted mouth from a constant smirk, and bushy caterpillar eyebrows that wiggled when he talked.

Booker didn’t even look at me. He just walked past me like I didn’t exist.

You okay? I heard him ask Kansas.

Yeah, she said, her voice impossibly small.

Miss Garner, Mr. Straughn said, reminding me that I had some explaining to do. He took me into his office, gave me a talking-to and detention for a week. Detention at Arthur F. Corey School was just spending your lunch and recess inside your classroom since they couldn’t keep us after school. It was as much a punishment to your teacher as it was to you, so it sucked extra hard because it gave your teacher another reason to hate your guts.

I was sure my teacher already despised me, so how much worse could it get? I was a troublemaker with a big mouth.

When I exited the principal’s office, Kansas was still there, and sitting beside her was Booker, the fluorescent lighting making his dark hair shine. He had peculiar golden eyes, like a tiger, and there was something kind of wild about him. My cheeks were red when they both got to their feet.

We waited for you, Kansas explained.

I’m sorry, I blurted out again.

Booker just looked at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to ignore me again, but then he said, It’s cool.

Want to go for ice cream with us? My treat, I said.

Booker smiled, a sort of lopsided one where only one side of his mouth tugged up. I’d later learn that it was the only way he smiled; this crooked smile that melted hearts everywhere he walked—besides mine, of course. To me, he was just Booker, the kid who could knock out a sixth-grader.

Sure, he said. Not much of a talker, but that was okay. Kansas and I talked enough to make up for it.

For another year and a half, Booker was shorter than Kansas and me, but then over the summer before sixth grade, he sprouted like a fucking weed; tall as a tree, lanky and serious, talking as little as always, quiet and brooding. Kansas was completely in love with him, as was probably just about everyone else. Booker had earned the guys’ respect and the girls’ hearts.

I was the odd one out. I liked Booker—a lot, but not like that. Booker had cooties, you know? And I was juvenile enough to let myself believe it.

Booker’s going to Buena Park Middle School too, Kansas excitedly said to me on the last day of sixth grade. Booker this, Booker that. She was about the only person he really talked to. Because we hung out together, sometimes he talked to me too, but not much. We didn’t have much in common besides the fact that we both cared about Kansas.

In middle school, Booker started buying these giant cookies for us. One for Kansas, one for me. He never got one for himself, didn’t even explain why; he just did it, and that was that. The three of us sat on the bleachers during lunch, exchanging Rice Krispie Treats for Gushers and throwing pieces of PB&J sandwiches at the pigeons.

The three of us went to Sunny Hills High School and that’s kind of when everything changed. Booker and Kansas had always been meant for each other. I sat back and watched as their hands brushed when they walked, as they always looked for each other first in a room, as they spent more and more time together without me, and then one day they walked into school holding hands. Booker kissed Kansas against her locker, and my heart burst into flames.

I felt so... alone.

When we were juniors in high school, sixteen-years-old and driving all wonky like a couple of idiots, taking turns in Booker’s beater, laughing at the way Kansas would drive all wobbly, things changed. One day