"It could not be worse
for ninth grader Becky Michigan on her first day at a new school, sitting in beet juice and staining her
white jeans in a classroom about to fill up with students. In the nick of time, a gorgeous blonde boy
named Danny comes in and offers his over-sized baseball jersey so she can cover up, get to the
office, and change. By the time she pulls the shirt over her head, however, he has mysteriously
disappeared.
Becky scours the school in search of her dream-athlete and wonders why after
contact with him she has magically gained the ability to throw a fastball ninety miles per hour!
Instead of finding the answer, however, Becky's new skill pits her against the school bully and the
entire varsity baseball team.
That night, after her exciting showdown in front of the entire school, Danny
shows up at her bedroom window. If she will agree to meet him behind Rutledge High at midnight
on the ball field at the edge of the woods, he promises to reveal a secret meant to alter the past and
change her life forever."
Purchase your copy here:
Nicholas
Fisher is a college professor and
a sports enthusiast. He writes adult horror under another name, but thought of
the idea for Becky’s Kiss while
coaching his son’s baseball team. Since the story involved high school drama he
decided to write his first young adult piece. When not writing or teaching,
Nicholas Fisher enjoys pizza, reality television, and playing the banjo. He
lives in Pennsylvania with his wife and his son goes to Arizona State
University.Connect with the Author Here:
I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.
First of all, I am not used to reading books with characters this young. However, Nicholas did an excellent job portraying the mindset of the teenagers.
The story was very well written and the characters seemed to mesh well. I quite enjoyed the fantasy aspect and it was a nice quick read.
I hope to read more of Nicholas Fisher in the future, as his creativity shows no bounds.
Excerpts
Excerpt #1
Excerpt from Becky’s Kiss. 9th grader Becky Michigan gets to health class early on
her first day of high school and sits in beet juice.
Something was wrong. Something was wet.
She’d sat in something.
“No,” she moaned, standing, arching back, straining her glance, rubbing with both
hands and bringing them up before her all greasy and red.
It was beet juice, she could smell it…those awful disgusting beets she had seen at
lunch in the steamtable pan second to the end, floating in a greasy puddle of scarlet broth.
Clearly, someone had snuck some out in an eyedropper or a monkey dish and doused the
chair, ha ha, and to make matters worse she wearing white pants!
What was she going to do? The clock on the wall read 1:15 p.m., and in less than a
minute the halls would be packed with students, jostling, joking, pushing, and laughing.
Could she make it to the office before the bell? Doubtful. And she wasn’t sure of the way.
She didn’t even know if the trailers were connected to the second or third floor, and she
couldn’t remember whether it was the auditorium or the shop that you had to detour around
and on which side either one sat. Oh, this was a mess!
Becky looked for something to wipe her hands on, and of course, there was nothing.
She was holding her hands away from her body now, looking all around, seeing everything
all at once and registering little, trying not to scream.
There was a clicking noise. Shoes. Out in the hall and closing.
Becky froze. She would move the chair to the back corner and sit! Yes! She would
park herself right back in that puddle of beet juice all through health class. She wouldn’t
budge until everyone had gone to their busses. If the teacher told her to get up she’d refuse,
stay ‘til midnight if she had to, outlast everyone.
She didn’t sit back down, however. Somehow, she just couldn’t move.
The clicking had made its way right up to the doorway now, and in a scattered kind of
a way, Becky tried to determine what type of person walked that way. Someone in heels,
someone haughty. One of the popular girls. One of the older popular girls. Or maybe an
administrator. She hoped it was the third choice, but didn’t look forward to any of the
encounters.
He came around the corner, a kid wearing a back-turned cap, gray baseball pants,
and a long, untucked yellow t-shirt, green lettering going across in a cursive slant spelling
out ‘Newtown Edgemont’ then fading off after the letters ‘Bic..’ Whatever that meant. The
sound had been his cleats, and he had probably gotten out of his last class to help set up for
the first fall ball practices or something.
Becky stood there stunned, for he was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen in
her life. Dirty-blonde hair, drawn cheeks, and eyebrows that arched in a way most girls
would kill for. And his crystal blue, almond-shaped eyes had a softness to them, a kindness,
a familiarity like the tree in your back yard and the tire swing hanging from it.
“Are you all right?” he said. He was looking at her hands. She shook her head
slightly. No, you’re warm, keep guessing. He put his knuckles up, pointed down a finger, and
twirled it slowly, like ‘turn around.’ She did it and then turned back. If he was laughing, she
would simply shrivel up and curl like a cinder.
“Gosh,” he said evenly. “They got you with a diaper rash something good.” He took
the towel that had been slung around his neck and tossed it to her. “Go ahead. Pat it and
blot it out best you can.” He looked at the clock. “And I think you’d better hurry.”
Becky widened her eyes and tilted her head expectantly. Now her hand was up,
knuckles high and index finger twirling so he’d turn and give her a second. She couldn’t
believe that she’d suddenly gained the confidence to be cutsie, especially with the hour
glass nearly depleted so to speak, but she had and he politely looked off behind him.
She blotted. Wiped her hands off. Threw the towel in the trash.
“What now?” she said. He looked back, and if there was even the hint of a smile in
his eyes, Becky knew that this weird, delicate moment would shatter.
He certainly didn’t smile.
He took off his shirt and gave it to her.
“I get them extra big and long whenever we win a tournament,” he said. “Go ahead,
put it on. It’ll get you to the nurse at least, and if you soaked up the extra back there real
good it shouldn’t cauliflower through.”
Becky Michigan didn’t waste any more time wondering if this boy was going to smirk
at her. She slipped her head through the collar, thinking about the way the inside of his shirt
smelled faintly of Old Spice, same as her Dad used, and she was thinking about the way the
fragrance brought up images of porch swings and prayers and sunsets and goodness, all of
it welling up inside her like some sweet longing that made worries like pants-stains drift to
the edges like corner shadows. She pushed through her elbows and pulled through her chin,
eyes closed, daring herself to next let her gaze drift down from his glance a bit so she could
really take a look at that muscular little ‘V’ he had going on.
“Well, how do I…?”
Her voice died on the air, and her mouth closed. Slowly, she straightened and
smoothed down her new tournament shirt, then gathered her hair, pulled it through, and let it
fall down across her shoulders.
Her problems were solved. Now she could go to the nurse without anyone bothering
to glance at her.
Her real issues had only just begun. Gone were the images of sunsets and porches.
And the boy of her dreams had vanished.
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