Read an extract from Let Them Stare by Jonathan Van Ness and Julie Murphy

Sully is ready to get out of Hearst, Pennsylvania. With a fashion internship secured, the gender-nonconforming eighteen-year-old is trading in their stifling small town for the big city. Sully even sells their beloved car, to Bread—er, Brad—the most boring (and maybe only other) gay kid in town.

When Sully’s internship goes up in smoke, they’re trapped in Hearst with no cash—and no car. Desperate, they go to the thrift store, their personal sanctuary. There, they discover a vintage bag—like “put this baby in an airtight case at the MET” vintage. If Sully can authenticate it, the resale value would be enough for a new life in the city.

But when they begin to investigate, Sully finds themself haunted. Literally. With the ghost of Rufus, a drag performer from the fifties with no memory of how he died standing—no, floating—in their bedroom, Sully’s summer has a new purpose: 1) help this ghostly honey unlock his past and move on and 2) make bank—after all, the Real Real doesn’t take poltergeist purses.

With Rufus in tow, and Brad—who’s looking pretty scrumptious these days—playing chauffeur, Sully delves into the history of the town they’re so desperate to escape. Only to discover that there might be more to Hearst than they ever knew.

READ AN EXTRACT FROM LET THEM STARE

Chapter 1

“Are you leaving soon?” I asked. “I really don’t want to brave this party without you.”

Emma groaned through the phone speaker. We were on FaceTime, both of our cameras face up at ourrespective ceilings while our hands were busy getting ready. I could see her ceiling fan spinning. “I promise I’mleaving in like two seconds. I just—I swear to god, this second cat eye is going to be the death of me.”

“Eyeliner is like brows,” I reminded her. “Sisters. Not twins.”

“Okay, okay, I’m adding a face gem to one side so the asymmetrical look gives intention, and then I’m there. Love you. Mean it. It’ll be okay.”

The call ended, and I shook out my hands, trying to flutter away the nerves. This time tomorrow, I’d be out of Hearst. It was a day I’d thought would never come, even if I’d dreamed about it for years. I had made it through every miserable year of middle school and high school. Now I just had to make it through this party, and then I’d be off to my new, non-fat-phobic– Devil Wears Prada life as @Lyndzi’s go-getter intern in the Big Apple. Rocking this perfect pout, fierce platform heels, and enjoying the glam big-city life I was born for.Like a fucking Sex in the City dream come true.

At least that was the plan. I’d talked such a big game for the last few years that I had barely stopped to letmyself wonder what it might mean to fail, or to arrive in New York City and hate it. To go all the way there only to have to come back to Hearst because I just couldn’t hack it anywhere else. That was the stuff of my nightmares.

I adjusted my makeshift vanity made of two IKEA nightstands and a polished piece of wood from one of Dad’s job sites. The summer before tenth grade, Mom had temporarily turned my bedroom into her campaign office, and I’d taken over the basement. It was cooler than the rest of the house, and it was spacious and private. There wasn’t much natural light, but I liked to think of it as my recharge den from the hostile rays of the summer sun. And from the hostile denizens of Hearst. Like Ursula’s underwater lair—but with less seaweed and more lava lamps and unusual knickknacks from Yesterday’s Today, the greatest thrift store in a hundred-mile radius and my former place of employment as of—dramatically checks watch—a few hours ago.

Up until, well, today, my makeup collection had been mostly showcased in glimpses. In the basement, I could do whatever I wanted. Overnight hangs with my besties Emma and Guy were safe. So were weekends in Pittsburgh to scope out pop-up vintage shops for work and skim off the major finds for my own online resale sidehustle. Even though I had safe spaces, makeup was not for school. And definitely not for family gatherings. But today, and every day after, all that was going to change.

I trailed my fingers over the lipsticks in my makeup drawer, selecting Ruby Woo. If I had to grimace through ham-and-egg-salad sliders with my extended family, then it would be wearing my favorite lipstick, please and thank you.

I was leaving tomorrow, and I wanted everyone to remember these perfect red lips kissing them goodbye.

As I finished up my makeup, Mom’s kitten heels clacked against the linoleum kitchen floor above me, the sound growing louder and more insistent with each pass. That whole quote about Ginger Rogers doing everythingbackward and in heels? That was Eleanor. My mom wore power suits to host noontime barbecues when she wasn’t running for city council. No really. One time, Uncle Chuck told her that if she was so appalled by bathroom debates and book-banning attempts, then maybe she should just run for local office. So she did. And won. In high heels and a killer blazer.

I guess you could say that I get both my tenacity and my impeccable fashion sense from her. But now it was time for Mama’s little bird to spread their wings, and the countdown to freedom was ticking.

“Sullllllly!” she called down the stairs. “Get upstairs and greet the people who are here for your party! Your subjects await!”

“Eleanor!” I yelled back. I always used her first name, like we were just a couple of gal pals.

“You know art takes time!”

“That’s Mom to you, babe! And don’t talk to me about time. I was in labor with you for thirty-six hours!”

“Then you know I like to make an entrance!”

Even through the floorboards, I could hear her chuckling. Okay, so I would miss this a little bit. But crying would ruin my eyeliner, so there would be none of that.

She opened the basement door then, her voice dropping an octave. “Get your cute tush up here, please. I may have raised you to be fashionable, but being fashionably late to your own party is not the vibe.”

I snorted. The vibe. Oh, bless.

I straightened my vintage chartreuse chiffon jumpsuit and pouted at my reflection. It was gorgeous. It was elegant. It was . . . too much. Imagining presenting my full Sully Self to the relatives upstairs, I felt somethinghot rush up my neck that absolutely couldn’t be shame. But sometimes it was just easier to pull back so nobody could accuse me of being over-the-top.

Maybe the lipstick needed to go. Maybe I should leave Hearst with a whisper instead of a bang. But had I really come this far only to diminish myself yet again?

Buck the hell up, I told myself. This time next week, my entire life would be different. I could take solace in that. But for now, I took a makeup wipe to my lips and decided to play it safe. Well, as safe as platforms and ajumpsuit could possibly be. So long, Ruby Woo. Oh well.

“Sully! Now!” Eleanor bellowed.

“I’ve been summoned!” I yelled back as I ran up the stairs to meet my fate.

Let Them Stare by Jonathan Van Ness and Julie Murphy (£12.99, HarperCollins Publishers) available now.