Excerpt from Like Home by Louisa Onome, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

From where we disappear to, I can hear Mr. Tran sloshing a mop across the linoleum tile in the hallway. Even so, the smell of chocolate is strong back here. Ever since that hot-­chocolate-­machine explosion incident when we were nine, the store has smelled like chocolate—­and old building and cardboard and musty floor wax.

Kate shimmies free of my grasp as soon as we're hidden. She gives me a knowing look and says, "I got you," before dipping into the freezer for a Vita ice cream bar. It's seven a.m., but I don't argue. I snatch it from her, peel off its wrapper, and stuff it into my mouth as if it was made for me. She tries not to cackle. "You're so extra!"

"I love these," I say through a cold mouthful. Vita ice cream is the best ice cream, my absolute favorite. Ginger Store is the only place around here that sells it, and every time I eat it, it reminds me of some of the best times I've ever had.

Usually, in the summer, my friends and I used to meet up here and buy ice cream. Sitting at the curb by the storefront, watching customers come and go amid the humidity and heat. We were all about the stickiness of sunrise-­to-­sundown adventures and the cool, calming wave brought on by tubs and tubs of ice cream. Nothing really has come close ever since.

Life split us up. I guess that's normal, but it still sucks. Our friends moved to a nicer neighborhood closer to school. It's only Kate and me who live on Ginger Way and who still talk about summers with too much ice cream. A small part of me feels it's a matter of time before she leaves too, but I know the Trans, and they wouldn't leave. Ginger Store is as much the neighborhood's as it is theirs, so they'd never sell. So many businesses have come and gone around here, cash-­and-­carries turned into hair salons turned into loan offices, but Ginger Store is a staple. Ginger East would be nothing without it, but if I'm being honest, maybe I'd be nothing without it too.

Kate purses her lips, biting back another laugh. Then she points a stern finger at me and says, "Do not say anything to my mom. She's doing inventory."

"Uh, why would I?"

"You and my mom are obviously like this," she says, crossing her fingers.

I snort, say "Shut up," and punch her in the arm as lightly as I can. I barely feel her thick sweater on my knuckles, so I punch her again, but this time deeper. She gasps and returns the favor, except she misses my arm by an inch and her knuckles land square on my left tit.

Her face says it all. Her mouth makes a perfect O, and her brows arch so high, they almost meet her hairline. I instinctively bring a hand to shield my chest in case she does it again. And she does, but this time she leans forward, tipping the top of my animal-­print sweater so she can see down my shirt. When I try to swat her away, she takes a step back and gapes even wider. She whispers, "Are you, like, padding your bra now?"

My face is burning up under the store lights and her growing shock. Her eyes—­she's watching me so hard! "No! Why would I?"

"Then what . . . ?" she asks, letting her eyes drop to my heavily sweatered chest.

I take a second and cast a quick look over my shoulder through the store. Everything is undisturbed. The aisles of food, scissors, telephones—­you know, corner-­shop stuff. Mrs. Tran's shelf of used books stares back at me from the wall. The lotion that's mad scented when you apply it but then dies after an hour is untouched on the counter. It's quiet and safe enough for me to turn back around and whisper to Kate: "Okay, so this morning my mom comes to me, right, and peeks down my shirt, and was like, 'Chi-­chi—­' "

"Who's that?"

"Me."

Kate screws up her face with disbelief. "Since when?" Exactly! Even she knows that no one has ever called me that.

Excerpted from Like Home by Louisa Onome. Copyright © 2021 by Louisa Onome. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.