Music Play List for Love Spell by Mia Kerick! Chance's Top Sixteen!

It is my great pleasure to welcome Mia Kerick back to my blog with her newest book, Love Spell! If you haven't read it, you're missing out! This story is a great read and it is adorable!

A Music Play List for Love Spell 

by Mia Kerick

Hi to all of Cody’s awesome readers! I’m so happy to be on his blog to promote my new release, LOVE SPELL!! Thanks for having me here today, Cody!

Music moves me, just like it moves Cody. You can tell, because we both use lots of songs in our young adult novels to set the perfect mood. In fact, for most of my books, musical lyrics were a big part of the inspiration. Love Spell includes the mention of several popular songs and artists—both current and retro—and since Chance César is a vivacious, spirited, and animated sort, he brings to mind a snappy beat, a bit of vibrato, and definitely a Broadway show tune or three.

 CHANCE’S TOP SIXTEEN!

WARNING: VERY FLASHY PLAY LIST

PREPARE YOURSELF TO BE IMPRESSED, IF NOT TOTES AWESTRUCK! 

1. The first song on Love Spell’s play list is the song to which he shakes his backside as he struts the length of the catwalk as this year’s Miss Harvest Moon.” Shine on, Harvest Moon”…  the Liza Minnelli rendition, of course.

2. When Chance’s best friend hoots a catcall of support as he struts the runway, he revels in the liberation!! “Born this Way” by the one and only Lady Gaga.

3. Sometimes Chance insists on using a charming British accent, making him sound a bit like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady. Here is Audrey Hepburn singing, “Wouldn’t it Be Loverly?”

4. There is more than a bit of a princess in Chance and he sets out to prove it. “The Princess Diaries Waltz” by John Debney.

5. This is what Chance considers to be the theme song to his not-so-loving family life (yes, totes sarcastic). Here’s everybody’s favorite purple dinosaur, Barney, singing, “I Love You.”







6. How about a little late night jazz? Jasper Donahue (Jazz) is the boy whose heart Chance wants to catch. And Billie Holiday sings jazz. Here is “Strange Fruit.”









7. Chance tries to teach Jazz that he is not a complete doormat by introducing a debate about the merits of various brands of hot dogs.






8. When Chance applies too much eyeliner, someone rather familiar looks back out of the mirror at him. The Disney Chorus sings, “Yo Ho (A Pirate’s Life for Me)”





9. Chance doubts that any of the girls at Fiske High School are reminded of Ed Sheeran when they look at his neon orange locks. Ed Sheeran sings “Thinking Out Loud.”





10. “Wanting me much?” Chance thinks it so loud he swears Jazz can hear. How ‘bout a little Cheap Trick—“I Want You to Want Me!”







11. “Little Miss Independent.” Yes… this describes Ms. Kelly Clarkson AND Mr. Chance César.









12. When Chance conducts the love spell, he chooses appropriate background music. His selection is “Genie in a Bottle” by Christina Aguilera.









13. Toward the end of the novel, Chance messes up EVERYTHING!!! No worries, he’ll fix it tomorrow. “Tomorrow” sung by Alicia Morton.

14. The heavens rejoice when Chance’s BFF finally answers her cell phone!!! Here’s the Mormon Tabernacle Choir with Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus”!

15. The vice principal gives Chance some very Taylor-Swift-like advice. “Shake it Off!” by Taylor Swift.







16. Chance skipped right over some excellent advice in the online article. Hint, hint: “You’ve Got a Friend in Me,” by Randy Newman.






It's always great to have you on my blog, Mia! I hope to see you again soon! And now, a very special treat from, Mia. Chapter One of Love Spell! Check it out!!!

Prologue

Read this first, hun. 

I’ve been accused of thinking too much, which might be true, but I con-

sider that fact to be a minor blip on my personality radar. Nothing more. 

I mean, it’s not hurting anybody, is it? 

People may call the activity of my mind overthinking, and it wouldn’t 

be a monster stretch for them to call it obsessing. Then, of course, there are 

those uptight douches who’d slap a neon pink Post-It Note on my brain—

the phrase “has a few dozen screws loose” scribbled on it with a chisel tip 

purple Sharpie. 

I, however, choose to view the slightly convoluted manner in which I 

process thoughts as ingenious. And to be real, at this very moment I have 

about fifteen more ingenious adjectives, fully capable of describing the way 

I think, burning a hole in the cargo pocket of my painted-on pastel camo 

skinny jeans. But I very rarely subscribe to the concept “less is more”, and 

this is one of those extremely rare occasions. 

(SMH) Not that I’m happy about it. 

In any case, consider yourself fairly warned. 

* Hugs 

So, my fine friends, sit back on your comfy couches and listen to what 

went down last year in my cray-cray neck of the woods.

Chapter 1

Shine On, Harvest Moon

Just call me brazen.

It occurs to me that brazen—unabashedly bold and without an inkling of 

shame—is the perfectly appropriate word to describe moi right about now. 

It is, however, the only perfectly appropriate part of this evening. Which is 

perfectly appropriate, in my humble opinion. So get over it.

I lift my chin just enough to stop the stiff orange spikes of glitter-gelled 

hair from flopping forward onto my forehead. But who can blame me? 

These spikes are razor sharp—best they stay upright on my head where 

they belong—and gravity can only do so much to that end. 

Okaaaayyyy... sidetracked much?   

* Forces rebellious thoughts onto business at hand.

Chance César is a brazen B. 

I stare ‘em down, but only after I pop the collar of the blinding “Orange 

Crush” tuxedo I’m rockin’ and shrug my shoulders in a sort of what-the-

fuck fashion. Rule of thumb in this queen’s life—first things must always 

come first. 

Pop, shrug, and only then is it kosher to stare.

* Clears throat. 

“Eat your ginger-haired heart out, Prince Harry.” Based on the buzz of 

scandalized chatter blowing about in the crisp evening breeze, I’m reasona-

bly certain that nobody in the crowd heard me speak. And although several 

of the girls currently gawking at me may do double backflips over my red-

haired counterpart across the pond, Prince Harry of Wales, they don’t give a 

rat’s ass about Chance César. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that they 

view my atomic tangerine locks as more reminiscent of Bozo the Clown 

than of the sexy singer-songwriter Ed Sheeran. 

They are, however, completely unaware that this carrot top is going to 

make Harvest Moon Festival history tonight.

Refusing to succumb to the impulse to duck my head, I take a single 

shaky step forward on the stage that’s been set up on the dusty ground be-

side the vast (by New England standards) cornfield. The stage doesn’t wob-

ble, but my knees sure as shit do. Okay, so I’m a freaking honest diva and I 

tell it like it is. And I’m what you might call a wreck. 

Nonetheless, this brazen B takes a deep breath, blows it out in a single 

gush, and starts to strut. I mean, this boy’s werkin’ it.

Smi-zeee!! Yeah, my smile is painted on, just like my trousers.

Chance, you are by far the edgiest Miss Harvest Moon this ramshackle 

town has ever had the good fortune to gaze upon. 

I am a major fan of positive self-talk.

Using the feigned British accent that I’ve perfected—thanks to long hours 

of tedious practice in my bathroom—I dish out my next thought aloud. “I 

wish I’d put in a tad more practice walking in these bloody heels before 

going public in ‘em.” And despite one slight stumble—a close call to be 

sure—the clicking sound my pumps make is crisp and confident. I saunter 

out onto the catwalk. 

#trueconfessions: Faking foreign accents is a hobby of mine. I can yam-

mer it up in improvised French, German, Mexican, Russian, and plenty 

more accents, but I don’t mimic Asian languages, as it seems too close to 

ridicule. My plan for the rest of the night is to continue vocalizing my abun-

dant thoughts in Standard British, with just a hint of Cockney thrown in 

for charm. New Hampshire is the “live free or die” state and I’ll do what I 

laaaa-like. Yaaasss!

“Introducing this year’s lovely... or, um, handsome Miss...ter... Har-

vest Moon. Let’s hear an enthusiastic round of applause for Chance César!” 

Mrs. Higgins always speaks using a lolling Southern twang, although I’m 

sure she’s lived her entire life right here in less-than-gentile, way-too-many-

dirt-roads, Fiske, New Hampshire. Like, can you say “backwoods Fiske” 

without it sounding too much like “backwards Fiske”? But, overall, I’m 

pleased—it seems I’m not the only one with an affinity for a colorful accent.

The applause is—to be real—disappointingly, but not surprisingly, scat-

tered.

“Woot!” A solitary hoot splits the night—it’s quite impossible to miss—

and I recognize an undeniably shrill and nasal quality in the sound. I know 

without a doubt that the hooter is my best (only) friend, Emily Benson. In 

my not so humble opinion, Emily’s hooting for my benefit sounds as liberat-

ing as Lady Gaga bellowing “Born This Way” live on the Grammy Awards 

after emerging from a large egg.

My Emily is everything!! Not to be dramatic.

In any case, that single, supportive hoot is followed by mucho expected 

heckling. 

“Chances are, Chance César is gonna moon the crowd!” That’s a girl’s 

voice, for sure. I do not have a lot of female fans here in Fiske.

“Come on, Miss Harvest Moon, bend over and flash us your full moon!” 

A dude mocks me next. I’m proud to say that I’m an equal opportunity vic-

tim of harassment.

I don’t blink once in the face of the jeering. This type of inconvenience 

is par for the course in my life, and thus, I consider it a challenge. I simply 

place one fine pointy-toed pump in front of the other, my eyes focused on 

the mountain in the distance. I’m especially proud that, amidst the chaos, I 

remember to offer the crowd my best beauty queen wave. 

#beautypageantrealness

“Thank you for being here today,” I speak in my most Princess Dia-

ries-esque tone.

“Werk it, girlfriend—werk hard!” Yes, it’s Emily again. She’s got my 

back.

“Aw, shit... we must be havin’ a lunar eclipse or somethin’.” It’s another 

pubescent male voice, and a deep one, at that. “There ain’t no moon to be 

seen ‘round these parts!” The heckler is a douche I know too well from 

school, Edwin Darling—whom I less than fondly, and very privately, refer 

to as “Eddie the Appalling.” I watch as he glances up briefly at the full moon 

in the dark night sky and shrugs.

The lunar eclipse one-liner is actually pretty funny—I toss out ten points 

for creativity in Edwin’s general direction by allowing a small smile—but 

still I never remove my eyes from the single treeless spot on Mount Vernier. 

* Time for a mental detour.

I wonder why this one spot is bare-assed of all trees. 

That’s when the music starts and I’m more than glad for the downbeat. 

It’s much easier to sashay to the sound of a jazzy snare drum than to the un-

pleasant clamor of heckling. Not that my backside won’t wiggle righteously 

to any sound at all. Because, rest assured, it will.

“Shine On, Harvest Moon.” Whoever is in charge of the sound system 

plays the Liza Minnelli version, which may be the silver lining to this farce. 

For as long as I can remember, it’s been the traditional tune for Miss Har-

vest Moon’s victorious stroll up and down the creaky runway. I will say that 

tonight is a first for the Liza rendition, and I’m curious as to whether it is 

coincidental, as she is a female gay icon for the ages.

But who really cares? Ring them sparkly silver bells for Liza M!!!

On a side note, I wonder: Is it a good thing or a bad thing that Liza Min-

nelli’s voice always brings out the dramatic streak in me? 

Okay, okaaaayyyy... so maybe it doesn’t take more than a gentle nudge to 

get me going in a theatrical direction—but, hey, drama’s not a crime. Mo-

mentarily, my mind is pulled to the back of my bedroom closet (how ironic), 

where my flapper get-up hangs. 

Should I have worn that instead? 

But it’s a muted peach, not a vivid orange, as seems fitting for a pumpkin 

festival. And then there’s the whole “not a single soul, with the exceptions 

of my parents and Emily, has yet been privileged with the honor of viewing 

Chance César in full female garb” thing that held me back from rockin’ that 

vintage coral dress with its spectacular tiers of flesh-colored fringe. But 

tonight is the Beans and Green Farm’s Annual Harvest Moon Festival, and 

for northern New Hampshire, this is a big deal—the whole town shows up 

for cheesy shit like this. 

In light of that recognition, I decide that pumpkin orange attire is man-

datorbs. I mean, I went so far as to dye my hair for tonight’s festivities; the 

least I can do is choose garments that enhance the Halloween-like atmos-

phere.

At the end of the catwalk, I indulge the audience by providing them with 

their deepest desire: I stand there, still as a statue—for ten seconds, give 

or take—so they can drink in the sight of me, from spiky glittering head to 

pointy patent leather toes. I allow them this opportunity for viewing pleas-

ure because I know that whether they admire me for having the balls to 

strut around ultraconservative Fiske wearing a scandalously snug-in-all-

the-wrong (right)-places orange tuxedo and four-inch black pumps, which 

I will admit is a public first for me, or they wish the shining harvest moon 

would fall on my house and crush me while I sleep, what they all really 

want most is a good long moment to study me. 

To twerk or not to twerk, that is the question.

When the spectators finally start to squirm, I throw out a few of my best 

vogue fem moves to the tune of some subtle arm, wrist, and hand action, 

followed by several full-body poses, avoiding the death drop move as I ha-

ven’t yet mastered it in pumps. 

And when it’s time to once again get this show on the road. I pivot on my 

toes and strut briskly—picture it, America’s Top Model style—back to the 

stage where my boss, the owner of Beans and Greens Farm, stands nervous-

ly holding my crown.

Mrs. Higgins is a tall glass of water, in the manner of a big-boned Iowa 

farm girl, but she’s accustomed to crowning petite high school junior girls, 

not nearly grown senior boys in four-inch heels. I crouch politely, and I 

dare say delicately, beside her and she carefully nestles the crystal-studded 

crown in my spiky mop of neon orange hair. 

“Be careful, Mrs. H,” I warn her beneath my breath. “Those spikes might 

look harmless, but they’re sharp enough to slice off your little finger.” 

She offers me half of a crooked smile, for which I give her credit. I, Mrs. 

Higgins’ very own “boy with the bad attitude on cash register three”, have 

broken about every rule Beans and Greens has established for its hordes of 

Fiske High School summer workers, right down to the “no jewelry at work” clause. 

But a couple of points go to the lady cuz she manages to force out a 

grimace that could be mistaken for a smile... if your standard for smiles is 

on the low side.

Besides, I’m not about to remove my nose ring. It in no way impedes my 

ability to count, ring up, and bag cucumbers.

* Spins on a single heel to face the crowd. 

“You don’t happen to have any... very brief... words of wisdom for our 

audience, do you, Chance?” Mrs. Higgins asks, speaking into an oversized 

microphone. But despite the laidback accent, I can tell she’s wary. Like a 

rat in a corner.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.” My clipped British accent momentari-

ly stuns the woman, and I take that opportunity to snatch the microphone 

from her less-than-dainty hand. Realizing that it is now in my possession, 

Mrs. Higgins shudders. “I just want to thank you all, my beloved coworkers 

at Beans and Greens Farm, for voting me in as this year’s Miss Harvest 

Moon.”  I wipe imaginary tears from my eyes with my wrist, sniff for added 

effect, and, of course, I employ a most gracious, high-pitched tone of voice. 

“I am just so honored to represent you all here tonight.” I sound like Eliza 

Doolittle in the stage play My Fair Lady.  

The crowd is silent. Maybe it’s a stunned silence. I sincerely hope so.

* Pouty lips follow dainty sniffling. Sniff, sniff. 

Mrs. Higgins makes a sudden grab for the microphone but I’m more ag-

ile. I only have to twist my shoulders ever so slightly to the left to block her 

move. 

Then I lower my voice so it’s all man—momentarily losing the delightful 

British inflection—and I pose my question to the crowd. “So you thought 

voting for me as Miss Harvest Moon, here, would humiliate me—dull my 

shine or rain on my parade, perhaps?” I wag my well-manicured finger at 

the crowd. “Well, in your face, my sorry backwoods homies, cuz I’m here 

and I’m queer and I’m shining on—just like that big ol’ harvest moon!” 

Without hesitation, I lean down just enough to grab Mrs. Higgins around the 

waist, and then I lift her off her feet and swing that lady around, probs ‘til 

she’s seeing more stars than the ones in the dark Harvest Moon sky. 

I’d bet my ahhh-mazing ass that no other Miss Harvest Moon has ever given 
Mrs. Higgins a joyride like that!

Pre-order now at Amazon

About Love Spell and finding love between the gender lines

Strutting his stuff on the catwalk in black patent leather pumps and a snug orange tuxedo as this year’s Miss (ter) Harvest Moon feels so very right to Chance César, and yet he knows it should feel so very wrong. 

As far back as he can remember, Chance has been “caught between genders.” (It’s quite a touchy subject; so don’t ask him about it.) However, he does not question his sexual orientation. Chance has no doubt about his gayness—he is very much out of the closet at his rural New Hampshire high school, where the other students avoid the kid they refer to as “girl-boy.”

But at the local Harvest Moon Festival, when Chance, the Pumpkin Pageant Queen, meets Jasper Donahue, the Pumpkin Carving King, sparks fly. So Chance sets out, with the help of his BFF, Emily, to make “Jazz” Donahue his man. 

An article in an online women’s magazine, Ten Scientifically Proven Ways to Make a Man Fall in Love with You (with a bonus love spell thrown in for good measure), becomes the basis of their strategy to capture Jazz’s heart. 

Quirky, comical, definitely flamboyant, and with an inner core of poignancy, Love Spell celebrates the diversity of a gender-fluid teen.

Pre-order now at Amazon
Publisher: CoolDudes Publishing
Cover By Louis C. Harris
Word Count: 44,300 words
Genre: Young Adult, Gay, Romance, Contemporary

About Mia Kerick

Mia Kerick is the mother of four exceptional children—all named after saints—and five nonpedigreed cats—all named after the next best thing to saints, Boston Red Sox players. Her husband of twenty-two years has been told by many that he has the patience of Job, but don’t ask Mia about that, as it is a sensitive subject. 

Mia focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled young people and their relationships, and she believes that physical intimacy has a place in a love story, but not until it is firmly established as a love story. As a teen, Mia filled spiral-bound notebooks with romantic tales of tortured heroes (most of whom happened to strongly resemble lead vocalists of 1980s big-hair bands) and stuffed them under her mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to Dreamspinner Press, Harmony Ink Press, CoolDudes Publishing, and CreateSpace for providing her with alternate places to stash her stories. 

Mia is a social liberal and cheers for each and every victory made in the name of human rights, especially marital equality. Her only major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology. 

Stop by Mia’s Blog with questions or comments, or simply share what’s on your mind. 

Find Mia on Facebook, Goodreads, and Amazon.