The Writer's Voice: WHO IS BERKLEY ADAMS?

GUYS! This Brexican writer just got picked by the luck goddess; AKA, I've been selected for The Writer's Voice.

Thank you, random chance! I am forever in your debt.

So, here's my query and the first 250 words of my novel, WHO IS BERKLEY ADAMS? This baby's pumped and ready for feedback.

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QUERY:

The future of Ben and Travis’ brotherly bond hinges on one thing—destroying Berkley Adams. 

After a childhood trauma, sixteen-year-old identical twins Ben and Travis made themselves impossible to tell apart. But their safe haven shatters when Berkley Adams, prep school genius determined to avenge her cousin, identifies Ben from Travis and challenges them to a game of riddles. Furious, they leap at the chance for revenge and set out to answer her riddle: “Who is Berkely Adams” before she can inflict more damage.  

Clue by clue, they seek to turn the game against her, but as they discover Berkley’s more intimate side, her secrets transform her into someone likeable—friend-worthy, even. The clock is ticking down, and the twins must make a choice: lose the game and their condependent bond, or solve Berkley’s riddle and sacrifice her growing friendship. The choice should be easy, used to be easy, but Ben can’t help looking for a way to win Berkley's game and keep her too. The only problem? Travis has protected him from the world—from outsiders like Berkley—since they were kids, and he’s not about to stop now. 

In the vein of PAPER TOWNS and CRUEL INTENTIONS, WHO IS BERKLEY ADAMS? is a 82,000 word YA Contemporary. I have previously interned with Shadow Mountain Publishing, acting as editor in chief for a team of eighteen interns through all stages of editing a YA novel: content, line, and copy inclusive. Additionally, my short story won second place in the Roane State competition.

FIRST 250:

“Dude, your contacts are gone.” Travis checked their bathroom vanity. “Seriously, your go-to pair, your back-up pair, even your contact solution—poof. Nothing but this card . . .”

Ben bowed his head and scrunched his mouth tight. What was he going to do without his contacts? He’d have to show up for school at Northside Collegiate in half an hour, and he’d either be blind or wearing glasses. Glasses that would make him look different from his identical twin. In public. Where outsiders could see.

“Hey, something’s written on the back.” Travis lifted a white rectangle. “‘To Ben Northside,” he read aloud, “and also to Travis Northside, who is likely reading aloud for his brother. I apologize for the petty theft, but don’t be alarmed, you’ll thank me soon.’”

Ben crossed his arms. Who would write this? Only their mother left notes for them, and those were restricted to the kitchen.

“‘As you can see—or rather, not see—your contacts have been removed from your possession. This is only to prep you both for our meeting today at Northside Collegiate, whereupon you will be issued a challenge. No need to worry—I’ll find you. Additional apologies for this morning’s inconvenience, but you may find that blindness will deliver a sharper perspective. Sincerely,’” Travis hesitated, “Berkley Adams’?”

Ben pulled his eyebrows together as cold flooded down his back. Who was Berkley Adams?

“I think,” Travis said with a slow-growing grin, “we have a new game on our hands.”

Being Brexican: If You're a Halfie and You Know It

It was late one night when, twenty years old and suddenly considering the depths of life, I had enough time to pinpoint one of my greatest anxieties: not belonging.

Nick came over, broad shoulder in the doorway of my apartment, a grin on his face. My teddy bear best friend, always there when it was time to talk. He took a seat on the bar stool. I sat next to him. His eyes glittered as I organized the words sloshing back and forth in my mind.

"It's weird, you know?" I began. Ever eloquent, of course.

He raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Well." I leaned over the counter. "Being a halfie. It's weird. I mean I've got a mom who emigrated from England, and a full-blown hispanic dad who's first language was Spanish. I was thinking about it, and I realized that--I don't really belong anywhere."

The realization hadn't happened suddenly. I was studying Indian literature in my World Literature class, and after writing up a paper about the "cracks between cultures" we face in a global society, I tried to pinpoint where I'd be on my metaphorical map. I started sweating when I couldn't find anywhere. Well, fine, I told myself. That was okay, I was in college; I could start a life after. Where would I live after college, on my own terms. Where would I belong then?

The map remained empty.

Sure, the map only existed in my mind. But that's about as powerful a place as any.

Nick nodded, smile still there, waiting for me to continue.

I always continued. 

"See, cultures create places of belonging. They bond people together and give races, or religions, or countries something to share in. But there are also cracks between culture, where the cultures pull people apart, or push them away from one another. Because if someone's not a part of that culture, they become lost and solitary." The counter's granite flecks shined under the dim apartment lights. "I haven't inherited any one culture. I don't belong in England because I'm a loud and huggy, and I don't belong with Mexicans because for one, I don't speak Spanish, and that kind of feels like some betrayal, and two, I value my privacy too much. And then I don't even belong in the part of America I grew up in, the South, because I never adopted an accent. Plus I'm LDS, so everyone acts like I'm a cult member when I first talk to them. Which, I mean, that's their culture, so I understand the knee-jerk reaction, but still.'" 

Nick's face remained even, but it had lost the smile.

I leaned into my hand. My chin went numb in my palm. "I don't belong in either of my own halves, and I don't belong to my birthplace. I've inherited the cracks between culture." I lifted my head. "I'm a halfie. I don't belong anywhere."

Nick didn't say anything right away. He shuffled the CD's he'd brought over for me to check out, then glanced up. A smile wrinkled his eyes, and his broad face lit up.

"Or," he said, "Maybe you've inherited all of them."

It wasn't the answer I was looking for. I changed the subject after that, and we played with CD's, with youtube links, with jokes. But that stayed in my mind.

Maybe I shouldn't say I don't belong "anywhere"; instead, maybe I should say I don't belong in "any one place." 

For a long time, I was split between my two sides. Am I Mexican? Am I British? And these questions don't come head-on. They appear in smaller things; should I take Spanish this semester so Dad and I can talk in his native language, or would that make Mom feel shut out? Is it okay for me to hate Dad's salsa and love Mom's Cornish pasties instead? Should I decide to love my white skin because my mom gave it to me, or am I really just the ugly pasty one out of my beautiful, cocoa-colores sisters? 

Most importantly: who am I?

I think that's the big question behind "where do I belong?" You can't find a place to settle until you know who you are. And once you know who you are, you can settle anywhere. Because where you are does not change inside you. Your skin color, your cultures, your family--it helps adds up to a unique experience crossing borders: you. But you don't have to pick and choose.

Because the truth is, I think we all end up creating our own individual culture, our own family culture, race culture, religious culture, and so on. 

So maybe as halfies, we aren't so simple. We aren't a single race, or country, or culture. We're a bridge, the literal uniting of two different human experiences. Maybe instead of wondering where we belong, we can satisfy ourselves by saying "everywhere." Because we know what it's like to be odd, to be the outlier, to be unusual. We know what it's like to be part minority, part something. We know what it's like to be--different. Unique.

Everyone, in some way we don't always know how to see, is different.

I found piece with this idea: maybe because I don't belong anywhere, I belong everywhere, and that means I can help everyone belong with me. 

My name is Mikayla Rivera. I'm a half-British, half-Mexican American, and I'm a neurotic-but-totally-in-a-cute-way writer. 

I'm a Brexican.

And you know what? I think it's time I write about it.