Brad Barkley is back with a YA novel that’s perfect for readers who love heartfelt, offbeat coming-of-age stories in the spirit of classic 2000s indie films, like Juno and Adventureland.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Reel Life of Zara Kegg by Brad Barkley, which releases on June 16th 2026.
Three years after her mother’s death, 16-year-old Zara is still settling into life in Carolina Beach, N.C., where she knows almost no one. Working as the lone projectionist at the Palace Theatre—a rundown movie house that shows only vintage ’50s sci-fi and horror flicks—Zara spends her nights in a dusty booth, fueled by coffee, pushups, and the occasional existential crisis (with popcorn).
Then she meets Zachary, whose “Z” name feels like fate. His clothes don’t match, his stories don’t always add up, and he might be the most interesting person she’s ever met. As their friendship deepens into something more, Zara learns about the struggles Zachary hides beneath his charm—and wonders if trust is possible.
When her boss tasks her with organizing a Valentine’s Day Godzilla marathon—complete with 150 inflatable Godzillas on the roof—Zara must confront the chaos in her own life. Like any good Godzilla movie, the big question remains: who will survive, and who will be crushed?
EXCERPT
In the summer this place is full of oldsters, drinkers, vacationers, and hipsters. But now, in the winter? It’s mostly just loners. We aren’t like the big resort towns. Around here, things shut down, a lot of the buildings get boarded up, and winter pretty much begins the day after Labor Day.
When I look back, the lady in the movie is playing a church organ in some wide-eyed trance, while Mr. Inconsistent’s standing up in the middle of the aisle, arms stretched overhead, waving his hands like a maniac. People in the audience are yelling at him, shouting things. What’s the deal with this kid? He says something and smiles, then bows to the audience and starts walking up the aisle toward the exit. I guess if you have the only classic-movie house in all of Carolina Beach, and it’s the worst of the off-season, you can expect all kinds. I wonder for about the hundredth time why we never follow most of the town and close up until May, but semi-lucky for me we don’t. I watch him until I can’t see him, check the timer for the next changeover, and then there’s a knock on my door. For a nanosecond I imagine it’s a white-faced zombie ghoul there to murder me, then assume it’s Mr. Wendt with some question, but when I open the door, it’s him—Mr. Inconsistent.
He moves his gum to the corner of his mouth before he speaks.
“The picture’s wobbly,” he says. “Man, it’s hot in here.”
“How did you get up here?”
“Uh, the stairs?” he says. He scratches his ear. “Wanted to let you know the picture’s wobbly.”
“You mentioned that. And you aren’t supposed to be up here.” Suddenly I’m very aware that I’m wearing shorts and that my legs look like they belong to someone who lives in Antarctica and has an allergy to sunlight. I don’t get out of the booth much, really. And it’s the coldest winter here ever, so it’s not like I’m on the beach working on my tan.
“Z?” He’s looking at my Palace Theater nametag. “That’s what they call you?”
“Just an initial. I was too lazy to write my whole name. Dude, you need to leave, or you’ll get me fired. I’m not kidding—rule one is nobody allowed in the projection booth.”
He jiggles the chain hanging from his belt loop. I swear, it looks like someone held him at gunpoint and made him dress this way, and it doesn’t fit his face at all. “Projection booth,” he says, like he’s never heard that combination of words before.
I sigh loud enough for him to hear. I want to say this is the very reason I like working a job where I’m alone all the time, but there’s something about his face—I mean, he’s probably my age, sixteen or seventeen, but his face looks twelve—and despite all his clueless answers, I know if I hurt his feelings, the hurt would flicker across that face in half a second, and I’d feel like crap. Just then my one-minute timer beeps on the splicing table.
“Look, please just go. Here.” I give him one of the coupons from the stack, which lets him in to next week’s show at half-price.
“Oh, good, I can come see another wobbly movie. Didn’t you hear people yelling at you?”
“I thought they were yelling at you.”
“Why would they yell at me?” He’s talking to me, but his eyes are looking all around the booth, at the splicing table, the splicers, the projectors. Then he steps forward and stares out the courtesy window. I see him look down at the seat he was just in, and for some reason seeing him see that makes my face warm. He steps back and looks at me, opening his mouth like he wants to say something else, then shakes his head and shrugs. “The picture’s still wobbly,” he says finally.
“The picture is wobbly because it’s a shitty print of an old movie. Not much I can do about that,” I tell him. “Besides, you don’t even watch it. You move around in your seat, you blow dust in the air, you read.” He blushes so deeply that his eyes nearly shine, and he tugs at the edges of his T-shirt. I feel heat on my ears, washing over me, all the way down.
“Well, I—” he starts to say.
“Sorry…I….it’s just that I have the best seat in the house up here,” I say. “I can see the movie, the people, everything.”
He turns to my stool, my popcorn and coffee, just staring at it, and something in his eyes goes soft. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t think the best seat in the house is the empty one, next to no one.”
I look over at my stool again and see how pathetic it must seem, some sad little corner boxed in by plywood, like a metaphor for my whole life. I want to tell him that’s not true, but I’m not sure how to make the argument. The last boyfriend I had was over a year ago, lasted less than a week, and he broke up with me because he met someone with a better car. He broke up by texting me. The friends I have at school I can count on one hand, and that would still be true if I had some kind of farming accident and lost four fingers. It suddenly feels like someone else’s existence I’m thinking about. How did mine get so small?
“Listen,” he says, “what does the Z stand for? What’s your actual name?”
“Zara,” I tell him.
