Where You See Yourself combines an unforgettable coming-of-age tale, a swoon-worthy romance, and much-needed disability representation in this story about a girl who’s determined to follow her dreams.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Claire Forrest’s Where You See Yourself, which is out May 2nd.
By the time Effie Galanos starts her senior year, it feels like she’s already been thinking about college applications for an eternity—after all, finding a college that will be the perfect fit and be accessible enough for Effie to navigate in her wheelchair presents a ton of considerations that her friends don’t have to worry about.
What Effie hasn’t told anyone is that she already knows exactly what school she has her heart set on: a college in NYC with a major in Mass Media & Society that will set her up perfectly for her dream job in digital media. She’s never been to New York, but paging through the brochure, she can picture the person she’ll be there, far from the Minneapolis neighborhood where she’s lived her entire life. When she finds out that Wilder (her longtime crush) is applying there too, it seems like one more sign from the universe that it’s the right place for her.
But it turns out that the universe is full of surprises. As Effie navigates her way through a year of admissions visits, senior class traditions, internal and external ableism, and a lot of firsts–and lasts–she starts to learn that sometimes growing up means being open to a world of possibilities you never even dreamed of. And maybe being more than just friends with Wilder is one of those dreams…
I manage to get to AP Lit only seconds before the final bell, skidding to a stop and getting into the seat Harper saved for me next to her.
“Hey,” she says. Her short brunette hair covers the side of her face and eyes as she looks at her phone on the desk, savoring the last possible seconds before she has to turn it in. “You made it.”
“Yeah,” I huff. “No thanks to Abe and Sarah.”
“Oh god. Swapping Spit Slope is still a thing? I’m sorry. I was hoping their relationship would bite the dust over the summer. You know, for your sake.” She stands to walk her phone up to the basket in the front of the classroom where Mr. Andersen makes us store them during class time. “You should complain about them, like, to the administration. They can’t block your access like that.”
They don’t have working door openers on half the entrances to this place, but yeah, sure, let’s make Abe and Sarah the hill—or rather, ramp—that I die on.
Just as Harper returns to her seat, Cam plops down in the empty seat on the other side of me, her backpack making a satisfying thunk as she throws it to the floor. Today, she’s wearing her green cat-eye glasses that make her red hair and green eyes pop.
I notice that both of them are wearing STOMP shirts.
Harper and I met in fifth grade when we were scrawny kids on the playground getting wood chips in our shoes at recess. I don’t know life without her. We had a science class with Cam freshman year, and it was instantly like she was always a part of our friend group. Now I don’t know life with- out her either.
“I got a locker all the way up on freaking third floor. I swear I had to pass through time and space to make it here,” Cam explains, clearly annoyed.
“Sucks to suck,” Harper says dryly. Harper is always the one to say exactly what she thinks.
“And I have two random sophomores as locker neighbors.” Cam mouths “Hello” to me, the much more reserved of my two best friends.
“I have Katie Hollins and three freshmen,” I say.
“How do you have four people?” Harper asks.
“My second locker,” I reply, bracing myself for what I know is coming next.
“Ugh, you’re so lucky.” Harper stands, and holds out her
hand. I drop my phone in her palm and she walks up to drop mine and Cam’s into the basket.
Yep, just me, sitting on my throne of privilege.
The ding-ding-ding of morning announcements on the PA takes the pressure off wondering how to respond. Harper’s comments sometimes make me feel like maybe she might never fully understand that those things don’t exactly make me feel lucky.
“Hello, Mill City High School!” The voice of our assistant principal, Ms. Ross, fills the classroom. “A happy first-day- of-school greeting to you all, and especially to our freshman class!”
A low, loud boo rumbles through our classroom.
Mr. Andersen looks up from shuffling papers at his desk. “Be nice, guys,” he warns. “You were them once, too.”
Ms. Ross continues. “And of course, congratulations, seniors!” This time, a loud roar fills the room. Several boys bang their fists on their desks, which earns us another glare from Mr. Andersen.
“We know you all will accomplish great things this year as you soar toward opportunities, milestones, and personal progress.”
Harper snorts a bit too loudly.
I may not be feeling super stoked about senior year, but judging by their matching shirts, apparently my friends and all my peers are.
Every year, the seniors at my high school sell these shirts in the school colors, emblazoned with the word SENIOR on the back and some secret acronym on the front. This year, it is STOMP.
If any of the underclassmen ask what the acronym stands for, the answer is the same every year: “We can’t tell you.”
Truth is, I don’t think any of the seniors truly know. Soaring Toward Opportunities, Milestones, Progress was the official line fed to the administration, but everyone knows what it actually stands for is way more . . . sexual than that.
The idea behind the shirts is that the money raised is supposed to go to the Student Council’s endowment fund, but seeing as I’m on the Student Council, I know the money goes directly toward a party fund for a select few popular seniors.
The whole concept is pointless and representative of senior year: None of us know what it is supposed to signify anyway.
“Do you know what it stands for?” I whisper. “I heard Snatching—” Cam guesses.
“No, it’s Slurping—” tries Harper.
Make it Shudder.
The announcements carry on. “And this seems like the opportune time to remind you that our first college-application workshop will be on September fifteenth.”
“—Which, might I add, you are required to attend as part of my class,” Mr. Andersen interjects.
Harper, of course, groans loudly, and I see Cam’s shoulders slump a bit.
As for me, I wonder what it would be like to be so cavalier about the whole college thing. What would it be like to narrow your list simply by name alone, or because you just thought it would be cool to live there?
I open my planner and circle the date.
“And she’s at it again with the lists!” Cam says.
“Yeah, seriously,” Harper agrees. “You don’t even need to go to the workshop. We both know you’ve had your list of schools to apply to since junior year.”
Sophomore year, actually.
Excerpted from Where You See Yourself by Claire Forrest, Copyright © 2023 by Claire Forrest. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.
