This Book Might Be About Zinnia

by Brittney Morris

Overview

Clap When You Land meets Monday’s Not Coming in this “compelling, introspective” (Kirkus Reviews, starred review) novel told in two timelines as one teen searches for her biological mother and the other copes with giving up her baby from the acclaimed author of SLAY.

Two moments in time. Two very different girls. And one story that connects them both.

It’s the year 2024, and Zinnia Davis is on a mission to ace her personal essay. But when an admissions rep hints that her adoption story is “lacking heart,” she has to figure out a new spin. Frankly, Zinnia doesn’t know much about her birth parents; that is, until her favorite author releases a new novel—Little Heart—about a princess with a heart-shaped birthmark on her forehead and separated from her mother at birth…just like Zinnia. Could this be her birth mother?

Flashback to 2006, and teenager Tuesday Walker is barely making it through high school after experiencing a loss that had her on leave for months. To cope, Tuesday writes a series of entries in a journal, but when the journal is lost, it feels like reliving the trauma all over again. Tuesday’s search for the journal uncovers dangerous secrets about her past, her crush, and her own mother’s story.

If Tuesday isn’t careful in her search, Zinnia will have to reap the consequences in the present.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781665904032
Publisher:	Simon & Schuster Books For Young Readers
Publication date:	07/01/2025
Sold by:	SIMON & SCHUSTER
Format:	eBook
Pages:	352
File size:	6 MB
Age Range:	12 - 18 Years

About the Author

Brittney Morris is the author of SLAY, The Cost of Knowing, The Jump, and This Book Might Be About Zinnia and has written video game narrative for Insomniac Games’s Marvel’s Spider-Man 2 for PlayStation 5, Unknown Worlds’s Subnautica: Below Zero, and Soma Games’s The Lost Legends of Redwall. She is the founder and former president of the Boston University Creative Writing Club. She holds a BA in economics. You can find her online at AuthorBrittneyMorris.com and on X (previously known as Twitter) or Instagram @BrittneyMMorris.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Zinnia

2024

THE HAZMAT TEAM LOVES ME.

I always skip the “we had an incident” pleasantries. They know there was an incident. Nobody calls hazmat while they’re having a picnic. I tell them exactly what they’ll find in the bathroom.

“Needles,” I say as I pull the steam lever, blasting this soy milk into foam with a hiss. “Blood and glass all over the floor.”

A heavy sigh comes through the receiver.

“Still don’t have a sharps container?” he asks.

“If you’ve got a free one lying around, Milo, I’ll install it myself.”

Oh yeah, the hazmat team also loves me because my best friend since Water Babies is among them.

Another, heavier sigh comes through the phone.

“Couldn’t you put up a sign?” he asks.

“What is it with you non–food service people thinking a sign will solve everything?” I grin at his logic. “Ever seen a ‘Please do not partake in illicit drugs on the premises’ sign? Think it would do any good?”

A third sigh.

We’ve known each other so long that I can read the different subtleties in them. This one says, begrudgingly, Fine and I’ll be over in a minute.

“You’re the best,” I return.

“And you’re going to be late.”

It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. I roll my eyes and glance at my watch.

“I’ve got four hours.”

“Two left in your shift.”

“Plenty of time.”

Hair. Makeup. Dress. Shoes. How long could that possibly take? It’s homecoming, not my wedding day. Besides, the real fun happens after homecoming.

No, not that.

I’ve registered for Harvard’s application and sent my guidance counselor a rough draft of my essay, and tonight I’m registering for the rest of them. All of them.

“Shouldn’t you be worried?” I ask. “You have a biohazard to clean, a shower to take, and a gift to get me.”

There’s a pause, just long enough to confirm that he forgot that last detail. We agreed weeks ago that we, the two singlest people in the whole school—me, the allo, too preoccupied with life to give a shit about romance, and Milo, the ace, uninterested in anything but books and boba tea—would get each other a homecoming gift. A token of our friendship. And in true Milo fashion, he hasn’t gotten mine yet.

Four hours out.

“How do you know I don’t have your gift?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“Because it’s you,” I say with love.

“There’s a good reason this time.”

“There’s always a good reason,” I say, and trill my voice along the chorus of Hoobastank’s most famous song, “?‘And the reason is youuuuuuuuu.’”

“Stop,” he mutters through the receiver. “You’re making me want to take up vaping again.”

It’s such an outlandish suggestion that I know to write it off.

Besides, I should be more embarrassed than he is right now. He’s presumably at home, just him and his mom, and I’m standing in the middle of the Bean Rock Café belting out a song older than Facebook.

“Gotta go, my customers need me,” I whisper to him. “Love you, see you soon!”

Click!

I belt louder along with the music playing faintly overhead. I nod at Harlow, the girl at the register with curly red hair voluptuous enough to match mine in volume and double it in length.

She reaches into her pocket for her phone, and the music grows louder. Heads turn. The couple in the corner, Tam and Sam—who always sit in the same spot every Tuesday because it’s the only day they both have off work—look up at me. Sam lowers his head and pretends not to hear us, but Tam starts bobbing her head, nostalgia lighting up in her eyes.

“Let me guess. Oldies?” she asks. I nod. She shakes her head, exchanging a knowing glance with Sam.

Tam mouths along as Harlow and I lean in together and serenade everyone in here.

I hear more voices behind us now, and as the music swells, and I realize everyone is watching us, I grab the metal foam spoon, which makes a great mic in a pinch, and time it perfectly with the start of the chorus.

“‘I just want you to knoooooow.’” Hisssssss goes the steam wand. Now we’re all singing—everyone behind the counter—and I can’t think of a better pregame concert before my big night.

I twirl away from Harlow and flip the steam wand back off so we can all hear one another. We belt out the chorus, and I carefully scoop some grounds into the filter basket, tamp, click into place, and pull a couple of ristretto shots for the older lady swinging the door open now. Ruthie always prefers the ristretto, but she always forgets.

I don’t.

Mr. Lawry, dressed in another one of his wool herringbone suits, swipes his latte from the bar. He’s always in around this time, frowning, muttering, waiting for his twelve-ounce, nonfat, no-foam triple latte after ordering with a single word: “Latte.”

“Where’s the vanilla?” whispers Marybeth, the tiny girl to my right, stocking shelves even though it’s her second day. She’s probably never seen this kind of chaos behind the counter of a coffee shop, but at the Bean Rock Café, everything’s chaos, all the time. Just the way I like it.

I use the break between verses to whisper quickly, “Back cabinet, bottom shelf, oldest in the front,” and then sail smoothly back into the final next verse.

Harlow sings faithfully along with me, as most of the customers have gathered at the counters to join in the verse at the end. My heart soars as we all belt it out. Sure, I like this song. But these people—most of them a decade or two older than me—sing it like it stirs up memories from a loooong time ago. Well, maybe not that long ago, that isn’t exactly fair.

Since before I came around, at least. When did this song come out—’02, ’03? Way before I was born.

Wherever I was born.

“?‘A side of me you didn’t knoooooow.’”

Anyway, I don’t really need to know.

“?‘A reason for all that I doooooo.’”

I have this coffee shop, where I have a perfect attendance record and know exactly where to find everything. I have my best friend, Milo, and I have my mom and dad, who have been with me through everything since the day they got me.

Three hours later, while I’m brushing lavender eye shadow over my upper lid, I hum the last line in my head: And the reason is youuuuu.

I observe my makeup in the mirror. Simple enough. Lavender eye shadow, black liner on top, white liner on bottom, and no foundation. No need to cover up my mark.

I run my fingers along it—the birthmark by the edge of my hairline. Some say it’s shaped like a fish. Others say it’s a heart. Me? I don’t really care. Whatever it is, it’s me-shaped.

“Happy homecoming,” says Milo. From the edge of my vision, I can see he’s holding out a colorful box. When I look and see the bright yellow ribbon piled high on top, I smile.

“A professional wrapping job? You shouldn’t have.”

He shrugs. “Just open it. Promise what’s inside will make up for the wrapping.”

“Nah-uh,” I say, scrambling for my secret drawer that’s not so secret to Milo. Just gossipy love notes and tampons in there. Nothing he hasn’t seen before. “Not till you have yours in hand first.” I pull out a box, lovingly wrapped in a hand-sewn cherry blossom furoshiki cloth.

“Show-off,” he says.

“Just taking care of the planet.”

“Making up for all those glittery plastic pieces in that eye shadow, huh?”

“Fuck off and open it,” I say, unable to hide the laughs bubbling up. I know his smiles, too. This one says, Ha, I win. But he opens the box anyway, and I watch, confident in my book-selecting skills.

He unties the cloth and crumples it up in his free hand, unaware that I took the time to iron it this morning. Definitely ironed it for me. I could’ve wrapped the book in a paper bag and Milo wouldn’t have cared, but if I give a gift and it doesn’t look perfect, I’m gonna have a problem.

“What’s it about?” he asks, still staring at the cover. But I can tell by the way his fingers run along the front that it’s a hit.

“Open it and see!”

“The Well,” he reads. “Sounds like a mystery. Maybe about a guy and a well?”

“Just read the back already,” I say, eager to open my gift. I weigh it in my hand. It’s huge. Pretty heavy, too. My shoulders are starting to sag from the weight of it.

“‘Follow third-year medical resident Avery Weinstein as she journeys through the underground catacombs of Savannah, uncovering medical mysteries long forgotten in the era of the antebellum South.’”

“So...? What do you think?”

He looks up at me after a long pause and shrugs. “Why’s it called The Well?”

“You’ll have to find out!” I say. He’s asking questions already. We’re off to a great start.

“Interesting.”

Even better.

“My turn!” I say, unable to hide my excitement any longer. I wedge my finger under the tape keeping the paper together, but my elbow-length white glove sticks to it. I yank the wrapping paper off so fast, Milo takes a step back to give me space to rip into my prey.

“Jesus Christ,” he says.

The minute the paper is off the front, my jaw drops.

I can’t breathe.

“Jodelle Rae West?” I ask. “She has a new book out? When were you going to tell me?”

“Right now,” he says.

I flip the book over, and my eyes fly faster than my brain can follow. I read the back out loud in what sounds like a single sentence—or maybe even a single word.

“‘Jodelle Rae West makes her striking return to the blank page with Little Heart, spinning an enchanted tale of love, loss, and a father’s never-ending quest to find what’s truly important.’”

Sounds... cliché.

But I can’t say that.

“Sounds...,” I start.

“Cliché?” he finishes.

Damn to hell my revealing face.

“I mean, not entirely—”

“Knew you’d think that. I know how you are about genre fiction. But read the first paragraph.”

I resist the temptation to roll my eyes and pull back the cover. I clear my throat, beginning my dramatic reading of whatever magic these pages are about to reveal.

“?‘It all started with a heart-shaped birthma—’”

I stop reading and raise an eyebrow at him.

“Milo...?”

“Keep going,” he says.

I steel myself. Purely coincidence that this character has exactly the same birthmark as I do. But still, dope!

“?‘It all started with a heart-shaped birthmark. That’s what I remember most about her. Not her beating heart, for I hadn’t known it long. Not her heart of hearts, for I hadn’t known it at all.’”

I pause before reading the next line.

“‘I lost her far too soon.’”

Editorial Reviews

"Full of heart, this book is recommended for libraries where Elizabeth Acevedo’s Clap When You Land is popular."

7/1/25 - School Library Journal

★ "A compelling, introspective journey into identity and the power of familial love."

Kirkus Reviews

★ 2025-05-03
Two teen girls seek answers about family.

In 2024, Zinnia Davis, an adopted, biracial, Type A 18-year-old, is applying to Harvard, but she faces a harsh dose of reality after being informed that her college essay feels “calculated” and “formulaic.” After her best friend, Milo, gives her a book featuring a character with an eerily similar backstory to hers—and the exact same heart-shaped birthmark on her forehead—Zinnia decides the author must be her biological mother, and she decides to write her essay about her attempt to prove this. In 2006, Tuesday Walker, a Black 16-year-old, is left reeling after surrendering her newborn daughter for adoption. She was pressured by her mother, who’s determined to keep this baby a family secret; she doesn’t want Tuesday to let the baby’s white father know she exists. Tuesday doesn’t even know her own father’s name, but after one too many ominous and mysterious occurrences, Tuesday finds herself on a quest to uncover her hidden paternal lineage and protect the daughter she was forced to give up. Told from alternating perspectives, this dual narrative follows two young women who are both seeking the truth about their lives. Seamlessly shifting between perspectives, the story remains cohesive and sustains a quick pace. Morris insightfully explores themes of anxiety and the relentless need for perfection as both characters wrestle with their emotions and perceived shortcomings.

A compelling, introspective journey into identity and the power of familial love.(Fiction. 12-18)

Kirkus Reviews