We all 💕 Danielle Younge-Ullman's
Everything Beautiful is Not Ruined
Written by Danielle Younge-Ullman
Razorbill
978-0-425-28759-0
368 pp.
Ages 13-17
2017
(It did win the White Pine Award and
was nominated for
a Governor General's Literature Award and
the Amy Mathers Teen Book Award.)
was nominated for
a Governor General's Literature Award and
the Amy Mathers Teen Book Award.)
Now we can look forward to her newest YA novel,
one that blends that same depth of issue with the humour that made Everything Beautiful is Not Ruined such a hit.
He Must Like You
Written by Danielle Younge-Ullman
Penguin Teen
July 14 2020
Read this excerpt to get a sense for why you're going to want to read this one!
“I have the item” is the first thing I hear when I walk into work on Sunday night.
The item in question is my duvet, and the person winking at me about it is Kyle.
Kyle, who is standing behind the host stand in the cheery foyer of the Goat wearing a mini cowboy hat with plush horns curling out of it—the latest in his growing collection of goat-themed apparel. He looks hilarious, cute, and deceptively harmless.
“It’s in my truck. I’ll give it to you after?”
“Sure. Thanks,” I say, with what I hope is a neutral-seeming nod.
I’ll have to wash it in hot water. Twice.
“Or we could go for a drive, climb into the back, get cozy,” Kyle suggests, with a waggle of his white-blond eyebrows.
My insides take flight like a flock of startled birds, and then I’m doing this awkward thing where I’m cringing and trying to smile at the same time. But smiling might be too encouraging and so I stop, because even after three weeks of my ignoring his texts and generally avoiding him as much as possible, Kyle continues to look at me with those stupidly hopeful, flirty eyes.
Still, I don’t want to be rude. We work together, and in that capacity Kyle has been fine. In fact, except for the one (admittedly problematic) incident, he’s been great. Not to mention, I’m the one who asked him to bring me the duvet when my mom finally noticed it was missing today. I’m also the one who let him wear it home from my house in the first place.
“I’ll just grab it from you after,” I say. “I have a lot of homework.”
“Your call,” he says with a shrug.
“Right.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say, with another too-bright smile. “Um, what’s my section?”
“The patio,” Kyle says, gesturing at the giant, erasable seating chart that sits on the host podium.
“Alone?”
“Yeah. That okay?”
It’s a big section to handle solo but more tables means more tips, so I say, “Totally.”
“By the way, Perry’s coming in, and he asked for you specifically,” Kyle says, looking at me like he expects this to make me ecstatic.
Perry Ackerman is a handful, and high on the list of people I’d rather not have to deal with right now. But he’s a great tipper, and a regular, so I give Kyle a thumbs-up and say, “Awesome.”
“I knew that’d make you happy.”
“So happy,” I say, and walk away taking deep breaths.
On my way through the restaurant I wave at my fellow servers Brianna and Kat, both of whom are working in the front tonight. Kat seems not to see me, but Brianna gives me a thumbs-up and pulls a comically panicked face that tells me she’s already in the weeds.
The patio is at the back of the restaurant, and is, in fact, not a patio at all, but a windowless, rectangular space tricked out with fake plants, paper lanterns, an anemic fountain, and painted “windows” on every wall that do not fool anyone.
I have just enough time to tidy the section, tally my float, and gulp down a half cup of hideously bitter coffee behind the wall of the service station before I hear, “Libbyyyyyyyy!”
“You got the ol’ perv?” Brianna gives me a wry, dimpled grin as she comes through with a stack of dirty plates. Her amazing crown of black braids adds at least three inches to her diminutive stature.
“Yep.”
“All right, tits up,” she says, which I’ve come to understand means some combination of “chin up” and “good luck.”
I snort and square my shoulders.
The item in question is my duvet, and the person winking at me about it is Kyle.
Kyle, who is standing behind the host stand in the cheery foyer of the Goat wearing a mini cowboy hat with plush horns curling out of it—the latest in his growing collection of goat-themed apparel. He looks hilarious, cute, and deceptively harmless.
“It’s in my truck. I’ll give it to you after?”
“Sure. Thanks,” I say, with what I hope is a neutral-seeming nod.
I’ll have to wash it in hot water. Twice.
“Or we could go for a drive, climb into the back, get cozy,” Kyle suggests, with a waggle of his white-blond eyebrows.
My insides take flight like a flock of startled birds, and then I’m doing this awkward thing where I’m cringing and trying to smile at the same time. But smiling might be too encouraging and so I stop, because even after three weeks of my ignoring his texts and generally avoiding him as much as possible, Kyle continues to look at me with those stupidly hopeful, flirty eyes.
Still, I don’t want to be rude. We work together, and in that capacity Kyle has been fine. In fact, except for the one (admittedly problematic) incident, he’s been great. Not to mention, I’m the one who asked him to bring me the duvet when my mom finally noticed it was missing today. I’m also the one who let him wear it home from my house in the first place.
“I’ll just grab it from you after,” I say. “I have a lot of homework.”
“Your call,” he says with a shrug.
“Right.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say, with another too-bright smile. “Um, what’s my section?”
“The patio,” Kyle says, gesturing at the giant, erasable seating chart that sits on the host podium.
“Alone?”
“Yeah. That okay?”
It’s a big section to handle solo but more tables means more tips, so I say, “Totally.”
“By the way, Perry’s coming in, and he asked for you specifically,” Kyle says, looking at me like he expects this to make me ecstatic.
Perry Ackerman is a handful, and high on the list of people I’d rather not have to deal with right now. But he’s a great tipper, and a regular, so I give Kyle a thumbs-up and say, “Awesome.”
“I knew that’d make you happy.”
“So happy,” I say, and walk away taking deep breaths.
On my way through the restaurant I wave at my fellow servers Brianna and Kat, both of whom are working in the front tonight. Kat seems not to see me, but Brianna gives me a thumbs-up and pulls a comically panicked face that tells me she’s already in the weeds.
The patio is at the back of the restaurant, and is, in fact, not a patio at all, but a windowless, rectangular space tricked out with fake plants, paper lanterns, an anemic fountain, and painted “windows” on every wall that do not fool anyone.
I have just enough time to tidy the section, tally my float, and gulp down a half cup of hideously bitter coffee behind the wall of the service station before I hear, “Libbyyyyyyyy!”
“You got the ol’ perv?” Brianna gives me a wry, dimpled grin as she comes through with a stack of dirty plates. Her amazing crown of black braids adds at least three inches to her diminutive stature.
“Yep.”
“All right, tits up,” she says, which I’ve come to understand means some combination of “chin up” and “good luck.”
I snort and square my shoulders.
(Retrieved from
on October 16, 2019.)
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