Excerpts Young Adult Read an Excerpt From Where You’ll Find Us by Jen St. Jude A trans teen finds a home where queer kids from all different decades have found refuge from hatred-and from time. By Jen St. Jude | Published on May 28, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Where You’ll Find Us, a new young adult fantasy novel by Jen St. Jude, out from Bloomsbury YA on June 2nd. Calla Quick has no future. At least, that’s how it feels. Her parents disowned her via text message, and now she can’t afford to go to an all-women’s college with her girlfriend Ramona like they planned. But Calla wonders if maybe that’s for the best-because even though Calla told Ramona her parents disowned her because they found out she’s gay, the truth is, Calla has been questioning whether she’s a girl at all.Calla wishes she had more time to figure everything out, and one night, her wish is seemingly granted. When Calla and Ramona stumble upon a mysterious farmhouse the woods, they meet five teens who claim they’ve lived there for decades. The land, which they call Amaranth, acts as a safe haven for queer kids throughout history—a place free of hate, free of violence, free of time itself. Here, Calla can be Cal, and they feel instantly accepted. They don’t have to worry about the future because at Amaranth, it will never come—until one night when the clock strikes twelve. Now under a literal ticking clock, the housemates must find a way to stop time again or face going back to their harsh realities, but as Cal learns everyone’s story, they begin to wonder what queer people lose when their history is lost to time. Lost The storm obscures what little was left of the setting sun’s light. We do our best to navigate the dark and the downpour, but we hit a patch of slick mud and literally skid to a stop, gripping onto each other to keep from falling over. When we find our balance, I realize we’re standing at a fork in the road. “I don’t remember there being a split,” Ramona says. “Me neither.” I try to think back to a moment when we might have veered more left or right, but I was more focused on trying to save my relationship than where we were walking. I pat my sides looking for pockets, for my phone, but of course nothing is there. “Shit, I left my phone in your purse,” I say. “Shit, I left my purse in the ballroom.” Shit, shit, shit. “It’s OK,” I say. “We can’t be too far either way.” We stare into the thickly knitted trees and try to make out something familiar, something different.  “I think it’s the right one,” Ramona says, and of course I trust her, the girl with the answers. Thunder cracks overhead, making both of us jump. “And even if it’s not, it’s better to figure it out sooner than later.” But we barely take five steps before lightning strikes, and all around us turns a hot, white, angry blue. It cracks like gunshots, like fireworks, so close we stumble forward and hit the forest floor. Then there’s crashing, ripping, rushing, and we spin around to see a huge tree fall behind us. We both flinch when it strikes the ground, instinctually shielding our eyes with our arms. When we look again, smoke rises from a small fire where the tree was struck, but it’s quickly extinguished by the rain. Still, the scent of char is everywhere, sharp and suffocating. We’re both too stunned to scream. That lightning almost hit us. The tree came even closer. And now its wreckage is blocking the path entirely. “Ramona,” is all I can manage to say. “I’m right here,” she says as we reach for each other. “We need to find shelter. This storm…” As if on cue, a new, crueler wind picks up around us. It’s raw and loud and relentless. We get up and run forward because we have no other choice. We hold onto each other as if our lives depend on it. Our teeth are chattering, my skin burning, feet cramping. With each step we take, it’s harder to stand, and it feels more and more possible that we might not make it out alive, and God, that would be my fault. All of this is my fault. “I think I see a light!” Ramona says, voice almost carried away by the wind. My heart unclenches at the thought of finally seeing the lanterns around the country club, but instead, we come to a clearing. Buy the Book Where You’ll Find Us Jen St. Jude Buy Book Where You'll Find Us Jen St. Jude Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget The sky above it is impossibly cloudless, though the rain keeps falling. There are more stars than I’ve ever seen. They feel so close. They light the world before us: A field dripping with feathery, blood-red flowers. A white, weather-worn house with a door that same bold, unforgettable crimson color. Rocking chairs on the front porch. Every window aglow. The chimney smoking. Ripples blooming across a small pond with every strike of a raindrop, and on its edge, a weeping willow tree. Chickens run around next to a coop, unbothered by the storm. “Someone’s home,” I say, desperately, gratefully. “Someone’s home,” Ramona echoes. I’m so relieved I could fall to my knees. Instead, I squeeze Ramona’s hand, and we run. Home or Something Like It When we knock on the door, nobody answers. I pull away to knock again, this time louder, this time harder. Silence, still. In my desperation, I turn and try the silver handle, and the door opens gently into the house. “Wait,” Ramona says. She takes a step back and looks around us, like someone might emerge from the woods to help us. “We can’t just go in.” “But—” “Shouldn’t we wait until someone opens the door? It’s not polite to just—” “Ramona,” I say, my voice pleading. My words are cut into pieces by my chattering teeth. “We can’t stay out in this storm. We’re wet and freezing and—” Lightning strikes another tree nearby. Ramona jumps and the sound stays on my skin. “Fine,” she says, folding her arms tighter across her chest. “But if there’s an ax murderer in here, I expect you to protect me.” “Obviously. Done.” We quickly step inside. Warmth wraps itself around us, and the scent of maple sugar hangs in the air. I’d think I was dead or dreaming if my wrist didn’t hurt so badly.  “Hello?” I call. “Anybody home?” Directly in front of us, a wooden staircase leads to a second floor. To our right, a huge kitchen is clean white, wood, and teal. To our left, in the living room, a record spins on its player while a fire blazes in the hearth. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God. “Is this “Prove It on Me Blues?” Ramona asks. I shrug and my teeth chatter harder as if in relief, and we immediately sit right in front of the fire. I expect my freezing skin to burn but the heat is perfect and strange and soft. Along one wall sits an old piano. Along another, a bookshelf filled with colorful, leather-bound books, gold etchings down their spines. Beyond a huge, green velvet couch, a big window overlooks the pond and the willow tree, and despite the storm, the view feels peaceful. They must have hosted a party recently, because streamers twist across the doorways, and a confusing balloon bouquet sways in the corner. “Trick or Treat, Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Grand Opening?” Ramona reads. My eyebrows furrow as I take it in, then I realize we’ve tracked mud across the floor. I start to say something about it when thunder booms outside, shaking the whole house. Ramona grabs my hand, and we clutch each other as if that will save us. We startle at the sound of scraping on the hardwood, and soon a bear-sized German Shepard bounds down the stairs. He falls down the last few steps, but scrambles to pick himself up before running right towards us. I brace for him to rip my throat out as any good guard dog would upon finding strangers in his home, but he just snuggles his huge body up against us. Nuzzles his head into Ramona’s lap, the fur around his snout a distinguished gray. “Hey, baby,” she says, scratching his ears. His tail thumps against a little table with the record player, and the scratchy, defiant, blues track skips on the beat. “Signs of life,” I say. “Hey big buddy. My dog at home is smaller than your head.” He pulls away from us, leaving behind a coating of fur on our dresses. Then he wiggles his butt, psyching himself up to jump on the couch. It takes him two tries, but he gets it, and the cushions sag under his weight. “There you go, old boy,” Ramona says. “Are you home alone?” I ask as if the dog will answer. He only gives a self-satisfied sigh as he settles onto the couch. Whoever lives here wouldn’t be that mad we came in to seek shelter, right? The art and the record, the dog and the maple scent; all signs of someone kind. Cultured. Gentle. Still, when I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, I imagine it all—a serial killer, a gun-slinging homophobe, a bigger German Shepard—but to my even deeper relief, it’s a girl around our age. She pauses half-way down the stairs and leans on the railing to study us. She’s white, has long, curly black hair and is wearing a bedazzled jean jacket over a vintage Sarah McLachlan tour t-shirt. I let myself breathe again. Her smile is immediate and amused. “Fresh blood!” she calls. Ramona and I must look horrified because she quickly adds, “Not literally. Chillax.” “Yay! Welcome! Hi!” says a warmer voice from the other end of the room. We turn to see a Black boy in a blue, white, and maroon geometric sweater that looks like it was ripped from Saved by the Bell. His hair is shaved on the sides and big up top, and his fingers are covered in something pink. He waves at us with jazz hands. “Please accept my most elaborate apologies. I didn’t hear you come in. I was in the pantry.” “No, no. We’re sorry for barging in,” I say. “We got caught in the storm and dragged in all this mud—” But when I look back at the carpet, it seems perfectly clean. “No one cares,” the girl cuts me off with her thick New York accent. “Tell us, what year is it?” Ramona and I look at each other, confused by the question. “You mean, on earth?” I say stupidly. “Yeahyeahyeah,” she urges me on.  “It’s 2026,” Ramona says warily. “2026! Everyone’s gonna freak. When was our last houseguest from, 2011?” she asks the boy. “Yes, it’s been so long since we’ve had anyone new. Nobody since Tyler and it felt like he only stayed for a minute. God, I wish he’d stayed. Love of my many lives.”  Ramona and I exchange a look. Fifteen years since their last visitor? These people hardly look old enough to drive, let alone run some kind of hotel in the middle of the woods. “Sorry,” Ramona says, “but do you have a phone we could borrow? We left ours at the country club and need to call an Uber.” The two—friends? Lovers? Siblings?—exchange wide-eyed, amused stares. “What’s an Uber?” Geometric Sweater asks. “Is it a robot? Oh my God, wait, no. Is it a flying car? Finally.” “Um, no. It’s a car share service? Like a taxi?” Ramona says. “You download an app and order a ride and… You’ve really never heard of it?” “We’re a bit behind the times,” the girl says, and the boy snorts out a laugh. Looking closer, she’s not wrong. These kids seem like they’re crazy about vintage, both of their outfits thrift finds of a lifetime. Together, they look like they’re living in the 1990s. The girl even has blue eyeshadow, for fuck’s sake. “OK,” Ramona says slowly, “but you must have a—” “I have to know,” Bedazzled interrupts her, still leaning on the banister, batting her eyelashes at us. “How’s Whitney? Mariah? Sophie B.? Celine? Alanis? My girl Sarah?” she pulls at her t-shirt. “Ambrosia, diva, darling,” the boy says, “let them settle in a little.” “Ugh, fine. OK, but one question: Who was president after Obama? Seems like y’all were finally making progress, huh?” Something hardens in me, and even sweet, polite Ramona glares at her. They’re messing with us. They are completely messing with us. And maybe I’d find it funny any other day but not today. God, not right now. Rage lights up my chest. “What’s your problem?” I bark, and Ramona puts her arm in front of me as if I’m going to charge up the stairs and tackle the girl. I wasn’t going to, but Ramona’s right that I want to. Bedazzled just smirks and cracks her gum, then blows a bubble the size of her face. “I’m just curious, is all.” “Are you… like… MAGA?” I ask. “My name’s Ambrosia,” she says. Ramona interrupts before I can scream. “I’m Ramona. This is Calla,” she says. “We’re students at Miss Stone’s, and we’re lost, and soon our teachers are going to realize we’re missing and panic. We might get in huge trouble. Can you lend us a phone or not?” “Sorry, love,” Geometric Sweater says. “I wish I could, but there are no phones here.” “No phones?” I ask dryly. “No phones.” “IPad, laptop, anything?” “Nope,” Ambrosia says as she finally comes all the way down the stairs. Ramona and I look at each other in disbelief, as she sits in the tiny slice of couch not taken up by the massive dog. “You can send off some smoke signals in the backyard if you want to. It won’t get you very far, but knock yourselves out.”  I want to bite her head off but Ramona presses her arm into my chest as a warning, so I shut up. “OK, so, how do you get in touch with people?” she asks gently, trying to keep her voice measured. “We don’t,” they say together. “So, what? Are you Luddites? Or living off the grid or hiding from—” “Blondie, take a chill pill,” Ambrosia says, the dog’s head now firmly planted in her lap. “Her name is Ramona,” I remind her. “I’m Lionel,” Sweater says. “See, the thing is, things work different in this house.” When neither Ramona nor I respond, he continues. “Time doesn’t exist here. Like, imagine this house is an island. Imagine time is a stream going by, and each year is a boat. Or maybe each lifetime is a boat? Or is it every instant? Anyway, it’s like each of us docked here at this house and time has been passing us by since. But if we ever return to the stream of time, we’ll be pulled back to the very moment we left. Right back to that same boat. Make sense?” Ambrosia claps her hands together and guffaws. “Lion, wow. Jesus, wow. That cleared things up, huh?” He rolls his eyes and waves her away. “At least I’m trying to explain. You just want them to flounder.” “No. Well, yes. But mostly I’ve just learned to let Sunny do her thing.” Ramona and I share a look that says, Are these people high? While they don’t seem violent, something clearly isn’t right, and part of me wants to get the hell out of here.  Ambrosia leans forward and gives a smile that’s almost sympathetic. Almost.  “Look, ladies, it’ll all make sense soon enough. You’re not in any danger, and for now, Lionel is making dessert—” Lionel waves his frosting hands again— “and I’m going to take you upstairs to get some dry clothes, OK?” I bristle at ‘ladies,’ even though I look like one, I know. I must admit—however foolish, however unfair—I’m disappointed Ramona doesn’t correct her. But why would she? We need their hospitality, their shelter, their clothes. Another violent crack of thunder reminds me of that. Lightning strikes, too, bright as daylight. We can’t leave yet.  “Like I said, I’m Ambrosia,” she calls back over her shoulder as Ramona and I reluctantly follow her up the stairs. “Just Ambrosia. No last name, you hear me? Have you ever heard of Madonna or Cher?” “Uh, sure,” Ramona says, turning around to shoot me a bemused grin. “Who hasn’t?” “Right, so, like that.” All along the walls, up the stairs and on the second floor, are striking framed portraits. There are five of them, all of people around our age, seemingly from different time periods. There’s one of Lionel, and it so captures his warm smile, the gap in his front teeth, his big brown eyes. There’s one of Ambrosia too, and she looks larger than life—high glam makeup, hair pinned up with butterfly clips, a choker necklace with a star charm at the center. Her tongue between her lips, playful. One portrait in particular stops me: An androgynous person with light brown hair slicked back; one strand out of place. Heavyset and handsome. A button up shirt that looks like it belongs to a cowboy. Freckles sprayed across a long face. And a stare that holds me there in the hallway for at least a minute. For too long. I feel so much gender envy I could melt into the floor. “Coming?” Ambrosia calls from the top, and I take three stairs at a time to catch up. Excerpted from Where You’ll Find Us, copyright © 2026 by Jen St. Jude. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>Where You’ll Find Us</i> by Jen St. Jude appeared first on Reactor.