Exclusive Cover Reveal + Excerpt: A Prestigious Tennis Tournament Begins In The Misdirection of Fault Lines

“Did you make it there ok?”

I am so busy staring at my bizarre surroundings that I barely hear my brother’s question through the phone. I hadn’t expected Florida to look so…French.

“Hello? Alice? Can you hear me?” David’s voice strains with tension, as though I might have simply vanished without a word.

“I’m here,” I confirm, giving a wary look at the imposing wrought iron word that’s been twisted and dropped immediately upon entrance to the campus.

Bastille.

I’d known the place would be French-like. What I did not anticipate was stepping directly into a non-French-person’s fantasy of what France would look like. Right down to the cobblestone paths, I am in the middle of the scene in Beauty and the Beast where Belle insults everyone around her and visits the library in a town where no one else reads.

“We’re so proud of you. I hope you know that.”

My older brother clears his throat, surely giving himself more time to think of things to say, as I wander through plaza after plaza of villas, each with a different Joan of Arc fountain in its center.

They’re not called dorms here, these villages of miniature structures burst out in all directions from their central gathering point. Each house in this plaza, marked Place de la Concorde, has four doors, all painted pale blue to contrast with the pinkish color of the building itself. The upper level rooms have tiny balconies out back, the villas cleverly arranged so that they open into tall Cypresses and other green shrubbery instead of each other. It gives the illusion of privacy, even as the buildings are crammed so close together you can nearly span the distance between them with your hands.

I’m accustomed to the dense housing of an urban environment, with San Francisco’s mere forty-nine square miles housing nearly a million people, but the number of players Bastille is able to squeeze into these little villages is impressive even to me.

I shift the strap on my shoulder, thinking of the hot pink sleeping bag inside of the bag I’m carrying. Surely the color alone will mark me as an outsider here—a kid’s color, borrowed from the little sister of one of David’s friends. I see a few players towing carts of proper bedding from their cars, apparently unsatisfied at the prospect of living the actual camp experience. Everyone here moves with such assurance, of where they’re going and what they’re doing.

I’m stalling.

Finding my assigned villa will lead to my going inside, which will lead to making this entire thing real. As it is now, I am simply a visitor, wandering the grounds in admiration.

Suddenly, my eye snags on a familiar face. With thick, glossy brown hair and a smile that would make dentists weep with joy, Violetta Masuda is unmistakable. So is the man next to her—wavy blonde hair and dimples that vaulted him onto posters across America, it’s Cooper Nelsen. He was once considered “the next big thing” in American men’s tennis, until multiple knee injuries forced an early retirement.

So this is where he ended up.

They turn my way and, without thinking, I fling myself behind the closest Joan of Arc. Here, she is spitting gracefully into a concrete basin while proudly holding the French flag. In this sculpture, unlike the painting that clearly inspired it, her breasts are covered. It’s perhaps the one detail that finally pulls me back to the reality of the moment.

I am crouched behind a fountain, sweat trickling down my back and into my pants, hiding from people who have no idea I exist. From my low post, I have an almost unobstructed view of them. It’s clear they are close by the way they interact, easy bumps and touches without hesitation—like they’ve had a lifetime of knowing each other. Funny then, that he’s never made an appearance on her social media.

I am so immersed in watching them that I forget I still have my phone held to my ear, David waiting for me on the line.

“Alice? Are you still there?” he asks.

I grunt my agreement, not wanting to draw the attention of those crossing the plaza—this one marked Place du Capitole. No one seems to even look at the trees or the statues around them as they scurry to their villas. Perhaps they have all been here before.

“How are your hands?” David asks. “Did they survive the flight?”

I flex my left hand, watching each finger stretch out in front of me. I know what he’s really asking about, but I pretend I don’t anyway. Despite his teasing tone, I know there’s worry behind his question. “Present and accounted for.”

He lets my sarcasm go without a response. He never used to do that.

I watch Violetta and Cooper hug goodbye, her arms lingering just a bit longer than his, then stand and stretch my legs with relief once they’re out of sight. My entire body is slick with sweat, my curly hair uncomfortably plastered to the back of my neck and my phone screen fogged from my body heat.

“Listen,” David continues, not bothering to ask my permission for this unsolicited pep talk. “I know this is scary, but you can do this. We believe in you. You’re going to be great and we’ll be cheering you on the whole way.”

We. He keeps using the pronoun, as if he speaks for the rest of the family.

I drag a finger through the water in the fountain, hoping it might cool both my body and my mind. But it’s warm, like everything else here.

“Is Ma there?” I ask.

David awkwardly clears his throat. “She just stepped out to run some errands. She wanted to talk to you, I know she did…”

Excerpt from The Misdirection of Fault Lines / Text copyright © 2024 by Anna Gracia. Reproduced by permission from Peachtree Publishing Company Inc. All rights reserved.

The Misdirection of Fault Lines will hit shelves on April 2, 2024, but you can pre-order it now. 

Lacy Baugher Milas is the Books Editor at Paste Magazine, but loves nerding out about all sorts of pop culture. You can find her on Twitter @LacyMB