Exclusive Cover Reveal + Excerpt: Lamar Giles’s Ruin Road

Sometimes the easiest way to talk about contemporary issues is through the lens of genre fiction. Such is the case with Ruin Road, the latest novel from Edgar Award finalist Lamar Giles. Described as Friday Night Lights meets Stephen King’s Needful Things, the book addresses topics of racism, prejudice, abuse of power, and what it means to be afraid. 

Ruin Road follows the story of Cade Wilson, a boy who lives in two worlds. A star athlete at an elite school, he lives in the wrong neighborhood and struggles to navigate the difficulties of existing in the world as a young Black man. But when a strange purchase from a pawn shop and a mistaken wish—that people stop being so scared of him—manifests in strange, unexpected, and even dangerous ways, he’ll have to figure out how to stop the chaos he’s unleashed.

Here’s how the publisher describes the story. 

Cade Webster lives between worlds. He’s a standout football star at the right school but lives in the wrong neighborhood—if you let his classmates tell it. Everywhere but home, people are afraid of him for one reason or another. Afraid he’s too big, too fast, too ambitious, too Black. 

Then one fateful night, to avoid a dangerous encounter with the police, he ducks into a pawn shop. An impulse purchase and misspoken desire change everything when Cade tells the shopkeeper he wishes people would stop acting so scared around him, and the wish is granted.. 

At first, it feels like things have taken a turn for the better. But it’s not just Cade that people no longer fear—it’s everything. With Cade spreading this newfound “courage” wherever he goes, anything can happen. Fearless acts of violence begin to escalate in both his neighborhood and at school. Something monstrous is clearly at work and it’s up to Cade to stop it. But just what did he buy and what’s the price to undo the damage? After all, the devil’s in the details.

Ruin Road will be released on September 27, 2024, but we’ve got an exclusive first look at its thrilling cover and an excerpt from the story itself to help tide you over till then.

The cover designer is Maeve Norton and the cover artist is Lola Idowu. 

You carry your people with you even when you ride alone.

Pop first told me that when I was six years old, then when I was seven. A bunch of times when I was eight, nine, and ten. When I hit my first growth spurt and was suddenly as tall as him, he said it again, along with a bunch of other Kincade Webster III’s Nuggets of WisdomTM, so much it made me mad. I know, man, I know.

Lately he’d slowed down beating me over the head with common sense. There wasn’t much time left; no need to waste it on repeats. Plus, he accomplished the mission. I remembered stuff he said even when I didn’t want to. Right now, smiling for this camera, having never reached true comfort at Neeson Preparatory Academy after all this time, I felt every bit of that “ride alone” part.

There was this other thing he said, too: Every smart man is a con man.

It was best to run a long con when it came to this stupid, stilted script I’d been reciting. I acted like it was incredible, best thing ever written. It was the right thing to do. The smart thing. Especially if I wanted to get out of here in time to catch my bus.

I finished my second take and said, “We good?”

Sheila, the blonde, leathery-faced director of communications, said, “Cade, I’m afraid to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re a natural.”

“So we’re good?”

“Coach Gibson told me you were camera shy, and, if I’m being honest, shooting athletes tends to be the more labor-intensive part of the boosters video. You might be the best we’ve ever had, though! Makes my job so much easier.”

“Oh. Cool. I can go?” I was already moving when Sheila held up her hand, halting me.

She glanced at the cameraman. He touched two fingers to his headphones, listening to the playback. “Audio’s good.”

Sheila said, “You’re so well-spoken, Cade.”

I bristled. Bet Sheila’d be impressed I knew that word and many others.

She said, “Let’s go again. Get an extra take to be safe.”

We were in the school’s TV studio, which still felt weird because most of my life, a school and a TV studio meant two separate buildings. Not so at Neeson Prep. (Go, Sparks!) This school had a test kitchen for kids in culinary classes. A robotics lab for kids who knew how to do that. An Olympic-sized pool. There were even a couple of curling lanes, that sport where they slide a big rock across some ice while guys sweep the path. (It’s kind of intense, though I wouldn’t admit that to anyone back in the Court.) At my old school, we had to share books and didn’t always have heat in the winter.

Settling back in front of a green screen on a stool constructed for a much tinier person, spending my Saturday spouting off nonsense Sheila probably wrote herself, I wrestled impatience. Sheila was wrong about me being camera shy. I loved a camera. Loved showing off on the football field—my YouTube mixtape was disgusting! Loved photobombing baddies. Loved repping Jacobs Court. I didn’t love this smile-for-the-boosters mess. This was an obligation. Part of the unspoken requirements of my athletic scholarship.

Don’t get me wrong, I understood and appreciated the opportunities I’d been granted. Getting the call to bring my talents to Neeson’s football program three years ago was life-changing. When it became clear that I was much faster than the guys in my neighborhood, stronger than most of my competition across Virginia, and as big as the recruits I went up against in the national invite-only football camps and combines, Neeson was the next best step toward a future in the pros. My whole family agreed. We were going to do the work, and make the sacrifices, to change not only my future but future generations. Sometimes that meant sitting your butt down and smiling when you don’t feel like it! (Another Nugget of WisdomTM.)

Sheila said, “Reset. Go on my count.”

My phone was face down on my thigh, out of frame. I flipped it to check the time—11:16 a.m.— and calculated my chances of catching the 91 bus across town. If this was the last take, I could probably be out of here by 11:30. It was a fifteen-minute walk to the bus stop if I was lazy about it, but I could cut that to seven minutes easy. Either way, I’m there before noon, which was imperative (give me my vocabulary points, Sheila) because the next bus didn’t come till 2:00.

“Three . . .” Sheila said.

The teleprompter scrolled to the top of the script.

“Two . . .”

I smoothed my navy blue Neeson Prep polo shirt.

“One . . .”

“Hi, I’m Cade Webster, wide receiver for the Neeson Sparks. If things go according to plan, we’re going to have an explosive season—” 

Sheila insisted on two more takes “to be safe,” bringing us to 11:35. And I was leaving.

“Ummmm,” she said.

“I have to go.” I stood and plucked the lavalier microphone from my collar.

The room felt charged. It was low. Not the worst I’d experienced, but I’d moved too fast and unpredictably. Sheila and the cameraman tensed like I’d shape-shifted.

Sheila cleared her throat. “Yes. I’m sorry. I was told we’d have you as long as we needed you.”

Another of Pop’s nuggets dropped: You want to see how people feel about you, set a boundary.

I said, “The first take was clean, so you should be able to edit around that. I have to catch my bus.”

The cameraman shuffled his feet and inspected some overhead lights that worked fine.

Sheila’s mouth twitched into a position just north of a scowl, then she revealed a new rule. “Six to seven solid takes are mandatory for each segment of the boosters video.”

“I’m sorry, but I gotta be somewhere this afternoon. I can’t be late.” When I moved toward the door, Sheila stepped back, even though she was nowhere near the door. Instinctively I made sure my hands were open and visible. No fists. Nothing concealed or threatening. I hesitated reaching for the knob. “We’re good, right?”

“Enjoy your weekend, Cade.”

Outside the studio, the door was slow closing. If Sheila thought I spoke well, she didn’t think my hearing was so great because her voice wasn’t low when she said, “They don’t know how good they have it here.”

“They?” the cameraman asked.

“Athletes,” Sheila confirmed quickly. “That’s all I meant.”

Then the door sealed the soundproof room, and I shook off the sting of what she really meant, kept it cool. I had to. Like Pop always said, doing what was necessary now was what would take care of my family later.

Made my bus with two minutes to spare.

© Lamar Giles, 2024; courtesy of Scholastic Press

Ruin Road will hit shelves on September 17, but you can pre-order it right 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