D.J. Rosenblum Becomes the G.O.A.T.
Grief, Growth, and the Making of a G.O.A.T.
Editor’s note: Abby White’s debut young adult novel, set to release on August 5, 2025, D.J. Rosenblum Becomes the G.O.A.T., is a compelling blend of mystery and real emotional depth. D.J. Rosenblum navigates the complexities of adolescence and a big move while confronting the enigmatic circumstances surrounding her cousin Rachel's alleged suicide all while preparing for her own bat mitzvah.
D.J. Rosenblum Becomes the G.O.A.T., by Abby White, published by Levine Querido, August 5, 2025.
The following excerpt has been reproduced with permission from the publisher, Levine Querido.
EXCERPT
The blue shock of Judy’s eyes is the only reason I recognize her. On the mantel sits a photo of the aunt I once knew. It’s her wedding day: She’s beaming up at Jay with eyes bright enough for a planet to orbit. Judy gets weekly mani-pedis, wears Athleta and Lululemon, and always has a new cream she wants my mom to try. She becomes the center of attention in every room she enters, like a diamond in a lit glass case.
Now, as she bends to cup my cousin Davey’s face, her collar bone almost falls out of her crew neck. Gone are the bright leggings and fitted tank tops. She’s swallowed in black sweats; her hair is half frizzy, half straight. Lines pinch her eyes, and even their blue seems different—dimmed.
Davey climbs into Judy’s lap. She takes a few seconds to notice me and my mom. “Oh, Becca—D.J.! So glad you made it.” Her eyes shift between us. She pets Davey’s head as if by habit. “How was the drive?”
“Could’ve been better?” Mom says it like a question. I’m the only person who could confirm, but her eyes are trained on Judy. “We hit bad traffic on I-80.”
Judy blinks. “That’s nice.”
Mom kneels at Judy’s feet. After a moment, she grabs her hand and squeezes. That gets my aunt’s attention: Judy looks down, brown catches blue, and her whole body shudders. I stare at the floor. Mom lets go so she can lift Davey up. “How about a nap, June Bug?” Judy nods, tight-lipped.
As Mom pulls her sister to her feet, I lead Davey outside to get the rest of the bags. He takes my hand. I try to grin at him the way my mom does—comforting and mischievous all at once.
“Bet you can’t carry more than me.”
“Bet I can!”
He runs ahead of me, red hair just like hers, and for a second, my chin shakes.
*
Davey drags Mom’s backpack all the way to the foot of the stairs before he gets bored and runs to his playroom. I carry our bags to the two guest rooms. They’re dusty, but they both have clean bedding and towels. Could be worse.
From the hallway, I can hear Mom putting Judy to bed. After a few minutes, my aunt’s voice turns wet. I put in my earbuds. The singer sighs about ocean air, soothing. At least my room here is a decent size. It has a double bed, a wide closet, and pale curtains over the window. All in all, it looks like a hotel room, except for the patchwork quilt. I lift a corner of fleece to my face.
“I haven’t seen that old thing in years.”
I jump. Mom is leaning against the doorframe. She’s pulled her hair into a messy bun. “You know, Bubbe—”
“—made it from your and Judy’s baby blankets.” I pause the song. “It’s still pretty soft.”
“Even after all those sticky baby hands.” Mom sits on the bed. “Thanks for helping out down there. It must’ve been hard to see Judy like that.”
“She was in pretty bad shape at the—the last time we came here.” My eyes drift to the window. There’s an oak tree outside. It waves. “I guess I didn’t think she’d be great today.”
“Judy and Jay—they’re going through an incredibly hard time.” Mom’s eyes are sagging. “But I think we’ll be able to help them. For the next year, at least. As for us—” She squeezes my hand. “It’s lucky I could pull some strings at Briar College, right? Get that associate professor job before it was listed. You and I could use a fresh start.”
I think of the breathing exercise my old school counselor, Dr. Stern, showed me. In, two, three, four . . . out, two, three, four. “You’re right.” In, two, three, four . . . “I’m glad we’re here.” Briar is the only place I can complete my mission.
Not that my mom knows that.
“That’s my girl.” Mom brushes off her pant legs as she stands up. “I’m gonna run to the grocery store. I thought I’d make tonight’s dinner, and you can cook later this week. So let me know what I should pick up.”
“OK.”
“And would you keep an eye out for Jay? He probably won’t be back before dinner—Judy said he’s picked up extra shifts at the hospital—but if you do see him, tell him to call me. I don’t want to make two trips to the store.”
“OK.”
“Oh, and that reminds me—can you check on Davey? I think he’s playing, but we should make sure he doesn’t need anything. Water or a snack. Maybe a treat—”
“OK, Mom.”
She laughs. “Point taken. I’ll call up for dinner.”
Mom leaves the door cracked. I’ve got a message from Eva. how’s the estate? She’s using a filter to make her face look like a cartoon: big brown eyes, straight- lined eyebrows, and smooth, dark skin, now with a synthetic shine. I reply with a filter that surrounds me with flames. everything is Fine. Seconds later, she sends back a laughing face.
At least Eva is acting like everything is normal. Even though we both know she’s lying.
Davey is stacking Legos in his playroom. A fin is beginning to take shape. “Dolphin?” I ask.
“Shark.” He looks insulted. “That’s obvious.”
“Not till it has teeth!”
“When it does, it’ll come after you.”
“Oh no!” I gasp. “Ahhhh!”
I mock-swim out of the room. Davey’s laugh carries behind me. He’s fine-ish. These days, ish is pretty good. I turn my music back on and approach the stairs.
And that’s when I see it.
The door at the end of the hallway, tall and painted like the sky. Its clouds are plush; its blue is pale. A beaded sign on the brass doorknob reads: HEAD IN THE CLOUDS. DON’T BRING ME DOWN!
Bile sprints up my throat. The song is reedy in my ears. Its singer insists that we can keep growing. This singer hopes, prays, that wanting more can be enough. But screams still echo through my eardrums. It’s a false memory: I never heard her scream. Yet I feel her standing next to me, writhing, wailing, as I run back to my room and shut the door. In, two, three . . . out, two, three. I kneel, heaving. In, two, three, four . . . out, two, three, four. I will my heart to keep time with the music. Beat by beat passes, and Rachel comes into focus. A pen on my wrist. A snort of a laugh. A wink when our parents weren’t looking.
Just as I remember her. Just as she should be.
“This is why I’m here,” I whisper. “Rachel, I’m going to figure out who killed you.”
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Bio: Abby White began to write as a child in Shaker Heights, OH, and never managed to put down her pen. She studied creative writing and American studies at Columbia University and is now an MFA candidate at the University of Nevada, Reno. Abby loves books, baking, LeBron James, and elephants—so much that she’s willing to break an alliteration for them. Today, she lives in Washington, DC, with an extraordinary community of friends. D.J. Rosenblum Becomes the G.O.A.T. is her debut novel.
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5 Tiny Delights:
1. The scent of jasmine wafting up before I sip my tea.
2. The taste of a dessert flecked with real, dark vanilla beans.
3. The sound of people in a coffee shop—ambient noise while I work.
4. The sight of a close friend waiting for me to write, or read, or just plain hang out.
4. The feel of a cat or dog, fur soft against my fingers, and maybe even a boop! on their wet nose.
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5 Tiny Jewish Delights:
1. A minor key in music.
2. The fragrance of challah baking or latkes frying.
3. Using the word "schmutz." How do non-Yiddish-speakers communicate without it?!
4. Every flick of my parents' eyes.
5. [big sigh from someone, somewhere, across the vast Jewish globe] "Oy."
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