“Zhang writes about obsessive fandom with the knowledge of an insider, tossing in heaps of scandals and fandom minutiae…It’s affecting to witness Minnie’s and Eason’s hard-fought journeys to self-acceptance. An earnest exploration of toxic fandom and coming of age.”
– Kirkus

“Superfan riveted me. I was a frog being boiled as Zhang pulled me page by page into the book’s orbit, with writing that is deceptively perceptive, yearning, and engaging all at once. Superfan is not only an insightful examination of the all-encompassing natures of fandom and stardom, it’s a story about ultimately learning to feel whole.”
– Rachel Khong, New York Times bestselling author of Real Americans

“As catchy, appealing, and achingly tender as a boy band’s hit ballad, Superfan dazzles and captivates, while raising vital questions about fandom, celebrity, and the performance of self. Jenny Tinghui Zhang captures the complexities of emerging adulthood in all its tenuous glory.”
–  Kirstin Chen, New York Times bestselling author of Counterfeit

The boys are there, waiting for her. They have always been waiting for her.

She is browsing the front page of a video sharing site when she sees them: draped in white, frozen, yet exploding. ASIAN BOY
BAND STUNS AT LOCAL MUSIC FESTIVAL, the title of the video says. Normally, she would ignore a declaration like this, preferring to decide for herself the things that stun her, but their faces— which are undeniably lovely— give her pause. Two million views. Uploaded ten days ago. She cannot fathom the numbers and she cannot fathom the boys. Between Josh Tries to Eat Everything at Whataburger and this, she chooses this.

The music begins. The four of them leap forward, stage lights rolling off their bodies as if unable to latch on. The video was recorded on a cell phone, the picture peppered with grain, but the boys remain clean. Their hair is the color of acorn, honey, liquid silver, and midnight; their bodies are sheathed in white fabric. She can feel them through the laptop screen, count all the pixels that come together to form their sublime faces. She imagines, too, the pulsing tangle of pixels beneath their clothes, the ones that make up their blood, their muscles, their precious bones. The boys are tall and lanky, the kind of model bodies that are 90 percent legs and the rest pure charisma. Glossy boys, unstoppable boys.

It starts like this, then. With a video of boys.

The boys are singing and dancing, gliding and spinning, and glowing, really glowing, and she is glowing with them, because between her and them, there is no longer a laptop screen. There is no audience, no band, no crew in the wings. Not the concept of distance, not even air. There is only them and all the things she wants, which is to be with them, to love them and for them to love her.

The performance ends. The crowd screams their approval, the sound a white-hot current that shoots back and forth between her ears. The boys bow for the final time, each face softened with a smile. They press
their palms to their lips and wave.

The screen fades to black and she is left staring at her own stunned face.

She replays the video four times more, watching one boy at a time. She tracks his dance, his song, the shimmer of his face as he struts up and down the stage. She follows these faultless boys, these irresistible boys, these boys with voices pitched to an octave of angels, and she feels herself falling and rising at the same time.

I have no idea who these boys are, one comment below the video says, but I’m in love with them.