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Informationen zum Autor Autumn Allen teaches literature and writing workshops for young people and edits picture books as a senior editor at Barefoot Books. She teaches children’s literature at the Harvard Graduate School of Education and holds graduate degrees in education, children's literature and writing for children from Harvard and Simmons Universities. Her forthcoming picture books, Step On Board: Sculpting a Memorial to Harriet Tubman , illustrated by Ekua Holmes, and Answered Prayers, will be published by Knopf. All You Have to Do is her debut novel. Autumn grew up in Boston and lives in Massachusetts with her family. Visit her website at autumnallenbooks.com. Klappentext "Intertwining the stories of two Black students decades apart, this compelling and honest novel follows Kevin and Gibran as they navigate similar forms of insidious racism while discovering who they want to be instead of what society tells them they are."-- Leseprobe 1 GIBRAN Massachusetts | September 1995 The bass is thumping. I can feel it in my bones. It’s begging me to bob my head, laugh, and shout. In another place, I would get up, my boys in step with me, rush the stage, dance. But in Thatcher Hall, at Lakeside Academy, I freeze. Three white boys—two seniors and a junior—bounce onto the stage, smirking. The bass becomes a warped noise as my eyes take in every inch of their costumes. Six pairs of sneakers, all mixed up on three pairs of feet. Yellow and red. Red and black. Black and green. They’re high-top sneakers—good ones. Expensive ones. And they’re brand-new. No doubt bought on their parents’ credit cards, just for this one stunt. They march back and forth, pretending to warm up to the music, acting like they’re going to rhyme. I watch those sneakers, obsessed with the fact that they’ll never wear them again. They wear baggy jeans so new, they’re creased and saturated with dye. Crisp white T-shirts, extra extra large. The jeans, the shirts—they won’t wear those again either. They got the brands right mostly, but their ignorance shows in the details. Their Red Sox caps betray them. Faded all over and frayed at the edges. If they knew anything about us, they’d know you can’t perform in that. The contrast is almost funny. But those mismatched shoes. And the walk. An exaggerated pimp walk. Dip, hop, dip, hop. Arms swinging, greedy grins on their faces, swaying to a rhythm that doesn’t match the beat still rattling my bones. Mics held to their thin lips, their mouths move, but I can’t hear the words they’re lip-synching. I can barely hear the muffled laughter of the other white students who watch. I tear my eyes away from the stage and scan the audience. The boys’ friends crack up and cheer them on. Other white students cover their smiles with one hand, wide-eyed, not sure if they should find this funny. The boys onstage are laughing. Their blue, green, hazel eyes gleam with something that feels sinister. They wear a confidence that was never taken from them. I want to steal it now. What can I do? Stop the show? Bash the speakers? Slap the microphones out of their hands? I savor the fantasy, but there are too many witnesses. To be the aggressor in front of the whole school—that would guarantee my expulsion. I wouldn’t mind; it could be worth it. If only it weren’t for my mother’s tears. My family’s pleas. You’re almost there, Gibran. Just graduate. Finish your last year. Like it’s easy. No. The longer I’m here, the harder it gets. On my right, James’s dark eyes are narrowed, following the boys across the stage, trying to figure out if this is for real. On my left, David glares at the wall behind them, expressionless, holding himself together. The three of us make eye contact and exchange thoughts silently. Here we go. These dudes. Are they serious right now? ...
