Just Under the Clouds
Home is never out of reach
(Sprache: Englisch)
Can you still have a home if you don't have a house? In the spirit of The Truth About Jellyfish and Fish in a Tree comes a stunning debut about a family struggling to find something lasting when everything feels so fleeting.
Always think in threes...
Always think in threes...
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Can you still have a home if you don't have a house? In the spirit of The Truth About Jellyfish and Fish in a Tree comes a stunning debut about a family struggling to find something lasting when everything feels so fleeting.Always think in threes and you'll never fall, Cora's father told her when she was a little girl. Two feet, one hand. Two hands, one foot. That was all Cora needed to know to climb the trees of Brooklyn.
But now Cora is a middle schooler, a big sister, and homeless. Her mother is trying to hold the family together after her father's death, and Cora must look after her sister, Adare, who's just different, their mother insists. Quick to smile, Adare hates wearing shoes, rarely speaks, and appears untroubled by the question Cora can't help but ask: How will she find a place to call home?
After their room at the shelter is ransacked, Cora's mother looks to an old friend for help, and Cora finally finds what she has been looking for: Ailanthus altissima, the "tree of heaven," which can grow in even the worst conditions. It sets her on a path to discover a deeper truth about where she really belongs.
Just Under the Clouds will take root in your heart and blossom long after you've turned the last page.
"[A] heartbreaking yet hopeful story of a family searching for a place to belong." --Publishers Weekly
"[A] thought provoking debut about the meaning of home and the importance of family."--Horn Book Magazine
Lese-Probe zu „Just Under the Clouds “
Mom s calling and I m counting. My backpack s tight on my back up here in the tree. Knees tucked neat over the branches. Bare feet dangling. One . . . two . . . three . . . I soar. Out and then down and I m at the dirt, balancing on the tree s roots, while Adare spreads out on a clump of Brooklyn brown grass, like a snow angel without the snow.Coming! I shout. I scoop up Adare s hand. Come on, you.
Her breath is caught. She s got a habit of holding it.
Adare. I stomp.
But her eyes are wide and they shine like gray glass. The sun s in them, all pretty, sparkling, the way light hits water.
Adare! I close my eyes and wish her breath free.
She lets go of it and squirms her hand out of mine, then takes off running toward Mom, who ll take us from the park back to Ennis House.
We ve never lived in a shelter before, and even if we ve never lived much of anywhere for too long, it feels like, for the first time, we don t have a home. We re homeless. For real.
Cora, I thought I told you to quit climbing. You ve got to keep an eye on your sister after school, Mom scolds as I chase behind.
Adare is buried in the limp of Mom s shirt.
I did, I argue, but I know it s no use. I take Mom s hand in mine. It always feels like I ve got to remind her I m here, too. Her hands are pink and stained.
Why are they pink? I ask.
She smiles. You ll see. Then she leans down so her whisper s at my messy hair. What do we have today?
I open up my own hand. A butterfly.
She squeezes it tight because we might not have a ton of money or clothes, but now we have a monarch butterfly I drew in blue ink. Right there on my palm.
We walk the sidewalks to Ennis House. Adare and I march on opposite sides of Mom.
I call out trees as we pass. Pin oak. Honey locust. Linden. Maple. The female ginkgo drops berries that smell awful. I gave that one a name a long time ago. It s called the vomit tree. When you pass one, you d better hold your nose.
What s that?
... mehr
Mom asks, pointing at a piney- looking tree.
I reach up and run its prickle over my thumb to count how many needles are bunched together on each branch. White pine, I say fast.
She shakes her head in surprise. How can you tell?
Five needles per bundle. I grin while she squeezes my hand again. She knows I ve studied the photographs Daddy pasted in his field journal, which I call my Tree Book. She knows I ve got my eye out for all the plants and trees I can find.
Like always, Adare stops a few thousand times during our ten- minute walk. She looks toward the sky, her chin sailing up like a flyaway balloon. I keep my sighs secret. Loud enough in my head so only I can hear them. We re getting nowhere fast, and even if everything in me is itch-ing to complain, I don t say a word.
Adare was born special, Mom always says. She tells the story like it s legend. She talks about the wind that night, in its quickening swirl. She talks about the labor, long and uneasy, Adare turning circles in her womb. She talks about the moment Adare came into the world without a sound Not blue, no, more like lavender, like sunset and in that moment all the oxygen gone from the world, the trees for-getting to breathe their gift, Adare forgetting, too.
She lost oxygen to the brain, but Mom doesn t call it a disadvantage, like others do. Adare sees things a different way, she always says. It s like all of us see from here she places her hand at the level of her heart.
I reach up and run its prickle over my thumb to count how many needles are bunched together on each branch. White pine, I say fast.
She shakes her head in surprise. How can you tell?
Five needles per bundle. I grin while she squeezes my hand again. She knows I ve studied the photographs Daddy pasted in his field journal, which I call my Tree Book. She knows I ve got my eye out for all the plants and trees I can find.
Like always, Adare stops a few thousand times during our ten- minute walk. She looks toward the sky, her chin sailing up like a flyaway balloon. I keep my sighs secret. Loud enough in my head so only I can hear them. We re getting nowhere fast, and even if everything in me is itch-ing to complain, I don t say a word.
Adare was born special, Mom always says. She tells the story like it s legend. She talks about the wind that night, in its quickening swirl. She talks about the labor, long and uneasy, Adare turning circles in her womb. She talks about the moment Adare came into the world without a sound Not blue, no, more like lavender, like sunset and in that moment all the oxygen gone from the world, the trees for-getting to breathe their gift, Adare forgetting, too.
She lost oxygen to the brain, but Mom doesn t call it a disadvantage, like others do. Adare sees things a different way, she always says. It s like all of us see from here she places her hand at the level of her heart.
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Melissa Sarno
Melissa Sarno is a freelance writer and editor with an MFA in screenwriting. She writes about middle-grade books for Barnes & Noble's BNkids blog and edits YA and children's book reviews for Cleaver magazine. Read more about her at melissasarno.com. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram at @melissasarno.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Melissa Sarno
- Altersempfehlung: 8 - 12 Jahre
- 2018, Internationale Ausgabe, 240 Seiten, Maße: 13,9 x 21,1 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Knopf Books for Young Readers
- ISBN-10: 0525644601
- ISBN-13: 9780525644606
- Erscheinungsdatum: 28.05.2018
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"[R]ich and evocative . . . . A moving book about an all-too-common childhood experience, which is fairly uncommon in children's literature." --Booklist"Troubling, affecting, and ultimately uplifting, from a promising debut novelist."--Kirkus Reviews
"[A] thought provoking debut about the meaning of home and the importance of family."--Horn Book Magazine
"This is a beautiful book. I loved Cora who was so warm and real. I cried over her hard life, but was thrilled over her choices. I wanted her to succeed; I wanted her to be happy. The ending of this book was wonderful; I'll never forget it." -Patricia Reilly Giff, author of Eleven
"This beautiful novel grabbed me from page one and never let go. Simply put, I loved this book. Cora and Adare wormed their way into my heart. I rooted for them, I ached for them. An incredible debut novel. I'm already a Sarno fan and can't wait to see what she does next." -Susin Nielsen, author of We Are All Made of Molecules
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