By Davida Wills Hurwin
This uncooked, relocating novel follows teenagers-one, a Mohawk-wearing 17-year-old violent misfit; the opposite, a homosexual 13-year-old solid out by means of his kin, hustling at the streets and attempting to continue to exist. Acclaimed writer Davida Wills Hurwin creates a riveting narrative informed in alternating views in their lives prior to and after the violent hate crime that modified either their futures. This tragic yet finally inspirational trip of 2 polarized adolescents, their violent first assembly, and their peaceable reunion years later is an unforgettable tale of survival and forgiveness. This tale is electrified via the true lives of Matthew Boger and Timothy Zaal, who've shared their tale at the Oprah Winfrey express and NPR.
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I love listening to Chelsea, the way she talks about nothing and makes it sound good. It’s nice having her back. I catch Carl’s eyes—he too is wasted. Mom starts grace and I wonder if the guy who shot Carl is eating turkey someplace. He jumped bail, which he should not have had in the first place. Dad was right about that. “We thank thee for the bounty we are about to receive. ” I add my own silent thanks for the killer pot Glenn shared with me an hour ago and wonder what Carl’s on. We haven’t been hanging out much lately, but me and him sure as shit know how to do a family dinner.
I could just see it: cholas standing up on top of the lockers in the girls’ gym room, like Medusa on the cliffs, waiting for the white girls to come by. THWACK! THWACK!!! I peek around the couch. Grams is sitting up, head lolling to the side, snoring. Her glass is tipped; drops of wine look like blood on the couch. What will happen now? Will we move again? Will Carl be okay? Will more black guys try to shoot more white people? Will the cholas come and take over our schools here too? What if they come to our house?
The police are on their way,” she announces, placing herself between Dad and me. He takes a step toward her, hands still balled into fists. “Do it. ” Chelsea says, her voice as deep as a man’s. “Hit me! Then you can hit Mom, or maybe Doug, huh, he’s twelve. ” For a second, it looks like he might. Time stops. In the far distance, a siren sounds. Mom sniffles. A lump rises on my cheekbone, where I hit the corner of the doorway, and the pain in my bad hip grows steadily worse. Dad snatches his keys and jacket and heads out the door, slamming it behind him.