Sweet, Tart

"This tender and heartfelt book will resonate with middle graders. Halle’s problems—making new friends, dealing with a sibling, negotiating with parents—are relatable and timeless. . . . A warmhearted tale about growing up and the animals we love on the way." —School Library Journal

After witnessing the tragic death of a racehorse, eleven-year-old Halle finds herself caring for the horse’s best friend, a grieving pony named Rocky. A heart-tugging story of patience, love, and hope.

Halle thinks starting sixth grade in a brand-new school might help her forget about what happened at the racetrack. But she’s wrong. She can’t sleep at night because when she closes her eyes, she sees the last moments of Carver D’esprit, a horse who died the day Halle went to watch the races with her family. When Halle learns Carver came from nearby Oak Creek Stables, she is compelled to go there and learn more about him. The owner introduces her to Carver’s best friend, a pony named Rocky. Rocky is standoffish at first, but as Halle cares for him, they both begin to open up. When Halle finds out that Oak Creek Stables is suddenly on the verge of being sold to a housing developer, she feels everything slipping out from under her—what will happen to the horses, to Rocky, and to the memory of Carver D’esprit? This heartfelt story of loss and light follows Halle as she experiences the interconnectedness of endings and beginnings and learns that love still multiplies, even during grief.This tender and heartfelt book will resonate with middle graders. Halle’s problems—making new friends, dealing with a sibling, negotiating with parents—are relatable and timeless. . . . A warmhearted tale about growing up and the animals we love on the way, this book will speak to those who love deep feelings in their stories.
—School Library Journal

The small-town Minnesota setting adds a distinctive regional flavor, authentically showcasing contemporary Midwest life from sledding hills and frozen lakes to the landscape of rural farmland bordering suburban neighborhoods. A tender tale showing how loss can create space for new connections.
—Kirkus Reviews

A mix of heartwarming hope and soul-gripping grief, Thom’s narrative offers middle-grade readers emotional heft while still meeting them at their level and addressing questions they might have.
—Booklist

I love this book for all sorts of reasons: drama without villains, friendship and sibling relationships that change and grow, beloved animals playing an important part in family and social life. Through it all, Halle learns about poetry and its power to open hearts and minds. Young readers will find a friend in Halle and cheer her on as she navigates sixth grade. Teachers will find a friend and mentor in Mrs. Delgado.
—Helen Frost, author of Hidden and All He Knew

Sweet, Tart is a gift: the wonder of a soccer-playing pony, the longing for a true friend, the shock of an unexpected loss, and the sweetness of reconciliation. From start to finish, there is a poetry to how life itself unfolds in Halle’s world.
—Gigi Amateau, award-winning author of the Horses of the Maury River Stables series

A sweet story of friendship, family, hope, and healing. I loved Halle’s relationship with her teacher, who helps her express her feelings through poetry, and Rocky, a special pony who shows her that patience and kindness (as well as SweeTarts) are the keys to true friendship.
—Jo Knowles, author of Someone’s Gonna End Up Crying

This is a story for those who love horses and poetry, or like Halle, are yet to discover the joy and love in both. Kara Thom’s style of storytelling is immersive; you feel every heartache and celebrate every triumph. This debut novel feels like an instant classic—a story that brings you in and wraps around you like a warm hug, even as it explores life’s hardest lessons.
—Nina Hamza, author of Ahmed Aziz’s Epic Year and Samira’s Worst Best SummerKara Thom is the author of the Go! Go! Sports Girls series and the picture book See Mom Run, illustrated by Lilly Golden, as well as other books for adults. Her poetry has been published in literary journals and anthologies. She lives with her family in Minnesota, where she is a substitute media specialist at her local school district and a bookseller at Excelsior Bay Books. This is her first middle-grade novel.Sixth Grade
I had a good reason to be nervous about starting middle school. When my sister, Brenna, went to middle school, she turned into someone I didn’t recognize. Sure, Brenna looked the same (mostly), but inside she was different—how she talked, what she cared about, even the way she walked into a room changed. Would middle school change me drastically, too? I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. That being change. Change being drastic. My summer had been drastic enough.
My elementary school was a one-story building, and I knew how to get around there easily. The middle school has two floors, two gymnasiums, and wings. I couldn’t tell the North Wing from the South Wing. Having wings made the building seem able to fly away. I wondered where it could take me. Would it bring me back as someone else? Is that what happened to Brenna?
When I started kindergarten, Brenna was in third grade and looked out for me. She didn’t pretend not to know me, like she does now. That started in middle school. Now Brenna will be a freshman in high school. If she was nervous about that, she didn’t tell me.
I didn’t like the idea of starting a brand-new school without a protective big sister who could direct me to the right gym or wing, someone who could help me open my locker (is it right, left, right or left, right, left? I can never remember). Perhaps worse, I didn’t like the idea of starting a brand-new school with so many people I didn’t know. Fifth graders from three different elementary schools came together at Noble Middle School.
And I didn’t get Mr. Larson for homeroom. Brenna said there was only one teacher worth having for homeroom and he was the one. Instead, I got Mrs. Delgado, who’s brand new. A wild card. I had her for language arts, too, which meant I’d be in her room three times a day. Who knew what I was getting into?

Back-to-School Night at Noble Middle School was rough. Overwhelming. The hallways smelled different from my elementary school. Elementary school smelled like crayons and construction paper, pencil shavings and tempera paint. Noble Middle School smelled like metal and floor cleaner.
Dad grabbed my hand to pull me down the hall. I love my dad. A lot. But taking my hand at Back-to-School Night? Cringey. I snatched my hand away from his so fast, it hit my thigh. Dad whipped his head around, looking confused. I glared at him, and he made a face that looked like it meant something like Oops, my bad.
We passed Mr. Larson’s doorway, where I stood long enough to see Emma and Paige, my friends from fifth grade, embrace in one of those jump-up-and-down hugs. Not only did they both get Mr. Larson for homeroom, but I noticed that they’d be sitting next to each other, too. Paper-tent name tags sat side by side on the desks, their names in thick blue marker: EMMA, PAIGE.
“Halle, are you coming?” Dad said, his head poking out from Mrs. Delgado’s doorframe.
I held up a finger to let him know I needed a second while I used my other hand to wave at my friends. But they never looked my way.
I quickly dropped my waving hand, as if I hadn’t been totally ignored. I checked my watch to see the date—8-28—and time—6:07—lit in blocky numbers. At least my new watch gave me something to look at, something to do, other than looking left out.
I had begged for an Apple Watch. The first time I asked, my parents laughed. “You don’t have a cell phone. Why would you need an Apple Watch?” they asked. So I wrote them a letter explaining why I should have one.
Paige has an Apple Watch, and I know all the things it can do, like tell you the weather and count your steps. Paige can text her mom, too, even though she doesn’t have a phone, either. What I got instead was a digital watch with a stopwatch feature and a lap counter. I was disappointed at first but wore it anyway. The watch doesn’t tick or tock, but the two dots between the hour and the minutes pulse, like a heartbeat. I like knowing what time it is . . . all the time.
At least when I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about the horse, I could count the pulsing dots, watching minutes turn over. That was better than closing my eyes and seeing what happened on the racetrack all over again.
I thought that once school started, I’d be able to erase that memory from my mind.
I was wrong.