{"product_id":"all-my-rage-isbn-9780593202364","title":"All My Rage","description":"\u003cb\u003eNational Book Award WINNER\u003cbr\u003ePrintz Award for Excellence in Young Adult Literature WINNER\u003cbr\u003eAn INSTANT \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER!\u003cbr\u003eAn INSTANT INDIE BESTSELLER!\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e Best Young Adult Book of the Century\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eAll My Rage\u003c\/i\u003e is a love story, a tragedy and an infectious teenage fever dream about what home means when you feel you don’t fit in.\" — \u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Sabaa Tahir comes a brilliant, unforgettable, and heart-wrenching contemporary novel about family and forgiveness, love and loss, in a sweeping story that crosses generations and continents.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eLahore, Pakistan. Then.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMisbah is a dreamer and storyteller, newly married to Toufiq in an arranged match. After their young life is shaken by tragedy, they come to the United States and open the Clouds' Rest Inn Motel, hoping for a new start.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eJuniper, California. Now.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSalahudin and Noor are more than best friends; they are family. Growing up as outcasts in the small desert town of Juniper, California, they understand each other the way no one else does. Until The Fight, which destroys their bond with the swift fury of a star exploding.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow, Sal scrambles to run the family motel as his mother Misbah’s health fails and his grieving father loses himself to alcoholism. Noor, meanwhile, walks a harrowing tightrope: working at her wrathful uncle’s liquor store while hiding the fact that she’s applying to college so she can escape him—and Juniper—forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Sal’s attempts to save the motel spiral out of control, he and Noor must ask themselves what friendship is worth—and what it takes to defeat the monsters in their pasts and the ones in their midst.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom one of today’s most cherished and bestselling young adult authors comes a breathtaking novel of young love, old regrets, and forgiveness—one that’s both tragic and poignant in its tender ferocity.\u003cb\u003e★★★★ EIGHT STARRED REVIEWS ★★★★\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAN INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNational Book Award Winner\u003cbr\u003ePrintz Award for Excellence in Young Adult Literature WINNER\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eBoston Globe-Horn Book Fiction and Poetry Winner\u003cbr\u003eA Walter Award Honor Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAn NPR Best Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eBook Page\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eKirkus \u003c\/i\u003eBest Book of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e2022 Editor’s Choice Top of the List Winner for Youth Fiction\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e Best YA Book of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eBuzzfeed \u003c\/i\u003eBest YA Book of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Chicago Public Library Best Book of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA New York Public Library Best Book of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eOne of \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e’ 10 Best California Books of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAn AudioFile Best Audiobook of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Read With Jenna Jr. Book Club Selection\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eOne of The Mary Sue’s 10 Best YA Novels of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Junior Library Guild Selection\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is not the Sabaa Tahir you know…but it’s the Sabaa Tahir you NEED to know. \u003ci\u003eAll My Rage\u003c\/i\u003e is \u003cb\u003ea gorgeous, star-crossed story\u003c\/b\u003e about the costs of the American Dream and the way unexpected routes appear when you need them most. I read this in a single day.” -\u003cb\u003e Jodi Picoult, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Book of Two Ways\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eSearing. Riveting. Beautiful.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003eAll My Rage\u003c\/i\u003e takes the reader on an unforgettable journey into the heart of love. Exploring the painful truths of hidden traumas and the crush of broken dreams, Sabaa Tahir shows us the healing, redemptive power of forgiveness, of hope, of connection in her stunning contemporary debut.\" \u003cb\u003e—Samira Ahmed, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eInternment\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We all know Sabaa Tahir is a master at creating epic fantasy worlds filled with terrifying, imaginary monsters. Here, Sabaa turns her considerable talent and skill to the real—but no less terrifying—monsters that dwell in the human heart. In richly evocative prose and with characters so well crafted I'm sure I know them, \u003ci\u003eAll My Rage \u003c\/i\u003etakes a clear-eyed look at the ways in which we hurt and heal each other. It's \u003cb\u003ea gorgeous meditation on grief and love and the possibilities each of us have for redemption. \u003c\/b\u003eThis book will stay with me for a long time to come.” \u003cb\u003e—Nicola Yoon, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Sun Is Also a Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eAll My Rage\u003c\/i\u003e is \u003cb\u003ean unflinching, profound force that will rattle your heart\u003c\/b\u003e and toughen your soul. Sabaa Tahir's razor-sharp writing never shies away from the world's harshness while always finding the light in the dark for our special, unforgettable narrators.\" \u003cb\u003e—Adam Silvera, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThey Both Die at the End\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003eAll My Rage\u003c\/i\u003e is an expert study in all that's tangled within the closest of our relationships—the pain and the love, the ugliness and the beauty, the potential to break and the potential to repair. \u003cb\u003ePainful, powerful, hopeful\u003c\/b\u003e, and magnificently crafted.” \u003cb\u003e—Randy Ribay, author of \u003ci\u003ePatron Saints of Nothing\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Tahir packs an absolutely unforgettable punch in her first contemporary YA. . . .This is the kind of book that positively climbs into your bones and steals your breath in the very best way.\" —\u003cb\u003eBuzzfeed Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ “Tahir’s lyrical prose unpacks both the beautiful and the brutal. She deftly captures the layers of grief, rage, family, examination of faith, and forgiveness, while managing to inject levity into dire situations and provide a semblance of hope . . . \u003cb\u003ePut this book at the top of your list.\u003c\/b\u003e” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—SLJ\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ “\u003c\/b\u003eTahir brilliantly shows how interconnected societal forces shape communities and people’s lives through the accumulated impact of circumstances beyond their control.\u003cb\u003e A deeply moving, intergenerational story. An unforgettable emotional journey.” – \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e “\u003c\/b\u003eAn unyieldingly earnest generational story for contemporary audiences, Rage is\u003cb\u003e a knife-sharp narrative with an obliterating impact that will leave readers thinking of it long after turning the last page.” \u003cb\u003e– \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003c\/b\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e \"A gift every step of the way.\"\u003cb\u003e– \u003ci\u003eBookpage\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e \"Heartbreaking but ultimately hopeful, this memorable novel leaves the characters with what they deserve most: a future.\"\u003cb\u003e–\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBCCB\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e \"This standalone novel feels timely and important and should be on every library shelf for teens.”\u003cb\u003e – \u003ci\u003eSchool Library Connection\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e “[A] powerful, viscerally told novel.“\u003cb\u003e – \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e★“This unforgettable multigenerational contemporary YA novel delivers pain, heartache and anger – but also love, hope and redemption.\"\u003cb\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e–\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Some of the best contemporary fiction out there is YA, and ‘All My Rage’ is one of the strongest new examples. This \u003cb\u003emoving—and at times devastating\u003c\/b\u003e—book follows best friends Noor and Salahudin as Sal tries to save his family’s motel and Noor tries to strike out on her own.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMarie Claire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“\u003c\/b\u003eThis\u003cb\u003e powerful\u003c\/b\u003e novel tackles everything from systemic racism to the fragile bonds of friendship.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—PopSugar\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The first-person prose vibrates with adolescent intensity—of grief, desire, and above all searing rage—as Tahir’s young heroes are faced with grown-up choices they feel ill-equipped to make. But equipped they are: with poetry, music, tradition, and their capacity to love.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Entertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eSabaa Tahir\u003c\/b\u003e is a former newspaper editor who grew up in California's Mojave Desert at her family's eighteen-room motel. There, she spent her time devouring fantasy novels, listening to thunderous indie rock, and playing guitar and piano badly. Her #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling An Ember in the Ashes series has been translated into more than thirty-five languages, and the first book in the series was named one of \u003ci\u003eTIME's\u003c\/i\u003e 100 Best Young Adult Books of All Time. Tahir's most recent novel, \u003ci\u003eAll My Rage\u003c\/i\u003e, won the National Book Award for Young People's Literature, was an instant \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller, received eight starred reviews and won the 2022 Boston Globe-Horn Book Award for Fiction and Poetry. Visit Sabaa online at SabaaTahir.com and follow her on Instagram @SabaaTahir and TikTok @SabaaTahirAuthor.\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003echapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eMisbah\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eJune, then\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLahore, Pakistan\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe clouds over Lahore were purple as a gossip’s tongue the day my mother told me I would wed.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAfter she delivered the news, I found my father on the veranda. He sipped a cup of tea and surveyed the storm looming above the kite-­spattered skyline.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChange her mind! \u003ci\u003eI wanted to scream.\u003c\/i\u003e Tell her I’m not ready.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eInstead, I stood at his side, a child again, waiting for him to take care of me. I did not have to speak. My father looked at me, and he knew.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Come now, little butterfly.” He turned his moth-­brown eyes to mine and patted my shoulder. “You are strong like me. You will make the best of it. And at last, you’ll be free of your mother.” He smiled, only half joking.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe monsoon rain swept over Lahore a few minutes later, sending chickens and children squawking for cover, drenching the cement floor of our home. I bent my head to the ground in prayer regardless.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLet my future husband be gentle, \u003ci\u003eI thought, remembering the bruises on my cousin Amna, who married a light-­haired English businessman against her parents’ wishes.\u003c\/i\u003eLet him be a good man.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eI was eighteen. Full of fear. I should have prayed instead for a man unbroken.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003echapter 2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eSal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFebruary, now\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJuniper, California\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s 6:37 a.m. and my father doesn’t want me to know how drunk he is.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sal? Are you listening?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe calls me Sal instead of Salahudin so I don’t hear the slur in his words. Hangs on to our Civic’s steering wheel like it’s going to steal his wallet and bolt.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn the ink-­black morning, all I see of Abu’s eyes are his glasses. The taillights of traffic going into school reflect off the thick square lenses. He’s had them so long that they’re hipster now. A Mojave Desert howler shakes the car—­one of those three-­day winds that rampage through your skin and colonize your ventricles. I hunch deep in my fleece, breath clouding.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I will be there,” Abu says. “Don’t worry. Okay, Sal?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy nickname on his lips is all wrong. It’s like by saying it, he’s trying to make me feel like he’s a friend, instead of a mess masquerading as my father.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf Ama were here, she would clear her throat and enunciate “Sa-­lah-­ud-­din,” the precise pronunciation a gentle reminder that she named me for the famous Muslim general, and I better not forget it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You said you’d go to the last appointment, too,” I tell Abu.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Dr. Rothman called last night to remind me,” Abu says. “You don’t have to come, if you have the—­the writing club, or soccer.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Soccer season’s over. And I quit the newspaper last semester. I’ll be at the appointment. Ama’s not taking care of herself and someone needs to tell Dr. Rothman—­preferably in a coherent sentence.” I watch the words hit him, sharp little stones.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAbu guides the car to the curb in front of Juniper High. A bleached-­blond head buried in a parka materializes from the shadows of C-­hall. Ashlee. She saunters past the flagpole, through the crowds of students, and toward the Civic. The pale stretch of her legs is courageous for the twenty-­degree weather.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlso distracting.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAshlee is close enough to the car that I can see her purple nail polish. Abu hasn’t spotted her. He and Ama never said I can’t have a girlfriend. But in the same way that giraffes are born knowing how to run, I was born with the innate understanding that having a girlfriend while still living with my parents is verboten.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAbu digs his fingers into his eyes. His glasses have carved a shiny red dent on his nose. He slept in them last night on the recliner. Ama was too tired to notice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOr she didn’t want to notice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Putar—­” \u003ci\u003eSon.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAshlee knocks on the window. Her parka is unzipped enough to show the insubstantial welcome to tatooine shirt beneath. She must be freezing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTwo years ago Abu’s eyebrows would have been in his hair. He’d have said\u003ci\u003e“Who is this, Putar?”\u003c\/i\u003e His silence feels more brutal, like glass shattering in my head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“How will you get to the hospital?” Abu asks. “Should I pick you up?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Just get Ama there,” I say. “I’ll find a ride.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Okay, but text me if—­”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“My cell’s not working.” \u003ci\u003eBecause you actually have to pay the phone company, Abu.\u003c\/i\u003e The one thing he’s in charge of and still can’t do. It’s usually Ama hunched over stacks of bills, asking the electric company, the hospital, the cable company if we can pay in installments. Muttering “ullu de pathay”—­\u003ci\u003esons of owls\u003c\/i\u003e—­when they say no.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI lean toward him, take a shallow sniff, and almost gag. It’s like he took a bath in Old Crow and then threw on some more as aftershave.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’ll see you at three,” I say. “Take a shower before she wakes up. She’ll smell it on you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNeither of us says that it doesn’t matter. That even if Ama smells the liquor, she would never say anything about it. Before Abu responds, I’m out, grabbing my tattered journal from where it fell out of my back pocket. Slamming the car door, eyes watering from the cold.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAshlee tucks herself under my arm. \u003ci\u003eBreathe. Five seconds in. Seven seconds out.\u003c\/i\u003e If she feels my body tense up, she doesn’t let on.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Warm me up.” Ashlee pulls me down for a kiss, and the ash of her morning cigarette fills my nostrils.\u003ci\u003eFive seconds in. Seven seconds out.\u003c\/i\u003e Cars honk. A door thuds nearby and for a moment, I think it is Abu. I think I will feel the weight of his disapproval.\u003ci\u003eHave some tamiz, Putar.\u003c\/i\u003e I see it in my head. I wish for it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut when I break from Ashlee, the Civic’s blinker is on and he’s pulling into traffic.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf Noor was here instead of Ashlee, she’d have side-­eyed me and handed me her phone.\u003ci\u003eNot everyone has a dad, jerk. Call him and eat crow. Awk, awk.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe’s not here, though. Noor and I haven’t spoken for months.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAshlee steers me toward campus, and launches into a story about her two-­year-­old daughter, Kaya. Her words swim into each other, and there’s a glassiness to her eyes that reminds me of Abu at the end of a long day.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI pull away. I met Ashlee junior year, after Ama got sick and I dropped most of my honors classes for regular curriculum. Last fall, after the Fight between Noor and me, I spent a lot of time alone. I could have hung out with the guys on my soccer team, but I hated how many of them threw around words like “raghead” and “bitch” and “Apu.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAshlee had just broken up with her girlfriend and started coming to my games, waiting for me in her old black Mustang with its primered hood. We’d shoot the shit. One day, to my surprise, she asked me out.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI knew it would be a disaster. But at least it would be a disaster I chose.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe calls me her boyfriend, even though we’ve only been together two months. It took me three weeks to even work up the nerve to kiss her. But when she’s not high, we laugh and talk about Star Wars or Saga or this show\u003ci\u003eCrown of Fates\u003c\/i\u003e we both love. I don’t think about Ama so much. Or the motel. Or Noor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“MR. MALIK.” Principal Ernst, a bowling pin of a man with a nose like a bruised eggplant, appears through the herds of students heading to class.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBehind Ernst is Security Officer Derek Higgins, aka Darth Derek, so-­called because he’s an oppressive mouth-­breather who sweeps around Juniper High like it’s his personal Star Destroyer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAshlee escapes with a glare from Ernst, but this is the second time I’ve pissed him off in a week, so I get a skeletal finger digging into my chest. “You’ve been missing class. Not anymore. Detention if you’re late. First and only warning.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDon’t touch me,\u003c\/i\u003e I want to say. But that would invite Darth Derek’s intervention, and I don’t feel like a billy club in the face.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eErnst moves on, and Ashlee reaches for me again. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my hoodie, the stiffness in my chest easing at the feel of cotton instead of skin. Later, I’ll write about this. I try to imagine the crack of my journal opening, the steady, predictable percussion of my pen hitting paper.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Don’t look like that,” Ashlee says.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Like what?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Like you wish you were anywhere else.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA direct response would be a lie, so I hedge. “Hey—­um, I have to go to the bathroom,” I tell her. “I’ll see you later.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’ll wait for you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Nah, go on.” I’m already walking away. “Don’t want you to get in trouble with Ernst.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJuniper High is massive, but not in a shiny-­TV-­high-­school kind of way. It’s a bunch of long cinder block buildings with doors on each end and nothing but dirt between them. The gym looks like an airplane hangar. Everything is a dusty, sand-­blasted white. The only green thing around here is our mascot—­a hulking roadrunner painted near the front office—­and the bathroom walls, which, according to Noor, are the precise color of goose shit.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe bathroom is empty, but I duck into a stall anyway. I wonder if every dude with a girlfriend finds himself hiding from her next to a toilet at some point.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf I’d been hanging out with Noor instead of Ashlee, I’d already be sitting in English class, because she insists on being on time to everything.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBoots scrape against the dirty tiles as someone else enters. Through the crack in the stall door, I make out Atticus, Jamie Jensen’s boyfriend. He enjoys soccer, white rappers, and relaxed-­fit racism.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I need ten,” Atticus says. “But I only have a hundred bucks.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA lanky figure comes into view: Art Britman, tall and pale like Atticus, but hollowed out by too much bad weed. He wears his typical red plaid and black work boots.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’ve known Art since kindergarten. Even though he hangs out with the white-­power kids, he gets along with everyone. Probably because he supplies most of Juniper High with narcotics.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A hundred gets you five. Not ten.” Art has a smile in his voice because he is truly the nicest drug dealer who’s ever lived. “I give you what you can pay for, Atty!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Come on, Art—­”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I gotta eat too, bro!” Art digs in his pocket and holds a bag of small white pills just out of Atticus’s reach. A hundred bucks? For that? No wonder Art’s smiling all the time.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAtticus curses and hands over his cash. A few seconds later, he and the pills are gone.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eArt looks over at my stall. “Who’s in there? You got the shits or you spying?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s me, Art. Sal.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor a guy who careens from one illegal activity to another, Art is uncannily oblivious. “Sal!” he shouts. “Hiding from Ashlee?” His laughter echoes and I wince. “She’s gone, you can come out.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI consider silence. If a dude is dropping anchor in the bathroom, it’s rude to have a conversation with him. Everyone knows that.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eApparently not Art. I grimace and step out to wash my hands.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You doing okay, man?” Art adjusts his beanie in the mirror, blond hair poking out like the fingers of a wayward plant. “Ashlee told me your mom’s up shit creek.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAshlee and Art are cousins. And even though they’re white— ­and I stupidly thought white people ignored their extended families—­they’re close. Closer than I am to my cousin, who lives in Los Angeles and insists all homeless people should “just get jobs.”Usually while he drinks Pellegrino out of a ceramic tumbler he ordered because a Pixtagram ad told him it would save the dolphins.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yeah,” I say to Art. “My mom’s not feeling great.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Cancer sucks, man.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eShe doesn’t have cancer.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“When my nana Ethel was sick, it was miserable,” Art says. “Oneday she was fine, the next she looked like a corpse. I thought she was a goner. She’s fine now, though. And she got a painkiller prescription she never uses, so that’s lucrative.” Art’s laugh echoes offthe walls. “You good? Cuz I could give you an old friends’ discount.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m good.” Not even tempted. One shit-­faced person in the house is enough.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI hurry away just as the bell rings. The dirt quad empties out quicker than water down a drain. As I turn the corner to the English wing, Noor appears from the other side.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe sun hits the windows, painting her braided hair a dozen colors. I think of the pictures she has all over her room at her shithead uncle’s house, taken by a massive space telescope she told me about once. That’s what her hair is like, black and red and gold, the heart of space lit from within. Her head is down and she doesn’t see me, instead intent on racing the bell.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe reach Mrs. Michaels’s door at the same time. Noor’s face looks different, and I realize after a second that she’s wearing makeup. She pulls out her headphones, hidden in her hoodie, and a tinny song spills from them. I recognize it because Ama loves it. “The Wanderer.” Johnny Cash and U2.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hey,” I say.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe gives me a nod, the way you do when you’ve stopped seeing someone because you’ve got your own shit to worry about. Then she ducks into the classroom, a blur of beaded bracelets, dark jeans, and the cheap, astringent soap her uncle sells at his liquor shop.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor a second, the Fight hangs between us, specter versions of ourselves six months ago facing each other at a campground in Veil Meadows. Noor confessing that she was in love with me. Kissing me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMe shoving her away, telling her I didn’t feel the same. Spewing every hurtful thing I could think of, because her kiss was a blade tearing open something inside.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNoor staring at me like I’d transformed into an angry kraken. She had a pine cone in her hands. I kept waiting for her to peg me with it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe door slams behind her and I grab the handle to follow her. Then I stop. The bell rings. The hall clock behind me plods on, each tick a dumbbell slamming to the floor. A minute passes. I read and reread a sign on the door for a writing contest that Mrs. Michaels has been bugging me to enter.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut even though I’ve walked into AP English every day for five months, today I can’t make myself do it. I can’t sit across the room from Noor, knowing she’ll never tease me about my llama socks again, or kick my ass in\u003ci\u003eNight Ops 4\u003c\/i\u003e, or come over on Saturday mornings and eat paratha with me and Ama.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI try to remember Ama’s smile when she was well and would pick me up after class. The way she lit up and asked me about my life, like I had climbed Everest instead of merely survived another day at school.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mera putar, undar ja\u003ci\u003e,\u003c\/i\u003e” she’d tell me now. \u003ci\u003eMy son, go inside.\u003c\/i\u003e I sigh, and as I reach for the door, a bony hand grabs my arm.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mr. Malik—­” The handle slips from my grip. Ernst’s pale green eyes bore into me, daring me to snap, or wanting me to. “What did I say earlier?” he asks.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Don’t.” I jerk away from him. \u003ci\u003eShut up, Salahudin.\u003c\/i\u003e “Don’t touch me.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI wait for him to paw at me again. Suspend me. Call DarthDerek. Instead he lets me go and shakes his head, a man sternly disappointed in a rebellious dog, giving the leash a little yank.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Incorrect,” Ernst says. “I said ‘first and only warning.’ Detention. My office. Three o’clock.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003echapter 3\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eNoor\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy uncle loves theorems. He loves explaining them to other people.But the audience for his genius is limited. It’s either me; his wife, Brooke; or the drunks who come into the liquor shop. He likes the drunks best because they always think he’s brilliant.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eUnder the cash register next to his bat, he keeps a stack of graph paper and a mechanical pencil. He refills both every Sunday.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe door jangles and Mr. Collins walks in. He’s an engineer on the military base just outside town, and he likes a little Jack in his coffee. Cold air follows him in. The sky outside is dark. I can’t even see the mountains that ring Juniper. There’s still time to do Fajr—­the dawn prayer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut I don’t. Chachu wouldn’t like it. \u003ci\u003e“God,”\u003c\/i\u003e he likes to rant,\u003ci\u003e“is a construct for the weak-­minded.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy head aches as I restock the candy aisle. According to the Pakistani passport and the US green card I keep in my backpack at all times, it’s my eighteenth birthday.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy phone dings. I look up at Chachu, but his skinny form is turned away. His brown hair falls in his face as he scribbles on the graph paper spread across the counter between lighters and lotto tickets. I peek at my screen.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe message is from Misbah Auntie. She’s not actually my aunt. But she is Pakistani, and calling her Misbah would, as Salahudin likes to say, “piss off the ancestors.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMisbah Auntie: Happy 18th birthday, my dear Noor.  You bring such light into my life. I hope you will come to see  me. I made your favorite.  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAbove that message is a string of others. From January. December. November. September.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMisbah Auntie: Are you angry at me too? \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMisbah Auntie: I miss you, my dhi. I’ll make paratha  on Saturday for you. Please visit.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMisbah Auntie: Noor, it is raining! I am thinking of how  you love the rain. I miss you.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMisbah Auntie: Noor, talk to me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMisbah Auntie: Noor, please. I know you are mad  at Salahudin. But can’t you talk to him?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’ve read that last message a dozen times. It still makes me mad. Salahudin is Misbah Auntie’s son.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe’s also my former best friend. My first love. My first heartbreak. So cliché and so, so stupid.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMisbah Auntie came into the store a couple of Sundays ago. I wanted to hug her. Tell her Sal had broken my heart and that I was lost. Talk to her the way I used to before the Fight, even if I was afraid that she’d reject me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut I froze up when she spoke to me. I haven’t seen her since.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Noor.” Chachu’s voice makes me jump. I shove my phone back in my pocket, but he’s not looking at me. “Finish stocking.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sorry, Chachu.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy uncle frowns. He hates that I call him Chachu. It’s the Urdu title for\u003ci\u003efather’s brother.\u003c\/i\u003e After a second, he turns back to Mr. Collins, with whom he’s discussing Fermat’s Last Theorem.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMr. Collins nods as Chachu wraps up. The strains of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” fill my head as Mr. Collins’s face lights up. A caveman discovering fire. I shouldn’t be surprised. No matter how obscure the theorem, Chachu can explain it. It’s his gift.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You could be doing my job,” Mr. Collins says. “Hell, you don’t even have an accent like some of the guys working at the base. Why are you here selling liquor and groceries?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The vagaries of fate,” Chachu says. My spine tingles. His voice has that edge.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMr. Collins looks to where I’m restocking.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Noor, is it?” Sometimes, Mr. Collins comes in Sunday mornings when I open the store. “You as smart as your uncle?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shrug. \u003ci\u003ePlease shut up.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMr. Collins does not shut up. “Well, don’t waste it,” he says. “If you’re anything like him, you’ll get into any college you want.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Ah.” Chachu bags Mr. Collins’s bottle and catches my eye. “Has Noor been talking about college?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’m glad I didn’t eat breakfast. I feel sick and breathless.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No,” Mr. Collins says. I breathe again. “But she should be. You’re a senior, right?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt my shrug, Mr. Collins shakes his head. “My son was like you. Now he’s a human billboard for an apartment building in Palmview.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMr. Collins looks at me like I’ll be joining his son any second. I want to throw a Snickers bar at him. Hit him right between the eyes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut that would be a waste of good candy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen he’s gone, Chachu crumples up the graph paper. \u003ci\u003eTurn on the radio.\u003c\/i\u003e Our love for nineties music is the only thing we have in common, other than blood. We don’t even look alike—­my hair and skin are darker, my features smaller.\u003ci\u003eTurn it on. Distract yourself.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eInstead, he nods to the other end of the shop.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“There’s something for you out back,” he says.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’m so surprised I stare at him until he waves me away. A birthday present? Chachu hasn’t remembered my birthday in five years. The last gift he gave me was the dented laptop he left in my room a year and a half ago without explanation.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI pick my way through the storage room. Outside, the wind rips the back door’s handle from me and I struggle to close it. The desert beyond the alley is a flat blue shadow and it takes me a second to see my gift leaning against the store’s stucco wall. A battered silver bike.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs I run my hands along the steel frame, I hear the\u003ci\u003esnick\u003c\/i\u003e of Chachu’s lighter and jump.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“After you graduate,” he says between drags on his cigarette, “you’ll be able to take over the day shift here while I’m in class. It’ll make all our lives easier.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePeople love talking about the greatness of the human heart. No bigger than a fist, pumps two thousand gallons of blood a day. Et cetera.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut the human heart is also stupid. At least mine is. No matter how many times I tell it not to hope that Chachu cares about me, it hopes anyway.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBack inside, Chachu flips on the classic rock station\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Razorbill","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48232916386021,"sku":"NP9780593202364","price":13.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593202364.jpg?v=1767721278","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/all-my-rage-isbn-9780593202364","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}