{"product_id":"full-cicada-moon-isbn-9780147516015","title":"Full Cicada Moon","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eInside Out and Back Again\u003c\/i\u003e meets \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eOne Crazy Summer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e and \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBrown Girl Dreaming\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e in this novel-in-verse about fitting in and standing up for what’s right.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's 1969, and the Apollo 11 mission is getting ready to go to the moon. But for half-black, half-Japanese Mimi, moving to a predominantly white Vermont town is enough to make her feel alien. Suddenly, Mimi's appearance is all anyone notices. She struggles to fit in with her classmates, even as she fights for her right to stand out by entering science competitions and joining Shop Class instead of Home Ec. And even though teachers and neighbors balk at her mixed-race family and her refusals to conform, Mimi’s dreams of becoming an astronaut never fade—no matter how many times she’s told no.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis historical middle-grade novel is told in poems from Mimi's perspective over the course of one year in her new town, and shows readers that positive change can start with just one person speaking up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eWinner of the 2015-2016 APALA Literature Award in the Children's category!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e* \"Readers will be moved by the empathetic lyricism of Mimi's maturing voice.\"--\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* \"This novel stands out with it's thoughtful portrayal of race and its embrace of girls in science and technical fields. The verse, though spare, is powerful and evocative, perfectly capturing Mimi's emotional journey.\"--\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003eWinner of the 2015-2016 APALA Literature Award in the Children's category\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Kirkus Best Book of 2015\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* \"Readers will be moved by the empathetic lyricism of Mimi's maturing voice.\"—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* \"Will resonate with fans of Jacqueline Woodson’s \u003ci\u003eBrown Girl Dreaming\u003c\/i\u003e...This novel stands out with its thoughtful portrayal of race and its embrace of girls in science and technical fields.\"—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* \"Perfect for readers who straddle societies, feel they don’t fit in, or need that confirmation of self-celebration.\"—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It is magnificent the way that Hilton sews together words stitching a beautiful quilt of colorfully written poems and sentences. … This is a treasure and truly so different from other books that it is definitely worth your time.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe Denver Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Brimming with introspection and strong empathetic undertones, \u003ci\u003eFull Cicada Moon\u003c\/i\u003e is a 'must-read.' \"—Kendal Rautzhan, newstimes.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Through the perspective of this clear-eyed, courageous heroine, Hilton (\u003ci\u003eFound Things)\u003c\/i\u003e powerfully recreates a time of momentous transition in American history.\"—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Like \u003ci\u003eBrown Girl Dreaming\u003c\/i\u003e by Jacqueline Woodson, Hilton re-creates a time and place in American history and makes it vividly alive through the eyes of an intelligent, spirited girl...Fans of historical fiction and poetry will enjoy this novel.\"—\u003ci\u003eVOYA\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eMarilyn Hilton\u003c\/b\u003e (www.marilynhilton.com) has published numerous short stories, poems, essays, and two previous children's books. She lives with her husband and three children in Northern California.\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFlying to Vermont–January 1, 1969\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI wish we had flown to Vermont\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einstead of riding\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eon a bus, train, train, bus\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall the way from Berkeley.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTen hours would have soared, compared to six days.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut two plane tickets—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eone for me and one for Mama—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewould have cost a lot of money,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand Papa already spent so much\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen he flew home at Thanksgiving.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMama is sewing buttons on my new slacks\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand helping me fill out the forms\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor my new school in Hillsborough, our new town.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis might be a new year\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut seventh grade is halfway done,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand I’ll be the new girl.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’m stuck at the Ethnicity part.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eCheck only one\u003c\/i\u003e, it says.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe choices are:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhite\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBlack\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePuerto Rican\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePortuguese\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHispanic\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOriental\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOther\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI am\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehalf Mama,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehalf Papa,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand all me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIsn’t that all anyone needs to know?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut the form says \u003ci\u003eAll items must be completed\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso I ask, “Other?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMama pushes her brows together,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emaking what Papa calls her Toshiro-Mifune face.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Check all that apply,” she says.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“But it says just one.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Do you listen to your mother or a piece of paper?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI check off Black,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecross out Oriental,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand write \u003ci\u003eJapanese\u003c\/i\u003e with a check mark.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What will we do now, Mimi-chan?” Mama asks,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhich means: Will you read\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eor do algebra, so you’re not behind?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Take a nap,” I say.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMama frowns,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut I close my eyes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand pretend we’re flying.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe bus driver is the pilot\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand every bump in the road\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecomes an air pocket in the sky.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHatsuyume\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA jolt wakes me up. I was dreaming\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy \u003ci\u003ehatsuyume\u003c\/i\u003e—the first dream of the new year.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf I tell my \u003ci\u003ehatsuyume\u003c\/i\u003e, it won’t come true\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause in Japanese, \u003ci\u003espeak\u003c\/i\u003e sounds just like \u003ci\u003elet go\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd if my dream meant good luck, I don’t want to \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elet it go.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI dreamed I was a bird, strong and brown\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand fast\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith feathers tipped magenta and gold.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shot straight up into the air like a Saturn rocket,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethen swooped and dove, the sun warming my back.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI pumped my wings, then glided\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eover the desert\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand the sea.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe air filled my lungs,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe wind lifted my wings\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehigher and higher\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eover the mountains\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand above the clouds.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe moon grew large,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand I stretched to touch it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaybe it was a good-luck dream\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand this will be a good year\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor Papa and Mama and me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat’s what I hope.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut, what if my \u003ci\u003ehatsuyume\u003c\/i\u003e meant bad luck?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMama says to let go of your bad dreams by telling them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePapa says to bury your bad dreams\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein a hole as deep as your elbow.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe ground in New England is frozen,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso if I listen to Papa, I’ll have to wait until spring.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’ll listen to Mama instead\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand write my dream on paper,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso either way—good luck or bad—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy \u003ci\u003ehatsuyume\u003c\/i\u003e will not be spoken.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI have never flown before\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut one day\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esoar.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewill\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWaxing Gibbous\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI study\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Old Farmer’s Almanac\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat Santa had put in my stocking\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom cover to cover.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI like\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ereading about the moon,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand I’ve memorized\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall its names and phases.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI know\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe moon tonight\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eis waxing gibbous, almost\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe Full Wolf Moon.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt has chased us outside the bus window\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall the way from Boston,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebounding through the sky,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eskipping across rooftops,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edodging trees\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike it has one          last            word\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto tell us.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI remember\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePapa said\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eif you leave eggs under a waxing moon,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall your chicks will hatch.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd Mama said\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eif you make a wish on the moon\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eover your shoulder,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit will come true.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI whisper\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto the moon on my shoulder:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I wish\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall my dreams will hatch.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eReflections\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis bus lulls.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSome people are reading, some are sleeping,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwo ladies behind us are talking,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe baby up front chuckles hoarsely,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esomeone is sipping tomato soup,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand in back, Glen Campbell is singing “Wichita Lineman” on the radio.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll of us who don’t know one another\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eare riding together on this Trailways bus to Vermont\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eon the first night of 1969.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt doesn’t feel like \u003ci\u003eosh\u003c\/i\u003eo\u003ci\u003egatsu\u003c\/i\u003e, New Year’s Day,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause Mama couldn’t make \u003ci\u003eoz\u003c\/i\u003eo\u003ci\u003eni\u003c\/i\u003e and sushi\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand black-eyed peas and collard greens,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand we couldn’t sip warm sake from the shallow cups.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMama says she doesn’t care about those things\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause we’re traveling to meet Papa.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut what bothers her\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eis that no man crossed our threshold this morning\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(because we don’t have a threshold today),\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand that means we’ll have bad luck all year.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI told her we can find a man to visit our new \u003cbr\u003ehouse,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut she said, “Too late.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe lady across the aisle is knitting a scarf.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe has been staring at Mama and me\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eever since the sun set.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI want to stick out my tongue at her reflection in our window\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ejust to let her know\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI know,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut that would disgrace Mama\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand disappoint Papa.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo, I open the \u003ci\u003eTime\u003c\/i\u003e magazine\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith the three Apollo 8 astronauts on the cover—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe Men of the Year—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat came just before we left,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhich Auntie Sachi slipped into my bag at the door,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith a note:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eHave a safe journey.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eArriving\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI can tell by the way Mama looks at herself\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the window, brushes her bangs to the side,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand runs her finger under her eyes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat we’ll be in Hillsborough soon,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhere Papa, in the tweed coat he calls “professorial,”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewill meet us.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe pops a wintergreen Life Savers in her mouth\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand passes the roll to me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI take one\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause I want my kiss on Papa’s cheek to be fresh.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe bus slows down.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA barbershop, an insurance company,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea dentist’s office, a grocery store\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall slide by. The air prickles\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand everyone sits up straight and shifts in their seats,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efinishes talking to the person next to them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hillsborough coming up!” the driver calls.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe lady across the aisle winds up her yarn\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand tucks her knitting into a tote bag. She looks at me again\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand leans into the aisle. “Are you adopted?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNani?\u003c\/i\u003e” Mama asks me. She must have been daydreaming\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eor she would have asked, “What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI whisper, “She wants to know where we’re going.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMama glances at the lady and turns into Mifune.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut before she can pretend she doesn’t speak English,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI say, “She’s my mom.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe lady looks at me, then at Mama,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand shakes her head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No . . . she’s not your mother.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe bus pulls up in front of a diner\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand stops so quick\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat we all jerk forward in our seats.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe driver cranks a handle and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe door hisses open.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe disappears outside\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas cold air scampers down the aisle.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePapa is waiting in front of the diner\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewearing his coat\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand a red-and-gold scarf, Hillsborough College colors.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen he sees me inside the bus, he waves.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut I wave harder.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOutside, I hold his hand in his pocket\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhile he counts our suitcases—four plus my overnight case.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe icy air pinches my cheeks,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut my heart is warm.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe drapes his scarf around my throat\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand says, “Now you’re the professor.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe knitting lady steps down from the bus\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor a breath of air.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“And this is my dad. See?” I say, and smile.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe looks at Papa, at Mama,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand back at me. Then,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enot smiling, she says, “Yes, I see,”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand walks toward the diner.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen I know Mama and Papa can’t see me,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI stick out my tongue\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso far that it hurts.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNew House\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOur new house smells like varnish and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebalsam needles and mothballs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe floors are all wood, except the kitchen and the bathrooms,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhich are linoleum,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand they creak when I walk around in my socks—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhich I can’t do for long\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause it’s so \u003ci\u003ecold\u003c\/i\u003e that my scalp tightens.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHalfway up the stairs is a stained-glass window\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith a picture of flowers and butterflies in a garden,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike spring.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePapa opens the cellar door and flips the light switch.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI peer down the dark, dusty staircase.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd in the kitchen sink are the bowl and spoon Papa used for his cornflakes this morning.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe shows Mama the cinnamon-colored dishwasher built under the counter\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand the garbage disposal built into the sink.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThese are firsts for Mama.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe opens the dishwasher door and pulls out the top rack.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hmm,” she says, and that’s all.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePapa and I look at each other.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe know we’ll find out what that means,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut it won’t be now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“This is our room,” Papa says,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eopening a door down the hall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA big bed with a yellow comforter sits against a wall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePapa is renting most of the furniture\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause we didn’t own much in California.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBefore Mama and I left Berkeley,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe shipped her tall china cupboard and her \u003ci\u003ekotatsu\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe low table with a heater underneath.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Where’s my room?” I ask.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePapa takes my hand and leads me up a steep staircase.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy room is at the top. It’s the biggest bedroom I’ve ever seen.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOne side of the ceiling slopes halfway to the floor\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand seats are built under the two windows.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“If you don’t like it, you can trade with us,” Papa says.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut I say no—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso fast that he can’t take this room away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLater, Mama comes upstairs to tuck me in,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike I’m five again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut tonight, because we’re in our new house,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein our new town, on the other side of the country,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI want her to.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe sits for a few minutes on my bed,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas if she needs to as much as I\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eneed her to.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePapa has had a week to get used to this new house,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand Mama and I will catch up.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe kisses me good night and tucks the comforter\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall the way around my chin\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand goes downstairs. The light glows up the stairs,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estretching her shadow on the wall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe sky outside is soft pink, and I smile into my comforter.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt is like the soft pink is inside me, resting,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebreathing with me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIs this house making me feel this way,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eor the snow outside? Or knowing our long trip is over?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOr having a big bedroom upstairs\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut hearing Mama and Papa downstairs,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand we’re a family again after four months?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat’s it—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall the good things have come together\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein soft pink\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehappiness.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFirst Night\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis house creaks\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike it can’t find a comfortable place to settle into.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI toss and turn\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand can’t find a comfortable spot to sleep in.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy clock says 2:18 a.m.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI get out of bed and sit at a window.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe sky has cleared\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand the moon sits high in the sky\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike a pearl button.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eStars—bright, cold, voiceless—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eare winking, but I know that’s because Earth’s heat is rising,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe atmosphere is shifting.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(A future astronaut needs to know these things.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI wonder if Earth winked at the Apollo 8 astronauts\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen they took its picture from the moon on Christmas Eve.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSomething moves in the next yard.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA dog, dark and fuzzy, leaps in the moonlit snow.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen one sharp whistle from the neighbor’s house\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecalls it inside.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLike Saturday\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe sun wakes me up.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eOuch!\u003c\/i\u003e my neck hurts\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause I’m still sitting at my window.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA fringe of icicles hangs outside,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand the sun makes little rainbows inside them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI smell coffee and bacon,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand I know that hot chocolate is waiting downstairs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo cornflakes for Papa this morning—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMama’s making her special basted fried eggs with onions\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand the bacon he loves.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eToday is Thursday, but it feels like Saturday\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause this is still school vacation.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThursday is the only day that doesn’t have a personality,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso today it borrowed Saturday’s.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMama has already set out her \u003ci\u003emaneki-neko\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe cat statue that waves, so we will have good luck from the start.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt makes our new house feel more like home.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What’s your plan today, Meems?” Papa asks at the table,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe newspaper open in front of him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat I really want to do is see that dog again,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut I shrug and say, “Explore.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s cold outside,” Mama says. “Wear your warm clothes.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePapa looks up from his paper. “And do not leave the yard.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNext Door Boy\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWood smoke hangs in a blue haze outside,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand far off\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea chain saw buzzes through the air.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAn empty coop in our backyard is covered in snow\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike a tiny alpine chalet,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut in the spring it will be filled with turkeys.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy lips stick to my teeth\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand my nostrils are stuck shut. My chest hurts\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen I breathe this icy air.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’ll warm up by making a snowman.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis snow is too deep for rolling three balls for his body,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso I pack it into a mound,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethen sculpt him with my hands.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI pack a lemon-size ball for his nose, poke holes for his eyes,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand draw a big smile with my thumb.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBy the time I’m done,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy skin prickles with sweat under my clothes,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy nose runs,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand my legs shudder.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA boy steps out of the house next door\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand kicks snow down the back steps.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe dog from last night bursts past him,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etoppling the boy to the snow.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Pattress!” he calls, laughing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut she wanders away from him, snuffling\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike a steam train.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEven across our wide yards, I can see\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe boy’s cheeks are red on his pale skin,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eslapped by the cold.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePattress wags her long, pointy tail.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hi,” I say, raising my hand, sniffling.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe boy raises his hand and nods, then\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egoes back into the house,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecalling, “Come on, Pattress.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe brown dog looks at me, then at the steps,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand follows the boy inside.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eReady for School\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThese are the new slacks that Mama sewed,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebutterscotch corduroy with three black buttons at the waist,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause four would be bad luck.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis is the sweater that Auntie Phoenix sent from Baltimore,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etangerine and fluffy,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003escratching my wrists and neck.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThese are my tights\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand my secondhand boots with a run-down right heel\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat crunch in the snow, leaving waffle footprints.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis is the wool coat that Mama wore\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe winter she married Papa in Japan.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd mittens with snowflakes on each palm\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand a long scarf to shield me from the tiny wind daggers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen I breathe, my cheeks and chin feel moist\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand cold at the same time.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThese are my frozen eyelashes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand my Popsicle nose.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou have to wear a lot of clothes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ejust to go to school in Vermont.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFirst Day\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePapa doesn’t want me to take the school bus,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso he’s driving me on his way to the college.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen the wind blows the snow, it makes a rainbow.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRainbows mean hope. I hope for a good day,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egood teachers, a good friend.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDeep in my pocket, I touch the round of \u003ci\u003eomochi\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand a square of corn bread\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat Mama wrapped in wax paper\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso I can remember our small, late \u003ci\u003eosh\u003c\/i\u003eo\u003ci\u003egatsu\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI wish we didn’t have to live out in the sticks,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut Mama wants to raise turkeys and grow vegetables,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso even in spring, Papa will take me and bring me home.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaybe there’s another reason we live two miles from town\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand Papa drives me to school.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEven if we lived in town,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the kind of house other professors live in—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike that white-shingled Victorian with the black shutters—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewould Papa escort me every morning\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand stand guard after the last bell?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRules\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI thought that Papa was going to drop me off\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein front of my new junior high.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eInstead, he turns into the drive and parks in front\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof the PRINCIPAL sign.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOur car is a green Malibu, which Papa drove\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall the way from Berkeley to Hillsborough.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOne day he’ll tell us about that trip\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall at once.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOr, maybe he has been telling it all along,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe way snowpack grows:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea million tiny flakes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edrifting\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eone by one,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut I haven’t been listening.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Everything cool?” he asks.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI look out the windshield at the white clapboard building,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe wide steps up to the front doors,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe tall windows framed in green sashes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s cool,” I say, because it’s what he wants to hear,\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Puffin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305096794341,"sku":"NP9780147516015","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780147516015.jpg?v=1767727776","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/full-cicada-moon-isbn-9780147516015","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}