{"product_id":"i-am-the-swarm-isbn-9780593623886","title":"I Am the Swarm","description":"\u003cb\u003eA propulsive YA novel in verse that blends the contemporary magic of Jandy Nelson with the simmering feminist rage of Laurie Halse Anderson’s   \u003ci\u003eShout\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs far back as anyone can remember, the women of the Strand family have been magical.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTheir gifts manifest when they each turn fifteen, always in different ways. But Nell Strand knows that her family's magic is a curse. Her mother’s age changes every day; she's often too young to be the mother Nell needs. Her older sister bleeds music and will do anything to release the songs inside her. Nell sees the way magic rips her family apart again and again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Nell’s own magic arrives in the form of ladybugs alighting on the keys of her beloved piano, the first thing she feels is joy. The ladybugs are a piece of her, a harmless and delicate manifestation of her creativity. But soon enough, the rest come. Thick-shelled glossy beetles that creep along her collarbone when her piano teacher stares at her. Soft gray moths that appear and die alongside a rush of disappointment. Worst of all are the wasps. It doesn’t matter how deep she buries her rage, the wasps always come. Nell will have to decide just how much of herself she’s willing to lock away to stop them—or if she can find the strength to feel, no matter the consequences.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn intense, emotional read simmering with rage and magic, \u003ci\u003eI Am the Swarm\u003c\/i\u003e is a captivating YA novel in verse that beautifully speaks to the complicated nature of growing up as a girl.\u003cb\u003eA BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR by \u003ci\u003eKirkus, School Library Journal, \u003c\/i\u003eand the Chicago Public Library! \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★SIX STARRED REVIEWS ★\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e \"Written in delicate, sparse, almost fragile verse . . . Chewins examines each of Nell’s emotions as if it’s a butterfly preserved in amber, held up to the light for careful study. The elements of magic interwoven with the very real cruelties of girlhood is a case study in successful fabulism. A beautiful, introspective slow burn of a book.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★ \u003c\/b\u003e“This cutting novel in verse is fearless, biting, and raw…there is a painful, sharply realistic thread that zeroes in on the way that girls are often stifled, silenced, coerced, or used…though there is a tender, quiet hopefulness that finds purchase in each of the women’s stories.”\u003cb\u003e —\u003ci\u003eBCCB, \u003c\/i\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e \"In this deeply felt verse novel, Chewins expertly leverages evocative language . . . for a moving tale of self-discovery and healing through connection.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePW\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★ \u003c\/b\u003e\"In verse that flies across the page, Chewins weaves multiple apt metaphors with sensory detail . . . themes of music as a powerful tool for self-expression and anger as an important self-protective measure in this one-sitting read.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★ \u003c\/b\u003e\"Vividly and fluidly written verse sets a gradual pace that allows readers to immerse themselves in Nell’s complex reality and her path to womanhood in a world both harsh and hopeful.\" \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ “Chewins’s beautiful verse is skillfully done, and her words will evoke many emotions among readers…Fans of Elizabeth Acevedo’s \u003ci\u003eThe Poet X\u003c\/i\u003e will find this title just as compelling.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I feel like Hayley Chewins looked directly into my soul and wrote \u003ci\u003eI Am the Swarm\u003c\/i\u003e just for me. But this astonishing book is going to resonate for so many readers. Brilliantly crafted in raw, unflinching verse threaded through with delicate magic, Nell’s heart-wrenching journey is both harrowing and hopeful. I am madly in love with this book.\"\u003cb\u003e —Joy McCullough, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eBlood Water Paint\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eI Am The Swarm\u003c\/i\u003e dances along your skin like the insects depicted in its pages. Beautiful, dangerous, and just a little bit deadly. I've never read a book quite like it before.\" \u003cb\u003e—Rena Rossner, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Sisters of the Winter Wood\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With prose that is both as fierce as a hornet’s sting and as the delicate as a butterfly’s wings, \u003ci\u003eI Am the Swarm \u003c\/i\u003eexamines girlhood, family, and adolescence in a vivid, honest, and wholly original light.“ \u003cb\u003e—R.M. Romero, critically acclaimed author of \u003ci\u003eThe Ghosts of Rose Hill\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eHayley Chewins\u003c\/b\u003e is the critically acclaimed author of \u003ci\u003eThe Turnaway Girls\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Sisters of Straygarden Place\u003c\/i\u003e. She grew up in Cape Town, and now lives in Johannesburg, South Africa, with her husband and daughter. She is the singer and songwriter for EIGHT THOUSAND BIRDS. You can visit her at HayleyChewins.com.PART ONE\u003cbr\u003eSEVENTEEN DAYS BEFORE THE WASPS\u003cbr\u003eI get my magic on a Saturday.\u003cbr\u003eThree days after I turn fifteen.\u003cbr\u003eLike it nearly forgot about me.\u003cbr\u003eLike I almost got free.\u003cbr\u003eMy fifteenth birthday arrives quietly,\u003cbr\u003elike someone\u003cbr\u003eopening a window\u003cbr\u003ein a house\u003cbr\u003edown the street.\u003cbr\u003eI keep watching for the magic.\u003cbr\u003eWatch myself from the inside. Find nothing.\u003cbr\u003eIn the afternoon,\u003cbr\u003eOuma comes over for tea,\u003cbr\u003eher Yorkie, Hildegarde,\u003cbr\u003etucked under her arm.\u003cbr\u003eThe magic is already hours late,\u003cbr\u003eand no one is mentioning that it’s late,\u003cbr\u003enot Ouma, who sits down\u003cbr\u003eand immediately starts feeding a lemon cream\u003cbr\u003eto Hildegarde, and not Mamma,\u003cbr\u003ewho is cutting chocolate cake,\u003cbr\u003esucking icing off her finger.\u003cbr\u003eWe sit in the cool dining room,\u003cbr\u003ethe three of us, and the fact that Mora isn’t there\u003cbr\u003emakes the house feel like one big echo.\u003cbr\u003eThe table is too wide. The chairs are too far apart.\u003cbr\u003eThen Mamma’s phone rings.\u003cbr\u003eMamma is twenty-­nine today,\u003cbr\u003ewearing bright-­green heels\u003cbr\u003eand dangly earrings. Thin as an actress.\u003cbr\u003eShe comes back. Still holding the knife.\u003cbr\u003e“Sorry, baby, I have to go.” She doesn’t explain.\u003cbr\u003eDoesn’t say, “Your sister needs me.”\u003cbr\u003eIf she said it. If she actually said the words.\u003cbr\u003eI would be able to ask questions.\u003cbr\u003eI would be able to say:\u003cbr\u003e“Do you really think that I don’t need you?”\u003cbr\u003eOuma and I,\u003cbr\u003ewe listen to Mamma\u003cbr\u003egathering her things.\u003cbr\u003eWalking around,\u003cbr\u003ewhispering\u003cbr\u003ethat she can’t find her keys.\u003cbr\u003eUntil the door slams.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Mamma’s gone,\u003cbr\u003eOuma says,\u003cbr\u003e“Has everything been\u003cbr\u003eall right at home, Nell?”\u003cbr\u003eOuma’s English is formal,\u003cbr\u003eslowly and carefully pronounced.\u003cbr\u003eHer accent is like cream\u003cbr\u003efloating on the surface of her words,\u003cbr\u003emaking all the consonants softer.\u003cbr\u003e“Things have been okay.”\u003cbr\u003e“She’s twenty-­eight now?”\u003cbr\u003e“Twenty-­nine.”\u003cbr\u003eI’ve been watching\u003cbr\u003eMamma change for so long\u003cbr\u003ethat I always know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOuma nods. “That’s better. That’s—­”\u003cbr\u003e“She’s been sixteen a lot, though.”\u003cbr\u003e“I suppose it’s understandable.”\u003cbr\u003eI cut myself a piece of cake. “She forgot to make the tea.”\u003cbr\u003e“Nell,” says Ouma.\u003cbr\u003e“Your mamma.\u003cbr\u003eShe’s trying very hard.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMamma’s magic:\u003cbr\u003eher age is always changing.\u003cbr\u003eShe’s never younger than fifteen, the age the magic found her.\u003cbr\u003eAnd she’s never older than her actual age.\u003cbr\u003eIn between fifteen and forty-­two,\u003cbr\u003ethere is a staircase.\u003cbr\u003eThe steps\u003cbr\u003eare all\u003cbr\u003edifferent heights.\u003cbr\u003eYou can’t walk up or down\u003cbr\u003ewithout tripping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOuma watches me\u003cbr\u003emake two cups of tea,\u003cbr\u003ebut I can see\u003cbr\u003eher mind is elsewhere.\u003cbr\u003eI can see\u003cbr\u003eshe’s thinking about\u003cbr\u003eMora’s empty room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLong after Ouma goes home,\u003cbr\u003eI hear Mamma’s car singing up the road.\u003cbr\u003e“How was she?” I ask\u003cbr\u003ewhen she steps through the door.\u003cbr\u003e“Nell, I can’t talk now.”\u003cbr\u003eIn the light of the entrance, she’s younger,\u003cbr\u003eleaning against the doorframe as she kicks off her shoes.\u003cbr\u003eShe’s fifteen.\u003cbr\u003eShe has been\u003cbr\u003efifteen\u003cbr\u003etoo many times to count.\u003cbr\u003eI will only ever turn fifteen once.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGo to my room. Sit at the piano.\u003cbr\u003eBut my fingers won’t move.\u003cbr\u003eEven before I’ve started to play.\u003cbr\u003eI’ve already given up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI lie on my bed and I think about the magic.\u003cbr\u003eAbout how it’s going to come. How I can’t stop it.\u003cbr\u003eAll the women in my family have some kind of magic.\u003cbr\u003eIt’s the kind that goes crooked through you,\u003cbr\u003egrowing at a slant, like trees bowing to the icy Atlantic wind\u003cbr\u003ethat shrieks over Cape Town.\u003cbr\u003eOuma says it’s always been this way. Her mother, her mother’s mother.\u003cbr\u003eThe magic is passed down the line, a cursed family heirloom that nobody wants.\u003cbr\u003eI’ve never wanted it. But that has never mattered.\u003cbr\u003eNo matter what I want. I’m still going to get it.\u003cbr\u003eI can’t say this to anyone, though.\u003cbr\u003eI never talk to Dad\u003cbr\u003eabout magic,\u003cbr\u003eand Ouma is gone now,\u003cbr\u003eand Mamma is fifteen tonight,\u003cbr\u003edoesn’t want to talk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne daughter’s magic\u003cbr\u003eis already too much to carry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next evening, we visit Mora at the clinic,\u003cbr\u003eeven though Mamma is so young she could be Mora’s twin.\u003cbr\u003eDad never comes with us.\u003cbr\u003eSomehow, every time we plan on going, he manages to have a phone call that can’t wait.\u003cbr\u003eMeeting. Crisis. Unhappy client.\u003cbr\u003eTonight, he’s pacing up and down the pathway that leads to the garage,\u003cbr\u003ehis phone lighting the side of his face. Half shadow. Half ghost.\u003cbr\u003eWe brush past him, but he doesn’t notice.\u003cbr\u003eMamma stops on the path and watches him not seeing her.\u003cbr\u003eShe squeezes his arm softly to say goodbye, so she doesn’t interrupt his conversation.\u003cbr\u003eShe’s sixteen, and Dad is his unchanging forty-­four, and she looks small beside him,\u003cbr\u003eand her eyes speak quietly about all the things she wants to ask for but can’t mention.\u003cbr\u003eHe raises his eyebrows. She raises her eyebrows back.\u003cbr\u003eThen she walks to the car, and I follow her.\u003cbr\u003eI never try to talk to Dad when he’s on the phone. I already know. He’s unreachable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe sit in the visitors’ room,\u003cbr\u003ewaiting for Mora to appear.\u003cbr\u003eThen she’s there,\u003cbr\u003ein the narrow doorway,\u003cbr\u003eher sleeves tugged down\u003cbr\u003eover her hands,\u003cbr\u003eher hair greasy at the roots.\u003cbr\u003e“Mori,” Mamma says, patting the chair beside her,\u003cbr\u003ebut Mora leaves space between them.\u003cbr\u003eI can see Mamma is trying not to look hurt,\u003cbr\u003ebut when she’s this young\u003cbr\u003eeverything shows up on her face\u003cbr\u003elike light reflecting off still water.\u003cbr\u003e“How’s it going?” Mamma asks,\u003cbr\u003ereaching for Mora across the empty space, not touching her.\u003cbr\u003eMora shrugs. She shoves her sleeves up\u003cbr\u003eand I see the scars that have Jackson Pollocked her forearms.\u003cbr\u003eI know they go all the way up to her shoulders,\u003cbr\u003eslipping across her collarbones. Some of the scars are thick as fingers,\u003cbr\u003eshiny as fish scales. There are fresh scabs, too, reddish, rough as gravel.\u003cbr\u003e“Why do you keep coming?” she barks.\u003cbr\u003eAnd it takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me.\u003cbr\u003e“Nell,” she says. “What are you doing here?”\u003cbr\u003e“She’s your sister,” says Mamma.\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t want her here,” says Mora.\u003cbr\u003e“Mora—­”\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t want her here.”\u003cbr\u003eThat’s when Mora starts to scream.\u003cbr\u003eShe leans forwards in her chair and screams in my face,\u003cbr\u003escratching at her scarred arms.\u003cbr\u003eA line of blood\u003cbr\u003etrickles down towards her right wrist,\u003cbr\u003eand I can hear it.\u003cbr\u003eIt’s soft, but it’s still there:\u003cbr\u003ethe music trapped inside.\u003cbr\u003eRight there, in the waiting room,\u003cbr\u003edelicate harmonies waver,\u003cbr\u003ehumming like a hall of old fridges.\u003cbr\u003e“I think we should go,” says Mamma.\u003cbr\u003eLooks at me. Like I did something wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMora got her magic\u003cbr\u003ethe second she turned fifteen\u003cbr\u003ebecause that’s what she’s like:\u003cbr\u003eeverything is drawn to her quicker.\u003cbr\u003eShe was fifteen.\u003cbr\u003eI was almost fourteen.\u003cbr\u003eThe first time I heard it.\u003cbr\u003eShe was sitting in the dripping garden,\u003cbr\u003ecross-­legged on the orange bricks,\u003cbr\u003ethe last of October’s rain darkening the grout,\u003cbr\u003edeepening the color of the grass.\u003cbr\u003eIt was chilly. She shivered as she said,\u003cbr\u003e“Nell. Listen to this.”\u003cbr\u003eShe cut into her clean white forearm with a razor blade,\u003cbr\u003ea silver thing turning light into violence.\u003cbr\u003e“Listen,” she said again.\u003cbr\u003eThere was music coming out of the cut.\u003cbr\u003eBright music. The reddest I had ever heard.\u003cbr\u003eI put my ear close to the wound.\u003cbr\u003eIt crept into me. That red music. It sat, pooling, in my stomach.\u003cbr\u003eI stood up. Backed away.\u003cbr\u003eAt arm’s length, I watched the blood spill out of her.\u003cbr\u003eRed is a girl’s color. Red nail polish. Roses.\u003cbr\u003eLipstick and red every month. So I shouldn’t have been shocked to see it.\u003cbr\u003eBut it was a color and a sound together, like my sister’s body was a speaker.\u003cbr\u003eThere was the blood: sparkling out of the cut.\u003cbr\u003eAnd there was the music. As she bled, it got louder.\u003cbr\u003e“It’s in my blood.” She laughed like she couldn’t believe it.\u003cbr\u003e“It’s in there. Nell. You can hear it, right?”\u003cbr\u003eMy mouth was too dry to speak but I nodded.\u003cbr\u003eI could hear it. Then.\u003cbr\u003eI still hear it now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMora made me swear not to tell Mamma.\u003cbr\u003eI swore on the piano. I swore on the mountain\u003cbr\u003ewe could see from the edge of the garden,\u003cbr\u003eshaped like an elephant, a dark cave for an eye.\u003cbr\u003eI swore on the cherries picked from the trees,\u003cbr\u003etheir sour taste like poison. I swore on every flower.\u003cbr\u003eI swore on the unchanging cold of the ocean,\u003cbr\u003ewild foam licking at wet-­black rock.\u003cbr\u003eI would do it. Of course I would do it. I did everything she told me then.\u003cbr\u003eThe weeks went on. Months.\u003cbr\u003eWet spring morphed into crackling summer.\u003cbr\u003eDespite the heat, Mora covered the cuts with long sleeves.\u003cbr\u003eMamma and Dad hardly noticed.\u003cbr\u003eMore and more time in her room. Music rattling the closed door.\u003cbr\u003eThere was no wind anymore. Only hot, still air.\u003cbr\u003eI didn’t say\u003cbr\u003ea thing.\u003cbr\u003eBut after a while,\u003cbr\u003ethe secret\u003cbr\u003ewas heavy\u003cbr\u003eas handfuls\u003cbr\u003eof wet sand.\u003cbr\u003eIn the end.\u003cbr\u003eI had to tell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMora has hated me\u003cbr\u003eever since.\u003cbr\u003eWhen my magic arrives,\u003cbr\u003eMora isn’t there to see it.\u003cbr\u003eIt happens without her knowing.\u003cbr\u003eIt happens to me alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt comes when I’m sitting at the piano,\u003cbr\u003etrying to figure out a new song.\u003cbr\u003eFiddling, fingers fidgeting, semitoning up and down,\u003cbr\u003eletting myself be the knot that music is made of,\u003cbr\u003eand it comes, the phrase I’m looking for—­\u003cbr\u003eout of my mouth and the ends of my fingers at the same time.\u003cbr\u003eIt’s like a wave pushing through me, like I am the wave, bending.\u003cbr\u003eRight there, on the piano’s keys, yellow ladybugs appear.\u003cbr\u003eI count them over and over, five ladybugs, each tiny as a pinkie’s nail,\u003cbr\u003eand if I wasn’t fifteen and I wasn’t expecting it,\u003cbr\u003ewasn’t expecting the magic, I’d think I was dreaming.\u003cbr\u003eBut I am fifteen and I am a Strand girl and I know it’s the magic,\u003cbr\u003emy magic. I blink at them. Their purring wings.\u003cbr\u003eMy heart: a pocket of light. But then they lift into the air, float, fall across the floor like wind-­carried seeds,\u003cbr\u003eand somewhere inside me a door has closed.\u003cbr\u003eAnd I hope for that bright feeling to come back. But it doesn’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI walk through the house, looking for Mamma,\u003cbr\u003ecupping one of the ladybugs in my hand.\u003cbr\u003eI want to tell her that my magic has come.\u003cbr\u003eI don’t have words for it yet,\u003cbr\u003ebut I can show her.\u003cbr\u003eI can show her the ladybug.\u003cbr\u003eI can try to explain.\u003cbr\u003eI find her upstairs, in the en suite bathroom,\u003cbr\u003estaring at her face in the mirror, a hand on her cheek.\u003cbr\u003e“Mamma—­”\u003cbr\u003e“I look exactly like her. All week, it’s been like this.”\u003cbr\u003eShe turns to face me. I close my hand over the dead ladybug.\u003cbr\u003eMamma is sixteen again today. She looks so much like Mora.\u003cbr\u003e“It’s my fault she’s in that place.”\u003cbr\u003e“It’s not your fault, Mamma.”\u003cbr\u003e“Not my fault? Whose fault is it, then?”\u003cbr\u003e“It’s the magic’s fault,” I tell her, trying to sound like I believe it.\u003cbr\u003eMamma’s mouth\u003cbr\u003eis a bruise\u003cbr\u003eof purple lipstick.\u003cbr\u003e“Exactly,” she says.\u003cbr\u003e“What do you mean?”\u003cbr\u003e“Who do you think she got it from? Dad?”\u003cbr\u003eHer laugh stings like wind on the beach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt takes a while for the ladybugs to come back.\u003cbr\u003eWhen they come back. They are not ladybugs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is how it happens.\u003cbr\u003eMamma’s trying to make it up to me:\u003cbr\u003emissing my birthday,\u003cbr\u003enot even asking about the magic.\u003cbr\u003eShe hates the beach\u003cbr\u003ebut she loves Kirstenbosch—­\u003cbr\u003emanicured green\u003cbr\u003emossing up the side of Table Mountain,\u003cbr\u003ebeds of strelitzias,\u003cbr\u003egangs of spiked aloe,\u003cbr\u003eproteas as big as ostrich eggs.\u003cbr\u003eSo we go there,\u003cbr\u003ewhere the summer is most summery.\u003cbr\u003eGreen and hot, ocean wind called off,\u003cbr\u003eturned back to the Antarctic,\u003cbr\u003eleaving us stranded and sweating.\u003cbr\u003eWe’re walking up a winding path.\u003cbr\u003eThe trees reach for each other over our heads.\u003cbr\u003eI’m trying to tell Mamma about a book I’ve been reading.\u003cbr\u003eIt’s a small thing like that. Just trying to tell her about a book.\u003cbr\u003e“Half of it is narrated by a cat.\u003cbr\u003eAnd the main character, he’s—­”\u003cbr\u003eI stop talking.\u003cbr\u003eShe isn’t looking at me.\u003cbr\u003eI can see she’s not listening.\u003cbr\u003eShe’s staring at the shallow stream dancing past us,\u003cbr\u003elight sparkling on ruddy water.\u003cbr\u003eShe’s a little older than Mora today. Seventeen and she\u003cbr\u003ehasn’t stopped frowning. That’s why\u003cbr\u003eI’m telling her about the book. To distract her,\u003cbr\u003emake her feel better. But it isn’t working.\u003cbr\u003eShe tugs at her eyelashes with pinched fingertips.\u003cbr\u003eThis is the moment that gets the magic out of me.\u003cbr\u003eA cloud of gray moths appears in the air,\u003cbr\u003equick as a light flicked on. They hover around me like smoke.\u003cbr\u003eSmall gray moths.\u003cbr\u003eFountaining at my shoulders.\u003cbr\u003eDusting the words I could have said off my lips.\u003cbr\u003eLight gray. Pale as rain. Pale as pills and plastic.\u003cbr\u003eMamma lets go of her eyelashes, turns her head.\u003cbr\u003eHer frown softens a little. Eyes widen.\u003cbr\u003eI recognize the moths. Not from a textbook or anything. From inside.\u003cbr\u003eWhen I see them, I know they are made of me.\u003cbr\u003eThey have carried something out of me.\u003cbr\u003eA hopelessness as heavy as wet earth.\u003cbr\u003eEverything turns to a slow-­thick churn,\u003cbr\u003ebones and stomach and skin.\u003cbr\u003eI stare at the moths. Trying to breathe.\u003cbr\u003eMamma puts her arms around me.\u003cbr\u003eSqueezes me hard against her ribs.\u003cbr\u003e“I knew your magic would be beautiful,” she whispers,\u003cbr\u003enot noticing that I am a hole, opening wider and wider.\u003cbr\u003ePushes her face against mine. “Soft and gentle and so beautiful.\u003cbr\u003eLook at them, Nell. Just look at them.”\u003cbr\u003eI am mortar that won’t ever harden.\u003cbr\u003eI am a dark and hungry grave.\u003cbr\u003eBut I lean in. Lean towards her. Let her kiss my hair.","brand":"Viking Books for Young Readers","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233254125797,"sku":"NP9780593623886","price":12.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593623886.jpg?v=1767729604","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/i-am-the-swarm-isbn-9780593623886","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}