{"product_id":"jubilee-isbn-9780385744898","title":"Jubilee","description":"\u003cb\u003eNewbery Honor–winning author Patricia Reilly Giff writes a tender, timeless story about a girl who stopped speaking long ago, and how she finds her way back to her voice. For fans of \u003ci\u003eListening for Lucca, Fish in a Tree, The Rules,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMockingbird\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJudith lives with her beloved aunt Cora and her faithful Dog on a beautiful island. Years ago, when her mother left, Judith stopped talking. Now she communicates entirely through gestures and taps, and by drawing cartoons, speaking only when she’s alone—or with Dog.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThis year, Judith faces a big change—leaving her small, special classroom for a regular fifth-grade class. She likes her new teacher, and finds a maybe-friend in a boy named Mason. But Jubilee’s wandering feet won’t stop until they find her mother. And now she discovers that her mother has moved back to the mainland, nearby. If Jubilee finds her, will her mother’s love be what she needs to speak again? \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJudith’s cartoons, sprinkled throughout, add lightness and humor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eILA-CBC Choices Reading Lists, Children’s Choices\u003cbr\u003eSelected for the Kansas NEA Reading Circle CatalogPatricia Reilly Giff is the author of many beloved books for children, including the Kids of the Polk Street School books, the Friends and Amigos books, and the Polka Dot Private Eye books. Several of her novels for older readers have been chosen as ALA-ALSC Notable Children’s Books and ALA-YALSA Best Books for Young Adults. They include \u003ci\u003eThe Gift of the Pirate Queen; All the Way Home; Water Street; Nory Ryan’s Song,\u003c\/i\u003e a Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators Golden Kite Honor Book for Fiction; and the Newbery Honor Books \u003ci\u003eLily’s Crossing \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003ePictures of Hollis Woods. Lily’s Crossing \u003c\/i\u003ewas also chosen as a \u003ci\u003eBoston Globe–Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e Honor Book. Her most recent books are \u003ci\u003eUntil I Find Julian, Winter Sky, Gingersnap, R My Name Is Rachel, Storyteller, Wild Girl, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eEleven, \u003c\/i\u003eas well as the Zigzag Kids series. She lives in Connecticut.\u003cbr\u003e   Patricia Reilly Giff is available for select speaking engagements. To inquire about a possible appearance, please contact the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau at speakers@penguinrandomhouse.com.\u003cp\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe last day of freedom. School tomorrow!\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI sat on the edge of the wharf, legs dangling, holding my pad and pencils.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI drew a kid with red hair and green eyes, brows a little thick. I used quick lines for a pointy nose, and a squirrely nest of corkscrews for the hair.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was turning out to be a girl like me, Judith Ann Magennis.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI tapped the pencil. What was missing?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOf course, the mouth.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy pencil hovered over the blank space. I tore the paper out of the pad, scrunched it up, and tossed it into the water.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaybe like a mother who’d toss a kid away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI hid my pad and pencils under a rock and slid down under the wharf to cool off. Water swished in, and I spread my hands like starfish to capture bits of shells.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNoise exploded above me—pounding on the wooden planks.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m going to get you!” a voice yelled.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMe? I ducked under the water and came up dripping. I listened as feet barreled out to the deep end. Not me after all.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yeow!” someone yelled, and there was a huge splash.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI peered out from behind a splintery piling. What was going on?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Serves you right, Mason!” the voice shouted. “Keep your hands off my books. Fingerprints all over them!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMason. I knew who he was. He was always a mess. Once I’d seen him rolling down the hill with his brother. He was on the bottom, then winning, on top, grass stains and mud all over him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI glanced up through the spaces in the wharf and caught a glimpse of his brother, Jerry, who walked away, acting as if he owned the world.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn the water, Mason was a perfect cartoon, mouth open, sputtering, hair plastered to his head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe swam around the side of the wharf and scrambled up onto the sand. Then he was gone.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI climbed up to the wharf and shook my hair dry. I loved this island. In the distance I could see the coast of Maine, a misty purple blur. And across from me were wooden walls that creaked and groaned when the ferry edged into the slip.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy mother had left on that ferry when I was a toddler, dropping me off at Aunt Cora’s as if I were a bundle of laundry.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe sent presents at Christmas and cards on my birthday, postmarked Oakdale, or Vista, or even Apple Valley. She signed them Mom, or Mother, or her name, Amber. She didn’t even know what to call herself.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA small boat sped by, sending up a curved wake. A man at the tiller turned off the motor and shouted back at me. “Hey, kid!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI raised my hand to wave.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Want a dog?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBefore I could move, he’d picked up a dog and dropped him into the water. “Can’t keep him.” He switched on the motor again and veered toward open water.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe dog struggled, paddling against the boat’s wake.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePoor dog.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWithout thinking, I raced along the wharf and dived into the water.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was a fierce riptide here. It made no difference to me. Gideon, the ferry boat captain, had taught me to swim by the time I was three.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Swim with the tide, then around it,” he’d told me. “Don’t fight it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut the dog was fighting; I could see how tired he was. And soon he’d pass the end of the island and be swept out to sea.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI couldn’t speak, but I could certainly swim! I took long, sure strokes and kicked hard and evenly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen I was close to him, I grabbed the narrow blue collar around his neck, but it came apart in my hand. I gripped a handful of his thick fur; then, with one arm around his neck, I swam back to shore.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe lay there on the warm sand, Dog’s great dark eyes on me. When his fur was dried and combed, it would be close to the color of my hair, only lighter. Now he was shivering and cold, but more than that, he was afraid. I rolled in close to him, hugging him to me, warming him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDid I want a dog? Oh, yes! And I was sure Aunt Cora would be glad to let me have him. I put my mouth against that matted fur and whispered, “You’re home, Dog. You’ll never have to see the terrible man on the boat again.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe couldn’t hear me. There was only one place I could speak loud enough to be heard, and it was all the way up the hill, deep inside Ivy Cottage. But I felt the syrup of happiness being with this dog. He was feeling it too.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen I remembered. Aunt Cora had sat next to me at breakfast this morning. In her slow, deliberate way, she’d begun: “You’ll be in a new class this year, a regular fifth grader, with thirteen boys and girls.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo more special class? No more Mrs. Leahy and four other kids?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Why shouldn’t you be in a regular class?” Aunt Cora said. “Because you don’t speak? You do other things.” She counted on her fingers. “You’re a great reader. You do math problems faster than I can. Your cartoons are spectacular.” She gave me a quick hug. “And most of all, you’ll be with more kids. You’ll make friends, Jubilee.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat’s what she called me: Jubilee. “You’re a celebration!” she always said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSome celebration!\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMrs. Leahy, my old teacher, called me Judy. Gideon, the ferry captain, called me Red because of my Pippi Longstocking hair. And Sophie’s five-year-old brother, Travis, called me No-Talk Girl.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSophie.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBefore first grade, Sophie and I were best friends. We dug tiny gardens together. We gathered stones and built houses that toppled into each other and made us laugh.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut one day, I’d heard Jenna ask, “How can you be friends with a weirdo like Judith, who doesn’t talk?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo no more building, no more friend.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI stood now and squeezed water out of my shorts. Dog stood next to me, shaking himself, drops of water flying.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was time to look at that fifth-grade classroom. I pulled my pad from under the rock, then started toward Shore Road.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDog didn’t follow. His tail wagged uncertainly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI went back and ran my hands over his head, down his back. We belonged together. I wanted him to know that.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI walked a few feet, and still he watched. Then, at last, he took a step toward me. A moment later, we loped along the road together.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn back of the school, I raised myself on tiptoe to see inside my new room. Desks were scattered every which way, and the chalkboard was dusty.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA new teacher danced across the front, her sandy hair in ringlets. She glanced toward the window, then went to the chalkboard and wrote her name: Ms. Quirk. Underneath she wrote WELCOME.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHad she seen me? I raised my hand to wave, but a ball smashed into the windowsill, just missing me. It bounced back against the cement and rolled away across the yard.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI turned. Mason! Why would he try to hit me? No wonder his brother was after him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI gave Dog a pat, and then we ran past the school and tore up the dirt road toward Windy Hill and Ivy Cottage.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt really wasn’t a cottage anymore. The roof had caved in and vines covered the whole thing, so no one else knew it was there. It was almost mine.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHalfway there, Dog paused, nose twitching, tail high. What had he heard?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWas Mason following us? Then I saw what Dog had spotted on the ground: old branches were piled together with a row of stones in front.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSomeone’s hiding spot.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA very messy one.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA face peered out at me: a mop of pale hair, blue eyes, and more freckles than I could count. It was Sophie’s little brother, Travis. He grinned, showing a missing front tooth. With a rustle of leaves, he disappeared again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDog sat in front of the hiding spot, whining in a let’s play voice, until Travis poked his head out again. His finger went to his lips. “Shhh.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI nodded. He’d escaped from Sophie. He did that all the time. I’d hear her calling, her voice loud, then whistling shrilly. Sometimes I’d hear him laughing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You can come in, No-Talk Girl,” he said. “It’s my best place. But it’s a secret. Sophie will make me go home and wash my face and say my numbers. She’s a bossy girl, and I’m not a baby, you know.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDog and I crawled inside. Next to Travis was a book with a torn cover, a bag of half-chewed orange slices, and a pencil and paper. “You can draw me while I read,” he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI smoothed out the paper and drew a cartoon—a boy with a swirl of a hair, laughing eyes, and an upside-down book—while he made up a story about a girl who didn’t speak.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDog’s head went up again. Travis put his hand over his mouth.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMason walked by, his feet crunching on old leaves. If he’d looked down he’d have seen us, but he kept going.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhy had Mason thrown the ball at me? Just mean, maybe. I’d stay away from him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI signed the cartoon Judith Magennis, handed it to Travis, and went with Dog to hang out at Ivy Cottage.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Yearling","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299751317733,"sku":"NP9780385744898","price":6.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780385744898.jpg?v=1767730500","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/jubilee-isbn-9780385744898","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}