{"product_id":"riot-act-isbn-9780593479988","title":"Riot Act","description":"\u003cb\u003ePunk rock meets Orwell's \u003ci\u003e1984\u003c\/i\u003e in this story of a group of theater kids who take on a political regime, perfect for readers who love books by A.S. King and Marie Lu.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn an alternate 1991, the authoritarian US government keeps tabs on everybody and everything. It censors which books can be read, what music can be listened to, and which plays can be performed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen her best friend is killed by the authorities and her theater teacher disappears without a trace, Gigi decides to organize her fellow Champaign High School thespians to put on a production of Henry VI. But at what cost?\"\u003cb\u003eA pulse-pounding mix of rebellion and drama\u003c\/b\u003e\" —\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eTension zings throughout the twined plots\u003c\/b\u003e, making for an unabashed profession of the importance of art in a tale both gritty and timely.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"This fast-paced dystopian thriller will get \u003cb\u003ea standing ovation from theater kids and punk rockers alike\u003c\/b\u003e.\"\u003ci\u003e —Kirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"This punk rock dystopian thriller is \u003cb\u003ea must-read about freedom of expression and the power of art\u003c\/b\u003e in the fight against tyranny.\"\u003ci\u003e —Booklist\u003c\/i\u003eSarah Lariviere is the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Bad Kid, \u003c\/i\u003ea 2017 Edgar Award finalist, and \u003ci\u003eTime Travel for Love and Profit\u003c\/i\u003e. Sarah grew up in Champaign, Illinois, graduated with a degree in theater from Oberlin College and has a master's degree in social work from Hunter College in New York City, where she specialized in casework with children and families. She lives in Los Angeles, California, with her family.1.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHung be the heavens with black\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChampaign, Illinois, 1991\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSummer’s over and I’m still fucking dead. They buried me in the cemetery south of town where everybody goes to have sex. Nobody in my family is buried out here. Nobody knows anybody who’s buried out here. For miles around in every direction it’s just a wasteland of shredded cornfields. If anybody had ever really known me, they would’ve cremated me and tossed my ashes in the dumpster behind Ye Olde Donut Shoppe. Instead I’ve spent my summer vacation buried under a gnarled apple tree that’s just aching to crap wormy fruit all over me. A full moon shines on my stone:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMAXIMUS BOWL, 1972–­1991\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBorn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo nickname.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo memorable quote.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTonight, Giselle and Axl drove out to the boondocks to visit me. They’re parked in Gigi’s big brown turd, the 1979 Chevy Malibu Classic she bought for six hundred bucks from her dad’s friend Mosquito.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey’re not having sex. Never having sex, for reasons that have always been unclear to me. I’d kick it with either one of them, no hesitation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen again, I died horny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGigi is in the driver’s seat, chain chewing Red Vines. Bright red lipstick. Joan of Arc buzz cut. She looks like some corn-­fed pixie, the type that’s a magnet for doom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’s remembering the day we met.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe were Thespians. High school drama dorks. Actors, lighting geeks, sound nerds, scenery designers, stage managers, and other assorted freaks who rehearsed nights and weekends to stage twice-­yearly productions under the guidance of our fearless leader, theater teacher Fiona Lee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was fall of ’88, Gigi’s first Saturday-­morning set construction. Gigi was the Ghost Girl with the long black hair hiding in the wings of the Champaign High School theater while the Doors (illegally) blasted from the sound booth, and center stage this corpulent beast of a sophomore (me) drilled holes in flats, bellowing with Jim Morrison.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGigi can hear me now, singing, “This is the end . . . my only friend, the end. . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSee me wearing that Little Bo Peep hat with the pink plastic flowers I used to rock to scare the kiddies away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMs. Lee was bitching me out about safety goggles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI got so caught up in bitching back that I dropped my drill.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMs. Lee kicked me in the butt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGhost Girl laughed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI looked up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Giselle!” called Ms. Lee. “Glad you made it. Will you teach this scene-­stealer how to use a power tool?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTiny Ms. Lee, hands on her hips, straight black hair in a high pony, inexplicable suit jacket, inexplicable sandals, was smiling the smile that Gigi would later learn the teacher reserves for new kids, the smile that’s so defiant it’s almost loud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGigi walked downstage, to the edge. She appeared to be walking on water. Looked out, into the house, the sea of empty seats where an audience would be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTurned to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Can I borrow your hat?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Certainly.” I struggled to my feet, tipped my bonnet. With a flick of the wrist, I presented it to her. “Fair warning, freshwoman. This hat renders its wearer preposterous.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen she put on the bonnet, Gigi shape-­shifted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Check out me lump of lead. Spittin’ image of the baked bean!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTranslation: In this hat, I resemble the queen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer cockney accent was dead-­on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe had an actress on our hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A light hussy, I’d say,” I retorted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Up yer arse!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom that moment, Gigi and I were inseparable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAxl is sitting shotgun. Paint-­spattered pants tucked into black Doc Martens, fists like boulders on his knees. Wild hair. Complexion pulsing with tawny health, like some feral lumberjack. Eyes the color of arctic waters crawling with Vikings. He’s clutching a Zippo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe flips it open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLights a flame.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFlips it shut.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAxl is remembering the night I died.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first shot was shattered glass skidding across the Ping-­Pong table, Axl and me turning our heads, seeing the hole in the wall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAxl yelling, “Fuck!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDropping his soldering iron.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRunning for the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd me, looking back at the broken window, at my fractured reflection, understanding that it had come to this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the armrest between Axl and Gigi, a boom box blasts the Raincoats. “This! Is just! A fairy tale! Happening in the super­market!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThanks to Axl, you can still get outlawed music here in Champaign, Illinois, and all the baby farm towns that surround us. Films, too. In fact, Axl can get you pretty much any that your Midwestern heart desires.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShort on cash?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill worth asking. He might hook you up on principle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Fischer brothers have an ethic about these things.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the Raincoats song ends, the cassette keeps spinning. America’s Favorite Dictator is in the middle of a sentence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“. . . the Market respects those who respect the Market. The SYXTEM respects the Market. Join the millions who have already discovered the SYXTEM’s trademarked techniques to increase your personal value—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the party sales pitch is cut off by the xylophone stylings of the Violent Femmes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why can’t I get \/ Just one screw?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGigi tosses her Red Vines into the back seat. “I can’t do senior year.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAxl drops the lighter into the chest pocket of his flannel. “Okay.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fuck it,” she says. “I’ll drop out.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And hide where?” asks Axl. “Rolling Acres?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRolling Acres: a cluster of ranch houses, a half mile by a quarter mile, plopped smack in the middle of the cornfields south of Champaign.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRolling Acres, the neighborhood where Gigi and Axl grew up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRolling Acres, the place where I died.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGigi shrugs. “Maybe.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m off at eight tomorrow,” says Axl. “Come to my theater after. We’ll find somewhere better to stash you than that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGigi clenches the steering wheel like she’s revving up. “I mean—­I’ll be at school on Monday. Of course. Just saying. Anyway, can’t tomorrow. Dinner shift.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So, after work.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“After, I’m going to Orin’s.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAxl smirks. Takes his ciggies out of his chest pocket, looks at them like he’s going to shove his tongue down their throat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGigi eyes him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAxl hasn’t lit a butt since I died.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile we fled Rolling Acres, dodging bullets (mostly dodging), trying not to trip over the pack of poodles and pugs gone feral who had joined us, slipping in their ubiquitous shit, the way Axl was hacking, I thought his lungs were trying to escape his body. Like if we didn’t get away, the lungs still might.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAxl opens the glove compartment. Six unopened packs are stuffed in there with a pair of rainbow-­striped gloves, because Gigi and I once decided that something called a glove compartment should contain them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe crams in the fresh pack, smacks the liquid-­poop-­colored plastic door shut. Bangs his skull against the headrest to help the craving pass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eQuitting smoking is by far the easiest thing on Axl’s to-­do list.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill hard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Orin Ellis,” he says. “Did that pretentious cyberfuck not graduate?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He lends me books to read,” says Gigi. “For the Defiance.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAxl’s dimple appears out of nowhere like he wants to laugh, but his eyes say he doesn’t have the juice for it. “Orin has nothing to do with the Defiance. He just needs people to believe he does.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGigi shrugs. “Guess he’s trying to impress me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Probably,” says Axl. “Because you’re playing so hard to get.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGigi punches Axl in the arm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You know Orin disdains human flesh,” Axl goes on; he can’t help it. “He thinks it would be better if we became cyborgs with electric jacks and plugged ourselves into each other to bone. Do not let that guy put his tongue in your mouth.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Stop.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAxl presses eject on the boom box, removes the cassette tape labeled SYXTEM: Side 3: Take What You Deserve. He flips the tape, cranks the volume.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s Prince, “Let’s Go Crazy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy song.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGigi hits the fog lights. They roll down the squeaky windows of the Malibu, push open its heavy doors, jump out. Their boots sink into the soil I’ll call home until my body disintegrates completely, fat cell by fat cell, and I become it. Gigi is wearing a bright green Irish whiskey T-­shirt belted like a dress, her father’s old Navy jacket with DURANT stenciled on the pocket, ankle boots the color of dried blood. Axl is a giant in his ripped Hüsker Dü T-­shirt and beat-­up leather jacket. They meet in the muddy gravel in front of the car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh no let’s go! Go! Go crazy. . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAxl throws his massive arms over his head and thrashes like he’s in his own private mosh pit. Gigi dances in a carefree, aerobic way, like the high school heroine of one of the ’80s movies she loves way more than it makes sense to, given how little they have to do with her life. Gigi’s America looks nothing like the America in those films, but she refuses to let the fantasy go. Why shouldn’t her problems be limited to living on the wrong side of the tracks, resolvable by a cool vintage prom dress? She clings to the wish like a life preserver as she and Axl dance on their best friend’s grave in the headlights, kicking up mud to Prince and the chirping of the field crickets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe living Max would’ve appreciated this twisted memorial.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs for the dead one?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’d like to tell these kids to be more careful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe party is watching.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePossession of Anti-­American Thought can get you a one-­way ticket to a reeducation camp in North Carolina.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGigi and Axl shouldn’t need me to remind them about the New American Way, but here they are, blasting their soundtrack, tempting fate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlas, I can’t berate them. The only place I exist anymore is inside a living person’s thoughts. It’s the sole dead-­guy revelation I’ve had, and I’ve got no idea what it means, so I’ll repeat it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe dead live in your thoughts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe feel your feelings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe dead are in you, and we have much to say.","brand":"Knopf Books for Young Readers","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233517351141,"sku":"NP9780593479988","price":12.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593479988.jpg?v=1767735796","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/riot-act-isbn-9780593479988","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}