{"product_id":"smack-dab-in-the-middle-of-maybe-isbn-9780399557415","title":"Smack Dab in the Middle of Maybe","description":"\u003cb\u003e11 days. 13 clues. And one kid who won't give up\u003ci\u003e. Smack Dab in the Middle of Maybe\u003c\/i\u003e is \"part treasure hunt, part wilderness adventure, and all heart\" (Alan Gratz, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eRefugee\u003c\/i\u003e).\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow far would you go to find something that might not even exist?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll her life, Cricket's mama has told her stories about a secret room painted by a mysterious artist. Now Mama's run off, and Cricket thinks the room might be the answer to getting her to come back. \u003ci\u003eIf\u003c\/i\u003e it exists. And \u003ci\u003eif\u003c\/i\u003e she can find it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCricket's first clue is a coin from a grown-over ghost town in the woods. So with her daddy's old guidebook and a coat full of snacks stolen from the Cash 'n' Carry, Cricket runs away to find the room. Surviving in the woods isn't easy. While Cricket camps out in an old tree house and looks for clues, she meets the last resident of the ghost town, encounters a poetry-loving dog (who just might hold a key to part of the puzzle), and discovers that sometimes you have to get a little lost . . . to really find your way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2020 Mississippi Library Association Children's Author Award\u003cbr\u003e2019 Southern Book Award Winner--Children's Category\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A tale of adventure, full of mystery.\" --Robert Beatty,\u003ci\u003e New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eSerafina and the Black Cloak\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An unforgettable story about a gutsy girl who will steal your heart.\" --Kathleen Glasgow, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eGirl in Pieces\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Lyrical and endearing, this debut is a genuine adventure tale.\" --\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews,\u003c\/i\u003e Starred\"This piercing, often humorous adventure demonstrates how facing the truth can bring freedom and hope.\"—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The plot, full of adventure, treasure hunts, and mystery, will keep young readers hooked.\"—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Colorfully narrated by Cricket, who comes across as idiosyncratic, intrepid, and wholly likable. An engaging first novel with a distinctive Southern setting.\"—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A tale of adventure, full of mystery and suspense.\"—Robert Beatty, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Serafina and the Black Cloak\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A heartwarming coming-of-age story.\"—Kirby Larson, Newbery Honor-winning author of \u003ci\u003eHattie Big Sky\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A masterful debut. Cricket is my new hero, brave and funny and full of heart. I couldn't put it down.\"—Augusta Scattergood,  author of \u003ci\u003eGlory Be\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A brilliant, utterly absorbing debut. I couldn't get enough of Cricket's adventures. Totally unputdownable.\"—Carrie Ryan,\u003ci\u003e New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Forest of Hands and Teeth\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJo Watson Hackl\u003c\/b\u003e was born in Biloxi, Mississippi, not far from Ocean Springs, where her favorite artist, Walter Anderson, lived and once painted a secret room. When Jo was eleven, she moved to a real-life ghost town, Electric Mills, Mississippi. Mr. Anderson's secret room and the ghost town were Jo's inspiration for this debut novel. She lives with her family in Greenville, South Carolina. You can find her online at JoHackl.com.\u003cp\u003eTurns out, it’s easier than you might think to sneak out of town smuggling a live cricket, three pocketfuls of jerky, and two bags of half-paid-for merchandise from Thelma’s Cash ’n’ Carry grocery store.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The hard part was getting up the guts to go.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It happened like this: There I was in Thelma’s produce section, running my fingers up and down a bundle of collards. Collards never did make for good eating, but I was wondering if maybe they were some kind of sign that it was time for me to skedaddle. Collards always reminded me of Mama. She used to make me drawing paper out of collards, sumac seeds, dryer lint, and newspaper Daddy chopped up in his wood chipper. She plunked things in her paper the way other people stuck things in scrapbooks. Thread from the hem of her wedding dress, a four-leaf clover, Daddy’s first gray hair. Mama’s paper held so much life, it made my drawings pop right off the page.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e That was the kind of mama and daddy I used to have.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I was ruffling up those collards, mourning my daddy and scheming on how to sneak away to win back Mama. Not that I had much time for scheming. Aunt Belinda, Little Quinn, Jackson, and Clay were the next aisle over. My cousins were working hard at plowing down every last tower of cans in that store. Aunt Belinda, she was working hard at keeping some distance between her cart and those crashes.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Me, I was supposed to be finding Aunt Belinda some hot sauce. She hadn’t even started her potato salad or her red velvet cake, and already folks were busy unsnapping folding chairs, setting up for the fry. As in the February Firehouse Jubilee Fish Fry and Red Velvet Cake Cook-Off--the place where Aunt Belinda said she was finally going to land herself a new husband to take the place of Daddy’s no-account brother. She already had her sights set on the new fireman, the one with the king-cab truck.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Get your head out of the clouds, Cricket.” Aunt Belinda knocked my hand off the collards. So much for signs. “Make yourself useful. I need that hot sauce. And call Aunt Fig and find out whether her cake recipe calls for buttermilk or sweet milk.” She handed me her cell phone.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It came alive with the sound of “Love Me Like You Mean It.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Aunt Belinda grabbed back the phone. “WOKT Country is my favorite radio station,” she chirped.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I rolled my eyes. Soon as Aunt Belinda got named a finalist for the Dollywood Trivia Trip of a Lifetime, she’d started answering her phone that way so she’d win if WOKT called.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Aunt Belinda ducked her chin and shuffled two steps back. “Can’t talk now. This coming Wednesday. Got it.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She rambled through her purse, found the Post-it note with her to-do list, and scratched down two lines. Slapping the note on top of her purse, she looked at my bangs, not meeting my eyes. “Pecans are your favorite, right?” She threw a big bag in her cart, the expensive kind, not store brand.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My neck hairs went prickly.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e With money too tight even for dollar-store art supplies, why was Aunt Belinda buying me things all of a sudden? Did she want me to do some more blind-date babysitting? I poked at the bag. “Who was that on the phone?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Aunt Belinda just stared at the rutabagas, sucking her cheeks in like she was working on a mint. Finally, she yanked a tube of Wanda’s Classy Lady Peach Passion lipstick out of her purse and jerked it across her lips. “Never you mind. Now get me that hot sauce. Pronto.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My cousins swarmed up and started prying the bottom okra can out of the pyramid display.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Aunt Belinda spun her cart around, and the sticky note flew off her purse.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Hey, you dropped . . . ,” I yelled after her, but she was already speeding toward the meat section.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I left the note right where it was. The sooner I found the hot sauce, the sooner we could all get out of the store.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But before I even got past the Duke’s mayonnaise, I spotted her--a little brown cricket stuck in a spiderweb on the baseboard.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The poor thing was trapped even worse than me. She was trying to wiggle out and was tangling herself up worse. The spider skittered close.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I snatched that cricket loose.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Not fast enough.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I saved her from the spider, but Little Quinn swooped in like a duck on a June bug. “Look, Clay, Cricket’s done found herself a cricket. Maybe they’re related.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Twisting away, I studied the bug in my hand. It was probably her and her kin who’d been making music in our backyard all last summer.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e After a minute, she figured out I wasn’t going to hurt her none. Her antennae relaxed, and she took a tiny step on legs as thin as embroidery thread. She looked like she was listening for something. Was she hoping for the sound of someone out there calling, calling, calling, and waiting for her to answer back?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Maybe I did have more in common with that bug than just a name.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The cricket turned her warm brown eyes on me and cocked her head. I swear she saw inside me and asked the same exact question I’d been asking myself for days: Just how far will you go to get your mama back?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Before I could even think about answering, Little Quinn pulled a firecracker out of his pocket and dug for the matches. “Hand her over.” He sounded bored. It was just another blowing-things-up Saturday.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I kicked him in the shin, not hard enough to leave a bruise he could point at, just enough to get him out of the way. Pulling the cricket in tight, I shot for the door.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But Aunt Belinda wheeled up and pointed at me with a Trans Am–red fingernail. “Put that nasty thing down and find me that hot sauce.” She plopped a loaf of white bread in her cart and cut her eyes toward the store clock, its hands almost at noon. “You know they’re shutting up early for the fry.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Just a minute. I need to . . .”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Aunt Belinda tilted her face toward the greasy ceiling tiles. “Lord, please save me from selfish children.” Then her voice turned into the one she used when she was trying to get her boys to bed. “Just help me out this one time, Cricket. For the fry. Will you do that much?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Yes, ma’am,” I sighed, trying to get out of hearing, for the umpteenth time, all the things Aunt Belinda used to do to help out her family when she was twelve.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My cousins swaggered closer, blocking the way to the door. I had to get the cricket out if she was going to make it.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Gotta go.” I swerved toward the bathroom.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The back lights were already off, and I fumbled for the bathroom switch. One tiny window glowed on the rear wall, the glass painted in the same overcooked butter-bean color as the rest of the store. A slice of light showed through the bottom, though, where the window was pushed out. Just big enough for the cricket.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e That was the good news. The bad news was, the window was too high to reach. A tall trash can stood next to the door. I waltzed it side to side over to the window, holding my breath against the smell of dirty diapers, Comet, and wet brown paper towels.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Cricket, I hope you’re grateful,” I whispered.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She wasn’t.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Soon as I opened my fingers to check on her, she sprang onto the lightbulb over the mirror.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I wriggled my way onto a sink, prayed the whole thing wouldn’t fall off the wall, and tried to coax her loose before she got burned.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Instead, she catapulted onto the top of a stall. Balancing on a lopsided toilet seat, I lunged after her. Aunt Belinda was going to kill me for taking so long.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e By the time I finally caught her, we’d visited all four toilets once and some two times.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I was out of breath and really, really needed to wash my hands.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But I’ll say one thing for that cricket—she had a mind of her own. “Names carry a power,” Daddy always said. Right then and there, I picked out a good one for her--Charlene. Mama’s middle name.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Hoisting myself onto the trash can rim, I pushed the window open wider and started to let Charlene out. But instead of clean air, I got slapped with the smell of fresh-poured asphalt from the side parking lot. Charlene would get stuck in the tar. I’d have to take her out the front. I eased the bathroom door open.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The store was dark, too dark.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It was too quiet.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It was too empty.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It took me about a minute to figure out that the only living creatures in the store were me and that cricket.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She stared at me with those question eyes of hers, waiting on me to make the next move.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Yearling","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303175704805,"sku":"NP9780399557415","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399557415.jpg?v=1767736785","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/smack-dab-in-the-middle-of-maybe-isbn-9780399557415","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}