{"product_id":"telephone-of-the-tree-isbn-9780593698471","title":"Telephone of the Tree","description":"\u003cb\u003eAn unforgettable, tender story about grief and the support of community as a young girl, faced with aching loss, begins to understand that what we love will always be with us.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAyla and her best friend Kiri have always been tree people. They each have their own special tree, and neighbors and family know that they are most likely to be found within the branches. But after an accident on their street, Kiri has gone somewhere so far away that Ayla can only wait and wait in her birch, longing to be able to talk with Kiri again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen a mysterious, old-fashioned telephone appears one morning, nestled in the limbs of Ayla's birch tree. Where did it come from? she wonders. And why are people showing up to use this phone to call their loved ones? Especially loved ones who have passed on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll Ayla wants is for Kiri to come home. Until that day comes, she will keep Kiri's things safe. She'll keep her nightmares to herself. And she will \u003ci\u003enot\u003c\/i\u003e make a call on that telephone.\"Inspired by Itaru Sasaki’s phone booth in Japan, where people can symbolically call deceased loved ones, McGhee lays bare the powerful emotions entangled with loss while demonstrating the strength found in community.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"McGhee injects a speculative twist to this tender tale about death and grief. Employing spare, sensory language, McGhee explores the painful negative space created by loss and the devastation of a friendship cutshort, as well as the healing found in moving forward while remembering that 'there’s more... so much more.'\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \u003c\/i\u003e“Rather than trot in a therapist or some other mouthpiece for wise counseling, the author gives her protagonist subtler (and more believably effective) help reaching that insight—most notably parents who give her space rather than unwanted advice, and her grandfather’s old telephone.  Readers feeling Ayla’s profound sense of loss will be relieved when she finds a way to live with it. Raw and sad but lit with occasional glints of humor and ending, as it should, on a rising note.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e★ \u003c\/i\u003e“The reveal that the phone was placed by Ayla’s grandpa who used it to “call” his wife after she passed is just one beautiful details in a story that focuses on generational healing rather than generational trauma. While more mature readers may quickly realize that Kiri has died, the novel’s hybrid of lyrically written plot fragments and stream of consciousness serve to poetically reveal the facts as Ayla becomes ready to process them.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e★ \u003c\/i\u003e“In a first-person narrative, ten-year-old Ayla's loose, dreamy narrative dances around current details, but she eventually confides she misses her best friend Kiri, insisting that her friend will be back soon. Ayla divulges small incidents and observations like a trail of breadcrumbs, allowing readers to piece together what she herself cannot admit: Kiri is not coming home. Ayla’s voice as she comes to terms with what has happened, combined with the care and understanding of those supporting her while she grieves, create an intensely emotional reading experience.\" —T\u003ci\u003ehe Horn Book Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Award-winning writer McGhee has penned another memorable story. Ayla’s narration beautifully captures the grieving process from the perspective of a child and the characters who surround her are supportive and caring. Beautiful pencil drawings enhance the plot. The use of  “they” pronouns when referring to Kiri makes the story more inclusive for all readers. A lovely book for children (and even adults) who may be grieving; this will grab readers’ hearts.\" —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003eAlison McGhee is the New York Times bestselling author of books for all ages in all forms, including \u003ci\u003eWhat I Leave Behind, Shadow Baby, Firefly Hollow\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eSomeday\u003c\/i\u003e. She is the recipient of many awards and grants, including the Geisel Medal, the Christopher Award, four Minnesota Book awards, and Minnesota State Arts Board and McKnight Foundation grants. Her work has been translated into more than twenty languages. She grew up in upstate New York and lives in Minneapolis.How I picture the night Kiri and I first met each other, first looked into each other’s eyes, first reached for each other’s hand, back when we were babies:\u003cbr\u003eThe moon like a bright white ship sailing through the sky.\u003cbr\u003eTree limbs dark against the moonlight, branches reaching to the invisible sun.\u003cbr\u003eKiri’s mom holding Kiri tight in her arms and dancing Kiri down the block.\u003cbr\u003eMy dad holding me tight in his arms and dancing me down the block.\u003cbr\u003eIn the bright moonlight they dance their crying babies up and down the block so we’ll stop crying, so we’ll be peaceful, so we’ll . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003esleep\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003esleep\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003esleeeeeeep\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI picture Kiri’s mom and my dad whispering the names of all the trees to Kiri and me as they dance us past:\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eoak maple willow\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ebirch pine mulberry\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ecrabapple ginkgo butternut\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand all those whispers weave their way into our hearts that night, so that night of dancing with the trees becomes the night that made\u003cbr\u003eKiri and me\u003cbr\u003elove trees\u003cbr\u003emaybe even\u003cbr\u003ewant to \u003ci\u003ebe\u003c\/i\u003e trees\u003cbr\u003ebecause of their tall, strong calm\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlmost all the trees on our block were planted to celebrate new babies—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eoak for Pops\u003cbr\u003emaple for Dad\u003cbr\u003emulberry for Mrs. S\u003cbr\u003eweeping willows for Rowan and Geneva\u003cbr\u003elittle crabapple for Gentleman\u003cbr\u003ebaby birch for me\u003cbr\u003ebaby pine for Kiri\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe oak and maple and mulberry trees are tall and wide now. They’ve been growing as long as Pops and Dad and Mrs. S have been alive.\u003cbr\u003eBut two of the trees were planted not for new babies, but in remembrance of people who passed on.\u003cbr\u003eThe ginkgo in honor of Mrs. S’s husband, Douglas, because he loved their beautiful fan-shaped leaves.\u003cbr\u003eThe butternut in honor of my grandmother Randa, because she loved to eat butternuts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFast-forward to second grade. Kiri and I are in Mr. Nesbitt’s class. He has just told us all to draw a\u003ci\u003eWhat Do You Want to Be?\u003c\/i\u003e picture.\u003cbr\u003e“Imagine yourselves at age thirty,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThirty\u003c\/i\u003e?\u003cbr\u003eKiri and I are seven. It takes a long time for us just to count to thirty. We look at each other.\u003cbr\u003e“I mean, my \u003ci\u003emom\u003c\/i\u003e is thirty,” Kiri whispers.\u003cbr\u003e“My parents are thirty-\u003ci\u003eone,\u003c\/i\u003e” I whisper back.\u003cbr\u003eWill we ever be that old? When we get to that age, will we \u003ci\u003efeel\u003c\/i\u003e old?\u003cbr\u003eThirty is so, so far in the future.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Kiri and I know what we want to be. We’ve always known, known from the night our parents danced us past the trees.\u003cbr\u003eI look over at Kiri, who’s already drawing, sketching an outline on rough paper.\u003cbr\u003eTall brown trunk. Branches curving downward, filled with pine cones. A child with braids and a round face smiling out of the trunk itself.\u003cbr\u003e“White pine!” I say.\u003cbr\u003eKiri nods and smiles. Their own white pine, planted in front of their house at the end of the block when Kiri was born, is already taller than they are.\u003cbr\u003eMy turn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pick up a tan crayon and a white crayon and a green crayon and begin to draw.\u003cbr\u003eWhite trunks split at the base and curve upward. Papery branches float out and up. Green leaves dance on limbs.\u003cbr\u003e“River birch!” Kiri says.\u003cbr\u003e“Yup!”\u003cbr\u003eThen:\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eTREES?”\u003c\/i\u003e Martina says in her Martina voice. “Kids can’t be \u003ci\u003eTREES.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003eMartina always, somehow, knows what to say to make others feel bad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRight away my hand covers up the drawing. Right away Martina’s eyes flash and she smirks. She knows she’s gotten to me.\u003cbr\u003eMartina always gets to me.\u003cbr\u003eBut not to Kiri.\u003cbr\u003e“What’s your problem, Martina?”\u003cbr\u003eKiri is calm, and their voice is soft, and their question \u003ci\u003esounds\u003c\/i\u003e like a question but isn’t. What Kiri is really saying is\u003ci\u003eback off\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e“Mr. Nesbitt told us to draw what we \u003ci\u003ewant \u003c\/i\u003eto be, right?” Kiri continues. “And Ayla and I want to be trees.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKiri has power.\u003cbr\u003eKiri has \u003ci\u003epresence\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003eKiri is already like a tree.\u003cbr\u003e“Ayla and I are dreaming big,” Kiri says to Martina. “Why shouldn’t we?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYeah, why shouldn’t we?\u003c\/i\u003e I think, and we look at Martina until she frowns and backs away.\u003cbr\u003eKiri makes everything better.\u003cbr\u003eThat day in Mr. Nesbitt’s class is the day I learn you don’t have to make up an excuse for what you want to be.\u003cbr\u003eYou can just dream big.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKiri and I are ten now. Second grade was a long time ago, but we still dream big.\u003cbr\u003eI still think about that day, though. I see Martina’s face and the way she backed slowly away from our table, as if there were a force field around it.\u003cbr\u003eI see Mr. Nesbitt’s head, bent over his desk. His dark hair fallen across his face, and his pencil scribbling\u003ci\u003eshhh-shhh-shhh \u003c\/i\u003eacross the same rough paper the rest of us used back then.\u003cbr\u003eI wish Kiri were around right now. It’s easier to dream big when they’re with me.\u003cbr\u003eJunie For Short must wish Kiri were here too. Junie For Short is Kiri’s dog, and sometimes these days she just howls and howls.\u003cbr\u003e“Junie sure misses Kiri,” my mom says. “Just like the rest of us.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Her name is Junie For Short,” I say. “Don’t call her Junie.”\u003cbr\u003eJunie For Short’s real name is Juniper, but that name was too big for the tiny puppy she used to be. So Kiri and I nicknamed her Junie, for short, only what stuck was the whole thing: Junie For Short.\u003cbr\u003eI don’t howl, but \u003ci\u003eI \u003c\/i\u003emiss Kiri too.\u003cbr\u003eI picture Kiri, calm and strong, like a tree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eKiri, come home.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJust as I’m thinking that, Junie For Short, all the way down the block at Kiri’s house, begins to howl again, as if she can hear my thoughts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That dog’s always crying these days,” says a voice from the sidewalk.\u003cbr\u003e“I bet she misses Kiri,” says a child’s voice, and at the sound of those voices I stay\u003cbr\u003estill\u003cbr\u003estill\u003cbr\u003estill\u003cbr\u003ein my birch tree, because I know the voices are Gentleman and his mother. Gentleman is a nickname too. His real name is Fraser, but no one calls him that except his parents, and only when they’re angry with him.\u003cbr\u003eWhich is a lot.\u003cbr\u003eNot today, though.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSince Kiri left, I try to avoid Gentleman, but it’s kind of impossible because he lives on our block.\u003cbr\u003eHe keeps asking me about Kiri, like he’s worried or something, like he wants me to talk. Like he doesn’t like me being quiet.\u003cbr\u003eHe tells me to call Kiri.\u003cbr\u003e“I can’t,” I tell him. “There’s no phone where Kiri is.”\u003cbr\u003e“Text them, then.”\u003cbr\u003e“Gentleman. You need a phone to text.”\u003cbr\u003e“Well then, go visit!”\u003cbr\u003eI just close my eyes and shake my head. There’s a lot that Gentleman doesn’t understand, about phones and a whole lot else. So as he and his mom pass by my tree, I shrink up against it, hoping he won’t see me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s futile. Up he comes to me in my tree. Five years old and full of swagger. The top of his head, with its sproingy wild curls, bobs in my direction.\u003cbr\u003eYou can’t deny it, Gentleman’s a cute kid.\u003cbr\u003eBut he’s also a pain, with his constant chatter. His constant \u003ci\u003eBut why are you so quiet these days\u003c\/i\u003e and\u003ci\u003eWhy don’t you just call Kiri\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e“Go home, Gentleman,” I say.\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“Your mom’s going to start yelling for you any second.”\u003cbr\u003eThrough the birch leaves I see his mom’s almost at their apartment building.\u003ci\u003eHey! Come back and get your kid,\u003c\/i\u003e I think.\u003cbr\u003eBut then I see that Gentleman doesn’t look like his usual self. His eyes aren’t bright, the way they usually are. He just looks at me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen: “Can I tell you something, Ayla?”\u003cbr\u003eI shrug. It’s no use to say no. If Kiri were here, we’d give each other a secret\u003ci\u003ehere he goes again\u003c\/i\u003e look.\u003cbr\u003eHe looks at me with those un-bright, un-Gentleman eyes.\u003cbr\u003e“Ayla,” he whispers. “Sweetheart died.”\u003cbr\u003e“Oh no! Sweetheart, your gecko?”\u003cbr\u003eHe nods. Leans against a low limb of my birch tree. His mouth is pressed tight in a way that looks the way my own mouth suddenly feels, which is a\u003ci\u003edon’t cry\u003c\/i\u003e sort of feeling.\u003cbr\u003eThose eyes of his. So sad.\u003cbr\u003eThis is terrible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe idea of Sweetheart being dead is too hard to handle. Gentleman loves that lizard as much as Kiri loves Junie For Short.\u003cbr\u003e“How did Sweetheart die?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e“My mom says ‘How should I know, I’m not a vet,’” he says. “My dad says I probably fed her something bad for her.”\u003cbr\u003e“Like what?”\u003cbr\u003e“Like a Cheerio,” he whispers. “Sometimes. For a treat.”\u003cbr\u003eIt doesn’t seem as if a Cheerio once in a while would kill a gecko. And it seems like a mean thing to say to a little tiny kid who just lost their best lizard friend. But Gentleman’s parents aren’t like mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Now I know why Junie For Short keeps howling,” he says. “It’s because she misses—”\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly Gentleman’s voice gets quieter and quieter and I can’t hear what he’s saying.\u003cbr\u003eOr maybe his voice doesn’t get quieter. Maybe I can’t hear him because I shut my ears down.\u003cbr\u003eIf you think\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003elalala\u003c\/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003enonono\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLOUD\u003cbr\u003einside your own mind . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLALALA\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit drowns out everything in the outside world.\u003cbr\u003eRemember this. It’s a useful skill when someone says something you don’t want to hear.","brand":"Rocky Pond Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303814713573,"sku":"NP9780593698471","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593698471.jpg?v=1767737873","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/telephone-of-the-tree-isbn-9780593698471","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}