{"product_id":"the-outside-boy-isbn-9780451229489","title":"The Outside Boy","description":"\u003cb\u003eA poignant, coming of age novel about an Irish gypsy boy’s childhood in the 1950’s from the national bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eA Rip in Heaven\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eAmerican Dirt\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eIreland, 1959\u003c\/i\u003e: Young Christopher Hurley is a tinker, a Pavee gypsy, who roams with his father and extended family from town to town, carrying all their worldly possessions in their wagons. Christy carries with him a burden of guilt as well, haunted by the story of his mother’s death in childbirth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wandering life is the only one Christy has ever known, but when his grandfather dies, everything changes. His father decides to settle briefly, in a town, where Christy and his cousin can receive proper schooling and prepare for their first communions. But still, always, they are treated as outsiders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Christy struggles to find his way amid the more conventional lives of his new classmates, he starts to question who he is and where he belongs. But then the discovery of an old newspaper photograph, and a long-buried secret from his mother’s mysterious past, changes his life forever....\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Outside Boy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Some of the greatness of \u003ci\u003eAngela’s Ashes\u003c\/i\u003e dampens these pages, maybe as much as is possible for an author for whom this is fiction, not memoir. Beautifully crafted scenes and characters keep the pages turning.”—Historical Novel Society\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A full-throated song of praise. I loved it.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Sherman Alexie\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A poignant and magical tale.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Keith Donohue\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] gloriously poetic novel...Read this lovely book.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Malachy McCourt\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Truly charming at times, heartbreaking at others, but always captivating...it will stay with you long after you’ve finished the last page.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Lesly Kagen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Outside Boy\u003c\/i\u003e has found a permanent home in my head and heart and on the shelf with authors like J. M. Barrie, Roddy Doyle, and Sue Monk Kidd. A flawless coming-of-rage story overflowing with talent, heartbreak, and joy.”—National bestselling author Jennifer Belle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Her dynamic tale unfurls through the singular lens of the clever and charming Christopher Hurley, a wise-beyond-his-years boy coming of age in a tiny corner of history, but trying to answer the most universal of questions: Who am I and where did I come from?”—T Cooper\u003cb\u003eJeanine Cummins\u003c\/b\u003e is the bestselling, award-winning author of the groundbreaking memoir \u003ci\u003eA Rip in Heaven\u003c\/i\u003e and the novels \u003ci\u003eThe Outside Boy\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Crooked Branch\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eAmerican Dirt, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eSpeak to Me of Home\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in New York with her husband and two children.\u003cb\u003ePROLOGUE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cp\u003eIRELAND, 1959 \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was dreaming of purple horses. Myself on one and Martin on the other, and we was bareback, and we was racing. These wasn't no strong, slow, piebald gypsy ponies like most of us travellers had in them days in Ireland, for pulling our wagon-homes behind us wherever we went. No, in this dream, me and Martin raced thundering thoroughbreds at a proper race meeting, like at Punchestown in Dublin. And the crowd waved their colors and they roared for us, never mind that we was travellers. They loved us anyway. Our purple stallions was sixteen hands high at least, and we was so swift on them we nearly took flight. I had the coarse thickness of my horse's mane wrapped full around my fist, and I squeezed his big, strong neck with my knees and kept my head down close beside his twitching ear. I whispered to him, \"Go on, bucko,\" and he went and went, and we was leaving Martin and his horse in our dust. And then there was an almighty screeching howl that went up, and my purple horse vanished, and I was sitting up straight as a fencepost in the dark, my blanket wrapped 'round my fist and my heart hammering.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDad was sitting up beside me, too, and we blinked confusion at each other in the dark. We wasn't sure what'd wakened us until we heard it again: a keen, raw and sharp. Dad's hands was like ghosts between us, and he gripping his own blanket close to his chest. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"What…\" he started, but before he could finish the question, the wail rose up again and engulfed the camp. I could feel every hair on my body, and the wraithlike cry seemed liquid, seeping up through the planks of the wagon and into our clammy nighttime skins. There was a terror in that sound that was all new to me. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Is it a \u003ci\u003ebansídhe\u003c\/i\u003e?\" I asked Dad. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe looked at me like I was gone soft in the head. \"Come outta that nonsense, Christopher,\" he said to me. \"You know there's no such thing as a \u003ci\u003ebloody bansídhe\u003c\/i\u003e.\" \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe shook his head at me crossly, and I felt stupid, and was glad for the feeling stupid. Of course there was no such thing as \u003ci\u003ebansídhes\u003c\/i\u003e. I was nearly twelve years of age—old enough to know better. But then there was a sudden BANG BANG on the door of the wagon, and I could feel my heartbeat clamber into my throat. My heels stuck into the floorboards, and I did a backwards crab-gallop until I smacked into the wall. My chest was heaving as I stared past my dad at the wagon door. He was staring at it, too, with eyes as wide open as mine.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Dad?\" I said. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI wanted him to reassure me—just a word, a squeeze—that it would be okay.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Wait there, Christopher,\" he said, and he started to move toward the door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd now the clatter at the door grew louder, and there was nowhere for us to go, only to cower inside and await the doom of the shrieking specter who was rattling at our wagon door. I stopped breathing altogether, and the door creaked and swung on its hinge, gaping open into the frigid night. The cold air flew in at once and reached my bare ankles. I trembled over them, folded my arms around my scrawny knees, and shook like a wet hound.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Christopher!\" the specter shrieked, and it was my granny.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe was calling my dad, who I was named after. Granny, heaped in blankets outside in the not-yet pinkening light, her hair and eyes wild. Her mouth stood open and revealed all the gummy graves where her teeth used to be. She looked so unnatural that my terror was hardly relieved at all.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDad was only in his bare feet, and he made a frantic silhouette, leaping out of the wagon after his mother. I crawled to the door behind him and watched Granny deliver her unholy cries into the dark camp. I pulled my blue ankles up and tucked my blanket 'round them while I watched the horrible scene unfold: Granny, down on her knees beside the deadened fire, rocking back and over so hard I feared she would topple into the ashes. The keen she let up was so thick and tender I could nearly see it coming out of her, her breath spiraling out violently in torrid colors, defeating the darkness and drenching the camp with grief.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Mam,\" my dad said quietly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe was in front of his mother now, and he'd his hands on her shoulders. He shook her a small bit, but she took no notice of him. She tore at her white hair until she looked like a proper \u003ci\u003ebansídhe\u003c\/i\u003e herself. I started shaking again, and I wanted to believe it was from the cold, but my stomach was turning too.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Mam!\" Dad said again, louder this time, and shook her more roughly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor a moment, I thought he would raise a hand to her, to snap her out of the state she was in. I swallowed all the billowing colors and held them fast inside me, but my knuckles stayed white, gripping the doorframe of the wagon while I watched. Uncle Finty was there now, too, and they both looked small and helpless, standing beside the ruined fire watching their mother weep.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy cousin Martin's head popped up in front of me then, and without a sound or a word, he swung the full weight of his body up on one arm and into the wagon beside me. He pulled open my blanket and I was blasted with the cold again, until he burrowed and folded us in tight. In the closeness, he smelled like tree bark and moss. We watched our fathers; we tried not to watch Granny.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Go and check the wagon, Christopher,\" Finty said to Dad.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy dad hesitated, put his hand on his brother's shoulder for a long moment, like he was gathering strength for what he knew he'd find. Then he nodded and turned toward Granny's wagon door. It was hanging open, too, and she howled again as he went. I shivered under our blanket, to hear the sound of that wordless pain, unleashed and raw, galloping around the camp. Granny was like a toothless wolf. We watched without blinking while my dad disappeared into the wagon. Martin squirmed in even closer beside me, and I could feel his elbow stuck between two of my shivering ribs, like we was twins for a minute, instead of cousins. We was joined at the eyes and ears, joined at the dread. Everything was silent and stretched—only the tidal rhythm of our shared breath pushed the seconds forward. I wished for my mother.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDad came out again, shaking his head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"He's gone,\" he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis face was pale in the moonlight. Gone. I knew what he meant. He meant my grandda.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy stomach clutched, but my mind resisted. I wasn't ready. My fingernails dug into the flesh of Martin's arm, but he didn't wince. He didn't even move—only a shiver in his neck. A gulp.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Grandda,\" I whispered, and I could feel a flood in my head, a distant, unleashed roar inside me. I dammed it up quick.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Will we waken him, do you think?\" Granny said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMartin and I looked at each other in horror.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Is she gone as well?\" he asked me. \"Gone in the head, like?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMartin was always asking me things, even though he was a couple months older than me. He was twelve already. I shook my head and tried to answer him. But just like Grandda, my voice was away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe stayed there while the sky lightened lilac at the edges. Me and Martin, joined at the hair, joined at the knuckles. We didn't move, didn't speak. I think he felt it too—some unspoken sense that if we stayed very still, if we blurred into each other, it mightn't be real. We tried that elusive magic of stillness, hoping like we always did that we might capture it, and it might be the answer to everything. But in truth, we was children of motion, and we didn't know how to stand still then. We didn't even know that we could.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302459330789,"sku":"NP9780451229489","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451229489.jpg?v=1767740849","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-outside-boy-isbn-9780451229489","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}