{"product_id":"the-wardens-daughter-isbn-9780375832024","title":"The Warden's Daughter","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom Newbery Medalist Jerry Spinelli comes the story of a girl searching for happiness inside the walls of a prison. And don't miss the author's highly anticipated new novel, \u003ci\u003eDead Wednesday\u003c\/i\u003e!\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cammie O'Reilly lives at the Hancock County Prison--not as a prisoner, she's the warden's daughter. She spends the mornings hanging out with shoplifters and reformed arsonists in the women's excercise yard, which gives Cammie a certain cache with her school friends. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut even though Cammie's free to leave the prison, she's still stuck. And sad, and really mad. Her mother died saving her from harm when she was just a baby. You wouldn't think you could miss something you never had, but on the eve of her thirteenth birthday, the thing Cammie most wants is a mom. A prison might not be the best place to search for a mother, but Cammie is determined and she's willing to work with what she's got.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A tapestry of grief and redemption, woven by a master storyteller ....Moving and memorable.\" --\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\"This book is never boring and never predictable. Fame, good and bad fortune, friendship and mental illness all make their way into [Cammie's] narrative.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Spinelli again shows his mastery at evoking a particular time and place while delving into the heart of a troubled adolescent...\"— \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The prison community is a powerful backdrop for Cammie’s turbulent coming of age, populated with messy lives that brighten in Cammie’s presence but that have their own demons to tame.\" — \u003ci\u003eBulletin,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Jerry Spinelli again proves why he's the king of storytellers.\" -- \u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is a story about facing hard truths and growing up. Readers will love the details of having a prison compound for a home and adore the many secondary characters who help keep Cammie’s head above water during her desperate search for happiness.\" --\u003ci\u003e Booklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Spinelli’s gift for humorous chaos and his trademark magic realism touches are showcased here, and it is exhilarating to read about kids with so much urban freedom.\" -- \u003ci\u003eThe Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Character development and realistic dialogue shine in this emotional historical fiction title. Spinelli’s characters are achingly real.\"--\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003eJERRY SPINELLI is the author of many novels for young readers, including \u003ci\u003eDead Wednesday\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Warden's Daughter; Stargirl\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eLove, Stargirl\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eMilkweed\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eCrash\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eWringer\u003c\/i\u003e; and \u003ci\u003eManiac Magee\u003c\/i\u003e, winner of the Newbery Medal; along with \u003ci\u003eKnots in My Yo-Yo String\u003c\/i\u003e, the autobiography of his childhood. A graduate of Gettysburg College, he lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, poet and author Eileen Spinelli.\u003cp\u003e1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBreakfast time in the prison. The smell of fried scrapple filled the apartment. It happened every morning.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I could teach you how to do it yourself,” she said. “It’s simple.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I want you to do it,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’ll be a teenager soon. You’ll have to learn someday.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re doing it,” I told her. “Case closed.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer name was Eloda Pupko. She was a prison trustee. She took care of our apartment above the prison entrance. Washed. Ironed. Dusted. And kept me company. Housekeeper. Cammie-keeper.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt the moment, she was braiding my hair.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Okay,” she said. “Done.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI squawked. “Already?” I didn’t want her to be done.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“This little bit?” She gave it a tug.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe was right. I’d wanted a pigtail down the middle, but all my short hair allowed was barely a one-knotter. A pigstub.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI felt her leaving me. I whirled. “No!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe stopped, turned, eyebrows arching. “No?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I want a ribbon.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer eyes went wide. And then she laughed. And kept laughing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe knew what I knew: I was anything but a hair-ribbon kind of girl. I sat on the counter stool dressed in dungarees, black-and-white high-top Keds and a striped T-shirt. My baseball glove lay on the other stool.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen she had laughed herself out, she said, “Ribbon? On a cannonball firebug?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe had a point on both counts.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCannonball was my nickname. As for “firebug” . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn school two months earlier we had been learning about the Unami, the Native Americans from our area. This inspired me to make a fire the old-fashioned Unami way. For reasons knowable only to the brain of a sixth grader, I decided to do so in our bathtub.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn the way home from school one day, I detoured to the railroad tracks and creek and collected my supplies: a quartz stone, a rusty iron track-bed spike and a handful of dry, mossy stuff from the ground under a bunch of pine trees. I laid it all in the bathtub. And climbed in.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOver the mossy nest I smashed and scratched the stone and spike into each other. My arms were ready to fall off when a thin curl of smoke rose out of the nest. I blew on it. A spark appeared. “What are you doing?” said Eloda from the doorway. I glanced up at her--and screamed, because the spark had flamed and burned my thumb. Stone and spike clanked on porcelain. Eloda turned on the shower, putting out the fire and drenching me. When I dried off and changed my clothes, she put Vaseline and a Band-Aid on the burn and told me to tell people I had cut myself slicing tomatoes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEloda tapped my hand. “Lemme see.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI showed her. The burn was just a pale pink trace by now. She took my hand in both of hers. She seemed to hold it longer than necessary.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Number one law,” she said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No more fires,” I said. She had made me recite the words every time she changed the Band-Aid. She still made me say it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen her hands were off me, but I was still feeling her. It was her eyes. She was staring at me in a way that seemed to mean something, but I would not find out what till years later.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Tell you what,” she said, breaking the spell. “If you make it to three knots, I’ll get you a ribbon.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAgain she started to leave.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAgain I blurted, “You’re so lucky.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAgain she stopped. “That’s me. Miss Lucky.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I mean it,” I said. “You get to have scrapple every day.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re right,” she said. “That’s why I decided to live here. I love the scrapple.” She walked away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Stop!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe stopped. She waited, her back to me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You can’t go,” I told her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I have work to do.” She stepped into the dining room.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m your boss!” I called--and instantly wished I could take it back. I added lamely, “When my dad’s not here.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer shoulders turned just enough so she could look back at me. Surprisingly, she did not seem angry. She sighed. “Miss O’Reilly--”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI stopped her: “My name is Cammie.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Miss Cammie--”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No!” I snapped. “No Miss. Just Cammie.” She stared. “Say it.” She kept staring. “Please!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow she was angry. My name, barely audible, came out with a blown breath: “Cammie.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe walked away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis was in mid-June, the fourth day of summer vacation when I was twelve, and I had decided that Eloda Pupko must become my mother.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Yearling","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304176013541,"sku":"NP9780375832024","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780375832024.jpg?v=1767742130","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-wardens-daughter-isbn-9780375832024","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}