{"product_id":"wintergirls-isbn-9780142415573","title":"Wintergirls","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling story of a friendship frozen between life and death.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A fearless, riveting account of a young woman in the grip of a deadly illness.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lia and Cassie are best friends, wintergirls frozen in fragile bodies, competitors in a deadly contest to see who can be the thinnest. But then Cassie suffers the ultimate loss—her life—and Lia is left behind, haunted by her friend's memory and racked with guilt for not being able to help save her. In her most powerfully moving novel since \u003ci\u003eSpeak\u003c\/i\u003e, award-winning author Laurie Halse Anderson explores Lia's struggle, her painful path to recovery, and her desperate attempts to hold on to the most important thing of all: hope.“Anderson writes a beautiful, heart-wrenching, and important novel with\u003ci\u003e Wintergirls.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003ci\u003e—Detroit Free\u003c\/i\u003e Press\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A fearless, riveting account of a young woman in the grip of a deadly illness.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Laurie Halse Anderson is the reigning queen of teen tumult. [Wintergirls] is a fierce novel.”—\u003ci\u003eNewsday\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A startlingly crisp and pitch-perfect first-person narrative.” —\u003ci\u003eSLJ\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “As difficult as reading this novel can be, it is even more difficult to put down.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Anderson perfectly captures the isolation and motivations of the anorexic.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Anderson illuminates a dark but utterly realistic world . . .This is necessary reading.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Readers will be absorbed by this gripping tale.”—\u003ci\u003eBCCB\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Wintergirls cracks open the riddle . . . of eating disorders. Anderson plunges readers inside the head of 18-year-old Lia.”—\u003ci\u003eCleveland Plain Dealer\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What makes Wintergirls different? Three words: Laurie Halse Anderson.”—\u003ci\u003eSouth Florida Sun Sentinel\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “This chilling tale acutely conveys Lia’s powerful psychological battle.” —\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “All of [Anderson’s] books have a driving force; they can’t be put down. A poignant and lyrical novel.”—\u003ci\u003eRaleigh News \u0026amp; Observer\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A vivid expedition inside the mind of a girl who is dying to be thin. Anderson offers a gripping perspective of Lia’s inner turmoil and her isolation.” —\u003ci\u003eBuffalo News\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “With naked emotion, brutal honesty and a narrative that’s simultaneously captivating and claustrophobic, \u003ci\u003eWintergirls\u003c\/i\u003e gives readers a haunting window into the disordered thinking behind eating disorders.” —\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Lia’s struggles will touch your heart and make you think about this book long after you set it down.” —\u003ci\u003eJustine \u003c\/i\u003emagazine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Anderson presents a tale every bit as haunting and immediate as her debut novel [Speak].” —\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003eLaurie Halse Anderson has received both the Margaret Edwards Award and the ALAN Award for her contributions to young adult literature. She has also been honored by the National Coalition Against Censorship in recognition of her fight to combat the censoring of literature. She is the author of the groundbreaking National Book Award finalist and Printz Honor Book \u003cu\u003eSpeak\u003c\/u\u003e. She is also author of the critically acclaimed YA books \u003cu\u003eProm\u003c\/u\u003e, \u003cu\u003eTwitsted\u003c\/u\u003e, \u003cu\u003eCatalyst\u003c\/u\u003e, \u003cu\u003eWintergirls\u003c\/u\u003e, and \u003cu\u003eThe Impossible Knife of Memory\u003c\/u\u003e. She has also authored a number of middle grade titles including The Vet Volunteers series, and the historical fiction Seeds of America Trilogy, which includes \u003cu\u003eForge\u003c\/u\u003e, ALA Best Book for Young Adults \u003cu\u003eFever 1793\u003c\/u\u003e, and the National Book Award finalist and Scott O’Dell Award-winner \u003cu\u003eChains\u003c\/u\u003e. She and her husband live in northern New York State. Follow Laurie on Twitter @halseanderson and visit her at madwomanintheforest.com.1\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e So she tells me, the words dribbling out with the cranberry muffin crumbs, commas dunked in her coffee.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She tells me in four sentences. No, five.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I can’t let me hear this, but it’s too late. The facts sneak in and stab me. When she gets to the worst part\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e . . . body found in a motel room, alone . . .\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e . . . my walls go up and my doors lock. I nod like I’m listening, like we’re communicating, and she never knows the difference.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It’s not nice when girls die.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e 2\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “We didn’t want you hearing it at school or on the news.” Jennifer crams the last hunk of muffin into her mouth. “Are you sure you’re okay?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I open the dishwasher and lean into the cloud of steam that floats out of it. I wish I could crawl in and curl up between a bowl and a plate. (My stepmother) Jennifer could lock the door, twist the dial to SCALD, and press ON.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The steam freezes when it touches my face. “I’m fine,” I lie.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She reaches for the box of oatmeal raisin cookies on the table. “This must feel awful.” She rips off the cardboard ribbon. “Worse than awful. Can you get me a clean container?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I take a clear plastic box and lid out of the cupboard and hand it across the island to her. “Where’s Dad?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “He had a tenure meeting.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Who told you about Cassie?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She crumbles the edges of the cookies before she puts them in the box, to make it look like she baked instead of bought. “Your mother called late last night with the news. She wants you to see Dr. Parker right away instead of waiting for your next appointment.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “What do you think?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “It’s a good idea,” she says. “I’ll see if she can fit you in this afternoon.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Don’t bother.” I pull out the top rack of the dishwasher. The glasses vibrate with little screams when I touch them. If I pick them up, they’ll shatter. “There’s no point.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She pauses in mid-crumble. “Cassie was your best friend.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Not anymore. I’ll see Dr. Parker next week like I’m supposed to.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I guess it’s your decision. Will you promise me you’ll call your mom and talk to her about it?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Promise.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Jennifer looks at the clock on the microwave and shouts, “Emma—four minutes!”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e(My stepsister) Emma doesn’t answer. She’s in the family room, hypnotized by the television and a bowl of blue cereal.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Jennifer nibbles a cookie. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but I’m glad you didn’t hang out with her anymore.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I push the top rack back in and pull out the bottom. “Why?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Cassie was a mess. She could have taken you down with her.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I reach for the steak knife hiding in the nest of spoons. The black handle is warm. As I pull it free, the blade slices the air, dividing the kitchen into slivers. There is Jennifer, packing store-bought cookies in a plastic tub for her daughter’s class. There is Dad’s empty chair, pretending he has no choice about these early meetings. There is the shadow of my mother, who prefers the phone because face-to-face takes too much time and usually ends in screaming.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Here stands a girl clutching a knife. There is grease on the stove, blood in the air, and angry words piled in the corners. We are trained not to see it, not to see any of it.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e . . . body found in a motel room, alone . . .\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Someone just ripped off my eyelids.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Thank God you’re stronger than she was.” Jennifer drains her coffee mug and wipes the crumbs from the corners of her mouth.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The knife slides into the butcher block with a whisper. “Yeah.” I reach for a plate, scrubbed free of blood and gristle. It weighs ten pounds.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She snaps the lid on the box of cookies. “I have a late settlement appointment. Can you take Emma to soccer? Practice starts at five.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Which field?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Richland Park, out past the mall. Here.” She hands the heavy mug to me, her lipstick a bloody crescent on the rim. I set it on the counter and unload the plates one at a time, arms shaking.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Emma comes into the kitchen and sets her cereal bowl, half-filled with sky-colored milk, next to the sink.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Did you remember the cookies?” she asks her mother.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Jennifer shakes the plastic container. “We’re late, honey. Get your stuff.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Emma trudges toward her backpack, her sneaker laces flopping. She should still be sleeping, but my father’s wife drives her to school early four mornings a week for violin lessons and conversational French. Third grade is not too young for enrichment, you know.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Jennifer stands up. The fabric of her skirt is pulled so tight over her thighs, the pockets gape open. She tries to smooth out the wrinkles. “Don’t let Emma con you into buying chips before practice. If she’s hungry, she can have a fruit cup.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Should I stick around and drive her home?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She shakes her head. “The Grants will do it.” She takes her coat off the back of the chair, puts her arms in the sleeves, and starts to button up. “Why don’t you have one of the muffins? I bought oranges yesterday, or you could have toast or frozen waffles.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e(Because I can’t let myself want them) because I don’t need a muffin (410), I don’t want an orange (75) or toast (87), and waffles (180) make me gag.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I point to the empty bowl on the counter, next to the huddle of pill bottles and the Bluberridazzlepops box. “I’m having cereal.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Her eyes dart to the cabinet where she had taped up my meal plan. It came with the discharge papers when I moved in six months ago. I took it down three months later, on my eighteenth birthday.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “That’s too small to be a full serving,” she says carefully.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e(I could eat the entire box) I probably won’t even fill the bowl. “My stomach’s upset.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She opens her mouth again. Hesitates. A sour puff of coffee-stained morning breath blows across the still kitchen and splashes into me. \u003ci\u003eDon’t say it—don’tsayit.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Trust, Lia.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eShe said it.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That’s the issue. Especially now. We don’t want . . .”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e If I weren’t so tired, I’d shove \u003ci\u003etrust \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eissue \u003c\/i\u003edown the garbage disposal and let it run all day.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I pull a bigger bowl out of the dishwasher and put it on the counter. “I. Am. Fine. Okay?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She blinks twice and finishes buttoning her coat. “Okay. I understand. Tie your sneakers, Emma, and get in the car.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Emma yawns.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Hang on.” I bend down and tie Emma’s laces. Doubleknotted. I look up. “I can’t keep doing this, you know. You’re way too old.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She grins and kisses my forehead. “Yes you can, silly.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e As I stand up, Jennifer takes two awkward steps toward me. I wait. She is a pale, round moth, dusted with eggshell foundation, armed for the day with her banker’s briefcase, purse, and remote starter for the leased SUV. She flutters, nervous.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I wait.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e This is where we should hug or kiss or pretend to.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She ties the belt around her middle. “Look . . . just keep moving today. Okay? Try not to think about things too much.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  “Right.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Say good-bye to your sister, Emma,” Jennifer prompts.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Bye, Lia.” Emma waves and gives me a small berridazzle smile. “The cereal is really good. You can finish the box if you want.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e 3\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I pour too much cereal (150) in the bowl, splash on the two-percent milk (125). Breakfast is themostimportantmealoftheday. Breakfast will make me a cham-pee-on.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e . . . \u003ci\u003eWhen I was a real girl, with two parents and one house and no blades flashing, \u003c\/i\u003ebreakfast was granola\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003etopped with fresh strawberries, always eaten while reading\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ea book propped up on the fruit bowl. At Cassie’s house\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ewe’d eat waffles with thin syrup that came from maple\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003etrees, not the fake corn syrup stuff, \u003ci\u003eand we’d read the funny pages. . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No. I can’t go there. I won’t think. I won’t look.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I won’t pollute my insides with Bluberridazzlepops or muffins or scritchscratchy shards of toast, either. Yesterday’s dirt and mistakes have moved through me. I am shiny and pink inside, clean. Empty is good. Empty is strong.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But I have to drive.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e. . . I drove last year, windows down, music cranked, first Saturday in October, flying to the SATs. \u003c\/i\u003eI drove so\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eCassie could put the top coat on her nails. We were secret\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003esisters with a plan for world domination, potential\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ebubbling around us like champagne. Cassie laughed. I\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003elaughed. We were perfection.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Did I eat breakfast? Of course not. Did I eat dinner the night before, or lunch, or anything?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The car in front of us braked as the traffic light turned yellow, then red. My flip-flop hovered above the pedal. My edges blurred. Black squiggle tingles curled up my spine and wrapped around my eyes like a silk scarf. The car in front of us disappeared. The steering wheel, the dashboard, vanished. There was no Cassie, no traffic light. How was I supposed to stop this thing?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Cassie screamed in slow motion.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e ::Marshmallow\/air\/explosion\/bag::\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e When I woke up, the emt-person and a cop were frowning. The driver whose car I smashed into was\u003cbr\u003e screaming into his cell phone. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My blood pressure was that of a cold snake. My heart was tired. My lungs wanted a nap. They stuck me with a needle, inflated me like a state-fair balloon, and shipped me off to a hospital with steel-eyed nurses who wrote down every bad number. In pen. Busted me.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Mom and Dad rushed in, side by side for a change, happy that I was not dead. A nurse handed my chart to my mother. She read through it and explained the disaster to my father and then they fought, a mudslide of an argument that spewed across the antiseptic sheets and out into the hall. I was stressed\/overscheduled\/manic\/no—depressed\/no—in need of attention\/no—in need of discipline\/in need of rest\/in need\/your fault\/your fault\/fault\/fault. They branded their war on this tiny skin-bag of a girl.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Phone calls were made. My parents force-marched me into (hell on the hill) New Seasons. . . .\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Cassie escaped, as usual. Not a scratch. Insurance more than covered the damage, so she wound up with a fixed car and new speakers. Our mothers had a little talk, but really all girls go through these things and what are you going to do? Cassie rescheduled for the next test and got her nails done at a salon, Enchanted Blue, \u003ci\u003ewhile they\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003elocked me up and dripped sugar water into my empty\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eveins. . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Lesson learned. Driving requires fuel.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Not Emma’s Bluberridazzlepop cereal. I shiver and pour most of the soggy mess down the disposal, then set the bowl on the floor. Emma’s cats, Kora and Pluto, pad across the kitchen and stick their heads in the bowl. I draw a cartoon face with a big tongue on a sticky note, write YUMMY, EMMA! THANKS! and slap it on the cereal box.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I eat ten raisins (16) and five almonds (35) and a greenbellied pear (121) (= 172). The bites crawl down my throat. I eat my vitamins and the crazy seeds that keep my brain from exploding: one long purple, one fat white, two poppyred. I wash everybody down with hot water.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e They better work quick. The voice of a dead girl is waiting for me on my phone.","brand":"Viking Books for Young Readers","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304796279013,"sku":"NP9780142415573","price":12.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780142415573.jpg?v=1767744397","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/wintergirls-isbn-9780142415573","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}