{"product_id":"zanes-trace-isbn-9780763628581","title":"Zane's Trace","description":"\u003cb\u003eA coming-of-age road story with a supernatural twist — and a compulsively readable poetic novel about identity and belonging.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZane Guesswind has just killed his grandfather, or so he believes. So he steals the 1969 Plymouth Barracuda his long-gone father left behind and takes off on a manic trip to his mother’s grave to kill himself. Armed with a six-pack of Mountain Dew, a jumbo pack of Sharpies (for scribbling all over the dashboard), and a loaded gun in the trunk, he’s headed to Zanesville, Ohio, with no rearview mirror and no more worries. On the way, he meets Libba, a young hitchhiker who shares his destination, and other mystic and mysterious characters. With each encounter, and every mile marker he passes, Zane gets farther from the life he knows — but closer to figuring out who he really is.I-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 82\u003cbr\u003e334 Miles to Zanesville\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I die\u003cbr\u003eI want to come back\u003cbr\u003eas a 1969 Plymouth Barracuda\u003cbr\u003emidnight blue with black-tape accents,\u003cbr\u003etwin dummy hood scoops,\u003cbr\u003eand a 440 big-block engine\u003cbr\u003estuffed between the fenders.\u003cbr\u003eAn engine so big they had to install it\u003cbr\u003ewith a shoehorn and a hammer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve got a six-pack of Mountain Dew,\u003cbr\u003ea book bag filled with Pop-Tarts, a jumbo pack\u003cbr\u003eof Sharpies, a change of socks,\u003cbr\u003efifty dollars cash, a credit card in my wallet,\u003cbr\u003eand a loaded gun in the trunk.\u003cbr\u003eNo rearview mirror. And no more worries.\u003cbr\u003eIt’s just over three hundred miles to Zanesville, Ohio.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA straight shot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGotta make good time.\u003cbr\u003eThe sun’s already up.\u003cbr\u003eBy now they’ve probably\u003cbr\u003efound the old man’s body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 80\u003cbr\u003e332 Miles to Zanesville\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy mother used to read me this book,\u003cbr\u003eHAROLD AND THE PURPLE CRAYON.\u003cbr\u003eHarold was a little kid who made\u003cbr\u003eanything happen just by drawing it.\u003cbr\u003eHe could draw a horizon, or a window,\u003cbr\u003eor a door, or stairs, or stars or a boat\u003cbr\u003eor a spaceship. No trouble existed\u003cbr\u003ethat Harold couldn’t fix.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                                       A few years later\u003cbr\u003eMom kept getting sicker, so Grandpa moved\u003cbr\u003ein with us for good. That’s when I started\u003cbr\u003ewriting on my bedroom walls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarold had a purple crayon. I’ve got Sharpies —\u003cbr\u003emedium-tip mostly,\u003cbr\u003ethe occasional king size for big ideas.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI figured I could make everything work out\u003cbr\u003eif I just wrote on my walls. If I just wrote\u003cbr\u003ethe right phrase the right number of times\u003cbr\u003eor in the right color.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Give my mother back her mind.\u003cbr\u003e    Calm the demons in her head.\u003cbr\u003e    Leave the darkness far behind.\u003cbr\u003e    If need be, take me instead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy Wyandot shaman father was not\u003cbr\u003earound to give me spiritual guidance.\u003cbr\u003eSo I created my own heaven, Zane-atopia,\u003cbr\u003eand I drew a picture of it on my ceiling.\u003cbr\u003e    Zane-atopia existed at the top of\u003cbr\u003e    Mount Guesswind, and my life was the climb.\u003cbr\u003e    The earthly world was a dragon’s tail\u003cbr\u003e    wrapped around the mountain’s base. The bad times\u003cbr\u003e    were dark clouds. The good times a rainbow.\u003cbr\u003e    A bright flash of light shone at the tip-top point\u003cbr\u003e    of the mountain (where good people went\u003cbr\u003e    to live with God) and inside the light was my mom\u003cbr\u003e    and my brother, Zach, and Stanley (he’s my dad),\u003cbr\u003e    and even the old man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll of this I drew on the ceiling\u003cbr\u003euntil my arms were like lead pipes\u003cbr\u003eand my neck was a train wreck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut it felt good in my stomach.\u003cbr\u003eLike Michelangelo must have felt\u003cbr\u003epainting the Sistine Chapel. Like reaching\u003cbr\u003eup to touch God’s fingertip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow my walls are whispering ten miles back.\u003cbr\u003eI’ll never draw on them or write on them again.\u003cbr\u003eBut I can’t help looking at the Barracuda’s dash:\u003cbr\u003ean empty space waiting to be filled.\u003cbr\u003eThese Sharpies are dependable.\u003cbr\u003eThe only thing I can count on.\u003cbr\u003eThey’ll write on just about anything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thought of it\u003cbr\u003emakes my fingertips itch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 79\u003cbr\u003e331 Miles to Zanesville\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI never did belong in Baltimore.\u003cbr\u003eIt hit me like the voice of God\u003cbr\u003ea few weeks ago, with summer break\u003cbr\u003egasping to an end:\u003cbr\u003e    You don’t belong, Zane.\u003cbr\u003e    You don’t belong.\u003cbr\u003eI wrote it on my walls all day.\u003cbr\u003e    Don’t belong. Don’t belong. Don’t belong.\u003cbr\u003eTill I got fed up and Googled myself.\u003cbr\u003eAnd there it was, just a couple pages in:\u003cbr\u003e\"Zanesville, Ohio — population 25,586.\u003cbr\u003eHome of the world’s only Y Bridge.\"\u003cbr\u003eA bridge where three roads intersect!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA town named after me\u003cbr\u003ewith a bridge that asks, Why, why, why?\u003cbr\u003eI drew the bridge. I drew myself in its center.\u003cbr\u003eAnd I gave it a caption. I inked it into my walls.\u003cbr\u003e    Zane belongs in Zanesville.\u003cbr\u003e    Zanesville is the place for Zane.\u003cbr\u003eWhy had I not thought of it before?\u003cbr\u003eZanesville is the town where Mom is buried.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI may as well be buried there too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 77\u003cbr\u003e329 Miles to Zanesville\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Give my mother back her mind.\u003cbr\u003e    Calm the demons in her head.\u003cbr\u003e    Leave the darkness far behind.\u003cbr\u003e    If need be, take me instead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe day I began to write on my walls\u003cbr\u003eI was listening to the old man\u003cbr\u003ehound my mother in his usual way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Ee-liz-a-beth, this. Ee-liz-a-beth, that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy grandfather’s voice carried down\u003cbr\u003ethe air ducts to my basement bedroom,\u003cbr\u003epoisoning the stillness, dimly lit.\u003cbr\u003eThe floor was gray cement, the walls light blue,\u003cbr\u003ethe ceiling bright white and easy to reach.\u003cbr\u003eI was lying on my bed flipping a penny\u003cbr\u003eand considering my options—\u003cbr\u003e    should I smother the old man with a pillow?\u003cbr\u003e    or plunge a knife into his black heart?\u003cbr\u003eheads, tails, tails, heads, tails, heads—\u003cbr\u003ewhen the penny took a wild hop,\u003cbr\u003efell between the bed and the wall,\u003cbr\u003eand lodged in a gap behind the baseboard.\u003cbr\u003eAnd just like that, it had disappeared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Ee-liz-a-beth, this. Ee-liz-a-beth, that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s when I heard the music in my head.\u003cbr\u003eMusic like a wind-up jack-in-the-box ready to pop.\u003cbr\u003eThis was the first of the usual signs:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA seizure was on its way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 75\u003cbr\u003e327 Miles to Zanesville\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI knew from experience\u003cbr\u003eI had about five minutes\u003cbr\u003etill the seizure hit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Ee-liz-a-beth, this. Ee-liz-a-beth, that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI broke into a sweat. I felt dizzy.\u003cbr\u003eI began to hear the voices.\u003cbr\u003eMy mother. My brother. The old man.\u003cbr\u003eAll of them calling to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut they weren’t there.\u003cbr\u003eThe penny is hidden, I thought.\u003cbr\u003eHidden behind the baseboard.\u003cbr\u003eNo one will know. Only me.\u003cbr\u003eMy responsibility.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had to tell.\u003cbr\u003e                     Someone had to know.\u003cbr\u003eNot about the seizure,\u003cbr\u003enot about my mother, but the penny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo I pulled my bed away from the wall.\u003cbr\u003eAnd very carefully.Very lightly,\u003cbr\u003ein pencil, just above the spot\u003cbr\u003ewhere the penny had gone, I wrote:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Penny lost here by Zane Harold Guesswind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e***************\u003cbr\u003eZANE'S TRACE by Allan Wolf. Copyright (c) 2007 by Allan Wolf. Published by Candlewick Press, Inc., Cambridge, MA.\u003cb\u003eAllan Wolf\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of many books for young people, including the novel \u003ci\u003eThe Watch that Ends the Night\u003c\/i\u003e, which was named one of the 50 Best Young Adult Novels of All Time by \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e; the novel \u003ci\u003eJunius Leak and the Spiraling Vortex of Doom;\u003c\/i\u003e the nonfiction graphic novel \u003ci\u003eThe Vanishing of Lake Peigneur\u003c\/i\u003e, illustrated by Jose Pimienta; and the poetry collection \u003ci\u003eThe Gift of the Broken Teacup\u003c\/i\u003e, illustrated by Jade Orlando. His books celebrate his love of research, history, science, and poetry. He is a \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Prize finalist, a two-time winner of the North Carolina Young Adult Book Award, and a recipient of the Bank Street College Claudia Lewis Award. Allan Wolf lives in Roanoke, Virginia, with his wife, his sister, and a dog named Mo. Learn more at \u003cu\u003ewww.allanwolf.com\u003c\/u\u003e.I-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 82\u003cbr\u003e334 Miles to Zanesville\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I die\u003cbr\u003eI want to come back\u003cbr\u003eas a 1969 Plymouth Barracuda\u003cbr\u003emidnight blue with black-tape accents,\u003cbr\u003etwin dummy hood scoops,\u003cbr\u003eand a 440 big-block engine\u003cbr\u003estuffed between the fenders.\u003cbr\u003eAn engine so big they had to install it\u003cbr\u003ewith a shoehorn and a hammer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve got a six-pack of Mountain Dew,\u003cbr\u003ea book bag filled with Pop-Tarts, a jumbo pack\u003cbr\u003eof Sharpies, a change of socks,\u003cbr\u003efifty dollars cash, a credit card in my wallet,\u003cbr\u003eand a loaded gun in the trunk.\u003cbr\u003eNo rearview mirror. And no more worries.\u003cbr\u003eIt’s just over three hundred miles to Zanesville, Ohio.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA straight shot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGotta make good time.\u003cbr\u003eThe sun’s already up.\u003cbr\u003eBy now they’ve probably\u003cbr\u003efound the old man’s body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 80\u003cbr\u003e332 Miles to Zanesville\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy mother used to read me this book,\u003cbr\u003eHAROLD AND THE PURPLE CRAYON.\u003cbr\u003eHarold was a little kid who made\u003cbr\u003eanything happen just by drawing it.\u003cbr\u003eHe could draw a horizon, or a window,\u003cbr\u003eor a door, or stairs, or stars or a boat\u003cbr\u003eor a spaceship. No trouble existed\u003cbr\u003ethat Harold couldn’t fix.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA few years later\u003cbr\u003eMom kept getting sicker, so Grandpa moved\u003cbr\u003ein with us for good. That’s when I started\u003cbr\u003ewriting on my bedroom walls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarold had a purple crayon. I’ve got Sharpies --\u003cbr\u003emedium-tip mostly,\u003cbr\u003ethe occasional king size for big ideas.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI figured I could make everything work out\u003cbr\u003eif I just wrote on my walls. If I just wrote\u003cbr\u003ethe right phrase the right number of times\u003cbr\u003eor in the right color.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGive my mother back her mind.\u003cbr\u003eCalm the demons in her head.\u003cbr\u003eLeave the darkness far behind.\u003cbr\u003eIf need be, take me instead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy Wyandot shaman father was not\u003cbr\u003earound to give me spiritual guidance.\u003cbr\u003eSo I created my own heaven, Zane-atopia,\u003cbr\u003eand I drew a picture of it on my ceiling.\u003cbr\u003eZane-atopia existed at the top of\u003cbr\u003eMount Guesswind, and my life was the climb.\u003cbr\u003eThe earthly world was a dragon’s tail\u003cbr\u003ewrapped around the mountain’s base. The bad times\u003cbr\u003ewere dark clouds. The good times a rainbow.\u003cbr\u003eA bright flash of light shone at the tip-top point\u003cbr\u003eof the mountain (where good people went\u003cbr\u003eto live with God) and inside the light was my mom\u003cbr\u003eand my brother, Zach, and Stanley (he’s my dad),\u003cbr\u003eand even the old man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll of this I drew on the ceiling\u003cbr\u003euntil my arms were like lead pipes\u003cbr\u003eand my neck was a train wreck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut it felt good in my stomach.\u003cbr\u003eLike Michelangelo must have felt\u003cbr\u003epainting the Sistine Chapel. Like reaching\u003cbr\u003eup to touch God’s fingertip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow my walls are whispering ten miles back.\u003cbr\u003eI’ll never draw on them or write on them again.\u003cbr\u003eBut I can’t help looking at the Barracuda’s dash:\u003cbr\u003ean empty space waiting to be filled.\u003cbr\u003eThese Sharpies are dependable.\u003cbr\u003eThe only thing I can count on.\u003cbr\u003eThey’ll write on just about anything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thought of it\u003cbr\u003emakes my fingertips itch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 79\u003cbr\u003e331 Miles to Zanesville\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI never did belong in Baltimore.\u003cbr\u003eIt hit me like the voice of God\u003cbr\u003ea few weeks ago, with summer break\u003cbr\u003egasping to an end:\u003cbr\u003eYou don’t belong, Zane.\u003cbr\u003eYou don’t belong.\u003cbr\u003eI wrote it on my walls all day.\u003cbr\u003eDon’t belong. Don’t belong. Don’t belong.\u003cbr\u003eTill I got fed up and Googled myself.\u003cbr\u003eAnd there it was, just a couple pages in:\u003cbr\u003e\"Zanesville, Ohio -- population 25,586.\u003cbr\u003eHome of the world’s only Y Bridge.\"\u003cbr\u003eA bridge where three roads intersect!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA town named after me\u003cbr\u003ewith a bridge that asks, Why, why, why?\u003cbr\u003eI drew the bridge. I drew myself in its center.\u003cbr\u003eAnd I gave it a caption. I inked it into my walls.\u003cbr\u003eZane belongs in Zanesville.\u003cbr\u003eZanesville is the place for Zane.\u003cbr\u003eWhy had I not thought of it before?\u003cbr\u003eZanesville is the town where Mom is buried.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI may as well be buried there too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 77\u003cbr\u003e329 Miles to Zanesville\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGive my mother back her mind.\u003cbr\u003eCalm the demons in her head.\u003cbr\u003eLeave the darkness far behind.\u003cbr\u003eIf need be, take me instead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe day I began to write on my walls\u003cbr\u003eI was listening to the old man\u003cbr\u003ehound my mother in his usual way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEe-liz-a-beth, this. Ee-liz-a-beth, that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy grandfather’s voice carried down\u003cbr\u003ethe air ducts to my basement bedroom,\u003cbr\u003epoisoning the stillness, dimly lit.\u003cbr\u003eThe floor was gray cement, the walls light blue,\u003cbr\u003ethe ceiling bright white and easy to reach.\u003cbr\u003eI was lying on my bed flipping a penny\u003cbr\u003eand considering my options--\u003cbr\u003eshould I smother the old man with a pillow?\u003cbr\u003eor plunge a knife into his black heart?\u003cbr\u003eheads, tails, tails, heads, tails, heads--\u003cbr\u003ewhen the penny took a wild hop,\u003cbr\u003efell between the bed and the wall,\u003cbr\u003eand lodged in a gap behind the baseboard.\u003cbr\u003eAnd just like that, it had disappeared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEe-liz-a-beth, this. Ee-liz-a-beth, that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s when I heard the music in my head.\u003cbr\u003eMusic like a wind-up jack-in-the-box ready to pop.\u003cbr\u003eThis was the first of the usual signs:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA seizure was on its way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 75\u003cbr\u003e327 Miles to Zanesville\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI knew from experience\u003cbr\u003eI had about five minutes\u003cbr\u003etill the seizure hit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEe-liz-a-beth, this. Ee-liz-a-beth, that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI broke into a sweat. I felt dizzy.\u003cbr\u003eI began to hear the voices.\u003cbr\u003eMy mother. My brother. The old man.\u003cbr\u003eAll of them calling to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut they weren’t there.\u003cbr\u003eThe penny is hidden, I thought.\u003cbr\u003eHidden behind the baseboard.\u003cbr\u003eNo one will know. Only me.\u003cbr\u003eMy responsibility.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had to tell.\u003cbr\u003eSomeone had to know.\u003cbr\u003eNot about the seizure,\u003cbr\u003enot about my mother, but the penny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo I pulled my bed away from the wall.\u003cbr\u003eAnd very carefully.Very lightly,\u003cbr\u003ein pencil, just above the spot\u003cbr\u003ewhere the penny had gone, I wrote:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePenny lost here by Zane Harold Guesswind.","brand":"Candlewick","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302551507173,"sku":"NP9780763628581","price":16.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780763628581.jpg?v=1767744859","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/zanes-trace-isbn-9780763628581","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}