{"product_id":"all-the-love-under-the-vast-sky-isbn-9780593625279","title":"All the Love Under the Vast Sky","description":"\u003cb\u003eTwelve short stories in verse by bestselling and award-winning authors that explore the highs and lows of love – romantic, platonic, familial, and self-love.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLove can be many things – all-consuming, fleeting, vengeful, selfless, toxic, uplifting, and always, a core part of the teen experience that leaves an indelible mark. This enchanting, genre-crossing anthology delivers something for every reader with unique characters, global settings, and a dazzling mixture of myth, historical, speculative, and contemporary fiction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith the turn of a page, get swept away by unexpected love blooming between two princes from enemy Mesoamerican nations in the 15th century, who'd rather make music rather than war; cheer for a timid bearded lady who was shunned by her family and runs away to find belonging and safety at the circus during the 1800s experience the heartbreak of saying goodbye to a beloved pet; breathlessly watch a myth unfold as a siren bound to the water falls in love with a winged forest spirit, their love seemingly impossible from the start. Root for a girl who emerges from grief and battles with chronic pain to discover how to love herself and life again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLove is complicated, and this anthology embraces the messiness and the joy of all kinds of love. Contributors include:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cul\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eAlexandra Alessandri\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eDavid Bowles\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eMelanie Crowder\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eMargarita Engle\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eEric Gansworth\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eRobin Gow\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eMariama J. Lockington\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eLaura Ruby\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003ePadma Venkatraman\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eJasmine Warga\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eCharles Waters\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eKip Wilson\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003c\/ul\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for All the Love Under the Vast Sky\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In \u003cb\u003ean appealing and innovative collection\u003c\/b\u003e, Wilson…brings together a dozen authors…, each creating a different short story in verse around the \u003cb\u003eoverarching theme of love\u003c\/b\u003e…The poets each bring their \u003cb\u003eunique storytelling style\u003c\/b\u003e—with \u003cb\u003estories ranging from fantasy to contemporary and historical fiction\u003c\/b\u003e. Poetic language builds each story [and] \u003cb\u003eeach entry stands strongly on its own\u003c\/b\u003e, while the collection creates \u003cb\u003ea compelling picture of the many dimensions of love\u003c\/b\u003e.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Horn Book Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this collection of stories by \u003cb\u003e12 powerhouse authors\u003c\/b\u003e, a variety of teen experiences are explored and captured in a \u003cb\u003eneat novel-in-verse format\u003c\/b\u003e. \u003cb\u003eGreat for readers interested in bite-size bits\u003c\/b\u003e of love and an admiration for the many ways it transpires.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[T]his \u003cb\u003esweeping collection\u003c\/b\u003e of \u003cb\u003eshort stories in verse\u003c\/b\u003e is \u003cb\u003ewonderfully varied\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eunique\u003c\/b\u003e…[It] explores … manifestations of love …platonically between friends, in the form of communication struggles and successes with parents, love for animals, romantic connections, and, importantly, love for oneself. Each author’s interpretation of the concept of love is \u003cb\u003ecreative\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003ewell crafted\u003c\/b\u003e. \u003cb\u003eAn all star list of poets\u003c\/b\u003e including David Bowles, Margarita Engle, and Padma Venkatraman tackle the subject in forms that are \u003cb\u003eflowing\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eexpansive\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003eshort\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003estaccato\u003c\/b\u003e, and \u003cb\u003eeverything in between\u003c\/b\u003e. Quick, \u003cb\u003ebig hearted\u003c\/b\u003e, and \u003cb\u003ewell curated\u003c\/b\u003e, this is \u003cb\u003ean anthology of stories about love\u003c\/b\u003e, but not love stories.”—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eA celebration of love\u003c\/b\u003e through 12 unique stories in verse. \u003cb\u003eBeloved\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eaward-winning young adult authors\u003c\/b\u003e explore different forms of love across time and a variety of places. The \u003cb\u003eevocative writing\u003c\/b\u003e in different verse forms connects the narratives in this \u003cb\u003etimely\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003erelatable collection\u003c\/b\u003e with a \u003cb\u003ediverse\u003c\/b\u003e cast of characters. The variety of themes and points of view \u003cb\u003eoffers something for every reader\u003c\/b\u003e. \u003cb\u003eLove wins in this enjoyable, well-executed anthology\u003c\/b\u003e.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eKIP WILSON\u003c\/b\u003e is the critically acclaimed author of the YA verse novels \u003ci\u003eWhite Rose\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Most Dazzling Girl in Berlin\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eOne Last Shot\u003c\/i\u003e. Awards for her books include the Malka Penn Award and the Julia Ward Howe Award, and her books have been named a Massachusetts Book Honor title, an Amelia Elizabeth Walden Award Finalist, and a \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Prize Finalist. Kip holds a PhD in German literature and is an enthusiastic high school library worker.\u003cb\u003e Kaleidoscope\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e By Alexandra Alessandri\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBursting to Be Free\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A new day awakens\u003cbr\u003e wide and bright and\u003cbr\u003e bursting with the promise\u003cbr\u003e of change.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s the first day\u003cbr\u003e of my first job,\u003cbr\u003e and like a seed\u003cbr\u003e that’s been buried\u003cbr\u003e for too long, I’m\u003cbr\u003e bursting to be free.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I fly out of Mami’s car,\u003cbr\u003e heart spread wide\u003cbr\u003e and smile stretched thin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e while worry wiggles\u003cbr\u003e below my breastbone:\u003cbr\u003e                 what if I’m buried\u003cbr\u003e                 once more?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e Mami Worries Too\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore we left the house, Mami paced\u003cbr\u003erivers on the rug because maybe \u003cbr\u003eshe shouldn’t have said yes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e It’s too soon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe worries about my readiness and\u003cbr\u003esteadiness after all these years of\u003cbr\u003eslowing down so I could heal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou’re not ready.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe worries about the taxes and tolls\u003cbr\u003ea new job will claim on my body,\u003cbr\u003eand whether it’s worth it at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe next year.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe worries I haven’t healed from\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ethat\u003c\/i\u003e day, from the accident that\u003cbr\u003eleft me shattered and empty.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Remember your fibromyalgia.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs if I could forget. When I\u003cbr\u003ecan’t stand Mami’s pacing\u003cbr\u003eany longer, I whisper,\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChill, Mom. It’ll be fine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eWhat I Don’t Say\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Is I’m scared to be in that place                again,\u003cbr\u003e a shell of a girl         drowning in pain and fatigue\u003cbr\u003e and a fog so dense   I barely break the surface.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Because I \u003ci\u003eknow\u003c\/i\u003e this job could shatter me\u003cbr\u003e even more, but Catalina would’ve wanted me\u003cbr\u003e to bloom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’m scared that strangers will learn my weakness\u003cbr\u003e and shut me out       the way my friends did—­\u003cbr\u003e or worse   scatter pity over my brokenness.\u003cbr\u003e (Because no one knows what to do           with a girl\u003cbr\u003e                 who’s been cursed   by chronic illness\u003cbr\u003e                                                 and grief.)\u003cbr\u003e But I’m even more scared\u003cbr\u003e                 of not living\u003cbr\u003e                                 my life.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCall Me Sarai\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMami tells me\u003cbr\u003e my name means\u003cbr\u003e princesa\u003cbr\u003e but it’s also\u003cbr\u003e a name of resilience\u003cbr\u003e and overcoming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’ve wished so much\u003cbr\u003e for this to be true,\u003cbr\u003e but all I’ve been able to do\u003cbr\u003e since Catalina died\u003cbr\u003e is survive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But here,\u003cbr\u003e standing beneath\u003cbr\u003e Farmacia Navarro’s\u003cbr\u003e neon-­blue signs,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’m finally\u003cbr\u003e ready\u003cbr\u003e to live.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCatalina\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy sister would’ve been nineteen this month,\u003cbr\u003e growing and glowing like a luciérnaga,\u003cbr\u003e on her way to college.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e FSU, pre-­pharmacy, top of her class.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Instead, she’s in St. Andrews Cemetery.\u003cbr\u003e The same accident that crushed my body\u003cbr\u003e three years ago claimed her life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was the same age I am now—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e excited and eager behind the wheel\u003cbr\u003e (without Mami for the first time).\u003cbr\u003e Someone ran the red light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We never saw it coming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My world hasn’t been the same since,\u003cbr\u003e but I made a promise after she died\u003cbr\u003e to hit all the milestones she missed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This job   today\u003cbr\u003e is me keeping my promise to my sister.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFew Things Scream Miami\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike the Cuban-­owned pharmacy\u003cbr\u003e and mercado\u003cbr\u003e near my house, filled with\u003cbr\u003e Agua de Violetas,\u003cbr\u003e pastelitos and cafecitos,\u003cbr\u003e and panetones during the holidays.\u003cbr\u003e Spanish rolls through the aisles\u003cbr\u003e in waves,\u003cbr\u003e comforting and soothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’m not Cuban—­\u003cbr\u003e I’m Colombian American—­\u003cbr\u003e but still, I feel at home here.\u003cbr\u003e It’s bold and bright and happy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If only      my heart\u003cbr\u003e would stop galloping,\u003cbr\u003e jittery and afraid\u003cbr\u003e that my attempt\u003cbr\u003e at keeping promises\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e will           fail.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI Meet\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy manager Santiago\u003cbr\u003e and Rosita the pharmacist,\u003cbr\u003e wave hello and smile shyly\u003cbr\u003e to the other workers:\u003cbr\u003e Martica and Caleb,\u003cbr\u003e cashiers like me,\u003cbr\u003e and Mauro and Suzi,\u003cbr\u003e roaming the aisles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then there’s Josue,\u003cbr\u003e whose smile\u003cbr\u003e is like the sun.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy Trainer Josue\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReminds me\u003cbr\u003e of Catalina—­\u003cbr\u003e                 kind eyes\u003cbr\u003e                 easy smile\u003cbr\u003e                 down to business.\u003cbr\u003e He’s her age too,\u003cbr\u003e or how old she would be\u003cbr\u003e if she were still alive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Our fingers brush as\u003cbr\u003e Josue hands me\u003cbr\u003e a blue shirt and\u003cbr\u003e bright orange name tag\u003cbr\u003e with Sarai González\u003cbr\u003e printed in bold block letters\u003cbr\u003e                 (they even got\u003cbr\u003e                 the accent right),\u003cbr\u003e and for a moment I wonder\u003cbr\u003e what Catalina would think\u003cbr\u003e if she saw me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But I chase the thought away.\u003cbr\u003e Instead, I shadow Josue as he\u003cbr\u003e trains me to\u003cbr\u003e                 check in\u003cbr\u003e                 use the register\u003cbr\u003e                 stock shelves\u003cbr\u003e until my nerves\u003cbr\u003e settle into a\u003cbr\u003e familiar rhythm\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e until I can’t help\u003cbr\u003e the thought that unfurls:\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eHe’s cute.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s Complicated\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile Josue trains me,\u003cbr\u003e he asks me questions:\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eHow old are you?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eWhere’s school for you?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His gaze is steady,\u003cbr\u003e expression open as he\u003cbr\u003e leans in for my response.\u003cbr\u003e I try to tightrope the line\u003cbr\u003e between truth and TMI.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Truth: \u003ci\u003eI’m sixteen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Truth: \u003ci\u003eIt’s complicated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e TMI: I’m homeschooled because\u003cbr\u003e after the accident, Mami\u003cbr\u003e couldn’t bear\u003cbr\u003e                 to see me struggle at school\u003cbr\u003e couldn’t bear\u003cbr\u003e                 to be separated from me\u003cbr\u003e couldn’t bear\u003cbr\u003e                 to lose another daughter.\u003cbr\u003e So Mami kept me home.\u003cbr\u003e Truth be told, the pain and fatigue\u003cbr\u003e kept me home anyway,\u003cbr\u003e no matter how much I wished to go back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No one wants to hear that, though—­\u003cbr\u003e it’s too messy and broken and sad.\u003cbr\u003e I learned that the hard way,\u003cbr\u003e when friends fell away like\u003cbr\u003e sand through my fingertips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Which is why I don’t tell Josue\u003cbr\u003e                 any of that.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCustomers\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo hours into my shift\u003cbr\u003e customer after customer comes my way\u003cbr\u003e while Josue hovers by my register,\u003cbr\u003e smelling of bubblemint gum.\u003cbr\u003e We make small talk in between,\u003cbr\u003e and I find myself bending toward him\u003cbr\u003e as if he were the sun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Three hours into my shift\u003cbr\u003e customer after customer brings offerings\u003cbr\u003e and I find my fingers faltering,\u003cbr\u003e my brain slowing\u003cbr\u003e as I will myself\u003cbr\u003e to catch up\u003cbr\u003e to stay focused\u003cbr\u003e on what I’m supposed to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Four hours into my shift\u003cbr\u003e customer after customer\u003cbr\u003e smiles politely\u003cbr\u003e taps impatiently\u003cbr\u003e checks their watch and waits\u003cbr\u003e for me to ring their merchandise\u003cbr\u003e correctly, while Josue\u003cbr\u003e catches my mistakes,\u003cbr\u003e never breaking his stride.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Me, though,\u003cbr\u003e I find myself\u003cbr\u003e losing my rhythm,\u003cbr\u003e wishing I could speed\u003cbr\u003e to the end of my shift\u003cbr\u003e (two more hours)\u003cbr\u003e so I can go home and reset.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But at least\u003cbr\u003e I’m not flaring\u003cbr\u003e                                 (yet).\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFLARING\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \\ ˈfler-­iŋ \\\u003cbr\u003e Adjective:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In autoimmune diseases,\u003cbr\u003e or chronic illnesses\u003cbr\u003e like mine,\u003cbr\u003e when symptoms\u003cbr\u003e increase,\u003cbr\u003e flare up,\u003cbr\u003e get worse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And it feels\u003cbr\u003e like that time\u003cbr\u003e when I was little\u003cbr\u003e swimming\u003cbr\u003e in South Beach,\u003cbr\u003e angry waves\u003cbr\u003e knocking me down,\u003cbr\u003e tumbling me over, and I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e couldn’t\u003cbr\u003e seem to catch\u003cbr\u003e my breath\u003cbr\u003e between breaks.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore \/ After\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore the accident,\u003cbr\u003e I played soccer\u003cbr\u003e competitively,\u003cbr\u003e and the promise\u003cbr\u003e of high school\u003cbr\u003e bloomed bright\u003cbr\u003e like Mami’s girasoles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After the accident,\u003cbr\u003e days bled into nights\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in wave\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e after wave\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of pain\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e fatigue\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e fog\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and I lay unable to break \u003cbr\u003e the surface and breathe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now I inhabit\u003cbr\u003e some space\u003cbr\u003e between\u003cbr\u003e healing\u003cbr\u003e and hell.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFibromyalgia\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCan creep up on you suddenly\u003cbr\u003e after a cataclysmic event—­\u003cbr\u003e like the crash that nearly killed you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e or the grief of losing your sister,\u003cbr\u003e your best friend,\u003cbr\u003e the brightest star in the universe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                 or both things at once.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And it won’t ever go away.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat They Don’t Tell You\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs that when you get sick\u003cbr\u003e you’ll spend\u003cbr\u003e days\u003cbr\u003e weeks\u003cbr\u003e months\u003cbr\u003e years\u003cbr\u003e measuring your worth\u003cbr\u003e with\u003cbr\u003e good days\u003cbr\u003e and bad days\u003cbr\u003e or that you’ll learn\u003cbr\u003e every creak\u003cbr\u003e snap\u003cbr\u003e pop\u003cbr\u003e ache of\u003cbr\u003e your body,\u003cbr\u003e always\u003cbr\u003e anticipating\u003cbr\u003e another flare-­up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Like now,\u003cbr\u003e I watch the clock\u003cbr\u003e tick toward the end\u003cbr\u003e of my shift,\u003cbr\u003e feel a burn in my limbs,\u003cbr\u003e and wonder\u003cbr\u003e if this is just\u003cbr\u003e new-­work tired\u003cbr\u003e or a crash\u003cbr\u003e waiting\u003cbr\u003e to happen.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoña Adelita\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFifteen minutes\u003cbr\u003e before I finish,\u003cbr\u003e a woman walks in—\u003cbr\u003e silver hair,\u003cbr\u003e joyful laugh,\u003cbr\u003e and a lightness about her\u003cbr\u003e that draws me in.\u003cbr\u003e If Josue is the sun,\u003cbr\u003e then she is a brilliant star.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eHola, Doña Adelita,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Josue calls out.\u003cbr\u003e Doña Adelita waves,\u003cbr\u003e catches my eye, and winks.\u003cbr\u003e She floats over to us,\u003cbr\u003e says, \u003ci\u003eYou’re new.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI am.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Is it that obvious?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eHow wonderful,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Doña Adelita trills.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI’ll be sure to check out\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ewith you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Promised\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoña Adelita\u003cbr\u003e ambles into my aisle,\u003cbr\u003e places ice packs and\u003cbr\u003e lipstick and\u003cbr\u003e merenguitos\u003cbr\u003e on the counter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e While I scan,\u003cbr\u003e she fiddles\u003cbr\u003e with her wallet,\u003cbr\u003e her curled fingers slipping\u003cbr\u003e on the clasp\u003cbr\u003e until finally\u003cbr\u003e it opens with a click.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She glances at my name tag\u003cbr\u003e as she hands me the cash.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eSarai.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eBeautiful name\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003efor a beautiful girl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I smile and thank her,\u003cbr\u003e though truth be told\u003cbr\u003e it’s hard to feel beautiful\u003cbr\u003e when you can’t\u003cbr\u003e see yourself clearly\u003cbr\u003e through the shattered glass,\u003cbr\u003e when scars remind you\u003cbr\u003e of all you’re not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She begins chatting\u003cbr\u003e with Josue\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e about college\u003cbr\u003e                 freshman year\u003cbr\u003e                 studying biomedical engineering\u003cbr\u003e about family\u003cbr\u003e                 sister graduating\u003cbr\u003e                 Mom away on business\u003cbr\u003e about me\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e                Seems just your type.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e                Don’t you think?\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Josue’s face flushes,\u003cbr\u003e my eyes widen, and\u003cbr\u003e Doña Adelita’s laugh trails behind her\u003cbr\u003e as she leaves—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and I can’t help but wonder\u003cbr\u003e if he agrees.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat It Feels Like to Be Free\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen my six-­hour shift ends,\u003cbr\u003e I find Mami waiting for me\u003cbr\u003e in the car, her face lined with\u003cbr\u003e expectation and worry,\u003cbr\u003e a contrast to my own\u003cbr\u003e smiling, glowing face.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eHow’d it go?\u003c\/i\u003e she asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                 \u003ci\u003eFine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Better than fine.\u003cbr\u003e Sure, exhaustion blankets me\u003cbr\u003e now as we drive home,\u003cbr\u003e and sure, my body aches\u003cbr\u003e with the exertion of the day,\u003cbr\u003e but I’m giddy with the thought that\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I didn’t fail.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And I feel my heart\u003cbr\u003e flowering from the splinters\u003cbr\u003e that still lie scattered and broken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’d forgotten what it feels like\u003cbr\u003e to be like everyone else,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e what it feels like to be free.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy Routine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIncludes\u003cbr\u003e meds,\u003cbr\u003e rest,\u003cbr\u003e yoga,\u003cbr\u003e light exercise\u003cbr\u003e to keep\u003cbr\u003e my body\u003cbr\u003e moving, loose,\u003cbr\u003e so when the flare\u003cbr\u003e becomes a hurricane,\u003cbr\u003e my body\u003cbr\u003e can withstand it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s not a perfect system,\u003cbr\u003e but I’ve learned\u003cbr\u003e to go with the sway\u003cbr\u003e of the waves,\u003cbr\u003e even while I dream\u003cbr\u003e of calmer waters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So tonight, I take my\u003cbr\u003e meds, do some yoga to\u003cbr\u003e s t   r  e  t  c  h     \u003cbr\u003e my sore muscles, and tuck\u003cbr\u003e into bed to rest, hoping\u003cbr\u003e to keep the good times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e rolling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But I don’t sleep\u003cbr\u003e all that well.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoña Adelita Visits\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFarmacia Navarro every day.\u003cbr\u003e She only buys a few things at a time—­\u003cbr\u003e pantyhose,\u003cbr\u003e shampoo,\u003cbr\u003e merenguitos\u003cbr\u003e                 (always\u003cbr\u003e                 merenguitos).\u003cbr\u003e She flutters through the aisles\u003cbr\u003e like a colibrí searching\u003cbr\u003e for flowers,\u003cbr\u003e her trilling laughter\u003cbr\u003e always trailing\u003cbr\u003e behind her,\u003cbr\u003e and when she’s done,\u003cbr\u003e she always checks out\u003cbr\u003e with me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And while I scan her items,\u003cbr\u003e she starts chatting\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e about life\u003cbr\u003e                 it’s just me\u003cbr\u003e                 and Mami (now)\u003cbr\u003e about school\u003cbr\u003e                 I’ll finish\u003cbr\u003e                 ahead of schedule\u003cbr\u003e about me\u003cbr\u003e                 \u003ci\u003eWhy do you look like the weight\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e                of the world is on your shoulders?\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s hard to stay quiet around Doña Adelita\u003cbr\u003e because the gleam in her gaze\u003cbr\u003e tells me she \u003ci\u003eknows\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But I do\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e because Josue lingers nearby,\u003cbr\u003e and some truths are just too much\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to share with a boy\u003cbr\u003e you think is\u003cbr\u003e cute.","brand":"Nancy Paulsen Books","offers":[{"title":"Default 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