{"product_id":"another-dimension-of-usisbn-9780593223765","title":"Another Dimension of Us","description":"\u003cb\u003eMike Albo delivers a thrilling transdimensional love story in what can best be described as \u003ci\u003eThe Breakfast Club\u003c\/i\u003e meets Brit Marling's \u003ci\u003eThe OA\u003c\/i\u003e, as five teens travel across the astral plane at different points in the past, present, and future of the rapidly changing Virginia suburbs of Washington, D.C.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRenaldo Calabasas may be the most talented writer Heron High has produced. But at the height of the AIDS crisis  and amidst the homophobia present most everywhere in 1986, not many of his fellow students seem to agree. But something changes the night Rene is struck by lightning and only his closest friend, Katie, and love interest, Tommy, can tell he's undergone some inexplicable transformation. Meanwhile in 2036, Heron High students Priss and Gaye survive an ongoing plague called \"The Virus\" as they try to solve the mystery of what happened fifty years earlier in what locals affectionately call \"The Murder House.\" At the scene of the crimes, they happen upon an old self-help novel that is effectively a guide to transdimensional travel. As bodies and minds merge and travel across the astral plane, the characters discover that they are not as isolated as they often feel and that the shadow chasing them all might very well be a reflection of their own darkest secrets.\u003cb\u003eA Town \u0026amp; Country Must-Read Book for Winter 2023\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"The narrative’s myriad alternating perspectives and well-plotted timeline smartly propel intense action, and references to the AIDS crisis and an unnamed 2044 virus grounds this imaginative telling in contemporary reality.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Albo explores the universal emotions of adolescence that not only span time and dimension but are ultimately connected in this lucid and thought-provoking novel with appealing and sympathetic characters.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It all comes together in a remarkably smooth way, the layers of story building to an appropriately tragic and beautifully sculpted conclusion . . . while science fiction buffs may be the most likely audience, romance readers will also find a stunning love story within the shifting timelines.\" —\u003ci\u003eBulletin for the Center of Children's Books\u003c\/i\u003eMike Albo is the author of two novels, \u003ci\u003eHornito\u003c\/i\u003e (HarperCollins) and \u003ci\u003eThe Underminer: The Best Friend Who Casually Destroys Your Life\u003c\/i\u003e (Bloomsbury, co-written with Virginia Heffernan), as well as the novella \u003ci\u003eThe Junket\u003c\/i\u003e and the short memoir \u003ci\u003eSpermhood: Diary of a Donor\u003c\/i\u003e (both Kindle Singles). He has written for \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eTown \u0026amp; Country\u003c\/i\u003e, TED.com, and many other outlets. As a performer, he has presented more than seven solo shows, including \u003ci\u003eSpermhood \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Junket\u003c\/i\u003e, which appeared Off Broadway in 2014, and regularly performs comedy at Joe's Pub. website: mikealbo.net. IG and Twitter: @albomike\u003cb\u003e1986\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eTommy\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tommy was crying, holding his head in his hands, saying over and over that he should have kissed Renaldo Calabasas that night when he had the chance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It had been a week since Renaldo was struck by lightning. Tommy was sitting where it happened: under the charred tree in Hollow Pond Park, huddled into the base of the blackened trunk—­the exact spot where they almost kissed. He wrote down his thoughts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You are like smoke, a dark dance in the air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e No.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You are a storm cloud, weightlessly heavy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e No.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You are as mysteriously beautiful as black smoke.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e No.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A crow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e No.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A raven?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eTommy crossed out his words. He was such a shitty poet. He wasn’t even a smidge as good as René. And his bad poetry couldn’t match what he was feeling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e But he kept writing in the book. He had to. Renaldo Calabasas was lost in the astral plane, floating somewhere in its expanse. And it was the book that told Tommy that if he wanted to find Renaldo and bring him back to Earth, he had to write down how he felt. He had to get close to him in words, and the words would be his path to him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e The book told him to write it all out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e The book. The book.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eJune,\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eThree Months Earlier\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tommy stood at the bike rack watching Renaldo Calabasas unchain his clunky old banana-seat Schwinn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e René was sweating through his white button-­down shirt, and Tommy could see the contours of his chest through the wet fabric.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was Friday, the last day of school, and everyone had cleared out in an end-­of-­the-­year frenzy, ripping up and throwing away their schoolwork and locker decorations like they were getting out of jail. The trash bins next to them were filled with spiral notebooks, crumpled papers, tattered locker posters of Van Halen and the Doors. All the wealthy juniors and seniors of Herron High had driven away in their cars to some popular person’s party somewhere. Tommy wouldn’t know where.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You ready to go?” Renaldo asked, piling books into his basket before stopping suddenly. He leaned against his bike and stared up at the sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What are you looking at?” Tommy asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’ll come to you when the sky is cerulean blue,” René said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That sentence. It came to me last night after a dream. Like someone said it to me. I’m just wondering if this is what ‘cerulean blue’ is.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tommy followed Renaldo’s gaze. The sky was strangely dark in color, like the coldness of outer space was closer than normal. \u003ci\u003eCerulean, cerulean\u003c\/i\u003e, Tommy repeated to himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Renaldo rummaged through the bike basket and ripped out a page from his notebook. Tommy could see that there was a poem written on it titled “Storm Omen.” Even by sight, Tommy knew it would be good and that it would appear in the next \u003ci\u003eCornucopia\u003c\/i\u003e—­the student literary magazine they worked on. Everything René wrote made it in there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s about lightning,” René explained, still staring at the sky, “about this thing called \u003ci\u003ekeraunoscopy\u003c\/i\u003e. Do you know that word?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “No, sorry,” Tommy said. He wanted to say, \u003ci\u003eDo you know how beautiful you are?\u003c\/i\u003e But of course he didn’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It means divination by lightning,” said Renaldo. “I mean, isn’t that the most amazing word ever? Apparently, the Etruscans believed that lightning and thunder were omens.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tommy only had a vague idea who the Etruscans were but nodded assuredly, anyway. Renaldo was so well-­read. Lightning was his latest obsession.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Lightning on a Tuesday or Wednesday was good luck for crops. But on a Sunday meant a man would die, a whole different thing. On a Friday, it meant something foreboding was coming. I wrote this last night. Well, technically, this morning after midnight, so it was on a Friday.” René talked quickly and floridly, like he always did, and Tommy ate up every word.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He scanned the page.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e I am naked, only in my skin,\u003cbr\u003e bare bark,\u003cbr\u003e listening for storms\u003cbr\u003e waiting for omens\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tommy couldn’t get the naked part out of his mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Come on,” René said suddenly, snatching the poem back, “we have to get to the library.”\u003cbr\u003e Tommy watched as he folded the poem meticulously into a triangle, like he was folding a flag for a soldier, and placed the little parcel in the front pocket of his shirt. Then he hopped on his bike, and Tommy quickly strapped on his backpack full of books and grabbed his bike, too, pedaling hard to keep up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They rolled down Freedom Avenue. Tommy let René go first so he could watch him from behind, his hair flying, white shirt billowing in the hot air. It was the beginning of June, the air was humid, and every yard they passed was dense with green lawns, sprinklers chattering away in wet stutters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tommy wrote poetry, too, but never as good as Renaldo’s.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Except for the poetry he wrote about Renaldo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e About René’s dark curls that cascaded down his neck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e About his strong nose and deep brown eyes that were so open and expansive, they were almost like staring into a night sky filled with stars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e About René riding his bike in his strange white pants and white shirts that he always wore, sometimes with an equally unstylish fedora hat, his bushy hair peeking out from under it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e About his brown skin, not one freckle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e About his body that was wiry and skinny and surprisingly strong, even though he never exercised.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e About his old poetry books that he was always carrying around, along with his giant hardbound notebook that he wrote in constantly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e About the callus between his left index and middle finger that had formed because he wrote so much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e About how René wasn’t popular but he didn’t care at all. Tommy wasn’t popular, either. That was for many reasons. But the big one: His last name was Gaye. And because life was apparently one giant cruel joke, he had always known he was gay, too. Last week he even said it out loud. He shut the door to his bathroom, making sure his parents and his brother were safely downstairs, and he looked in the mirror and whispered it to himself.\u003ci\u003e I’m gay.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He muttered it quickly in the mirror so that he wouldn’t have to get close and look at his pimply skin and feel even worse about himself. But now he was with René and they were on their way to the library and school had ended and he was free, flying down Freedom Avenue, and René was on his bike in front of him. He felt jolted with life.","brand":"Penguin Workshop","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305475199205,"sku":"NP9780593223765","price":18.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593223765.jpg?v=1730760619","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/another-dimension-of-usisbn-9780593223765","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}