{"product_id":"ariel-crashes-a-train-isbn-9780593644669","title":"Ariel Crashes a Train","description":"\u003cb\u003eLONGLISTED FOR THE NATIONAL BOOK AWARD • A \u003ci\u003eCOSMOPOLITAN \u003c\/i\u003eBEST YA BOOK OF THE YEAR • A \u003ci\u003ePUBLISHERS WEEKLY, SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL, BOOKLIST\u003c\/i\u003e AND \u003ci\u003eKIRKUS REVIEWS\u003c\/i\u003e BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Exploring the harsh reality of OCD and violent intrusive thoughts in stunning, lyrical writing, this novel-in-verse conjures a haunting yet hopeful portrait of a girl on the edge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A gorgeously kind, wonderfully gentle, and unfailingly compassionate depiction of OCD...bursting with light.” —Ashley Woodfolk, critically acclaimed author of NOTHING BURNS AS BRIGHT AS YOU\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAriel is afraid of her own mind. She already feels like she is too big, too queer, too rough to live up to her parents' exacting expectations, or to fit into what the world expects of a “good girl.” And as violent fantasies she can’t control take over every aspect of her life, she is convinced something much deeper is wrong with her. Ever since her older sister escaped to college, Ariel isn't sure if her careful rituals and practiced distance will be enough to keep those around her safe anymore. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen a summer job at a carnival brings new friends into Ariel’s fractured world , and she finds herself questioning her desire to keep everyone out—of her head and her heart. But if they knew what she was really thinking, they would run in the other direction—right? Instead, with help and support, Ariel discovers a future where she can be at home in her mind and body, and for the first time learns there’s a name for what she struggles with—Obsessive Compulsive Disorder—and that she’s not broken, and not alone.\u003ci\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003eA poetic, visceral, deeply affecting story that will stay with me for years to come, not only because of its beauty and intensity but because it's the first time I've seen OCD represented so accurately in fiction.”\u003cbr\u003e—Allison Britz, author of \u003ci\u003eObsessed: A Memoir of My Life with OCD\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e★ \"Vivid, emotionally charged verse renders terse, illuminating discussions of gender, race, religion, and sex that candidly contextualize OCD, and give teeth to this \u003cb\u003edazzling, layered story of self-acceptance and agency\u003c\/b\u003e.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"A revelatory, \u003cb\u003erazor-sharp\u003c\/b\u003e, and powerfully honest depiction of the reality of living with OCD.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"\u003cb\u003eA poignant, raw masterpiece\u003c\/b\u003e....there is a searing vulnerability in Cole’s verses that stays with the reader long after they have finished the book, making this a necessary and important read.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"This \u003cb\u003edeeply compassionate and sharp-edged\u003c\/b\u003e dive into OCD is a must for all collections.\" —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"\u003cb\u003eThis moving, compassionate, and powerful work is vital\u003c\/b\u003e reading for those struggling with mental health or those who love earnest novels-in-verse.\" —\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ariel’s first-person narration is \u003cb\u003egripping\u003c\/b\u003e, likely to evoke a deep sympathy that will help readers.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe Bulletin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"This \u003cb\u003epowerful\u003c\/b\u003e novel in verse provides an intimate look at the patterns of obsessive-compulsive disorder and offers an opportunity to explore the ways our inner voices affect our behavior and self-concept.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eOlivia A. Cole\u003c\/b\u003e is a writer from Louisville, Kentucky whose essays have been published by \u003ci\u003eBitch Media, Real Simple, \u003c\/i\u003ethe \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times, HuffPost, Teen Vogue, Gay Mag,\u003c\/i\u003e and more. Olivia is the author of several books for children and adults.I have to.\u003cbr\u003eEvery time I leave the kitchen\u003cbr\u003ewhether I’m going\u003cbr\u003ein or out of the house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s a rule written in blood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This morning, like every morning,\u003cbr\u003eI stare down at the collection of kitchen knives\u003cbr\u003ein the drawer by the stove.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There are ten of them, one for each finger,\u003cbr\u003eshort and long, serrated and not,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e        silver silver silver\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I know them all well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e        This is the rule: \u003cb\u003ein order to stop myself\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e       from driving one of them into my father’s chest\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I must open the drawers—­the silent kind\u003cbr\u003ethat don’t slam—­and tap each blade\u003cbr\u003ewith one finger, six times\u003cbr\u003efor each knife:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e tap\u003cbr\u003etap\u003cbr\u003etap\u003cbr\u003etap\u003cbr\u003etap\u003cbr\u003etap\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I have to concentrate.\u003cbr\u003eEach tap measured, firm.\u003cbr\u003eOn the third knife, the fifth tap is too soft.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I start over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two more times\u003cbr\u003euntil I get it right\u003cbr\u003eand all the scales growing inside me\u003cbr\u003esoften back into flesh\u003cbr\u003eand smooth wet organs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Only then can I go\u003cbr\u003eto the front door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Everyone is safe.\u003cbr\u003eFor now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’m going to try one more time.\u003cbr\u003eThe bus stop is where I used to think my best thoughts—­\u003cbr\u003emaybe because there, the world\u003cbr\u003eis as noisy as the inside of my head:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e clangor and clamor and squeaking brakes\u003cbr\u003epeople nodding to music\u003cbr\u003eand each other,\u003cbr\u003ecoming and going.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can wear headphones with no music\u003cbr\u003eand no one knows any different—­\u003cbr\u003eif my head twitches or my neck bends\u003cbr\u003ethey all think \u003ci\u003eMUSIC. That girl is into her music.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On the bus, I can make myself small\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e all 5′11″ of me balled\u003cbr\u003eagainst the smudged window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am part of the scenery—­we all are.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I haven’t tried in one week\u003cbr\u003ebecause it already happened once\u003cbr\u003eand I wanted to give it time,\u003cbr\u003emaybe let it fade.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Today it’s not rush hour.\u003cbr\u003eToday the rush is less rushing—­\u003cbr\u003ean old woman and her shopping bag\u003cbr\u003etwo young guys with backpacks\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e        and me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A bus is coming but it’s not ours\u003cbr\u003eand the old woman has old woman eyes\u003cbr\u003eso she can’t see that it’s the 44\u003cbr\u003enot the 14\u003cbr\u003eso she’s stepping forward to the curb\u003cbr\u003eexpectantly\u003cbr\u003eand the bus isn’t slowing down\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and then it happens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’m pushing her.\u003cbr\u003eMy muscles seize—­\u003cbr\u003esomething green and scaly\u003cbr\u003enestled between ropes of my intestine\u003cbr\u003ecoming awake and thrashing its tail.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e                                                                                                                screech of the bus\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e                                                                                                         sickening thud of steel\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e                                                                                             against eighty-­year-­old bones\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e                                                                                           shopping bag catches the wind\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e                                                                                                   sweeps out into the street\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e                                                                                 a single apple rolls toward the sewer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and at first I’m running away\u003cbr\u003ethen, when my lungs shout,\u003cbr\u003ewalking. Four blocks away\u003cbr\u003eI finally look back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The 14 is pulling up and one of the guys\u003cbr\u003ewith backpacks holds the woman’s shopping bag\u003cbr\u003ewhile she climbs slowly on board.\u003cbr\u003eThe insistent beeping of the bus’s\u003cbr\u003ekneel ricochets down the block.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When the bus catches up to me,\u003cbr\u003ethe wind from it blowing by\u003cbr\u003ethrows my hair in a cyclone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Three miles to go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Other buses will come\u003cbr\u003ebut they’re not an option anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the pit of my stomach\u003cbr\u003ethe crocodile is awake\u003cbr\u003eand by now I know\u003cbr\u003ethat the only way to keep\u003cbr\u003e        everyone safe\u003cbr\u003eis by making sure the beast\u003cbr\u003ehas lots of space.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Meeting Leah should feel like comfort—­\u003cbr\u003ea friendship sprouted\u003cbr\u003eon a school bus in fourth grade, both of us\u003cbr\u003esmall (even me, then) with big voices, yelling\u003cbr\u003eat a boy who emptied his pencil sharpener\u003cbr\u003edown the back of a girl’s shirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Neither of us was afraid to use\u003cbr\u003ethe word \u003ci\u003efuck\u003c\/i\u003e and when neither of us\u003cbr\u003egot in trouble, it felt\u003cbr\u003elike we were charmed,\u003cbr\u003ethat we had charmed each other.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Leah’s voice has grown and grown:\u003cbr\u003epresident of the Jewish Student Union,\u003cbr\u003eco-­chair of the Young Chemists Society.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I asked her on Halloween if she’d outgrown me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eYou can’t outgrow what you’re made for,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eshe’d said, but it didn’t feel like an answer,\u003cbr\u003eand lately it feels like even if she’s not\u003cbr\u003eoutgrowing me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e then maybe the tree of her\u003cbr\u003eis merely growing in another direction,\u003cbr\u003elike the peace lily in my mom’s office\u003cbr\u003ealways arching toward the window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Leah has a boyfriend—­Cesar—­\u003cbr\u003ewith a smile like that: like the sun.\u003cbr\u003eI don’t blame her for leaning into him\u003cbr\u003ewhen lately everything about me\u003cbr\u003eis mist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s June but Leah wants hot chocolate\u003cbr\u003eand these are the things I love about her,\u003cbr\u003ebut when I sink down across from her\u003cbr\u003eI almost forget to smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Across the street, a cat stares at itself in a store window,\u003cbr\u003elashing its tail, suspicious of its own reflection.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I feel the same way\u003cbr\u003eand this is why:","brand":"Labyrinth Road","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303602475237,"sku":"NP9780593644669","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593644669.jpg?v=1767721761","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/ariel-crashes-a-train-isbn-9780593644669","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}