{"product_id":"clementine-h-hopeful-is-not-a-hero-isbn-9780593906361","title":"Clementine H. Hopeful Is Not a Hero","description":"\u003cb\u003eAmid magic and monsters, a queer seventh-grader discovers a world where he can be himself but has to decide if he will fight for it…even if it means becoming the villain.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"Clementine’s story is part \u003ci\u003ePeter Pan\u003c\/i\u003e, part \u003ci\u003eAlice’s Adventures in Wonderland\u003c\/i\u003e, part \u003ci\u003eCoraline\u003c\/i\u003e, and at the same time wholly unique.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClementine has always felt like the villain of his story. Most of the time, he’s a socially anxious kid who knows it’s not “normal” for a boy to wear pink shoes to school. While he’s there, his teachers won’t call him by the right name (even though Clementine \u003ci\u003eis \u003c\/i\u003ea boy’s name, if a boy has it), his classmates tease him about his obsessive love for spiders (even though they’re beautiful), and he’s the only one who can see the floating faces that haunt the surrounding woods.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut all that changes when a boy named Beetle breaks through his bedroom window and warns him about monsters. Soon, Clementine is drawn into a world of magic and imagination. Every night in the woods, everything he and his new friends Beetle, Cricket, and Anise spend hours in a play-pretend world that seems to be seeping into reality. Clementine has never had a friend like Beetle—a boy who teaches him to howl at the moon, who dreams of being a hero and says the whole sky is beautiful while looking right at Clementine and not at the sky at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Clementine wants to use the power fueling their adventures to make things better outside the forest—not later, when he’s grown up, but \u003ci\u003enow\u003c\/i\u003e. And when he discovers the source of the magic, Clementine has to decide: Does he become a hero with Beetle and protect a world that hates him? Or does he finally become the villain, ready to build a new world whatever the cost? In this joyful and uninhibited celebration of imagination, empathy and all things monstrous, debut author Noah Corey tells the story of a queer kid who is exactly and exquisitely himself. This book is a love letter to villains \u003ci\u003eand\u003c\/i\u003e heroes, and all the ways they make us brave.\"Clementine’s story is part \u003ci\u003ePeter Pan\u003c\/i\u003e, part \u003ci\u003eAlice’s Adventures in Wonderland\u003c\/i\u003e, part \u003ci\u003eCoraline\u003c\/i\u003e, and at the same time wholly unique....\u003cb\u003eA dark and inviting tale\u003c\/b\u003e for all the nonheroes out there.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"For villains, heroes, and those occupying the space in between, \u003cb\u003eCorey’s debut showcases that bravery comes in different forms\u003c\/b\u003e and the greatest thing one can wield is the courage to be unapologetically, unequivocally oneself.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003eNoah Corey lives in Washington State with his husband (Markus), his dog (Potatoes), and his three cats (Wirt, Greg, and Beatrice). He feels passionately about outer space, insects, and fictional vampires.One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the very first day of seventh grade, at the very beginning of his first class, Clem­en­tine tried to take his seat like a normal person.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe wasn’t sure if he pulled it off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was a whole variety of things Clem­en­tine didn’t want people to notice about him (like that he was fidgety) (and sort of sweaty) (and wearing pink sneakers). But he did want people to absolutely understand two things the minute they met him:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1. Clem­en­tine was a boy’s name, thank you very much, and\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2. He would get taller eventually, because boys in his family did \u003ci\u003eeventually\u003c\/i\u003e get tall, he promised. He really was very normal, and it wasn’t his fault he’d skipped a grade and also several growth spurts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo prove he was \u003ci\u003every normal\u003c\/i\u003e, he wore his most regular red flannel, and his super-­not-­suspicious Loki T-shirt, and his only-­a-­bit-­ripped-­up jeans—­which mostly covered the pink sneakers. That morning, he’d let his mom put flowery hair spray in his chin-­length black hair. He’d even double-­checked that his socks matched.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe sat very still. He pretended he wasn’t sweaty. He ignored how frizzy and itchy and in-­his-eyes his bangs were, despite all the spray. Most importantly, he didn’t immediately start talking about spiders in intricate detail, which had been his mistake the year before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(Normal kids talk about spiders a normal amount.) (Which apparently isn’t very much.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClem­en­tine’s plan went perfectly until the bell rang, and a shockingly tall teacher started calling roll.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe teacher was so tall because his legs were very, very long and spindly. He was wearing large square glasses and a thick gray cardigan over an \u003ci\u003eeven thicker\u003c\/i\u003e blue sweater, and he looked very much like he was using his curly, blond-­with-­brown-­roots hair to hide two smallish horns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe called out \u003ci\u003eClem­en­tine H. Hopeful\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClem­en­tine raised his hand in a profoundly average way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe teacher frowned. He called out \u003ci\u003eClem­en­tine H. Hopeful\u003c\/i\u003e again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClem­en­tine raised his hand higher.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe teacher stared at him. Clem­en­tine stared back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis teacher had reddish brown skin, striking dark ­freckles, and off-­yellow eyebrows. Only his frown was ugly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClem­en­tine shook his hand a little.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I said \u003ci\u003eClem­en­tine\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s me,” said Clem­en­tine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Clem­en­tine’s a girl’s name,” the teacher sneered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClem­en­tine fiddled with his sleeve, disappointed that the (odd) (pretty) teacher was terrible. “Clem­en­tine’s a boy’s name if a boy has it. And I’m a boy. And I have it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe teacher squinted at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClem­en­tine tried not to squint back, because that was rude, but he did stare at the teacher’s hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt just \u003ci\u003ereally, really\u003c\/i\u003e looked like horns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe teacher said, “I’m marking Clem­en­tine absent, and I’m going to need your real name.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Clem­en­tine \u003ci\u003eis\u003c\/i\u003e my real name. If you really don’t like it, you can call me Hopeful?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe teacher marked something down on his clipboard and talked like Clem­en­tine was being punished for trying to trick him. “I’m going to call you Hopeful all semester. It might be a funny joke now, but I won’t let you change it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClem­en­tine felt like he was going to vomit. Everyone was staring at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis words were a whisper. “You \u003ci\u003ecan\u003c\/i\u003e call me ‘Hopeful’ all semester. It’s my last name . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe teacher called out another name and simply checked the box when the other kid raised their hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“. . . But I’d rather you called me Clem­en­tine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClem­en­tine’s day did not get better after homeroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe liked his classes, but he had never been exceptionally good at them. (The grade he skipped was kindergarten, and only because his mom mixed up which room she was supposed to walk him to.) He was great at some parts of school! He understood how to read, of course, and he was really excellent at writing—­he never forgot to dot his \u003ci\u003ei\u003c\/i\u003es with neat little circles. He kinda liked a few of his teachers, even though they weren’t always particularly trusting (or kind) toward him. And he sorta liked a few of his classmates, but he wasn’t good at talking to people (about most things besides spiders).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe just didn’t understand what other people meant when they said things. And \u003ci\u003enobody\u003c\/i\u003e understood what \u003ci\u003ehe\u003c\/i\u003e meant when \u003ci\u003ehe\u003c\/i\u003e said things.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo, at lunch, when Ginger Jones saw him sitting alone and giggled, “What are you drawing?” he took her seriously and held it up to show her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a spider—­specifically, a brown recluse spider, with a hat and a different roller skate on every foot. Clem­en­tine knew he wasn’t \u003ci\u003egreat\u003c\/i\u003e at drawing, but he thought it was sweet Ginger was asking. And giving a spider roller skates was a good idea (if he could get a spider that big, or roller skates that small, obviously).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGinger didn’t say anything else. She turned to her friends and laughed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClem­en­tine blinked, shocked and a little confused, then felt blood rush to his face. He dropped his notebook onto the table and furiously scribbled the spider out. Then he looked up and realized he was the only person sitting alone in the cafeteria.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stood up stiffly, robotically walked out, then marched down the hallway to the bathroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he pushed the heavy wood door open, he was met with a wave of cold, mildewy air. Clem­en­tine used the \u003ci\u003eold\u003c\/i\u003e bathroom at the back of the school. It was the only bathroom he had used for years (because \u003ci\u003enobody\u003c\/i\u003e else ever used it).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was water-­stained and permanently grimy. It had a drafty window by the ceiling that looked out on a near-­black patch of forest. And later in the year, when it got cold, it would have at least thirty-­five spiders tucked away in odd cracks. It was “too scary” for the other kids, which is what made it safe for him. He felt a little relieved just walking in; it was a place he would be left \u003ci\u003ealone\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the other hand, it \u003ci\u003ewas\u003c\/i\u003e creepy, especially being this close to the forest. And when he was all alone, with nothing to distract him, his Very Big imagination sometimes got out of control. When he hung out in this bathroom, he knew he might \u003ci\u003esee things\u003c\/i\u003e from the forest. Things that his mom had reassured him were not real. Horrific, toothy, \u003ci\u003edefinitely pretend\u003c\/i\u003e things that would give him nightmares.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe knew the other kids didn’t see the things he saw. But the other kids never needed to hide in the nooks and corners that creepy things \u003ci\u003ehypothetically\u003c\/i\u003e crept out of, like Clem­en­tine needed to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClem­en­tine walked into the big stall in the back, locked the door, and sat on the closed toilet. He pulled his feet up onto the toilet lid after him. That way, even if someone did walk in, they wouldn’t see him or his pink sneakers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(Also, if his haunted and overgrown imagination conjured up anything horrifying, he could pretend not to see \u003ci\u003eit\u003c\/i\u003e.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe swung his backpack onto the top of the toilet, curled his arms around his knees, and sighed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes Clem­en­tine felt like everyone else was born with a little instructional book about \u003ci\u003eHow to Be a Normal Girl\u003c\/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003eHow to Be a Normal Boy\u003c\/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003eHow to Grow Up to Be a Normal Teacher\u003c\/i\u003e. The boys at his school wore camo hunting hoodies or loose shirts with basketball shorts. The girls wore tight jeans and cardigans. And the teachers were just grown-­up versions of all the boys and girls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Clem­en­tine felt like he had not received the same instructions. He felt like he must have been born with an instructional book called \u003ci\u003e100 Reasons Why Beetles and Crickets and Other Assorted Creatures Are Deeply Beautiful\u003c\/i\u003e. This was a good kind of internal book to have, but not one that was helpful for social things.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s why Clem­en­tine wasn’t good at school. He wasn’t good at having friends. He wasn’t good at talking to teachers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then he heard rustling from the woods outside the window, and his train of thought crashed to a halt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe tried to ignore it. He tried to remember what his mom said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut there was something scratching at the edges of the window frame.","brand":"Labyrinth Road","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233031794917,"sku":"NP9780593906361","price":17.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593906361.jpg?v=1767723830","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/clementine-h-hopeful-is-not-a-hero-isbn-9780593906361","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}