{"product_id":"i-am-the-cage-isbn-9780593616932","title":"I Am the Cage","description":"\u003cb\u003eA searing own-voices story accented by poignant childhood flashbacks and stunning poetry. A quietly powerful portrait of a young woman’s journey to confront the medical trauma inflicted to “fix” her—and heal her heart in the process. Now in paperback!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFish Creek, Wisconsin—Beautiful. Quiet. Isolated. Anonymous. It’s all that nineteen-year-old Elisabeth needs, and everything she wants. Cloistered in her tiny cabin, Elisabeth is determined to be alone, hiding from her memories and making sure that no one can ever hurt her again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut when a massive snowstorm strikes, plunging the town into darkness, Elisabeth finally allows herself to accept help from her neighbor, Noah, the town’s young sheriff. Forced to show him more vulnerability than she ever intended, Elisabeth realizes she can no longer outrun the scars of her childhood, and facing the darkness might be exactly what she needs to let the light in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn emotional coming-of-age story about a young woman running away from herself, yet grasping to find a way back. Deeply moving, authentically raw, and humming with the possibility of a new love.“\u003cb\u003eA beautiful and poetic book about the many ways pain, and love in all its forms, leaves a lasting stain. \u003c\/b\u003eElisabeth’s story of childhood trauma, both physical and emotional, is brutal, heartfelt, and a testament to finally breaking free and moving forward on your own terms.” \u003cb\u003e–Kathleen Glasgow, #1 bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eGirl in Pieces\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eHeartfelt, human and true\u003c\/b\u003e—a novel that feels real from the first word to the last. I loved it.” –\u003cb\u003eMarkus Zusak, #1 bestselling author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Book Thief\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Grant’s YA debut emerges with a captivating sparkle that mirrors a snowstorm’s atmospheric quiet with its introspective and rhythmic prose. . . . \u003cb\u003eAn outstanding character study with themes of pain and acceptance. Powerful.\u003c\/b\u003e″ –\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’re taught from earliest childhood that doctors are trustworthy healers, so there’s a special sense of betrayal when they inflict pain. \u003ci\u003eI Am the Cage \u003c\/i\u003etells of the crimes committed against Elisabeth’s body and psyche by the medical community, and by those who stood by while it happened. \u003cb\u003eBut it also tells of survival, grace and self-discovery…. Steadfastly tethered to the harsh reality of our painful, beautiful world.\u003c\/b\u003e” –\u003ci\u003eThe Associated Press\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eA brilliant book about what we survive—and how.\u003c\/b\u003e Visceral, wrenching, and beautiful, Grant’s triumphant novel will stick with you.” \u003cb\u003e–John Green, #1 bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Fault in Our Stars\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A tender, heartfelt story about the wounds childhood trauma can leave on its survivors. \u003cb\u003eThe sense of powerlessness—and redemption—will stay with you.\u003c\/b\u003e” \u003cb\u003e–Jojo Moyes, #1 bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Giver of Stars\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMe Before You\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Allison Sweet Grant is a natural storyteller with the keen eye and ear of a poet. Deftly toggling between past and present, childhood trauma and its painful aftershocks, \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eI Am the Cage\u003c\/i\u003e is a story of love, resilience, and healing.\u003c\/b\u003e What a beautiful, moving, and insightful debut.” \u003cb\u003e–Maggie Smith, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eYou Could Make This Place Beautiful\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Through Elisabeth’s poetry, integrated throughout, \u003cb\u003eGrant artfully showcases the complicated back-and-forth between keeping oneself safe and staunching one’s own growth\u003c\/b\u003e. Elisabeth and Noah’s dialogue crackles with tension and sincerity, and depictions of Elisabeth’s harrowing struggles with her narcissistic mother are cathartic.” –\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003eAllison Sweet Grant is a writer published in the\u003ci\u003e New York Times \u003c\/i\u003eand the \u003ci\u003eAtlantic\u003c\/i\u003e; she holds dual master's degrees from the University of Michigan. She lives in Philadelphia with her husband and their three children.Outside my cabin the snow falls in a heavy, opaque curtain. The house vibrates with silence, with a creeping finality of being sealed inside. An unwanted thought pops into my head—my cabin as a little tomb. The warm wood paneling. The plush, comfy furniture. The ease with which I can lock myself in and nothing else. Those little touches that give it that cabin-y feel. Right now, they remind me of a coffin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUpstairs, I change out of the clothes I wore to work. Then I search my bookshelves, overflowing with my favorite stories, for the threadbare paperback with the orange binding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI find the book easily—at eye level along the edge of the bookcase—carry it downstairs with me, and set it near the sofa. I check the log holder next to my fireplace. It’s about half full. I chew on my lip, wondering how long the sixteen or so logs will last me if the electricity goes out. I decide better to be safe than sorry and grab my boots from the front closet. I lace my feet into them before unlocking the bolt and stepping out behind the house. My eyes prickle at the cold. I make my way to the spare firewood rack that Jonathan always keeps full, uncover it, and pile as many logs as I can carry in my arms. I take them back inside and place them into the log holder beside the fireplace and then make one more trip, remembering to cover the rack back up with the tarp. Once the log holder is nearly full, I lock the back door with numb fingers, and I look for the matches.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI keep them on the mantel above the fireplace in a long, painted wooden box. It was a gift from my friend, Kacey. She made it for me in a woodworking class in school. She painted it a deep red, with a white teardrop-shaped border and a delicate pink, white, and green floral design adorned with tiny, iridescent pearls. While her craftsmanship is lacking, it’s beautiful, and she made it for me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was back when I used to see Kacey nearly every day. Back when I knew everything that was going on in her life. Back when she knew everything going on in mine. Back when I used to answer her calls and not just listen to her messages. I flip the small box over in my hands and run my fingertips over the name shallowly carved into the wood—\u003ci\u003eElisabeth\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I’m Kacey. What’s your name?” a rail-thin girl with big gray eyes and cascading black hair asked. She had just moved to the Chicago area and was new to school.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Justine,” I replied.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eShe pulled a red Ring Pop from the pocket of her jeans and shoved it into her mouth. We weren’t supposed to have candy in class. “Hmm. You don’t look like a Justine. Do you feel like a Justine?” she asked.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I don’t know,” I said shyly. I’d never thought about it before.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWe caught sight of the teacher making his way around the corner. Kacey turned her back to him—she’d only been there a few days, but she knew the rules. Quickly she stuffed the saliva-slick candy back into her pocket.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMy eyes grew wide. I loved that.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“What’s your middle name?” she asked.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“It’s Elisabeth,” I said.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Of course,” she said, her now-bright ruby lips stretched tightly across her face. “I’m going to call you Elisabeth. That’s who you really are.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUp until eight months ago, Kacey had been the only one to ever call me that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter removing a match, I place the box back on the mantel. At the time she made it, this wasn’t what it was for. She told me it was a jewelry box. We didn’t know then where I’d be now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUsing the fire poker, I rearrange the logs in the fireplace. I add two fresh logs to the top. Once I have the fire going, I cross my legs and sit before the hearth. I listen to the almost imperceptible exhale of the warming air, the crackling of the wood, the fluttering of the embers. I feel a blush rise on my face and the cold fade from my fingers. I sit there, quietly. Peacefully. Comfortably. I sit there knowing that I am where I’m meant to be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stare into the fire for a long while. I watch the flames go from orange to blue and then orange again. The sweetness of the burning wood stings my nostrils. Eventually, sweat begins to form beneath my hoodie, and I push myself up and head to the kitchen to make myself some pasta and vegetables for dinner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stand at the counter of my mint-green tiled kitchen, stirring occasionally, waiting for my food to cook. I glide my fingers over the buttons on the answering machine, pause momentarily, and press down. “Hey, Elisabeth,” Kacey begins, but I stop it right there. I don’t want to hear what she has to say. I \u003ci\u003eknow \u003c\/i\u003ewhat she has to say. I just wanted to hear her voice. I turn my attention to the window, the faintest outline of the forest canopy sawtoothed against the last light of day. Like a mountain on fire far in the distance. I wait for it every evening.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wonder if I’ll ever talk to Kacey again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wonder what the sheriff’s doing next door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sit down at the table. It’s not like me to wonder these things.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter I’ve eaten, I make myself a large cup of peppermint tea before turning off the lights in the kitchen. I carry the tea to the sofa, where I tuck my legs beneath me and cover them with the old moss-colored afghan that hangs off the back of the couch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sip my tea. I open my book. Time slips away from me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe storm is outside. I am inside. I am fine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e• • •\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe house groans with the weight of the storm. I look up to watch the shadows cut across the ceiling. Branches like long skinny arms detached from their bodies reaching over me. They drape me with a blanket, warm like toast right out of the toaster and just as stiff.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAre you comfortable?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAre you crying?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eCan you please count backward from ten?\u003c\/i\u003e","brand":"Dutton Books for Young Readers","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233254060261,"sku":"NP9780593616932","price":12.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593616932.jpg?v=1767729603","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/i-am-the-cage-isbn-9780593616932","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}