{"product_id":"rainsong-isbn-9780593813492","title":"Rainsong","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn a small town haunted by unsolved disappearances, a teen with a secret ability must unravel a deadly mystery -- before she becomes the next victim.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Mendocino is not the quaint coastal California town Zayn Pereira imagined. It's shrouded in a fog that never lets up. Posters of a missing teen girl are plastered everywhere, and just offshore is an island called Rainsong, rumored to be haunted.\u003cbr\u003e    At her new school, everyone is tense and suspicious of each other. So when charismatic Ollie takes Zayn under her wing, it's a relief -- but is her charm hiding something? People assume brooding Tiago, the missing girl's ex-boyfriend, is responsible for her disappearance...but Zayn can't keep her eyes off him. Is he really who everyone says he is? \u003cbr\u003e    Besides, Zayn has a secret of her own. And when Tiago is struck by a car one night, she is forced to reveal it to save him. In doing so, Zayn discovers her connection to a generations-old feud that still rages today. Can she break herself from the grip of Mendocino's past tragedy? Or will she become the next girl on the missing poster?\u003cbr\u003e    Filled with angsty romance, supernatural powers, murder, and vengeance, this is a chilling and propulsive read.The daughter of Afghan and Australian immigrants, LILA RIESEN was raised in the United States. Her undergraduate studies in English were completed at Indiana University and the Australian National University. In 2017, Lila graduated with a master’s degree in English literature and linguistics from the University of Zurich in Switzerland. She is the author of \u003ci\u003eFree Radicals\u003c\/i\u003e, a YA novel, inspired by her cashew-coveting baba and all the Afghans fighting for peace, in the US and abroad.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the eve of every move, Padar—­my dad—­acts like the neighbors are seconds from descending on our house with torches and pitchforks. A planned eight a.m. wake-­up becomes a frantic two a.m. load-­up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s a ten-­hour drive to where we’re going, but the GPS won’t be necessary. It’s a straight shot north from Newport Beach to Mendocino.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe’ve called Newport “home” for thirteen whole months— ­a record. But I hated it here, even before the accident.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePadar’s jumpy for nothing. There are no signs of life on our sleepy street. Across the road and down the rocky slope to the ocean, waves collapse under a full moon. A lone four-­legged figure noses at a tangle of seaweed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCoyote, probably.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eKai-­ote.\u003c\/i\u003e That was how Hoosiers pronounced it in Indiana. The memory is so random I nearly laugh, but it’s hard to see the humor in things when your whole life is boxed up in the back of an SUV.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the fourth time, Padar pats the pocket of his jeans for his wallet. His paranoia, his grief, his \u003ci\u003ewhatever the hell is going on inside that brilliant coder head\u003c\/i\u003e has only gotten worse since Uncle died. He’s worn himself to a shadow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA few months ago, an intexticated driver ran a stop and twisted Uncle’s new Schwinn like a pipe cleaner. It was only a matter of time until Padar broke the news that we were moving again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe sets his hand on the middle console and turns to look at us, his collar damp with sweat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Got everything?” he whispers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eEverything\u003c\/i\u003e,” I confirm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwelve boxes this time. Just the essentials. Most of them are Mania’s. Seven years old, and already a sentimental pack rat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Your sister?” As if he can’t see her slumped in the booster seat next to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Taken care of.” By me. Always me. The way it’s been since Uncle and I brought her home from the hospital. Padar stayed behind with the doctors and the buzzing machines. Mum never made it home. Sometimes I think Padar didn’t, either.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI brush Mania’s hair from her face. She groans, fingers groping for Orchy, her stuffed orca. I return the plush to her and she snoozes once more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMania was more pissy than me about the move, not wanting to leave her gigantic group of friends, of which she was queen bee. She’ll make more. Mania’s a friend magnet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePadar reverses from the drive. I don’t look back. I can’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI \u003ci\u003eshould\u003c\/i\u003e be mad at him for uprooting me mid–­junior year. Instead, I’m relieved. I’ve trashed my life here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill, my stomach flips the way it always does when Padar deploys Operation Phoenix: setting fire to our lives and birthing new ones from the ashes. I treated Newport Beach High like all the other schools, walking in an alternative reality where it didn’t matter what I did because I’d get a redo in a few months’ time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFriends, teachers, boys, even my identity: disposable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe problem is, each New Me is made up of the ashes of the Old Me. What’s the saying? \u003ci\u003eYou take you wherever you go.\u003c\/i\u003e I need fixing, and a new zip code won’t do it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTen schools in seventeen years—­Padar calls it character building. I wish I could stop \u003ci\u003ebuilding\u003c\/i\u003e for once and just . . . be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEspecially now. Mania’s counting on me more than ever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePadar drives like he’s being chased by demons. Whatever hunts him, hunts us, too. I always feel the secondhand adrenaline, the secondhand worry. My heart’s normative state is constricting pain. And for what? I used to ask why the rush, but I’m unskilled in decoding grunts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Zayn jan.” My eyes snap up at the sound of Padar’s husky voice. He wants me to move the box of stuffed animals blocking his view.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shift it. He exhales with a hiss, like a kettle. Doesn’t say thanks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pull down my hood and shut my eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll that’s left of me in Newport is tangled brown hair in the shower drain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e•  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt nine a.m., it feels like we’ve been driving forever, but Mendo­cino is still three hours away. Mania’s legs rag-­doll with each of Padar’s jerky lane changes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSchool doesn’t start for a few days. All Padar has revealed about this particular move is that he has a new software engineering job in Fort Bragg and needs to live within thirty minutes of the office. Also that my cousin is there. It’ll be bitter­sweet to see Haider again—­though I admit I still feel more bitter than sweet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI think Padar just wanted \u003ci\u003eout\u003c\/i\u003e. Away from the house where Uncle’s ghost walked, sat, slept, ate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy bones will still be vibrating when I fall asleep tonight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI crack the back window open. There’s salt in the air, already cleaner than Newport, where smog curdled on the horizon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeven miles from Mendocino, construction at the Albion River Bridge slows us into a trail of red taillights.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So many people,” I mutter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mendocino runs on tourism.” Padar’s voice is rough from hours of silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Have you been to Mendocino before?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No.” He tugs his baseball cap low over his eyes. He’s always worn one, even before he started balding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis favorite band, I Dream of Shahin, plays over the speakers. The sounds of tabla drums, rubab, and dutar fill the car as overcast skies give way to fog and cliffs. Raindrops plop onto the windshield. He fumbles for the wiper toggle. Flashes the brights instead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRain. Strange.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt rained twice in Newport, maybe. How long will it take for me to stop the comparisons—­to see Mendocino as home?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Raaaaaain!” announces Mania, waking as we cross Big River Bridge. Traffic is moving now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Welcome back, Nee-­Nee,” I mumble, jealous of her long nap. When that girl’s out, she’s out. And when she’s up . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMania bounces in her seat like it’s a hippity hop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Pah-­ah-­dar?” she says, still bouncing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes, my love?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI cringe at how Padar treats Mania, with all the \u003ci\u003emy love\u003c\/i\u003e stuff. As if he didn’t miss Mania’s kindergarten graduation, or choose work over us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUncle Dani never said \u003ci\u003eI love you\u003c\/i\u003e, never hugged us because— ­so it goes—­he was never hugged, but he showed up. That counted for everything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Whale season is November to April.” My little sister’s factoid for the day. She snuggles Orchy, her wavy brown hair a matted curtain over her eyes. “Can we see the whales in Mendo­cino, Peach?” She says it like \u003ci\u003eMen-­don’t-­see-­no\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sure, we’ll go sometime.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMania runs a sparkly half-­painted fingernail along the condensation on the window. “Gray whales weigh, um, ninety thousands of pounds.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ninety thousand?” says Padar. “Wowww. Incredible, my love.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI Google it. She’s right. I hope the elementary school here does her justice. If not, she’ll run circles around her teachers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe whines, “ ‘Mrs. Carrot’! Please, Padar, please?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe promises to play her song next. For now, though, his fingers drum the wheel to his favorite rubab solo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe song finishes and Mania looks up, hopeful. When Padar doesn’t switch over to “Mrs. Carrot,” my little sister peers out the window and hums the melody.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e•  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pristine, pothole-­free roads of Newport are far behind as we bump past the green-­and-­white \u003ci\u003eWelcome to Mendocino\u003c\/i\u003e sign.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePadar kills the music and turns on the GPS. \u003ci\u003eRerouting, rerouting, rerouting.\u003c\/i\u003e The fog and rain are probably confusing the signal. Still, somehow, he seems to know where to go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wipers swoosh as we doddle through rain-­spattered streets. Sleepy inns, rusted truck beds, and diners appear on Mania’s side. On mine, the dramatic headlands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA long curve around the coastline cliffs reveals a sweeping view of the inky blue ocean. A rocky island, terrace-­like, peeks through the surf. Foam and sea spray skate across the surface. A lone structure sits at its edge—­house or ruin, I can’t tell.","brand":"Knopf Books for Young Readers","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233500999909,"sku":"NP9780593813492","price":22.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593813492.jpg?v=1767735366","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/rainsong-isbn-9780593813492","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}