{"product_id":"sanctuary-isbn-9781984815736","title":"Sanctuary","description":"\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER • Co-founder of the Women's March Paola Mendoza and award-winning writer Abby Sher’s timely, haunting near-future dystopian where a young girl and her brother must escape a xenophobic government to find sanctuary.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's 2032, and in this near-future America, all citizens are chipped and everyone is tracked--from buses to grocery stores. It's almost impossible to survive as an undocumented immigrant, but that's exactly what sixteen-year-old Vali is doing. She and her family have carved out a stable, happy life in small-town Vermont, but when Vali's mother's counterfeit chip starts malfunctioning and the Deportation Forces raid their town, they are forced to flee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow on the run, Vali and her family are desperately trying to make it to her tía Luna's in California, a sanctuary state that is currently being walled off from the rest of the country. But when Vali's mother is detained before their journey even really begins, Vali must carry on with her younger brother across the country to make it to safety before it's too late.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGripping and urgent, co-authors Paola Mendoza and Abby Sher have crafted a narrative that is as haunting as it is hopeful in envisioning a future where everyone can find sanctuary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAnd don’t miss the sequel, \u003ci\u003eSolis, \u003c\/i\u003eavailable now!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eSanctuary\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003eUSA TODAY Bestseller!\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA 2022 Garden State Teen Book Award Nominee (NJ)\u003cbr\u003eA 2021-2022 Green Mountain Book Award Nominee (VT)\u003cbr\u003eA 2021 Bank Street Best Children’s Book of the Year\u003cbr\u003eA 2021 YALSA Best Fiction Book For Young Adults\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA 2020 \u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal \u003c\/i\u003eBest Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA 2020 \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Teen Vogue Book Club Pick\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mendoza and Sher’s descriptions of emotional trauma are \u003cb\u003eheart-wrenchingly raw\u003c\/b\u003e. (When she was 3, Mendoza herself emigrated from Colombia to America with her mother and younger brother.) \u003cb\u003eA story of survival and hope\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eSanctuary\u003c\/i\u003e is a \u003cb\u003egripping work of fiction\u003c\/b\u003e, with a message about xenophobia that’s rooted in a scarily real world.” —\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Like classic dystopian novels \u003ci\u003e1984\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eFahrenheit 451\u003c\/i\u003e... \u003ci\u003eSanctuary\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cb\u003efeels all too real\u003c\/b\u003e in today’s oddly apocalyptic world.\" —\u003ci\u003eTeen Vogue\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ “This \u003cb\u003esearing\u003c\/b\u003e near-future dystopian novel . . . [uses] a speculative lens to lay bare the trauma and anguish that migrants to the U.S. can experience as well as the human capacity for survival. Though the novel’s \u003cb\u003eunflinching honesty\u003c\/b\u003e and real-world parallels deliver uncomfortable truths, its \u003cb\u003epropulsive narrative\u003c\/b\u003e and its \u003cb\u003emessage of hope and resilience\u003c\/b\u003e will carry readers through.” —\u003ci\u003ePublisher Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ “In their portrayal of Vali’s family’s quest for safety, the authors \u003cb\u003ebeautifully mirror\u003c\/b\u003e the treacherous, painful, and terrifying treks involving natural and human threats that migrants to the U.S. undertake as they traverse continents and oceans…\u003cb\u003eWrenching and unmissable\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e★ “[This] \u003cb\u003estunning\u003c\/b\u003e work of YA dystopian fiction . . . is \u003cb\u003ea triumph\u003c\/b\u003e in its genre and so \u003cb\u003epolitically astute\u003c\/b\u003e that it sears.” —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“This \u003cb\u003efast-paced drama\u003c\/b\u003e depicts the trauma of Vali’s journey in an \u003cb\u003eunflinching, heart-wrenching\u003c\/b\u003e way that can feel all too real and \u003cb\u003etimely\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The all-too-possible future in this \u003cb\u003esuspenseful \u003c\/b\u003edystopian novel \u003cb\u003eamplifies\u003c\/b\u003e the undocumented immigrant experience in the U.S.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003ePaola Mendoza\u003c\/b\u003e is an author, film director, activist, and artist working at the leading edge of human rights. A co-founder of the Women’s March, she served as its artistic director. Her writing has appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHuffington Post\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eGlamour\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eElle\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eInStyle\u003c\/i\u003e. Paola is a co-founder of The Resistance Revival Chorus, The Soze Agency and The Meteor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAbby Sher\u003c\/b\u003e is an award-winning writer and performer. She is the author of \u003ci\u003eMiss You Love You Hate You Bye\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eAll the Ways the World Can End\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBreaking Free\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eAmen, Amen, Amen: Memoir of a Girl Who Couldn't Stop Praying\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eKissing Snowflakes\u003c\/i\u003e. One of her essays was included in the first season of Amazon TV's \u003ci\u003eModern Love\u003c\/i\u003e. Abby has written and performed for the Second City, Upright Citizens Brigade, HBO, and NPR.\u003cp\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt took fifteen steps for her to die.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFifteen—one for each year of her life before they snuffed it out.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was supposed to be doing homework. I actually \u003ci\u003ewas\u003c\/i\u003e doing homework, but my phone kept buzzing, so I tapped on the notifications, and there she was.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI never did learn her name. In the reports they would call her “an illegal fifteen-year-old” or “a fifteen-year-old immigrant.” It depended on who was talking.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe underground reporters would also call her \u003ci\u003ebrave, defiant, fearless\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd the government news would call her \u003ci\u003edisease-ridden, illegal, criminal\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e×\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut as I watched it with my own eyes, I saw that she was just a girl my age. Wearing a faded Mickey Mouse T-shirt and jean shorts that were rolled over on top but still looked like they might fall off her skinny waist. She had somehow gotten over a line of concrete ballasts and the chain-link fence stretching across the burnt-out field between Tijuana and San Diego. That rusty, mangled barricade that was supposed to keep people on the Tijuana side. It stood there as a scar. A reminder. A warning. Its sole purpose was to say\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003estay out. you don’t belong here.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat girl in the Mickey Mouse shirt had no time for warnings. She had no interest in being intimidated. She looked completely unafraid as she stepped away from the fence, entering the no-man’s-land between Mexico and the United States. The girl was alone, unarmed. Her dark hair was tied back in a bouncy ponytail, and she had a bright red scratch under her left eye. Besides that, her face looked clear, even calm, as she made her way across the dusty strip of scrubland between Tijuana and the wall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOr really, the Wall. The Great American Wall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was nothing great about it. More like grotesque. It blocked out the sky, with fifty-foot-tall reinforced steel slats and thick metal mesh in between. Every few feet there were coils of barbed wire strung across, and on top there was a maze of cables spitting out electricity. The government had spent gazillions of dollars and called in all the Reserves to help build this monstrosity. Sealing us off from the rest of the Americas.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eStop where you are!\u003c\/i\u003e snarled a voice through a speaker by the Wall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTechnically, that girl wasn’t even on United States soil. But as the President loved to say, America was the greatest nation in the history of greatness, and we needed to do whatever it took to protect our sacred borders. That was why there was a platoon of Border Patrol officers lined up on top of the Wall. Green zombies, I called them. Standing at attention in their olive-colored uniforms with pale, expressionless faces. They had the newest AK-87s strapped to their backs and German shepherds circling at their feet as they stared down that girl.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBecause this was their land.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBecause it was their duty to preserve and defend the United States of America.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBecause whatever this fifteen-year-old intended, walking across in her flip-flops and saggy shorts, she had now become a national threat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e×\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was so scared and awestruck by that girl’s slow, deliberate steps forward. I could even hear myself panting for her as I watched.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mi’ja, what are you doing?” Mami asked me. “If you’re done with your homework, get ready for bed.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Wait. You have to see this.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No, I don’t.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes, Mami, you do,” my little brother, Ernie, said, padding in from the bathroom in his pj’s. Last I knew, he was watching soccer on his phone, but he must’ve gotten the same alerts as me. “Something weird is going on at the Wall,” he reported.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMami hated all the notifications and interruptions from our phones, even if we had saved up and paid for them with our own money. But when Ernie came in and made that announcement, Mami stopped wiping the kitchen counter and marched over to stand behind me at the table.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“¿Qué es eso? I can’t even see. The screen is too small,” she sighed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMami loved to tell us how when our family first came to this country, we watched the same show, all together, on a single television. Of course, that was before the government took over the broadcasting system. Before they censored any newscasters who disagreed or said too much, any movies or shows that seemed unpatriotic. If we wanted to see anything honest or original these days, we had to watch someone’s livestream on the dark web. Which is what we were doing now. The three of us pressed our heads together, watching the image blink in and out because of the poor connection. The camera panned around, showing faces caught between hope and panic.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I don’t like this,” Ernie said. I didn’t either, but we couldn’t turn away from the screen. We couldn’t move. We could only gape at this staticky footage as that gutsy girl planted each foot down—one, two, three.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere were shouts from the crowd of people in Tijuana gathering behind the barricade:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e¿Qué estás haciendo? ¡Cuidado!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAn airhorn blasted. Another green zombie shouted through the speakers:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eGet back behind the fence!\u003c\/i\u003e he bellowed. \u003ci\u003eYou are not permitted on US soil. We repeat, you are not permitted on US soil!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe girl paused and raised both of her hands in the air to show that she meant no harm. She squinted into the bright West Coast sun with a sort of half grin. Her arms were loose and gawky. I wondered if she was born with this kind of wild bravery or if she’d just already lost too much to care.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe stepped forward again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Why’s she doing that?” whispered Ernie. “Why isn’t she listening to them?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI tried to mumble some sort of response, but my tongue felt too big for my mouth. I flipped to another livestream in Tijuana—they were all filming this girl now. Some from so far away, she looked like a speck creeping across the frame, in between the concrete posts. Others zoomed in so close, I swear I could see the hairs in that girl’s nose. Yes, we were watching her on a screen from thousands of miles away, in the safety of a dusky Vermont evening. But my whole body was trembling for her. I wished I had even a smidge of her courage.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThere is no trespassing in the demilitarized zone!\u003c\/i\u003e the zombies ordered again. \u003ci\u003eWe repeat, no trespassing in the demilitarized zone!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Dios mÍo,” Mami said in a low voice, clicking her tongue. She made the sign of the cross, and I swallowed hard. Mami was as tough as they came, the creases around her eyes holding on to all her worry and pain so that she could always face the world with composure. If she was asking God for help, then this was definitely a moment of truth.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMeanwhile, the girl took another step forward. And another. She looked like she was full-on smiling now. At least, that’s how I want to remember her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThis is your last warning!\u003c\/i\u003e roared the zombies.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e¡Eres un héroe! ¡Cuidado!\u003c\/i\u003e yelled the crowd behind her in Tijuana. I could hear people chanting from behind the Wall in San Diego. It sounded like they were saying, \u003ci\u003eLet her through! Let her through!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe voices on all sides swelled and lifted her up so she looked like she was floating those last few steps. Eleven, twelve.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was counting in my head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe had just put down her flip-flop for the fifteenth time when the ground exploded underneath her. The sudden flares of orange, yellow, and red slashing through her. Blowing her into bits. Turning her into dust.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEverything shuddered around me. I felt like that bomb had just detonated inside my gut, the shock waves rumbling through me. The fierce blast of flames was the sharpest color I’d ever known. And scariest of all, there was no sound. Or, really, there was only the \u003ci\u003eabsence\u003c\/i\u003e of sound. Like the whole world had just been punctured and we had to suck in whatever air was left in one giant gasp, holding it all in for as long as we could.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eErnie was the first one to lose it. “What happened? Where’d she go? How come we can’t see her?” he said, panicking.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“She’s . . . she’s,” I stammered. I didn’t know how to explain what had just happened—to him or to myself. “Mami?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMami just stood there, watching the screen, as Ernie and I let a thousand unanswerable questions dribble out of our mouths. We needed to fill all the space between us. To keep talking, because talking was breathing, and breathing was living, and living meant we still existed even if it was in some crazy effed-up world where a fifteen-year-old girl was blown up because she tried to cross the border.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mami, did you see what happened?” I begged. When I couldn’t take Mami’s silence anymore, I grabbed her warm wrist and squeezed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sí, claro que sí,” Mami murmured. Seeing Mami this disturbed only made it more horrible, more real. She exhaled slowly, the air whistling through her teeth. Then she clenched her eyes shut, like she was trying to erase what she’d just seen on my screen. “It is a land mine, mi’ja. Like in Colombia.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What?” I shouted. As if my anger could change what had just occurred. Although maybe it did, because the picture of the girl in flames went dark. The connection severed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI flipped to a different livestream again. The first one I found was from someone standing on the San Diego side of the Wall. I heard people wailing and shouting, \u003ci\u003eThey killed her! They killed her!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen I saw a mad rush of bodies, pushing and shoving their way toward the Wall. Hurling themselves at the steel slats, scraping and kicking at the mesh in between.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA stampede of green zombies charged into the fray. It looked like there were just as many of them on the ground in San Diego as there were on top of the Wall. Maybe more. Now they were unleashing their German shepherds on the American side. The canines grunting and snapping.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was a blast of white.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhoever was filming our livestream started shaking and running. Shouting, \u003ci\u003eCover your mouths! Run!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt sounded like the Border Patrol officers on the American side were now launching tear gas canisters at the scrambling crowd in San Diego.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Dios mÍo,” Mami gasped again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere were bodies writhing and twisting on the ground. They clawed at each other, desperate for pockets of fresh air. Then there was a thud. All we could see on my phone was the dusty ground—a flood of sneakers, flip-flops, and bare feet running by.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No!” I pleaded. I wanted to reach through the screen and save whoever had just gone down, but I had to find another feed to see what was happening. I scrolled through image after image. The crowds on both sides of the Wall were multiplying by the second now. Surging with rage and heartache. Shouting into their screens or at the Border Patrol helicopters swooping in and circling overhead.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn Tijuana, there were people scaling the chain-link fence. Tripping over themselves as they charged toward the bits of that broken girl.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e¡Era una niña!\u003c\/i\u003e they wailed. Mothers clutched their children, tears coursing down their cheeks.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn San Diego, there were people banging rocks on the Great Grotesque Wall. Pounding and hammering at the ballasts, like a growing thunder.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eNo more walls! No more deaths!\u003c\/i\u003e they yelled. There were thousands of hands grabbing, scratching. Trying to rip apart the steel, the barbed wire, the hatred that went into building the Wall. The green helicopters hovered over them like a venomous cloud.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What are the helicopters for? Are they gonna hurt more people?” Ernie asked in a tiny voice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I don’t think so. No, they cannot,” Mami said, reaching for my phone, maybe to shut it off and protect us from seeing any more. Only, as she did, a new and horrifying sound belted out from my screen.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eTet-tet-tet-tet-tet-tet-tet!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe helicopters were shooting into the crowds on both sides.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No!” I screamed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Dios mÍo santísimo . . .”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe shrieks and moans were piling on top of each other. It didn’t matter what language they spoke; they were all crying \u003ci\u003eHelp!\u003c\/i\u003e Ernie buried his head in Mami’s chest.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Wait! What if . . . what if Tía Luna’s there?” I sputtered.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMami lunged at the kitchen counter to get her phone.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Todo va estar bien. Tranquilos,” was all she’d say as she dialed her sister’s number.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Call Tía Luna!” I screamed at my phone. It couldn’t recognize my voice when I was this frantic and screechy, though. So I tried to type in her name, my fingers jerking and stuttering from key to key.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA stale recording came on at the other end of the phone:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eYour request cannot be processed at this time. Please hang up and try again.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMami was pacing across the linoleum, hanging up and trying again. Hanging up and trying again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Do you think she’s there?” I asked. “She wouldn’t go there, would she?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No. No creo,” Mami said, her face a knot of pain and anger. She put down her phone for a brief moment and clasped her hands together in front of our kitchen window like she was begging the sky to tell her something else.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I don’t get it,” Ernie whimpered. “What’s going on?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere were so many shots coming from my screen now. I couldn’t count them anymore. I couldn’t do anything. The gap between us and whatever was going on at the border widening like a giant hole.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDividing us into here and there.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBefore and after.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“We know nothing,” Mami told us. “We don’t know if Tía Luna is there or if . . .”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd then it was all cut off.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOur phones went dark. There was no sound, no image. No connection to whatever was unraveling on the other side of the country. Just a blank screen. We held our breath and waited, pinched with fear.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd then, a few moments later, a new, haunting image flickered on. I’d never seen anything like this being broadcast before. It was a large desk in the middle of a bare room. There were stark gray cinder-block walls behind it, interrupted only by a portrait of the President and an empty wooden chair.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI flipped to another feed, and another. But they were all showing the same thing. The same desk, the same wall, the same portrait.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs if to wipe away everything that had just happened.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs if to wipe \u003ci\u003eus\u003c\/i\u003e all away.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Nancy Paulsen Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300504064229,"sku":"NP9781984815736","price":12.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984815736.jpg?v=1767736097","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/sanctuary-isbn-9781984815736","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}