{"product_id":"the-poetry-of-car-mechanics-isbn-9781662660214","title":"The Poetry of Car Mechanics","description":"\u003cb\u003eA Schneider Family Book Award YA Honor Book\u003cbr\u003eA School Library Journal Best Book\u003cbr\u003eNCTE Notable Children's Verse Novel\u003cbr\u003e2026 YALSA Quick Picks for Reluctant Readers \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This beautifully crafted novel sings and soars.”\u003cbr\u003e—Nikki Grimes, author of \u003ci\u003eOrdinary Hazards\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDylan seeks solace through birdwatching and poetry in the woods behind his grandfather’s auto shop—but when he rescues an injured hawk, he must learn to confront the broken parts in himself in this powerful middle-grade novel-in-verse.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e15-year-old Dylan has always felt like an outsider in his small town. Isolated when he was younger as the result of his unpredictable, now absent mother and feeling like a disappointment to his grandfather who has stepped in to raise him, Dylan finds relief in the woods behind his grandfather's auto shop. Amidst the cool quiet of the trees, Dylan thrives on bird watching and writing poetry. But one afternoon after spotting an injured hawk, Dylan finds himself pushing out of his comfort zone to track down help for the bird—and ends up rescuing a part of himself in the process.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this luminous middle-grade novel-in-verse on navigating the lonely tumult of self-discovery amid complicated family history, Dylan relays his story with bracing emotional clarity.★ “Dylan’s poignant, crystal-clear verse narration contains layers of grief...despite this, Dylan has a steady, quiet sense of self... the cadence and brevity of stanzas and lines shift with Dylan’s emotions, and casual observations organically lead to profound insights without Dylan seeming overly wise for his years. This is one for the quiet kids, who know who they are and where they want to fly but who haven’t yet found the right flock.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \u003c\/b\u003e“Stemple’s artful writing will have readers flying through the pages, though the emotional depth deserves a moment to pause and savor each word... Hand to fans of tender explorations of young masculinity.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal, \u003c\/i\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“In her layered novel in verse, Stemple creates a world where mechanical expertise and poetic sensitivity intertwine, grounded by characters who reveal unexpected depths. A well-crafted exploration of healing that will remind readers that everyone’s story has wings waiting to unfold.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Stemple addresses mental health with a sharp focus on Dylan's emotional health as a result of his mother's struggle. Birds, poetry, and cars are the lens through which Dylan views the world; these themes are explored via the verse format, inviting readers deeper into Dylan's mind to see how he remains self-assured in his identity.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like most of us, the characters in this novel—whether human or avian—are broken, each in their own way. Here, you will find broken wings, broken hearts, broken spirits, and broken psyches. Yet this is not a tale of wreckage. Rather, this novel-in-verse seems a literal meditation on kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery using gold resin. Stemple is the artist here, and the gold\u003cbr\u003eshe uses to bring these shattered pieces together are the hidden truths Dylan, our young hero, discovers along his journey. Each new truth reveals strength and beauty amidst what’s broken, including within Dylan, himself. His heart aches at the realization that not everything—or everyone—can be fixed. And yet, there’s no denying the beauty, even then. That knowledge, alone, is a balm for the soul.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis beautifully crafted novel sings, and soars. Dylan, the character Stemple has meticulously molded, is his own kind of bird. Your heart will lift as you see him learn to glide on the winds of his own story.” —\u003cb\u003eNikki Grimes, author of the Michael L. Printz Honor-winner \u003ci\u003eOrdinary Hazards: A Memoir\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A compelling, fulfilling, evocative, brave, layered story for readers of all ages . . . told in verse! Hats off to Heidi Stemple!”—\u003cb\u003eLauren Wolk, author of the Newbery Honor-winner\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e Wolf Hollow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Heidi Stemple’s lyrical poetry gives the heavy challenges Dylan faces a lightness that is both accessible and incredibly moving.”—\u003cb\u003eGrace Lin, author of the Newbery Honor-winner \u003ci\u003eWhere \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003ethe Mountain Meets the Moon\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eHeidi E.Y. Stemple didn’t want to be a writer when she grew up. In fact, after she graduated from college, she became a probation officer in Florida. It wasn’t until she was twenty-eight years old that she joined the family business of writing. Since then, she has authored almost fifty books and numerous stories and poems, mostly for children, including several that she co-wrote with her mother, Jane Yolen. \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Poetry of Car Mechanics\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e is her first novel in verse. She lives in Hatfield, Massachusetts. Visit heidieystemple.com.\u003cb\u003ePART I. DYLAN\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTHE POETRY OF CAR MECHANICS\u003cbr\u003eThere is a certain poetry\u003cbr\u003ein car mechanics.\u003cbr\u003ePart art,\u003cbr\u003epart meter and math,\u003cbr\u003epart discovery.\u003cbr\u003eLifting the hood reveals\u003cbr\u003ea world I know—\u003cbr\u003enot like the real world\u003cbr\u003ewith its\u003cbr\u003emixed messages\u003cbr\u003eand verbal\u003cbr\u003eland mines.\u003cbr\u003eMissing pieces\u003cbr\u003eand ones that don’t quite fit—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I'm inside an engine,fie\u003cbr\u003eeverything makes sense.\u003cbr\u003eThe motor sings.\u003cbr\u003eI can tune the sour notes—\u003cbr\u003efix the broken parts.\u003cbr\u003eLess doctor\u003cbr\u003ethan partner.\u003cbr\u003eI wish the world around me—\u003cbr\u003ewith its broken parts,\u003cbr\u003ewith my broken parts—\u003cbr\u003ewas more like a car engine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTHE PATH\u003cbr\u003eAttached to our house,\u003cbr\u003elike a sidecar to a chopper,\u003cbr\u003eis Pops’s Auto Shop.\u003cbr\u003eBehind the shop,\u003cbr\u003ethrough a bramble of underbrush,\u003cbr\u003eis a path\u003cbr\u003erambling down\u003cbr\u003eto a small bend\u003cbr\u003ein a small creek.\u003cbr\u003eUnder a red maple,\u003cbr\u003ethere is a low rock\u003cbr\u003ewhere I perch\u003cbr\u003eand watch a great blue heron.\u003cbr\u003eHe looks a bit like me—\u003cbr\u003etoo much leg and neck,\u003cbr\u003enot enough meat around the middle.\u003cbr\u003eHe acts like me—\u003cbr\u003etrying to blend\u003cbr\u003eso as to not be noticed.\u003cbr\u003eHe moves through the world like me—\u003cbr\u003ea solitary creature,\u003cbr\u003ewith no flock,\u003cbr\u003enor friend.\u003cbr\u003eBut he is graceful\u003cbr\u003ewhere I am not.\u003cbr\u003eI could watch him for hours.\u003cbr\u003eSometimes do.\u003cbr\u003eI am patient and still.\u003cbr\u003eHe is patient and still,\u003cbr\u003etoo,\u003cbr\u003estanding as I sit.\u003cbr\u003eStriking only\u003cbr\u003ewhen he is certain\u003cbr\u003ehis prey is assured.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBIRDS\u003cbr\u003eFirst it was a place—\u003cbr\u003ethat path in the woods—\u003cbr\u003eto explore\u003cbr\u003eor, on bad days,\u003cbr\u003eto escape.\u003cbr\u003eAlong the way,\u003cbr\u003ealong the years,\u003cbr\u003eI found the birds.\u003cbr\u003eNo one taught me\u003cbr\u003eto tell crow\u003cbr\u003efrom grackle,\u003cbr\u003eidentify\u003cbr\u003esparrow\u003cbr\u003eand warbler,\u003cbr\u003ebuteo\u003cbr\u003eand accipiter.\u003cbr\u003eThere are books for that.\u003cbr\u003eMy field guide\u003cbr\u003eis old\u003cbr\u003eand bears the marks\u003cbr\u003eof the library—\u003cbr\u003eeither cast aside for a newer version\u003cbr\u003eor lifted\u003cbr\u003eby my mother\u003cbr\u003eon a day she decided\u003cbr\u003erulesf\u003cbr\u003eneed not be followed.\u003cbr\u003eEither way,\u003cbr\u003eit is the best gift\u003cbr\u003eI ever received.\u003cbr\u003eThis language of birds, shared\u003cbr\u003efirst with friends.\u003cbr\u003ebut remaining, still,\u003cbr\u003elong after the friends\u003cbr\u003ehave flown.\u003cbr\u003eNo one told me,\u003cbr\u003eperhaps no one knew,\u003cbr\u003ebirds\u003cbr\u003ewould bring me peace\u003cbr\u003eand fill the missing piece\u003cbr\u003ein me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTWITCHING\u003cbr\u003eBritish people call girls\u003cbr\u003ebirds.\u003cbr\u003eThey call birdwatching\u003cbr\u003etwitching.\u003cbr\u003eEvery part of me\u003cbr\u003efinds both these facts\u003cbr\u003eappropriately\u003cbr\u003epoetic.\u003cbr\u003eI am awkward—\u003cbr\u003ebranching-owlet-attempting-his-first-flight\u003cbr\u003eawkward.\u003cbr\u003eEven more so\u003cbr\u003earound girls.\u003cbr\u003eI want,\u003cbr\u003eso badly,\u003cbr\u003eto talk to them.\u003cbr\u003eThe wanting makes the twitching\u003cbr\u003eworse.\u003cbr\u003eThe twitching makes the wanting\u003cbr\u003eworse.\u003cbr\u003eI know\u003cbr\u003egirls are not birds,\u003cbr\u003ebut poetry.\u003cbr\u003eThey move in metaphor\u003cbr\u003eand simile,\u003cbr\u003eleaving me\u003cbr\u003ewithout words.\u003cbr\u003eAlone, though,\u003cbr\u003eout in the forest\u003cbr\u003ebehind the shop,\u003cbr\u003eI feel most myself,\u003cbr\u003emy unawkward self,\u003cbr\u003efilled with poetic words,\u003cbr\u003eand birds—\u003cbr\u003etwitching.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003eWHAT’S IN A NAME\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003eMy mother named me Dylan\u003cbr\u003eeven before I was born.\u003cbr\u003eBoy or girl,\u003cbr\u003eI was to be named for a poet.\u003cbr\u003e“It’s a boy,”\u003cbr\u003eannounced the nurse\u003cbr\u003eas he placed me\u003cbr\u003einto my mother’s arms.\u003cbr\u003e“Dylan,”\u003cbr\u003eshe whispered my name.\u003cbr\u003e“Dylan Thomas Jude.”\u003cbr\u003eI dream of her sometimes.\u003cbr\u003eBut when I wake,\u003cbr\u003eshe still isn’t here.\u003cbr\u003eI am like her\u003cbr\u003ein the corners of my mind.\u003cbr\u003eThat same quiet\u003cbr\u003esadness\u003cbr\u003ecrouches in me.\u003cbr\u003eBut it’s not large\u003cbr\u003elike it was in her.\u003cbr\u003eI name it,\u003cbr\u003etake its power.\u003cbr\u003eBecause I have always known\u003cbr\u003ewhat it can become—\u003cbr\u003ehave seen it in her—\u003cbr\u003ethe welcomed turning\u003cbr\u003efrom sadness\u003cbr\u003eto a gentle lightness,\u003cbr\u003ecalm and fun and easy . . .\u003cbr\u003eand then\u003cbr\u003eand then \u003cbr\u003eunwound,\u003cbr\u003euntethered, unmoored\u003cbr\u003ewildness\u003cbr\u003eswirling,\u003cbr\u003etwisting into \u003cbr\u003edark—\u003cbr\u003edragging her away,\u003cbr\u003ereleasing her only\u003cbr\u003efor short visits\u003cbr\u003ehome\u003cbr\u003euntil it had completely\u003cbr\u003eused her up\u003cbr\u003eand she could no longer\u003cbr\u003ereturn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCOUNSELOR\u003cbr\u003ePops doesn’t talk about her—\u003cbr\u003ehis daughter,\u003cbr\u003emy mother.\u003cbr\u003eIn school, I see\u003cbr\u003ethe counselor\u003cbr\u003ewho does talk about her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI talk to the counselor\u003cbr\u003eabout Pops.\u003cbr\u003eI do not talk to Pops\u003cbr\u003eabout the counselor.\u003cbr\u003eIf he knows\u003cbr\u003eI asked for help,\u003cbr\u003ehe does not say.\u003cbr\u003eIt is probably\u003cbr\u003eon his list of\u003cbr\u003eunmanly things\u003cbr\u003eanyway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut poetry,\u003cbr\u003epoetry is the real healer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003ePOPS\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePops is like an old car.\u003cbr\u003eA classic car.\u003cbr\u003eHe does not have\u003cbr\u003ethe finesse\u003cbr\u003eof a newer model.\u003cbr\u003eHis paint is chipped,\u003cbr\u003ebumper dented,\u003cbr\u003eexhaust not up to code.\u003cbr\u003eHe takes the curves slow\u003cbr\u003eand the bumps hard.\u003cbr\u003eHis hood complains\u003cbr\u003eloudly\u003cbr\u003ewhen lifted\u003cbr\u003eand he never stops talking about\u003cbr\u003ethe good old days.\u003cbr\u003e\"They don’t,\"\u003cbr\u003ehe’ll tell you,\u003cbr\u003eproud of his gruff,\u003cbr\u003erough edges,\u003cbr\u003e\"make ’em like they used to.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLONGING FOR THE GOOD OLD DAYS\u003cbr\u003eIn the good old days,\u003cbr\u003eaccording to Pops,\u003cbr\u003emen were men\u003cbr\u003eand kids knew their place.\u003cbr\u003eHistory—\u003cbr\u003elike world wars\u003cbr\u003eand pride\u003cbr\u003ein the American way—\u003cbr\u003ewas taught\u003cbr\u003ein school.\u003cbr\u003eNone of that\u003cbr\u003esafe space\u003cbr\u003esissy\u003cbr\u003esnowflake stuff.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I am\u003cbr\u003esissy snowflake stuff.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost days\u003cbr\u003eI understand\u003cbr\u003ePops is just being Pops.\u003cbr\u003eHis bluster\u003cbr\u003eisn’t directed at me.\u003cbr\u003eBut many nights\u003cbr\u003eI go to bed,\u003cbr\u003ewondering\u003cbr\u003eif I am included in\u003cbr\u003e“none of that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTOUGHEN ME UP \u003cbr\u003ePops tried many ways\u003cbr\u003emany days\u003cbr\u003eto toughen me up\u003cbr\u003ewith words\u003cbr\u003eloud,\u003cbr\u003esharp,\u003cbr\u003ecruel.\u003cbr\u003eSome days\u003cbr\u003eboys don’t cry\u003cbr\u003eplays on repeat\u003cbr\u003einside my head,\u003cbr\u003edrowning out\u003cbr\u003eeven poetry.\u003cbr\u003eI try.\u003cbr\u003eI really try.\u003cbr\u003eBut if I think I’m fooling anyone,\u003cbr\u003eI just have to listen\u003cbr\u003eto the disappointment\u003cbr\u003ein his voice\u003cbr\u003eor the disapproval\u003cbr\u003eof my classmates\u003cbr\u003eto know,\u003cbr\u003ehe has failed and\u003cbr\u003eI am still\u003cbr\u003eunmanly,\u003cbr\u003eun-toughened me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWHAT UNMANLY MEANS\u003cbr\u003eI choose\u003cbr\u003eto think\u003cbr\u003eunmanly means\u003cbr\u003eall the good things\u003cbr\u003emy mother saw\u003cbr\u003ein me.\u003cbr\u003eCuriosity.\u003cbr\u003eGentleness.\u003cbr\u003ePoetry.\u003cbr\u003eBut, to Pops\u003cbr\u003eand in school,\u003cbr\u003eI am reminded\u003cbr\u003ethat the unmanly\u003cbr\u003ethey see\u003cbr\u003eis not\u003cbr\u003ewhat I know,\u003cbr\u003eor who I know\u003cbr\u003emyself to be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKIN\u003cbr\u003eKin means everything\u003cbr\u003eand nothing.\u003cbr\u003eIt means you’re related\u003cbr\u003eby blood\u003cbr\u003eor love.\u003cbr\u003eKin can be a safe place\u003cbr\u003eor filled with trauma\u003cbr\u003eand drama\u003cbr\u003eand fear.\u003cbr\u003eOr all of those things\u003cbr\u003eside by side,\u003cbr\u003eall at once.\u003cbr\u003eWhat if I AM just like her?\u003cbr\u003eBetter,\u003cbr\u003eI sometimes think,\u003cbr\u003ethan like him.\u003cbr\u003ePops.\u003cbr\u003eHe keeps me safe,\u003cbr\u003emakes sure I am fed.\u003cbr\u003eBut I can’t tell\u003cbr\u003ehow it is\u003cbr\u003ewe are kin.\u003cbr\u003eGrandfather\u003cbr\u003egrandson.\u003cbr\u003eThere’s blood between us.\u003cbr\u003eProbably love.\u003cbr\u003eBut is there anything else?","brand":"Wordsong","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304112738533,"sku":"NP9781662660214","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781662660214.jpg?v=1767740991","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-poetry-of-car-mechanics-isbn-9781662660214","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}