{"product_id":"the-taking-of-jake-livingston-isbn-9781984812551","title":"The Taking of Jake Livingston","description":"\u003cb\u003eAn Instant \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Bestseller!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eGet Out \u003c\/i\u003emeets Holly Jackson in this YA social thriller where survival is not a guarantee.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSixteen-year-old Jake Livingston sees dead people everywhere. But he can't decide what's worse: being a medium forced to watch the dead play out their last moments on a loop or being at the mercy of racist teachers as one of the few Black students at St. Clair Prep. Both are a living nightmare he wishes he could wake up from. But things at St. Clair start looking up with the arrival of another Black student—the handsome Allister—and for the first time, romance is on the horizon for Jake.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eUnfortunately, life as a medium is getting worse. Though most ghosts are harmless and Jake is always happy to help them move on to the next place, Sawyer Doon wants much more from Jake. In life, Sawyer was a troubled teen who shot and killed six kids at a local high school before taking his own life. Now he's a powerful, vengeful ghost and he has plans for Jake. Suddenly, everything Jake knows about dead world goes out the window as Sawyer begins to haunt him. High school soon becomes a different kind of survival game—one Jake is not sure he can win.\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Taking of Jake Livingston\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003eA 2022 ALA Rainbow Book List Pick\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA 2021 \u003ci\u003eTor.com\u003c\/i\u003e Young Adult Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror Best Book Pick\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA 2021 Black Caucus American Library Association Best of the Best Booklist Pick\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eSpine-chilling YA horror\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This book is \u003cb\u003eabsolutely incredible, chilling, and a must-read\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eBuzzFeed\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ “\u003cb\u003eAn exceptional blend of genres\u003c\/b\u003e—horror, mystery, thriller and contemporary—that \u003cb\u003ebrilliantly\u003c\/b\u003e captures how Jake, a Black gay teen medium, copes with the varying kinds of violence threatening him. . . Douglass creates a \u003cb\u003eclever and effective\u003c\/b\u003e parallel between what Jake can't control—racism and how his body is perceived, a toxic father, an irresponsible brother, his mother's expectations—and his fight against Sawyer. The story builds to a \u003cb\u003erewardingly chilling\u003c\/b\u003e and sentimental climax, as Jake must look deep within himself for the power to break the cycles of harm entrapping him. . . An \u003cb\u003eextraordinarily crafted\u003c\/b\u003e exploration of agency during Black gay teenhood.” —\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A \u003cb\u003eteenage version of \u003ci\u003eGet Out\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e, and you will not be disappointed. . . Douglass looks at race and trauma and death with a \u003cb\u003ecomical and horror-esque twist\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Root\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eCrucial social commentary\u003c\/b\u003e and insight into the ways discrimination can isolate and depress young adults. \u003cb\u003eLush\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eemotive prose\u003c\/b\u003e chronicles Jake’s journey…\u003cb\u003eSpooky, atmospheric,\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003elayered\u003c\/b\u003e.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There are many layers to navigate in this \u003cb\u003efast-paced\u003c\/b\u003e trip to and from the world of the dead, including identity, violent and sexual traumas, and the stigma of mental illness, all with a supernatural and often gory twist. . . Ultimately, this is \u003cb\u003ea satisfying addition\u003c\/b\u003e to the supernatural horror section.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“YA readers looking for \u003cb\u003ethrills and chills\u003c\/b\u003e this summer will find them here.” —\u003ci\u003eBrightly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eCaptures the pain\u003c\/b\u003e of navigating teenagerhood when no one around you sees the world the way you do…A \u003cb\u003equick, worthwhile read\u003c\/b\u003e that manages to pack a lot of dark themes into a tight space.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Young Folks\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eChilling, edgy\u003c\/b\u003e . . . \u003cb\u003espooky and layered\u003c\/b\u003e. . .A \u003cb\u003ewonderful genre-meld…This is\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003ean excellent debut\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eCinelinx\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This YA debut from Ryan Douglass is a \u003cb\u003emix of genres—\u003c\/b\u003ehorror, mystery, thriller, and contemporary–that explores how a Black gay teen medium copes with the various kinds of violence that threaten him.” —\u003ci\u003eCulturess\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eRacial and sexuality themes\u003c\/b\u003e undercut this \u003cb\u003egripping novel\u003c\/b\u003e where a teen is haunted by the repercussions of his own sixth sense.” —\u003ci\u003eCultured Vultures\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A \u003cb\u003eunique \u003c\/b\u003eand \u003cb\u003eterrifying\u003c\/b\u003e world \u003cb\u003ebuilt on tension \u003c\/b\u003eand ghosts.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eTackl[ing] mental illness, rejection, and loneliness\u003c\/b\u003e. . . this novel \u003cb\u003etakes a hard\u003c\/b\u003e look at brutality in many forms, racism, homophobia, and consequences of the choices that we make.” —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, review of the audiobookRyan Douglass is a queer horror author and freelance writer from Atlanta, Georgia. His work on media representation has appeared in \u003ci\u003eHuffPost\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eAtlanta Black Star\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eLGBTQ Nation\u003c\/i\u003e, and the National Council of Teachers of English, among others. He received his BA in theater studies from Hofstra University and is currently a nomad floating across the United States. \u003ci\u003eThe Taking of Jake Livingston\u003c\/i\u003e is his first novel.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cp\u003eI live in Atlanta, but not really. Clark City is too far out for the train to come, unless it’s one of those freight trains crawling slowly down the tracks and forcing cars to wait five minutes for it. Clark City’s half Black, a quarter white, and a quarter blend of Congolese, Eritrean, Afghan, and Vietnamese. Food trucks offer our most convenient eateries—Benton Bell’s wing truck and Strong Island Caribbean Café. Houses hide behind trees, their windows boarded, roofs slogged down in moisture. Construction workers tear projects down and put more corporate things up—car dealerships and gas stations. The breaking and building never ends.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere is no crosswalk to my subdivision, so I jaywalk when the timing feels right, making it across the street just in time for a car to rip through the fog behind me, thrashing my back with cool air.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBlue lights flash in the distance, up the curve to my house, and there’s caution tape stretched across a driveway. The police are talking to my neighbors—the Mooneys, I think. Their home is a plantation-style thing with a wraparound fence, dripping with fake cobwebs for Halloween. Also: fake graves in the lawn.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe middle-aged couple in navy-blue suits are lonely. They hug each other in the driveway. Her head is in his neck, and he’s staring into space. A field of indigo light curls off their heads, forming a smoky field with chunks of matter like planet waste—ice and dust and tiny rocks all melting into a living thing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA pair of ghouls hovers over them, dipping their emaciated gray heads down to suck the smoke through their spiky teeth, slit nostrils, and eyeless eyes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTheir business is none of mine. I keep pushing to my house.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere’s a ringing from somewhere. No . . . screaming? Screaming and begging.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Wait! Stop, WAIT!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMust be coming from behind an open window, or dead world. I hear voices from the second world, like the voices that called out to warn Steven a javelin was on its way to kill him. These voices are always in distress. Sometimes they warn; sometimes they plead.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’m cold suddenly. Summer always ends late down here, but it’s officially over now, and the wind is not warm anymore. A gust of it blasts my beanie off my head, and I spin to catch it, finding myself face-to-face with a rib cage. A rib cage like . . . a giant rotisserie chicken stripped of meat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo nipples; a stretched, long neck; and a giant head, alien-shaped, with gaping holes in place of eyes. The ghoul obscures everything behind it, but if I reached out to touch it, my hand would fade through its body. They’re not real. They only look like they are.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI turn, and it follows me, like a zombie hobbling after its meal. Then I’m running up my driveway, suddenly unconvinced that it can’t actually touch me. I know what I’ve read about the creatures, and what my medium mentor, Ms. Josette, has taught me—\u003ci\u003eThey can’t hurt you, because they can’t touch you.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo why does the ground shake when they walk, rattling the street pebbles? Why do the asphalt cracks look strained under their footsteps? The hatchbacks and minivans parked on the street seem worried a storm will destroy them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe creature’s horrible shadow falls over me, sinking my stomach into no-man’s-land.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’m not the one grieving, so I’d be of no interest to the leeches of dead world. They tend to avoid happy people, instead latching on to the most sullen, tragic person in the room. I’ve only ever grieved my dog, Appa, who died of heart failure two years ago. My family’s mostly alive, except for my grandfather, who died six months before I was born. I don’t think I’ll ever see my dad again, but he’s still alive out there.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow there’s laughter—children’s laughter—and the pop of  a gun.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSomething terrible happened in my neighbors’ house.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s getting cold too fast, like the entire winter is dropping here and now. A shadow comes down like a blanket of ice as I search my four pockets—slacks and hoodie.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhere are my keys?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere are moments when it controls me. The shadows, the darkness. Moments where I become dizzy, undefined, just a floater like the failed tests in my classrooms.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut I know my porch—a column of white balusters. I know my front door—dead bolt and handle that you push down to get inside. A freezing wind sweeps under my hoodie, pulling me backward. I tilt my way into the house and click the door shut.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe TV’s playing from the living room. Somehow. Mom’s out of town.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Benji?” I call.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo answer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe air is cold inside, and the light is so dim that even the earth-tone prints on the wall have lost their luster.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAround the entryway, I find the TV on Channel 2 News.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“We have to put a stop to gun violence. How many more people have to die?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere’s a headline with a picture of my neighbor—the son of the weeping couple.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eMatteo Mooney, Survivor of Heritage  High Shooting, Found Dead in Home\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eOh my God . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMatteo is . . . dead?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI don’t know anybody in the neighborhood, but I did notice when Matteo moved in. Him and Mr. Mooney forced a sofa through the door. Matteo was shirtless, the shirt tucked into his back pocket. The neighbors were all spying on his sweaty jock body, his shapely pecs. The sun was a hot bubble swelling over Clark City, and the humidity made me take off my own shirt, open the window, and put the fan in it. I watched Matteo come in and out of the house, wondering how much I’d have to lift to get so big. I wanted so badly to grow over my collarbones and elbows.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI sink into the couch leather.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI remember the school shooting. The Heritage killer sent a shock wave through all of Atlanta. Everyone was paranoid because one of those things had come so close to home.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI watch a clip of Matteo speaking at a podium. It’s dated a year ago, right after the shooting. Cameras flash on the tears in his eyes as he looks out over an outdoor audience. “How many more of our friends do we have to lose before we say ‘enough is enough’? There are demons out there who just want the world to burn. And we have to come together to make sure they can’t get the weapons to harm us.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt cuts away. Matteo’s face appears side by side with the shooter who attacked his school.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSawyer Doon. Yes, the menace with the straight blond hair and blue eyes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe news anchors reappear, their faces molds of fake sadness. “Heartfelt words from Matteo Mooney. May he rest in peace. Our thoughts and prayers are with the Mooney family. The cause of death is currently unknown.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI turn off the TV and stand up, staring at nothing. I guess a ghost came and turned it on when I was gone.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMurder. In my neighborhood. Matteo was like . . . eighteen? Nineteen?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI slog up to my room, and the house begins to feel heavy and too silent around me, like \u003ci\u003esomeone is here, something will jump out\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo one’s here. I’m in my room, turning my book bag upside down. Textbooks, pens, and worksheets fall free in a frenzy on my mattress.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI lift the blinds and watch the blue house at the end of the street. Police lights reflect in the second-story windows.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eStrange. I never thought the richest kid in our community would be the one to die.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI collapse on the mattress and watch the globelike light fixture.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe final daylight surrenders to the dark trap of night. Ecto-mist creeps at my periphery, snakelike and sinister.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s the matter that eats ghosts as the seasons turn, nibbling on their fading bodies, burrowing inside of them like termites. It’s what makes all loops end, eventually. It’s everywhere and nowhere at once, coating the carpet, thickening the air with glittering fibers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s always seeping in through the vents, the plumbing stacks, and cracks in the plaster like carbon monoxide, here to asphyxiate me in my sleep.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"G.P. 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