{"product_id":"when-the-ground-is-hard-isbn-9780525515593","title":"When the Ground Is Hard","description":"\u003cb\u003eEdgar Award nominee stuns in this heartrending tale set in a Swaziland boarding school where two girls of different castes bond over a shared copy of \u003ci\u003eJane Eyre\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e Best Young Adult Book of the Century\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdele Joubert loves being one of the popular girls at Keziah Christian Academy. She knows the upcoming semester at school is going to be great with her best friend Delia at her side. Then Delia dumps her for a new girl with more money, and Adele is forced to share a room with Lottie, the school pariah, who doesn't pray and defies teachers' orders. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut as they share a copy of \u003ci\u003eJane Eyre\u003c\/i\u003e, Lottie's gruff exterior and honesty grow on Adele, and Lottie learns to be a little sweeter. Together, they take on bullies and protect each other from the vindictive and prejudiced teachers. Then a boy goes missing on campus and Adele and Lottie must rely on each other to solve the mystery and maybe learn the true meaning of friendship.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eWhen the Ground Is Hard\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWinner of the L.A. Times Book Festival Prize for Young Adult Literature - 2019\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e Best Young Adult Book of the Year \u003cb\u003e– 2019\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJosette Frank Award Winner - 2020\u003cbr\u003e A YALSA Best Fiction Pick - 2020\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Westchester Fiction Award Winner – 2020\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"Excellent writing and an evocative setting make this novel \u003cb\u003ea standout\u003c\/b\u003e.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ “Turpin reads with a musical African accent. She makes fine distinctions among the characters’ voices and embodies Adele’s swiftly shifting emotions. American missionaries have clipped accents, and male characters sound credible. The \u003cb\u003erichly evoked setting\u003c\/b\u003e may be strange to American readers, and the vivid racism may be shocking, but \u003cb\u003eteens will be drawn into\u003c\/b\u003e the girls’ growing friendship and search for self.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review on audiobook\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Accidents, lies, thefts…secrets…dead bodies, and illicit rendezvous make for \u003cb\u003eriveting reading in this taut novel\u003c\/b\u003e.\" —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eWhen the Ground Is Hard\u003c\/i\u003e heralds \u003cb\u003ea truly unique literary voice\u003c\/b\u003e. In prose \u003cb\u003epoetic and fierce\u003c\/b\u003e, Malla Nunn gives us profound insight into the racial and class pecking order in 1960s Swaziland and the violence that shapes women’s and girls’ lives—and their futures. Taut, ambitious—\u003cb\u003ea stunning debut\u003c\/b\u003e.\" —Marina Budhos, author of the award-winning \u003ci\u003eWatched \u003c\/i\u003eand the forthcoming \u003ci\u003eThe Long Ride\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The \u003cb\u003egorgeous imagery\u003c\/b\u003e sets the scene wonderfully … an \u003cb\u003eengrossing narrative\u003c\/b\u003e that gently but directly explores complex relationships.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Racial prejudice has never been exclusive to the United States, and this title provides American readers with \u003cb\u003ea sensitive exploration\u003c\/b\u003e of how it affected a very different place.” —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Connection\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eAbsorbing\u003c\/b\u003e . . . A cautionary tale as well as a coming-of-age one . . . \u003ci\u003eWhen the Ground Is Hard\u003c\/i\u003e may be historical fiction, but its themes are as modern as ever.” —\u003ci\u003eBook \u0026amp; Film Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Swaziland-born Nunn \u003cb\u003ewrites with keen perception\u003c\/b\u003e of an intricate caste system and the layers within it . . . Readers will find \u003cb\u003eplenty to discuss \u003c\/b\u003ehere as they explore the parallels in our own culture.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for Malla Nunn's Detective Emmanuel Cooper Series:\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"Superlative.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"Gripping and thoughtful . . . Nunn brilliantly combines character and fair play clues.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e \"Stellar\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"With this gripping sequel...Nunn deftly balances suspense and deduction.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Consistently engaging.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Unforgettable.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe Sydney Morning Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Historical hindsight may make readers a bit more self-congratulatory about recognizing the evils of apartheid, but it won’t help them see around the curves Nunn has plotted or rise above her insight into the enduring dilemmas of her separate-and-unequal world.\"—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A disturbing book with a morally compelling hero.\"—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An engrossing and compelling read . . . saturated with the feel of 1950s South Africa.\" —Mike Nicol, author of the \u003ci\u003eRevenge\u003c\/i\u003e trilogy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The suspense is irresistible, and the mystery sustains itself well. This is a wonderfully effective addition to Nunn’s already masterful series of novels. A highly recommended novel.\" —\u003ci\u003eHistorical Novel Society\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This well-plottedbook is like a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces fit together with a terribleprecision, and yet can be read with hope that the good guys will prevail. (Itis a series, after all.) Recommended for anyone who loves a good mystery with acomplicated, tough protagonist worth falling for.\" —\u003ci\u003eHistorical Novel Society\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Malla Nunn’s books have it all: fast-paced, intricate storylines; an exotic setting in a dangerousera; a deeply flawed hero; and an Oscar-worthy cast of supporting characters.\" —\u003ci\u003eBookpage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We're fortunate indeed that writers like Malla Nunn are here, working on books like PRESENT DARKNESS. This is crime fiction that goes into an area of human behaviour and a history that needs to be held up to the light, remembered, examined and understood.\" —\u003ci\u003eReviewing the Evidence\u003c\/i\u003eAfter her family migrated to Australia to escape apartheid, Malla Nunn graduated with a double degree in English and History and then earned a master of arts in Theater Studies from Villanova University. Faced with a life of chronic under-employment, she dabbled in acting and screenwriting. She wrote and directed three award-winning films including \u003ci\u003eServant of the Ancestors\u003c\/i\u003e, which won best documentary awards at film festivals in Chicago, Los Angeles, and Zanzibar and was shown on national television in Australia. She has published several adult books and has received two Edgar Award nominations. She married in a traditional Swazi ceremony. Her bride price was eighteen cows. She now lives and works in Sydney, Australia.\u003cb\u003e1 - Dying Days\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It’s Thursday night, so we walk down Live Long Street to the public telephone booth at the intersection of three footpaths called Left Path, Right Path, and Center Path. My flashlight beam bounces the length of the dirt road and picks out uneven ground and potholes, of which there are many. Mrs. Button, who lives in the pink house behind the mechanic’s workshop, says that all streets should be paved like they are in England, but we’re not in England—we are in the British protectorate of Swaziland, fenced in on all sides by Mozambique and the Republic of South Africa—so what does she know?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Pick up the pace,” Mother says in a fierce whisper. “We can’t be late.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e We hurry past cement-brick houses with cracks of light spilling from under locked front doors. Dogs bark in fenced yards. A curtain twitches, and a face peers at us through a space the width of a hand. The face belongs to Miriam Dube, the church minister’s wife, who makes it her duty to spy on our weekly pilgrimage to the public phone box. It’s dark, but I imagine that Mrs. Dube's expression is smug disapproval.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Mother holds her head high, like she is balancing the weight of an iron crown or suffering a garland of thorns. The neighbors are jealous, she says. Jealous gossips who frown on her high heels and her dresses straight from Johannesburg that show too much leg. They know we have carpet in the living room, she says. We also have Christmas bicycles with flashing chrome, in the backyard, and new Bata school shoes that still smell of the factory, under our beds.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e They have concrete floors, and if they do have rugs, they are sure to be ugly when compared to the tufted field of purple flowers that blossom under our feet when we walk from the settee to the kitchen. That’s why they hate us. That’s why they don’t stop to give us a lift when they see us walking at the side of the road, weighed down with shopping bags. The Manzini market is three miles from our house, Mother says. Three miles across dry fields pocked with snake and scorpion holes. A dangerous walk. A Christian would see our suffering and pick us up. But our neighbors—who call themselves Christians and stuff the church pews every Sunday—they drive by and leave us in their dust.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The phone booth appears in my flashlight beam: a rectangle of silver metal cemented into the red earth. Right Path, Left Path, and Center Path split off and disappear into vacant land covered in weeds. Bored children and drunks have left their initials and their boot prints on the glass walls, but, by some miracle, the interior light still gives off a dim glow, which attracts a circling cloud of white moths.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Mother feeds four silver coins into the change slot and dials a number. Her hands shake, and her breath comes short from walking the uneven road in high heels. As a rule, she never leaves our house in flat sandals or, Lord save us, the loose cotton slippers worn by women who value comfort over fashion sense. The coins drop, and she shapes her mouth into a smile.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “It’s me,” she says in a throaty voice that she reserves for the telephone.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The voice on the other end says something that makes her laugh, and she flashes me a triumphant glare. \u003ci\u003eYou see?\u003c\/i\u003e her look says.\u003ci\u003e I call every Thursday night to talk about what’s happening with you, me, and your brother, Rian, and he answers just like that . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Mother wants me to know that, no matter what names the church ladies call her, her relationship with him is special. She has a good man she can rely on, and how many “loose women” and “tramps” can say the same thing? Zero. \u003ci\u003eThat’s \u003c\/i\u003ehow many. Mother, I think, wants me to be proud of our weekly walk to the phone box.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I pick a twitching moth from my hair and blow it into the air. Its wings leave a fine white powder on my fingertips, and I brush it off onto the front of my skirt while Mother talks low and soft into the receiver.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Of course. Adele is right here.” She snaps her fingers to get my attention. “She’s dying to talk to you.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I take the receiver from her and say, “Hello. . . . I’m fine. How are you?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The voice tells me that he’s tired but it’s good to hear my voice and Mother’s. Did the rest of the Christmas holidays go well? Am I ready for my second-to-last year of high school, and, good heavens, where does the time go? He pays the fees, so I tell him, “Yes, yes, I can’t wait to go back to Keziah Christian Academy.” It’s January 21, three days before the term starts, but my bags are already packed. “It will be good to see my friends again.” Phone time is precious. I can’t waste a second of it by mentioning the bad food or the sharp edge of Mr. Newman’s ruler that raps against my knuckles when I get a wrong answer or look at the mountains through the classroom window for too long. Mother says: \u003ci\u003eHave some pride, girl. Nobody wants to hear your problems. Nurse your sorrows in private like the rest of us. \u003c\/i\u003eShe double-snaps her fingers to let me know that my time is up.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “See you soon, I hope.” I surrender the receiver and step away to give her privacy. A cloud of moths beats a white circle around the phone box while others lie on the ground with broken wings.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I pull a strand of wild grass from the side of the road and chew the sweet end while Mother whispers promises into the telephone. Her right hip and shoulder press against the glass, and in that moment, surrounded by fields of rustling weeds and the low night sky, she seems small and completely alone. Just her and the moths dancing together in the pale light while darkness swallows everything around them.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Minutes pass. She hangs up and strides across the pockmarked road with her high heels clicking and her hips swinging to a tune that only she can hear. A loose curl bounces against her flushed right cheek, the way it always does after she’s talked to him on the telephone. I can’t tell if winding a strand of hair around her index finger is a nervous habit or a soothing motion. She throws her arms wide and hugs me tight. Air escapes my lungs with a hard whoosh.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “He’s coming,” she whispers into my ear.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “When?” I want dates and times. In one way or another, he is always on his way. He tells us he’ll be in Mkuze, only five hours’ drive from us. Or he has a meeting coming up in Golela, and it’s a quick hop across the border from South Africa to us. Next, he’s visiting Kruger Park with the other children and he might drop by for a few hours. Maybe he’ll show up. Maybe he’ll come this weekend . . .\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Yes, I know “how things are.” I am an expert in the unwritten rules that govern our family and the boundaries that can’t be crossed or even mentioned out loud. I was born knowing. Mother reminds me of “how things are,” on a regular basis so I’ll remember that certain things in life can’t be changed.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Come.” Mother grabs my arm, and we retrace our footsteps back in the direction of home. The vacant land around us rustles with sounds: secretive porcupines digging up roots, the soft pads of a house cat hunting small creatures through the bush, and a nightjar’s escalating song. Mother hums “Oh Happy Day” under her breath. She used to sing in the church choir, and she has a lovely voice even now.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Car headlights swing off Center Path, and two bright beams illuminate the craggy length of Live Long Street. We automatically jump off the road and into the tall grass that grows thick along the edge. A truck speeds past, and we tuck our faces into the crooks of our arms to avoid being choked by dust. The white Ford pickup truck with a dented front fender belongs to Fergus Meadows, who lives in the house opposite ours and inherited his father’s lumberyard five years ago.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A stone pings my leg, and I see that I’m cut. I wipe the blood away with white powdered fingers and step back onto the street. This is where Mother usually says, \u003ci\u003eHooligan! His father would die twice if he knew how spoiled that boy has turned out. He saw us walking in the dark. Don’t you think he didn’t. Two females. Alone. Yet he doesn’t even slow down. Imagine!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But tonight is different. Instead of criticizing Fergus Meadows’s manners, she flicks dust from her skirt and tucks her arm through mine. She hums and smiles at the half-moon in the sky. The neighborhood gossip and the sly glances thrown at her in the aisles of the new hypermarket on Louw Street can’t touch her. She is bulletproof. She is armored by a simple fact:\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He is coming.","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301982884069,"sku":"NP9780525515593","price":10.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525515593.jpg?v=1767743984","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/when-the-ground-is-hard-isbn-9780525515593","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}