{"product_id":"ziggy-stardust-and-me-isbn-9780525517665","title":"Ziggy, Stardust and Me","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn this tender-hearted debut, set against the tumultuous backdrop of life in 1973, when homosexuality is still considered a mental illness, two boys defy all the odds and fall in love. Now in paperback.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe year is 1973. The Watergate hearings are in full swing. The Vietnam War is still raging. And homosexuality is still officially considered a mental illness. In the midst of these trying times is sixteen-year-old Jonathan Collins, a bullied, anxious, asthmatic kid, who aside from an alcoholic father and his sympathetic neighbor and friend Starla, is completely alone. To cope, Jonathan escapes to the safe haven of his imagination, where his hero David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust and dead relatives, including his mother, guide him through the rough terrain of his life. In his alternate reality, Jonathan can be anything: a superhero, an astronaut, Ziggy Stardust, himself, or completely \"normal\" and not a boy who likes other boys. When he completes his treatments, he \u003ci\u003ewill\u003c\/i\u003e be normal—at least he hopes. But before that can happen, Web stumbles into his life. Web is everything Jonathan wishes he could be: fearless, fearsome and, most importantly, not ashamed of being gay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJonathan doesn't want to like brooding Web, who has secrets all his own. Jonathan wants nothing more than to be \"fixed\" once and for all. But he's drawn to Web anyway. Web is the first person in the real world to see Jonathan completely and think he's perfect. Web is a kind of escape Jonathan has never known. For the first time in his life, he may finally feel free enough to love and accept himself as he is.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eZiggy, Stardust and Me\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Summer 2019 \u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e A Summer 2019 \u003ci\u003eRefinery29 \u003c\/i\u003eBest Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e A Summer 2019\u003ci\u003e Seventeen \u003c\/i\u003eMagazine Best YA Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e A 2019 \u003ci\u003eBook Riot\u003c\/i\u003e Must-Read Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eA stunning debut.\u003c\/b\u003e This beautifully written novel made me sob and reminded me of first love in a way no other book has in many years. \u003cb\u003eRead it. Now.\u003c\/b\u003e” —Bill Konigsberg, award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eThe Music of What Happens\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“This \u003cb\u003eheartfelt book\u003c\/b\u003e will leave you in a puddle of your emotions.” —\u003ci\u003eBuzzFeed\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A love letter to both self-acceptance and David Bowie, James Brandon’s \u003ci\u003eZiggy, Stardust and Me\u003c\/i\u003e is both \u003cb\u003echarming\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003etimely\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eCulturess\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A historical novel set in the early ’70s, a time full of turmoil and homophobia, sets the scene for \u003cb\u003eone of the best YA books of the year\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003ePaste Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A beautifully written, nostalgic story full of universal truths and timeless angst. \u003cb\u003eCharming, poignant, tender\u003c\/b\u003e and at times heartbreaking.” —Greg Howard, author of \u003ci\u003eSocial Intercourse\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eA\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003ewell-crafted\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003ecoming-of-age story\u003c\/b\u003e that allows the reader to empathize with and root for a young man who feels lost. . .[as he] fights through the difficulties of growing up in a world that judges difference as wrong, and how he becomes stronger because of it.” —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Connection\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A love letter to self-acceptance\u003c\/b\u003e, even when the world is far from accepting . . . this \u003cb\u003edeeply impactful\u003c\/b\u003e book presents historical attitudes and policies with a chilling accuracy.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This book is\u003cb\u003e honest, blunt, heart-wrenching, and incredibly important\u003c\/b\u003e. The writing style is very \u003cb\u003eunique\u003c\/b\u003e . . . [and] possesses the unique power to put the reader in its main character’s shoes, to render the reader as vulnerable as Jonathan feels and takes the reader through the horrors he faces.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Nerd Daily\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gut-wrenching emotion, stream of consciousness, and an intensely evoked soundtrack bring Jonathan’s summer to \u003cb\u003eTechnicolor life\u003c\/b\u003e. Historical events like Watergate, the Vietnam War, and Wounded Knee are \u003cb\u003eincluded seamlessly\u003c\/b\u003e into the story. Every character from Jonathan himself down to the ice cream man are \u003cb\u003efully realized\u003c\/b\u003e. . . Give this one to budding activists, music fans, historical fiction readers, and romantics.” —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Brandon has penned a novel that \u003cb\u003eseamlessly melds\u003c\/b\u003e a coming of age tale with the oppressive beliefs and actions of the time. The characters are \u003cb\u003ereal and complex\u003c\/b\u003e, and their feelings\u003cb\u003e honestly portrayed\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Advocate\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eReaders will be immersed \u003c\/b\u003ein Jonathan's close first-person narration...Debut author Brandon \u003cb\u003edeftly incorporates historical events\u003c\/b\u003e and realities, including the criminalization of homosexuality, the Vietnam War, Watergate, the occupation of Wounded Knee, and police brutality against Native people...A \u003cb\u003epoignant \u003c\/b\u003edepiction of a boy's journey to accepting his gay identity despite the odds.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This novel will appeal to \u003cb\u003eintrospective readers\u003c\/b\u003e interested in \u003cb\u003ecultural history\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003echallenging relationships\u003c\/b\u003e, and \u003cb\u003ehopeful endings\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eVOYA\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “If you’re looking for a dose of\u003cb\u003e historical queer romance\u003c\/b\u003e, James Brandon’s debut \u003ci\u003eZiggy, Stardust and Me\u003c\/i\u003e will hit your sweet spots.” —\u003ci\u003eB\u0026amp;N Teen Blog\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this\u003cb\u003e powerfully character-driven story\u003c\/b\u003e, we meet two teenage boys from very different cultures. Debut author James Brandon \u003cb\u003ebrilliantly\u003c\/b\u003e rises to the dual challenges of weaving a compelling love story into the backdrop of history while navigating the tempestuous waters of cultural interpretation . . . \u003ci\u003eZiggy\u003c\/i\u003e gives us \u003cb\u003esuspense, heartache, hope, and a deep sense of belonging\u003c\/b\u003e. . . . \u003cb\u003eWill inspire\u003c\/b\u003e readers of any age.” —Lambda LiteraryJames Brandon produced and played the central role of Joshua in the internationally-acclaimed tour of Terrence McNally's \u003ci\u003eCorpus Christi\u003c\/i\u003e for a decade, and is co-director of the documentary film based on their journey, \u003ci\u003eCorpus Christi: Playing with Redemption\u003c\/i\u003e. He's the co-founder of the I AM Love Campaign, an arts-based initiative bridging the faith-based and 2SLGBTQ+ communities, and serves on the Board of the Bay Area American Indian Two-Spirits (BAAITS) in San Francisco. Brandon has been a contributing writer for \u003ci\u003eHuffington Post, Believe Out Loud\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eSpirituality \u0026amp; Health \u003c\/i\u003emagazine.\u003cbr\u003e Saturday, May 19, 1973\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It starts here: The day my world begins falling, we’re sitting in Starla’s bedroom watching \u003ci\u003eSoul Train\u003c\/i\u003e. On the surface, it’s a typical Saturday morning—I mean, everything\u003ci\u003e appears\u003c\/i\u003e normal. Should’ve known better. I’m the master of that game . . .\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e After our usual pancake breakfast, we slink into our spots: Starla sits cross-legged on her ruby-red shag, gluing silver rhinestones to a pair of Levi’s for some design contest she’s entering. I bob up and down on her waterbed, flipping through the new \u003ci\u003eInterview\u003c\/i\u003e magazine she could hardly wait to give me.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e We’re quiet, lost in our own worlds, waiting for church to start on TV—well, our version of church anyway: \u003ci\u003eSoul Train\u003c\/i\u003e. It started last year after Starla snuck me downtown to my first-ever Ziggy Stardust concert, and let’s just say, whoa: He blew my brains to smithereens. Maybe literally. He wore this skintight, leopard-print leotard and huge platform shoes so he towered over us, and his face was dusted in white powder and glittery makeup and his hair was fire-engine red, and whambamthankyouma’am I was \u003ci\u003ereborn\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e At one point, he shielded his eyes, scanned the audience, and sang “Starman” pointing directly at me. I swear his voice shattered my soul, and in that moment, the Holy Spirit boogied in me. Afterward, Starla said, \u003ci\u003e“Jesus works His miracles in mysterious ways. He reveals Himself in everything, if you’re looking. Maybe Ziggy’s your Messiah,” \u003c\/i\u003eand she wiped the tears from my eyes.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Since then, she’s decided music’s my religion. So every Saturday morning we hang out in her bedroom to watch \u003ci\u003eSoul Train\u003c\/i\u003e. (Finally, a church I can get behind.) And it’s about to start in T-minus ten minutes . . .\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The TV sits in the corner on a rolling cart. A commercial for kids’ cereal crackles through.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Her window’s propped open and a sticky breeze left over from the three-minute downpour wafts in. Typical St. Louis spring. The wind crinkles the collage of faces plastered on her walls, making them sing and laugh and chatter up a storm of politics. Cutouts of The Jackson 5 and Jesus and Coco Chanel and “Power to the People” signs, and every female hero of hers since the Birth of Man—from Joan of Arc to Joan Baez to Angela Davis to Twiggy. Oh, and framed pictures of her secret crush, Donny Osmond. Yes, really.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Roberta Flack drips honey on the record player. And Starla . . . sings. \u003ci\u003e“Killing me softlyyy . . .”\u003c\/i\u003e She’s in her church’s choir, but well-hmm, not exactly the voice of an angel. Bless her. Starla. My best friend of forever. People think we go together; I let them. It’s safer that way . . .\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e And yes, Starla’s her real name. Well, sort of real name. The name she was born with was DeeDee Lucinda Jackson, but she told me one night when she was five years old she had a dream, and in that dream Jesus came to her and said, \u003ci\u003e“You are from the stars and you came here to heal the world,”\u003c\/i\u003e so she made her mom and dad change her name to Starla. I think it’s cosmically perfect, like her, and kind of fitting because her face is covered in a galaxy of freckles. And man, without her I would’ve been obliterated into Jonathan bits long ago.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e“Force fields come in many forms.”\u003c\/i\u003e That’s what Dr. Evelyn told me a few years ago after I told her Starla was like mine.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e“With his song . . . ooh . . . oohh . . . oohhh . . .”\u003c\/i\u003e she sings. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eOhhohohohoh. Bless her, Father, she knows not what she does. \u003c\/i\u003eShe is cute, though. Her hair’s slicked down under a swirly orange headscarf. Tongue’s curled to the corner of her tangerine-glossed lips. She looks like a sunset.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Back to \u003ci\u003eInterview\u003c\/i\u003e magazine. I flip through page after page of weird indecipherable conversations, some new Andy Warhol painting of Mao Tse-tung, far-out pictures of half-naked women colored in neon finger paints, and then\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Oh.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Three bold words punch me in the face:\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e“GAY IS GOOD!”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Alongside a handful of hairy muscled men dancing together. Oh.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Really.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e What parallel universe are these furry dopes trippin’ in? Not in this one. Not in Missouri. Not in this broken little town of Creve Coeur. Nope, these guys would go to jail here. Or get thrown in the loony bin. Or worse. Believe me, I know—\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But boy, are they dancing. And kissing! And smiling so hard it torpedoes through the page, knocking me out cold, and\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I sink into the picture . . .\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eMusic thumps. “Hey hey hey, Jonny Collins, glad you finally came out to play, play, play.” His mustache tickles my cheek. “Sorry it took so long, my main squeeze,” I say. “So many parties, so little time, you dig?” His arms engulf me. Sweat slides down his chest, gluing us together. His lips devour me, like we can’t get enough, like there’s never enough—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Hey! You hear me?” It’s Starla.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I thrash the magazine closed; our world thunders back. “What?” “You spaced out again.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “No.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Yeah, you did. You okay?” Her eyes narrow, scanning me. They’re this crazy green that look like two pieces of uranium glass under a black light.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I’m fine.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “You hear what I said?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Nothing. No, I mean. What?” Happens a lot. The \u003ci\u003espace-out\u003c\/i\u003e thing. Aunt Luna once told me, \u003ci\u003e“Your imagination is your safe space, an escape pod to another dimension where you’re free to be.”\u003c\/i\u003e And she said mine’s the wildest one she’s ever seen. She’s also a wackadoo hippie, so I don’t know. But she’s right, I guess, and it works, I guess, because I’m traveling through my imagination all the time. Where I’m most safe. Anything to escape this reality.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Come down here. Next to me,” Starla says, back to her glue gun. “I wanna talk to you.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “One sec.” Because I can’t move. Yeah. My hard-on is supernatural. Dammit. Also, it’s sizzling. Like a downed electrical line. (Everlasting side effects from Dr. Evelyn’s treatments. More on that soon.) But the two combined: definitely not good.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Starla doesn’t notice, lost in her rhinestones. I roll the magazine up and stuff it in my back pocket. I’ll stash it in my closet later so those guys are lost under my stack of \u003ci\u003eNational Geographics\u003c\/i\u003e for good. That’s where they belong: tucked away. Where no one can find them.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I \u003ci\u003ecarefully\u003c\/i\u003e adjust, wiggle off the bed, grab a pencil and some nearby paper, and start drawing to distract myself. \u003ci\u003eDid Starla know that article was in there? Is that why she was so hell-bent on giving it to me? No. She knows how I feel about that sick stuff.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Why do you like to draw my freckles?” she asks.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “What? Oh. Because they’re amazing.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I hate them. I feel like a spotted leper. Ohhohooohooohooh . . .” she sings. “Are you kidding? They’re your greatest feature. You’re like a walking, breathing nighttime sky.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “You’re incorrigible.” She glues another rhinestone, which is now clearly part of a peace sign on the back left pocket.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I find a spot, trace a new constellation on her cheek. “See, I just found the Teeny-Weeny Dipper.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Oh, Jonny Jonny Jonny . . .”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Oh, Starla Starla Starla . . .”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “What am I going to do without you?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Huh?” I stop drawing.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She doesn’t answer. Just drops the jeans and replaces the needle on the record. Roberta Flack drips again.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Starla?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She turns to the TV; \u003ci\u003eSoul Train’s\u003c\/i\u003e started.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “What do you mean, ‘without you’?” I ask, grabbing her hand. It’s sticky from the glue.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I’m just . . . I don’t know . . . I’m going to miss you, is all.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I’m not going anywhere,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “No,” she says, turning to me. “I am.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e All the pictures on the wall gasp. “What? Where?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “For the summer. To D.C. Momma got some job teaching and Poppa wants me to, you know, learn more about the movement and all that jazz. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but—”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Oh . . .” I don’t know what else to say, so all I say is, “Oh . . .” again. “I know.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Really?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Yeah.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Oh.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e No. This cannot be happening. I haven’t spent a summer without Starla since IT happened. I’m getting dizzy. The world tornadoes around us while we sit with our hands glued together in the middle. I close my eyes.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “You okay?” she asks, wiping my tears. Didn’t even know I was crying.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Of course,” I say, mustering the fakest smile I can. I will not let her see. “I’m happy for you. Just gonna . . . miss you . . . you know . . .”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She lifts my chin. “Look, I know it’s crazy, but I talked it over with my parents, and Momma says you could come with us if you want—wouldn’t that just be everything?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Oh . . . yeah . . .”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “We’re leaving the day after school gets out. That way, we’re always together, and you’ll be so sick of me by the end of summer you’ll be \u003ci\u003edying\u003c\/i\u003e to get back here.” We laugh. Sort of. “Anyway, it would do you good to get out of this square little town, Jonny . . . see new things . . . meet new people . . . you know . . .”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Mm-hmm  .  .  .” I know she’s still talking, but I can’t hear. My brain’s paralyzed. \u003ci\u003eShe’s right. I’ve never left the confines of Creve Coeur, but I’ve always dreamed of it: hitching a ride to California to be a rock-n-roll star. But I can’t. Not now. Not until I’m forever fixed. How am I going to do this without her?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “.  .  . and we can camp out at the National Mall with all those Vietnam protesters. Maybe actually do something about that stupid, good-for-nothing war, you know? Come on, I don’t want to do it alone. We’d have so much fun. Please say yes.” She smiles: a tug-of-war smile. Because she knows.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “My dad would never let me, Starla. I’m only sixteen and—”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “You’ll be seventeen in a few weeks! Poppa said he’d talk to him if you—”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “And I still have my treatments.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Oh . . . right . . .” she whispers.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “You know I can’t miss those.” She shrugs. “I’m going to be fine, okay? Like you said, it’s just a couple months. And anyway, you have to go so you can finally scream at Nixon like you’ve been wanting to. For both of us.” I blot her tears. “Don’t worry, okay?” I say this more to myself than her. I have one more set of treatments left, but I’ve never survived them without Starla around . . . I’ve never survived \u003ci\u003eanything \u003c\/i\u003ewithout Starla around . . .\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Yeah, okay,” she says.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e We sit in silence. It sounds like the world’s crackling to pieces, falling down all around me, until I realize the record’s ended and the needle’s skipping.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go to church.” I click the player off and turn the volume up on the TV.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e We watch the \u003ci\u003eSoul Train \u003c\/i\u003eline.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Bobby Womack sings some funky version of “Fly Me to the Moon.” \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e We hold hands the entire time.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I can’t decide which one of us is afraid to let go.","brand":"G.P. 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