Spotlight: Anything You Want

Check out this exclusive excerpt of Anything You Want by Geoff Herbach, courtesy of Sourcebooks Fire!

When did this start? Duh, dingus. Last spring.

Last spring, I decided I was completely emotionally ready for her, so I asked Maggie Corrigan to prom and she said, “Boom,” and poked her finger into the middle of my chest.

I said, “Boom? That’s good, right? That’s a yes?” Maggie Corrigan is intense. She’s wild and crazy and intense and I had to be prepared.

We stood in the hall at school, leaned up against her locker as a bunch of freshmen, a total wad of screaming monkeys, ran by on their way to gym.

Maggie shouted, “Yeah, for sure, Taco! Boom!” She poked me again.

“What?” I shouted back, because I couldn’t hear over the freshmen.

“I totally want to go to prom with you!” she shouted.

“Really?” I shouted back

Then she grabbed my face and she pulled my ears so my head came down to her face and she French kissed me right there in front of all those freshmen. She, like, kissed my ass off. My shoes and pants almost exploded from my body, because she kissed me so hard.

She’s spontaneous like that. I knew that then, but not like I know now. And, you know what, dingus? Doesn’t matter, because I love her. I think I’ve loved Maggie Corrigan since before time. In a past life, I was probably the court clown and she was probably the Crazy Queen of Holland, and I’m pretty sure we were doing it behind the king’s back. If we weren’t doing it, we were probably going on long naked walks in the forest where we stroked unicorns and lay upon the dewy moss to gaze upon the sky.

All the freshmen monkeys in the hall shouted stuff like, “Get a room,” and “More tongue,” etc. Freshmen are pretty funny. I’ve always liked them.

That day will go down in history, for sure. I really needed Maggie Corrigan’s intensity, energy and love right about then.

The year before Maggie kissed my ass off, Mom died. Six months after Mom died, Dad took a job driving truck at a mine up north, because we needed more money to float the boat. Two months after Dad left for the mine, Darius, my older brother, got a drunk driving ticket, which he said he didn’t deserve, because he only had like two beers after work—it’s just that his blood doesn’t register alcohol like normal peoples’ blood, because it’s a mix of O+ and A -, which is rare, so the cops didn’t know what they were doing when they gave him the breathalyzer. Okay, dingus, that didn’t exactly make sense to me, but that’s good old Darius! Anyway, he lost his Pepsi product delivery route and went to work at Captain Stabby’s, this fish sandwich place, for about half the money. Dude smelled like fish 24/7.

So things were crap and I began to lose the pep in my cucumber. I was seriously beginning to think my mom was wrong about everything, and maybe life really is terrible, like Darius always says. But then I spent a few weeks following Maggie Corrigan around school and saw how she laughed until she fell on the floor, screamed when she got mad at her friends, cried when she was sad about the basketball team losing, and smiled so hard it looked like her face might break when I told her I liked her handwriting. After that I thought, “That’s what Mom was talking about! Life is beautiful!” and so I summoned my good feelings and my optimism, and I asked Maggie to prom. A week later, we were boyfriend and girlfriend and going at it in the hall between every class period.

Literally. Going at it!

Dr. Evans, our principal, had to bring us into the office to ask us to stop all the public displays of affection, (she called them “PDAs”) because our exhibits of love made some people uncomfortable—like those going through hard break-ups or maybe the divorce of their parents.

Maggie and I tried, but we couldn’t stop going at it. Sometimes, to hide from people who might feel sad, we climbed into the costume loft behind the auditorium. Sometimes we took our clothes off, mostly so we could try on costumes, but also because it was pretty great to get naked. Maggie would hang out up there in her underwear, pretending she had to find the perfect costume on the rack–but really she just liked being naked with me.

Right on. I liked it, too. See why I love Maggie?

 

 Mark your calenders, Anything You Want hits shelves May 3rd!

Spotlight: Wild Swans

 

Check out an exclusive excerpt of Wild Swans by Jessica Spotswood, courtesy of Sourcebooks Fire!

Chapter One

Granddad says all the Milbourn women are extraordinary.

Amelia, the Shakespeare professor up at the college, says cursed.

Judy, the bookseller down at the Book Addict, says crazy.

Here in Cecil, girls are still expected to be nice. Quiet. All sugar. Maybe a little spice.

But not us. We Milbourn women are a complicated lot.

The Milbourn legacy goes back four generations. Folks were just starting to drive over from Baltimore and Washington, DC, to buy my great-great-grandmother's portraits when she tried outracing a train in her new roadster. It stalled on the tracks and she and her two youngest were killed instantly. My great-grandmother Dorothea survived and went on to win the Pulitzer Prize for her love poems-but she was murdered by the woman whose husband she'd been sleeping with for inspiration. Grandmother painted famous, haunting landscapes of the Bay, but the year before I was born, she walked out the back door and down to the water and drowned herself. My mother had a voice like a siren, but she ran away from home the second time she got knocked up, and we haven't seen her since.

And me? I don't feel crazy or cursed. But I've grown up in this house, haven't I? So I don't know. Maybe there's no escaping it.

I'm home alone tonight, and a storm is sweeping up the Bay. Through the open french doors I can hear the waves crashing against the shore. They make a frantic shh-shh, like a desperate mama rocking a colicky baby.

I hear mothers do things like that, anyhow. I wouldn't know.

I've been reading Jane Eyre for about the twelfth time, but I set it down on the coffee table and leave the warm lamplight to go stand in the doorway. The wind catches at my hair and flings it back in my face. I push it away and squint down at the beach.

Lightning hasn't split the sky yet, but I can taste it coming. The air's so thick I could swim through it.

Jesus, but a swim right now would be delicious. I imagine tearing off my blue sundress, running down the sandy path, and diving right into the cool waves of the Chesapeake. I could swim almost before I could walk. Part fish, Granddad says. But he doesn't like me to swim by myself. Says it isn't safe, especially for a girl, alone and at night. That's one of his rules. He's got about a million. Some of them I fight; some I just let be. Given how his wife killed herself, it seems reasonable enough to humor him on this.

Behind me, something rattles in the wind and I startle. Goose bumps prickle my shoulders in spite of the heat. Lately it feels like a storm's coming even when the sky's blue. Like spiders crawling through my veins.

My friend Abby tells me I need to quit worrying and relax. It's going to be golden, this summer before our senior year. There will be barbecues and bonfires and lazy days volunteering at the town library. She doesn't believe in family curses or premonitions of doom. Her family has its own troubles, but they're not town lore.

My friend Claire says "fuck the family curse; you're your own woman." Claire's all rebellion and razor-sharp edges-especially since her dad had an affair with his secretary and moved out (such a cliché). Claire doesn't believe in fate; she believes in making choices and owning them.

But she's not a Milbourn girl.

The rain starts with a fury. It pelts the windowpanes and drums against the flagstones out on the patio. The wind picks up too, sending the gray curtains spinning into the room like ghosts. I pad back toward the sofa, trailing my fingers across bookshelves stacked with Great-Grandmother Dorothea's prize-winning poetry. All along the walls hang Grandmother's landscapes-our pretty Eastern Shore transformed by twisting rain clouds. She only painted hurricane weather.

They were all so talented. Troubled, sure. But look at their legacy.

What will mine be?

Granddad's had me in all kinds of classes: piano, flute, ballet, gymnastics, oil painting, watercolors, landscapes, portraits, creative writing... I threw myself into every new subject, only to be crushed when I didn't show a natural aptitude for any of it.

I'm on the swim team, but I'm never going to be an Olympic athlete. I'm an honors student, but I won't be valedictorian. Sometimes I write poems, but that's just to get the restless thoughts out of my head; my poems have never won any awards. I am completely, utterly ordinary.

Granddad won't give up; he thinks there's some bit of genius hiding in me somewhere. But over the last couple months... Well, I'm getting tired of trying so hard only to end up a disappointment. Maybe that's not how this works. Maybe whatever spark blessed or cursed the other Milbourn girls skipped a generation.

To hear people in town talk, the women in my family weren't just gifted; they were obsessed. And those obsessions killed them, three generations in a row. Maybe four. For all I know, my mother could be dead now too. Do I really want to continue that tradition?

Outside, thunder growls. Inside, something rattles. I stare up at the portrait of Dorothea as it twitches against the exposed brick wall. Just the wind, I reassure myself. There's no such thing as ghosts.

Dorothea was fifteen when her mother painted her. She wears a royal-blue shirtdress and matching gloves, and her hair falls in short brown curls around her face. She wasn't what you'd call pretty-too sharp featured for that-but there's something captivating about her. She stands tall in the portrait, shoulders back, lips quirked. It's not quite a smile. More like a smirk. A year later, she'd survive the collision that killed her mother and sisters. Her broken leg never healed quite right, Granddad says; she walked with a limp the rest of her life.

Lightning flashes. The lamp flickers. Rain is puddling on the wooden floor. I should close the doors, but Dorothea's eyes catch mine and somehow I don't want to turn my back on her portrait.

There's no such thing as ghosts, I remind myself.

Then the room plunges into darkness.

I run for the french doors, but before I can get there, I slam into something. Someone.

My heart stutter-stops and I shriek, scrambling away, slipping on the wet wooden floor.

"Ivy!" Alex grabs my arm. His fingers are warm against my skin. "It's just me. Chill."

"Jesus! I thought you were a ghost!" I take a deep breath, inhaling the salty breeze off the Bay. My pulse is racing.

"Nope, just me." He waves a flashlight. "Soon as the lights started flickering, Ma told me to bring you this. She knows how you get about the dark."

I fold my arms across my chest. "Shut up. I'm not scared of the dark anymore."

"Uh-huh. Sure." Alex shines the flashlight up over his face like a movie monster. I should have known better than to mention ghosts. He'll tease me about it forever. Remind me how he used to sneak over and scare Claire and me during sleepovers, how I used to sleep in my closet during thunderstorms, how I had a night-light till I turned thirteen.

"Gimme that." I reach for the flashlight.

"If you're not scared, why do you need it?" He holds it above his head. I'm tall-five ten-but the summer we were fourteen, Alex got taller, and he still hasn't stopped lording it over me. As he stretches, his shirt lifts to reveal taut, tanned abs.

I drag my eyes back to his face, but sort of leisurely like. He got soaked on his sprint from the carriage house, and his red T-shirt is molded to his muscled shoulders. The summer we were fifteen, he started lifting for baseball, and the girls at school went all swoony over him. I am not immune to a nice set of abs myself-but Alex is my best friend. Has been since we were babies, since my mother ran off and Granddad hired Alex's mom, Luisa, to be our housekeeper. There's nothing romantic between Alex and me.

That's what we decided after prom. What I decided. Alex and Luisa and Granddad are the only family I've got. What would happen if Alex and I started dating and it didn't work out? It would be awkward and awful, and I don't want to risk that. And if it did work? The baseball coach up at the college has already scouted Alex, all but promised him a scholarship if he keeps his grades up this year. If we were dating, Alex would be one more thing tying me to Cecil.

"I hate you," I mutter.

"No you don't." He gives me a cocky grin. Sometimes I think he's waiting for me to change my mind about us, but I'm not going to. Once I make a decision, I stick with it.

But the house presses around us, cold and quiet and more than a little spooky, and I fight the urge to snuggle up against him.

The front door slams. "Ivy!" Granddad hollers.

Just in time to save me from myself.

Alex relinquishes the flashlight. "I better go." Granddad gets a little skittish about Alex being here when I'm home alone. Alex and I have never given him any reason not to trust us, but when your only daughter goes and gets herself pregnant twice before the age of twenty, you maybe have reason to be a little overprotective.

Like I said, I pick my battles.

"You going to be okay now that the Professor's home? No more ghosts?" Alex licks a raindrop from his upper lip and smiles. It's his placating-Ivy smile, the one that says I let my imagination run away with me. The one he uses when I get all dreamy over a boy in a book or want to watch an old black-and-white movie or point out shapes in the clouds. The one that makes me feel like maybe I am a Milbourn girl after all-sensitive and selfish and bound for a bad end.

I grit my teeth, but the worry in his brown eyes is genuine. "Yep. I'll be fine."

"Okay. See you." He jogs off through the rainy backyard.

"Ivy?" Granddad cusses as he knocks into something out in the hall.

"In here!" I pull the french doors shut.

He limps into the room, tossing his battered briefcase onto the sofa. He nods at me and the flashlight. "How long has the power been off?"

"Not long. Couple minutes." I smile as he heads right for Dorothea's crooked portrait and straightens it. He might be a professor, but he's only absentminded when he wants to be.

"What've you been up to?" he asks.

"Nothing. Reading." I wave my copy of Jane Eyre at him.

"Reading isn't nothing, young lady. Not in this house." He gives me a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes and plops down into his brown leather recliner. "Have a seat. There's something I want to talk to you about."

That feeling slams into me again-impending doom-and I shiver. My skin feels like it's coated in cobwebs. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing we can't handle." Granddad stares up at Dorothea. "You know that student of mine? The one who's working in my office this summer?"

"Connor Clarke." As if I could forget. He's a rising sophomore who's somehow made himself indispensable. He aced Granddad's upper-level Twentieth Century American Poets course last semester.

Granddad nods. "I invited him over for lunch tomorrow. Remind me to leave a note for Luisa."

I raise my eyebrows. "Tomorrow's Wednesday."

He runs a hand over his bristly gray beard. "And?"

"Wednesday is Luisa's day off. Has been for years."

"Ah, I forgot." He steeples his fingers together. "You work the late shift tomorrow, don't you? Maybe you could join us."

Like I said-he's only forgetful when it suits him. "And make you lunch?"

He shrugs. "You might enjoy yourself. Connor's a good kid. Smart. Driven. He wrote an excellent paper on Dorothea. Most students are too intimidated to write a critical essay about my mother-in-law. It earned him an A on the paper and in the class."

"So you've mentioned." He hardly ever gives As in that class. Connor's probably an insufferable suck-up. "Impressive for a freshman."

"Would've been impressive for a senior." Granddad grins. He gets a kick out of my "competitive spirit," as he calls it. But he's the one who raised me to be ambitious, to think I could do anything I put my mind to. "I offer that class every spring. You could take it yourself."

We've had this conversation a million times. "If I stay here"-which I might, because I'd get free tuition and the college has a good swim team and a strong English program, and I worry about leaving Granddad all alone-"I'm not taking your classes. It would be too weird."

"It wouldn't be weird unless you made it weird," he insists. "You'd have to earn your B like everybody else."

"Except Connor," I grumble, bristling that he thinks this boy is smarter than me.

"Connor's an exceptional young man." Granddad casts a dubious look at Jane Eyre. "Really, Ivy. You'd rather study the nineteenth-century English novel than twentieth-century American poetry?"

I stick out my tongue at him. "I am dying to take Amelia's class on the nineteenth-century English novel, and you know it. Her Women in Shakespeare too."

Granddad sighs. "No accounting for taste, I suppose."

I grin, flopping back against the worn leather sofa. "You're the one who raised me to be a feminist. And you're perfectly capable of using the stove yourself, but I suppose I can make you and Connor some lunch. He's not a vegetarian, is he?"

"Oh, I hope not." Granddad shudders. "He seems so promising."

I smile, tucking my feet beneath me. "Is that all you wanted to talk about? The way you looked, I thought it was something dire."

"Actually..." He clears his throat. Drums his fingers on the armrest. The back of my neck prickles; it isn't like him to hem and haw. "I heard from your mother today."

"My-mother?" The word feels foreign on my tongue, like one you read in books and know how to spell but never learn to pronounce.

I must have misheard. Granddad hasn't talked to my mother in years. She signed away her rights to me when I was four, and he hasn't been in touch with her since.

Has he?

The lamp flickers back on. It illuminates the tired slump of his shoulders, the crow's feet perching next to his blue eyes. "Erica called me at the office. She... Well, the gist of it is that she's being evicted from her apartment and needs a place to stay. She asked to come home. I told her that I had to talk to you first, but I don't see how we can say no."

She left before I was two years old. Got pregnant again, dropped out of college, ran off with her boyfriend to New York City, and hasn't looked back since. Not once. Granddad says it's impossible for me to remember her, but I do. I think I do. White-blond hair and a smoky alto.

"I could say no." I click off the flashlight. "She needs a place to stay, so suddenly she remembers we exist? That's bullshit. That's not how family works."

I've never gotten a birthday card from her. Not a single Christmas present.

Granddad sighs, pinching the bridge of his long nose. Same nose as mine. What did I inherit from my mother? Her height? Her mouth? There are so few pictures from when she was my age.

Maybe she took them with her.

Or maybe she threw them away. Maybe she didn't want the memories any more than she wanted us.

When I was little, I prayed for her to come home.

But I'm seventeen now, and this is way too little, way too late.

"I know," Granddad says. He's the one who raised me to believe that family is everything: duty and love and legacy. "But we have to think about your sisters."

"Sisters?" I clutch the flashlight, knuckles white. "More than one?"

"Came as a surprise to me too. Isobel is fifteen. Grace"-his voice wobbles. That was Grandmother's name-"is six."

I've got sisters. Two of them. I wonder if they are perfect little Milbourn girls with marvelous talents. I wonder if they know that I exist.

"I know this won't be easy for you, Ivy. It won't be easy for me either. But Erica and her husband are getting divorced, and she lost her job, and she needs a place to stay. It took a lot for her to ask. I couldn't turn her away." He avoids my eyes and fiddles with his big, silver watch.

Those are his tells. Granddad is a terrible poker player.

"You already said yes," I realize. "When are they coming?"

"Saturday."

That's four days from now. I run my fingers through my long hair, catching at the tangles. "I see." My voice is frosty.

"It's only temporary. Just till she can earn some money and get back on her feet. I'm sure she'll want to get the girls back to their schools in September."

"September? But that's the whole summer!"

And this summer was supposed to be perfect.

Every summer, Granddad signs me up for activities: writing camp up at the college or watercolors at the Arts League or a production of Oklahoma at the Sutton Theater. This year I put my foot down: no classes. I'm volunteering at the library and I'll be swimming every day. I need this, I told Granddad-a real summer. A break before senior year and all its pressures: captaining the swim team, copyediting the yearbook, taking three AP classes, and applying for college. And most of all (though I didn't say this part) I am desperate for a break from the restless, relentless search for my talent.

Granddad agreed, as long as I promised to submit some of my poems for publication.

How am I supposed to relax with my mother and newfound sisters living here all summer long.

"Can she do that?" I ask. "Take them out of New York? Their dad won't mind?"

"I don't get the sense that Isobel has a relationship with her father, and Grace's dad-" Granddad clears his throat, avoiding my gaze again. "They don't live in New York. Haven't for a while. They're over in DC now."

"Oh. I see," I say again.

And I do. Clear as day. My mother's been living two hours away, and she still couldn't be bothered to come visit. To join us for Thanksgiving dinner. To cheer me on at one of my swim meets.

I'm not even worth a tank of gas.

 
Mark your calendars, Wild Swans hits shelves May 3rd!

The Freedom Writers Diary

Erin Gruwell was on a mission to teach. Little did she know, she'd be teaching the kids that didn't fit in, the kids that would never amount to anything, the kids that wouldn't live to see graduation...

Mrs. G started her first day with the hopes of making a difference. Instead, her students ruled the classroom. They hated each other, but collectively hated Mrs. G even more. These kids had seen and experienced more things than most people see in their entire lives. Yet, they were only 14 and 15 years old. The Freedom Writers started as a class project. Each day students were encouraged to write about their home lives, their family lives, and themselves. They were private diaries, unless the allowed Mrs. G the privilege to read into their lives. She learned how tough this kids lives were. They were homeless, abused, drug addicts, alcoholics, gang members, even mothers. Mrs. G was an outsider; she didn't know the dynamics of Long Beach. She didn't know the violence these kids faced every day on their way to and from school. She began to realize what she needed to do. She needed to teach the kids to pick up a pen and put down the gun.

The Freedom Writers made a name for themselves with the help of Mrs. G and Room 203, their "kick-it spot." Mrs. G became their voice, their mentor, and their mother. She made learning an experience they will never forget. The journals were just the beginning. Sophomore year, Mrs. G found books that related to some of the experiences her students had been through. Such as The Diary of Anne Frank, Zlata's Diary: A Child's Life in Sarajevo, The Catcher in the Rye, The Color Purple, and countless articles. Mrs. G arranged many visits ranging from Zlata herself, to Miep Gies, to John Tu, to many government officials. Her students also had a chance to go to Washington D.C., New York, and Europe. This mission changed their lives. The Freedom Writers became a household name. The Freedom Writers wanted to make a difference, the Freedom Writers DID make a difference, and continue making a difference today!

THE FREEDOM WRITERS HAVE A DREAM AND THAT DREAM HAS COME TRUE.

Visit The Freedom Writers Foundation for more information and to find out how you can make a difference.

To support or acknowledge the Freedom Writers, you can send contributions to:

Freedom Writers Foundation

P.O. Box 41505

Long Beach, CA 90853

Below I have also included a clip of the Freedom Writers movie:

Since this movie has been released, The Freedom Writers have also filmed a documentary called Voices Unbound: The Story of The Freedom Writers.

 

Looking for other books by The Freedom Writers?

Dear Freedom Writer

Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member

I was pleasantly surprised when my teacher assigned this as one of our required readings. Monster Kody Scott was initiated into the Crips at age 11. By age 16 his body count had to be well over 50. By 18, he was in and out of courts, juvenile halls, and eventually prisons. This autobiography is a tell all on gang violence, but more importantly, black on black violence. Monster was an Eight Tray Gangster, he went on to become an O.G. which could quite possibly be the highest honor in the gang world. But in the real world, what did that mean for his daughter? The violence all around the 'hood was too much to ignore. Violence is met with violence. If they were on enemy territory, you can expect bullets to be flying. If enemies came into their territory, people were going to be put down. These children, and I say children because that's what they were, were going out to find people to kill. They were going out to steal weapons, pick fights, and stake out the enemies! They were literally going out LOOKING for trouble! Monster finally realized the absurdity of gang life while he was in prison. He began attending Muslim services and learning of oppression. He became close friends with Muhammad who began teaching him Kiswahili and the ways to fight oppression without violence. Not once did Muhammad tell Monster to stop banging, just to stop the violence within his own set. Monster realized you cannot make peace with your enemies if there is not peace within your set. This change took time, effort, and a lot of explaining to the set. 

Upon release from San Quentin, Monster Kody Scott- O.G. Gang Banger became Sanyika Shakur- Revolutionary.  

Ed Gein: Psycho

I must say, I absolutely hated this book. While it was informative, it was also incredibly difficult to read; imagine a narrative research paper that is 160 pages long. Ed Gein was the inspiration for much of our horror pop culture, as well as many cult classics. He's best known for his skin suit, that he made from different women. He was obsessed with women, not because he want them but because he wanted to become them. However, many don't know that this started as a grave robbing hobby after his beloved mother passed away. Gein took to the freshly dug graves to get off and begin his collection of different lady pieces. His crimes were gruesome, yet he was only convicted for two murders, the rest were already dead when he got to them. Ed Gein was absolutely the killer next door, but no one ever suspected him. He was just a little slower, weirder than everyone else. But a murderer? 

The second half of this book is entitled "Ed's Children" to show all of the different classics that have been inspired by or include Geinian ways:

Psycho-Robert Bloch

Psycho directed by Alfred Hitchcock

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

The Silence of the Lambs

Bates Motel

Countless comic books

Ed Gein Fan Club

As the author mentions, Ed Gein has truly inspired countless works in pop culture and has become folklore. It is hard to decipher what is fact and what is fiction. The Geinian way has weaseled it's way in to so many different aspects of our modern day horror pop culture and has paved the way for excellent slasher films. 

Notorious

A little over a year ago, this novel showed up at my doorstep. I have no idea how or why I was sent this book, but I am extremely grateful to have received it.

Maxine Revere is an investigative reporter, specializing in cold cases. In high school, her distant best friend, Lindy, was murdered. In college, her roommate, Karen, went missing. And now, Kevin has killed himself and Max needs to give his family closure. Everyone believed Kevin killed Lindy. But he was innocent. He was always innocent and his family wants to clear his name. Upon arriving home for Kevin's funeral, Max is approached by the grandparents of Jason Hoffman, a young man recently killed in cold blood. They want her help. Max has written books, articles, and even stars in her very own show, Maximum Exposure. She wants to help. But does she have time to investigate Jason's murder when finding closure for Lindy and Kevin's families? Max is reckless, but not stupid. She's blown cases, spent the night in jail, and even put herself in harms way. But she has always find the answers. But these cases are different, they are literally too close to home. They ARE home. Do blood relations mean more than locking away a killer? Could Maxine tear her family apart looking for the answers? Will any of the families have closure, or will more get hurt along the way? 

Notorious is a wonderful start to Allison Brennan's newest series. As I was finishing this, I was calling the nearest bookstore to find the next one. Needless to say, I will be continuing this series and I hope all of you will too!!

Looking for the rest of the series?
Maximum Exposure (Maxine Revere prequel)
Compulsion (Maxine Revere #2)
Poisonous (Maxine Revere #3)
Two To Die For (Maxine Revere novella)
 Shattered (Maxine Revere #4)
Abandoned (Maxine Revere #5)

The One and Only Ivan

As a child, this is a great book about a gorilla trying to find his home. 

As an adult, this is a great book about how society treats animals.

The one and only Ivan is a silverback gorilla living in a domain with the homeless dog, Bob. Next door is Stella, the elephant. This ragtag group of friends are always laughing, telling stories, drawing, joking. But sometimes it's sad. The visitors are becoming less frequent, drawing supplies are hard to come by, and the owner Mack is sick of it. He needs something new. Soon enough, a baby elephant named Ruby joins Stella in her domain. Aunt Stella needs a promise from Ivan, she needs to know Ruby will get out of this cage. Ivan tries his hardest to gain attention from Julia, along with art supplies. Ivan's inner artist can finally be recognized! Julia knows he has a message to get out, it's just a matter of deciphering what he means. With Julia's help, Ivan brings the fame back to Big Top Mall. They bring visitors from all over to see The One and Only Ivan and precious Ruby walk around the ring with Snickers on her back! But a newscaster eventually uncovers Mack's dirty little secret. Could he be abusing these animals? Should someone stop him? What happens when Big Top Mall closes down for good? Where will they go? Ivan knows Ruby needs a home, Ivan needs a home, even Bob needs a home. One day, they will get just that, a H-O-M-E. 

For a children's book, I found myself laughing at so many different places in this book. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, should read this book! Katherine Applegate can make you laugh and break your heart all at the same time. It speaks volumes about how some animals are treated while in confinement. Many zoo's have created a semi-sense of home for these animals. Keeping them in contact with others of their own species is the only way for animals to truly understand what their life is about. Locking them away, teaching them tricks, and physically and mentally abusing them their entire lives is not something we should allow.
ELEPHANTS ARE PEOPLE TOO!

Looking for the rest of the series?
The One and Only Bob

The One and Only Ruby