This Way Home - Softcover

Moore, Wes; Goodman, Shawn

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0385741707 ISBN 13: 9780385741705

Verlag: Random House Children's Books, 2016

Inhaltsangabe

“Brimming with hard realities about the choices we make, the friendships we keep, and the unlikely allies we find along the way, this affecting novel helps to fill the gaping hole left by Walter Dean Myers’s passing.” —Booklist
 
“A taut, haunting tragedy.” —Kirkus Reviews
 
One young man searches for a place to call home in this gut-wrenching, honest novel from New York Times bestselling author Wes Moore and cowriter Shawn Goodman.
 
Elijah Thomas knows one thing better than anyone around him: basketball. But when a sinister street gang, Blood Street Nation, wants him and his team members to wear the Nation’s colors in the next big tournament, Elijah’s love of the game is soon thrown into jeopardy.
 
The boys gather their courage and take a stand against the gang, but at a terrible cost. Now Elijah must struggle to balance hope and fear, revenge and forgiveness, to save his neighborhood. For help, he turns to the most unlikely of friends: Banks, a gruff ex–military man, and his beautiful and ambitious daughter. Together, the three work on a plan to destroy Blood Street and rebuild the community they all call home.
 
This Way Home is a story about reclamation. It’s about taking a stand for what matters most, and the discovery that, in the end, hope, love, and courage are our most powerful weapons.
 

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

WES MOORE is a graduate of Johns Hopkins University and was a Rhodes Scholar. He was named one of the top young business leaders in America and has appeared on the cover of Time magazine, which featured him in the article "The New Greatest Generation." Wes lives in Baltimore with his wife and daughter.

SHAWN GOODMAN is a writer and a school psychologist. His experiences working in several New York State juvenile detention facilities inspired him to write. Shawn lives in Ithaca, New York, with his wife and children. Visit him at ShawnGoodman.com.

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1

From the vantage point of an old, splintered bench, Elijah focused his attention on the far court action, which was looking radically different from the safe, organized competition of his high school games. A meaty guy with prison tattoos carried the ball like a battering ram to the hoop. Elijah winced as the guy plowed over a kid from the opposing team and nearly knocked him out of his Jordans. The kid groaned as he wiped at his bloody knees; of course, no one called a foul.

“Hey,” said Dylan, who was dressed in ridiculously oversized shorts and a T-shirt.

“Hey yourself,” said Elijah, his eyes still fixed on the game. The guy with the tats had just dunked over the head of the other team’s equally beefy center.

“Damn,” said Dylan. “Is that guy playing in Hoops?”

“Yep,” said Elijah. “And you’re going to be guarding him.”

“He looks like he just got out of prison,” said Dylan. “And you know what he was in for?”

“Tell me,” said Elijah.

“For killing the last skinny white boy who was stupid enough to guard him. Not everyone’s like you, you know.”

“Meaning?” said Elijah.

“Meaning I’m not six-four and carved out of steel. I don’t wanna be that dude’s next parole violation. No way.”

Elijah laughed and held a fake microphone in front of his friend’s face. “Strong words, Dylan. Anything else you’d like to say to your fans out there before you and your teammates become the first seventeen-year-olds to win the adult division of the biggest three-on-three tournament in the state?”

Dylan grabbed the imaginary mike and tapped it. “Is this thing on? Okay. I’m saying I just want to play ball and be a lover. You know what I mean? That’s my message to the young people of the world. That’s what I want to be known for, basketball and . . .”

“Sexual potency?” offered Elijah, returning the invisible microphone to his friend.

“Exactly. What you said.”

Elijah threw an arm around the smaller boy’s shoulders. “If that guy does kill you, make sure to draw the foul, okay? Coach Walters says we’ve got a real chance, but every point has got to count.”

Dylan squirmed out from under Elijah’s arm and tried, unsuccessfully, to get his bigger, stronger friend into a headlock. Eventually they settled down to resume watching the game.

“But seriously,” said Elijah. “What do you think about these guys? In case we do end up playing them.”

“That dude over there’s got no left,” said Dylan.

“And that one?” Elijah pointed at the guy with the prison tattoos, who had abandoned the game in favor of shoving one of his opponents. “Your ex-con friend.”

“Ha!” said Dylan. “He’s got a bad temper. Guys like him lose their focus when they get frustrated.”

“Then tell me how you’re going to frustrate him in the tournament.”

“I’m not,” said Dylan. “I’m gonna be home sick, watching you guys play on TV.” He coughed for effect. “I feel a cold coming on.”

Elijah shook his head. “You’re going to be right here doing your thing and getting inside his head with those fast, skinny legs and crazy dribbling skills. You’re going to make him run with you, which, of course, he can’t because he’s too big and stupid and bulked up. And then all we have to do is sit back and watch him self-destruct.”

“Whatever.” But Dylan smiled, because he understood. He got up off the bench and grabbed his ball. Then his pale, thin legs scissored expertly while he dribbled quick and low between them, the ball caroming off an invisible midpoint at exactly the right moment.

“That’s right,” said Elijah appreciatively. “You’re like a hyperactive metronome. Be the metronome.”

“The what?” said Dylan, not missing a beat with his dribbling.

“Never mind.” Elijah lunged low, but Dylan carried the ball a fraction of a second longer than usual and then pivoted away. He moved with uncanny speed onto an empty court, where they began their unique interpretation of practice, which consisted of endless variations of passing drills and set plays, and three dozen suicide sprints. When they finally stopped, sweat-soaked and exhausted, the sky had changed from dusk to full-on dark; everyone else had gone home.

Dylan pointed toward his mother’s car. “You want a ride? My moms said she’ll take us to McDonald’s for milk shakes.”

“No, thanks,” said Elijah. “I’m going to get a run in.”

“Why?” Dylan stuffed his ball into his duffel bag.

“Got to get strong,” said Elijah.

“But you’re already strong,” said Dylan. “I mean, not as strong as me, but you know . . .”

Elijah nodded, holding his fist out for a bump. “Thank your mother for me.”

Once he was alone, he shook out his legs and then leaned against the chain-link fence to stretch. His calves and quads were sore, but the good kind of sore, the kind that meant he’d worked hard and pushed himself. The kind that meant he was getting stronger. He scanned the parking lot, which was empty except for a lone figure, arms crossed over his chest as he stood next to a black Mercedes with gleaming, oversized rims. The guy wore a dark hoodie that hid his face.

Elijah shouldered his pack and started jogging, past the overflowing trash cans and broken playground equipment. Past the padlocked bathrooms, and bicycle racks shackled with rusted, cannibalized frames, their seats and wheels and derailleurs long since stripped away and sold. He tried not to look back at the car but couldn’t help it; the figure was still there staring intently. Now nodding to him. So who the hell was he? A mysterious ballplayer with a nice car and nowhere to go? A drug dealer? Gang recruiter?

Something worked loose from Elijah’s memory, a piece of a conversation he’d overheard in school about a new gang that was trying to out-murder the other gangs. He hadn’t paid attention at the time because he lived where the neighborhoods were still safe and good, just east of the park known as the Battlegrounds. But now he wished he could remember something useful about what he’d overheard, at least the gang’s name. What did they call themselves? Blood something. Blood Street Nation, that was it. Christ, he thought. Some name.

Elijah returned the nod and then broke into a loose, easy stride in the direction of his home. He didn’t look back again.



2

The run home from the Battlegrounds was one of Elijah’s secret pleasures. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but the freshly painted houses and well-tended lawns made him feel inexplicably happy. He loved the big inviting porches with wicker furniture, and toys scattered everywhere: yellow plastic Wiffle bats, skateboards, and toy guns. And the trees, some of which were a hundred years old, anchored by strong, invisible roots. It was like his neighborhood had wrapped itself around its families, promising a lifetime of good things, like backyard barbecues and graduation parties.

Elijah knew it wasn’t as perfect as it seemed; if you scratched the surface, you’d find plenty of bad things. Alcoholic parents. Money problems. Divorce. The same as anywhere else. But it still felt good...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Random House Children's Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2016
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0385741707
• ISBN 13: 9780385741705
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 257
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar