Invisible Son - Softcover

Johnson, Kim

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593482131 ISBN 13: 9780593482131

Verlag: Random House Children's Books, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

From the award-winning and critically acclaimed author of This Is My America comes another thriller about a wrongly accused teen desperate to recclaim both his innocence and his first love.

Life can change in an instant. 
When you’re wrongfully accused of a crime. 
When a virus shuts everything down. 
When the girl you love moves on. 

Andre Jackson is determined to reclaim his identity. But returning from juvie doesn’t feel like coming home. His Portland, Oregon, neighborhood is rapidly gentrifying, and COVID-19 shuts down school before he can return. And Andre’s suspicions about his arrest for a crime he didn’t commit even taint his friendships. It’s as if his whole life has been erased.

The one thing Andre is counting on is his relationship with the Whitaker kids—especially his longtime crush, Sierra. But Sierra’s brother Eric is missing, and the facts don’t add up as their adoptive parents fight to keep up the act that their racially diverse family is picture-perfect. If Andre can find Eric, he just might uncover the truth about his own arrest. But in a world where power is held by a few and Andre is nearly invisible, searching for the truth is a dangerous game. 

Critically acclaimed author Kim Johnson delivers another social justice thriller that shines a light on being young and Black in America—perfect for fans of The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas and Dear Justyce by Nic Stone.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

KIM JOHNSON held leadership positions in social justice organizations as a teen. She’s now a college administrator who maintains engagement throughout the community while also mentoring and supporting Black youth. This Is My America was her award-winning debut novel. She holds degrees from the University of Oregon and the University of Maryland, College Park. Kim lives in the Washington, DC with area her husband and two kids. Find her at KCJOHNSONWRITES.COM and follow her on Twitter and Instagram @kcjohnsonwrites.

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1

Don’t Speak

February 27, 2020

I live in the whitest big city on the Blackest block. Simultaneously seen and unseen. I used to hate the erasure. But now, well, now I don’t mind if I stay hidden. Especially since MacLaren Youth Correctional Facility is in my literal rearview. But the longer we idle in Portland traffic, the more reality sinks in that that’s not how any of this works.

Marcus tries to bury this truth with conversations on moving forward. On possibilities. But it will be as hard to shake the strike against me as it is for the windshield wipers to win their battle against this torrential downpour.

Marcus’s and my coexistence in this car proves that fact. There will always be somebody to check me. To explain myself to. To keep at a distance. Which makes who I roll with matter more than ever. And I don’t mean my boy Boogie, who knows I’m more likely to be up late reading Octavia Butler or scouring through my collection of Black Panther comics than be hanging out. I mean my other so-­called friends. Correction, white friends who’ve been known to mouth off to an officer without fear. Who don’t think twice about trying to be anything they want.

Meanwhile, I’m not trying to be nothing at all.

Marcus hands me coffee he picked up from the first drive-­thru after we left the facility. Coffee is nasty. My stomach can’t take it, but I also can’t say no to him. I’m so close to semi-­freedom—­I’m not taking any chances. Not today.

“Dre, how you really feeling about all this?” Marcus adjusts his mirror like he’ll see better.

“All right.” What am I supposed to say? Living the dream riding with my probation officer? Can’t wait to get home . . . so I can still be under surveillance? I know I’m wallowing in my situation, which isn’t like me. I’m the type to kick my feet and claw my way above water—­even if it’s only with words. But staying silent seems like the best way to just get home.

Besides, he’s asked this same question fifty-­eleven times. He wants something deeper ’cause he takes my silence as not caring. But he’s wrong. I do care. My life felt like it was about to be over until I got community monitoring. But even without more juvie time, I’m still twisted inside with all types of feelings. Like how I got caught up in the first place. And how bad I wanna roll down the window and let the rain drench me as I yell out, I’m free. It’s a wrap. Dunzo. Then swipe my hand below my chin with a cocky grin. But that’s not the kind of care Marcus wants.

“That’s all I get? All right?” Marcus sighs, giving me a once-­over. “You hit the jackpot, Dre. The sooner you realize it, the better. Use your mind.” Marcus taps his temple like he just dropped some knowledge.

“Yeah, okay.” I bounce my right foot, fighting the urge to scratch at my ankle.

Don’t get me wrong, Marcus is supposedly one of the good ones. And I came up having a Black juvenile counselor who is more likely to see me as a person than a problem. That’s not how it always goes. Inside, the guys talked about all the power trips from probation counselors who were just waiting for you to fail. The fact mine’s Black and used to be a teacher, I hit the lottery. No question. But this doesn’t change that I have no choice in our situation. He says jump and I gotta say how high.

“You’re close to putting this all behind you now,” Marcus says. “Just lay low. Focus on school.”

I chew on the corner of my lip, holding back a response. Holding back anger to stay numb.

“Come on.” He nudges me. “I know you’re excited to be going home.”

I give a weak nod.

His gaze studies me before he speaks. “Not feeling moving in with your grandparents?”

“I’m fine with it.” I’ve practically lived with my grandparents my whole life back and forth between their house and apartments in the 100s blocks. So, when I think about home, it’s always the people, not the place. But this time I have to face them knowing they’ll look at me different. And I’m afraid of what they’ll see. There’s no way to go back to what was. I’m Dre now—­the Andre they knew is gone to them.

“I need details if this is gonna work, son. Think of me like family. You can even call me Uncle Marcus. Some kids I work with do.”

“I’ll stick with Marcus,” I deadpan, all business between us.

He’s saying this because I treat him like the probation officer he is, and he’s offended at any insinuation of law enforcement. He’s more police-­adjacent, he likes to say. But his actual title is juvenile court counselor, and let’s be real, it’s the same thing.

As much as everybody who works for Multnomah County Juvenile Justice been calling me son. Kid. Young man. Like we’re kin. I know the truth: it’s their J.O.B. They’re following some guidebook on how to make connections. Before I was assigned to Marcus, calling me son sure didn’t stop the first juvenile court counselor from recommending I get an ankle monitor even though the judge wasn’t pushing for that during sentencing.

Here’s the thing, I appreciate that Marcus cares, but we’re not family. Dad wouldn’t like it anyway. Not when Marcus is part of the system designed to lock me up in the first place.

Marcus stares, again. I avoid his inspection by sipping the nasty coffee ’cause I don’t wanna be in my feelings. Things have changed. I need to let the night that led me here go, as hard as that may be.

Once I catch sight of the Coliseum and Lloyd Center, my body loosens up. We’re getting closer to home.

GPS gives directions, but Marcus navigates the streets like he knows them well. I hold back from asking if he’s from my neighborhood. I’d rather believe Marcus was just an old-­school dude from Black Portland watching out for me. Not somebody who’s just got a lot of Black and brown kids he calls son.

Marcus veers off route, cutting through the good Popeyes parking lot. Damn I’d love me some Popeyes right about now. I sip more coffee to smack the flavor of butter biscuits and spicy chicken sandwiches out my mouth.

“I’ll go over everything with your family, then follow up with your parents. The paperwork said your mom’s a nurse at a ­hospital?”

“At Legacy Emanuel.” He knows this, but I play along. “Won’t be home until five a.m., though.”

We get closer to the edge of my grandparents’ neighborhood down Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, near my dad’s bookstore. Malcolm’s Bookshop is tucked between a coffee shop and Salt and Straw ice cream, which has a line down the street that blocks the bookstore’s entrance.

I sit up to catch a glimpse of my dad as the open sign flashes in the window, but all I see is the faded Black History Month sign he drags out every year. Books on Martin Luther King Jr. and Rosa Parks are front and center to catch people’s attention. The rest of the display is filled with writers I’ve known my whole life: Amiri Baraka, Gwendolyn Brooks, Ralph Ellison, Nikki Giovanni, and new releases.

Dad’s gotta be on cloud nine because it’s a leap year, which gives him one extra day for his best sales month. The month he always reminds me is still the shortest of the year.

I can’t say...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Random House Children's Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2024
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593482131
• ISBN 13: 9780593482131
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 432
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: EMBER; https://www.penguinrandomhouse.ca/imprints/EM/ember; ; Attn: Andrea T Sheridan 1745 BROADWAY, 14-1; NEW YORK; NY; 10019; USA
• Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Europaallee 1; Bad Hersfeld; 36244; Deutschland