Rosa by Any Other Name - Hardcover

Alcaraz, Hailey

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593525574 ISBN 13: 9780593525579

Verlag: Penguin Young Readers Group, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

In this Romeo and Juliet–inspired retelling set during the civil rights era, a Mexican American girl is driven to join a movement for justice after her white classmate and best friend from the barrio are tragically murdered.

*PURA BELPRÉ YOUNG ADULT AUTHOR HONOR BOOK
*TÓMAS RIVERA BOOK AWARD WINNER
*YALSA BEST FICTION FOR YOUNG ADULTS SELECTION
*CHICAGO PUBLIC LIBRARY SELECTION FOR BEST TEEN FICTION
*ILA NOTABLE BOOK FOR A GLOBAL SOCIETY
*NCSS-CBC NOTABLE SOCIAL STUDIES TRADE BOOK FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

Rosa Capistrano has been attending posh North Phoenix High School to boost her chances of a college education and a career in journalism, thanks to the groundbreaking Brown v. Board of Education verdict for desegregation. But though she's legally allowed to be there, it's still unsafe for Mexican Americans. That’s why she's secretly passing as Rosie, a white girl. All she has to do to secure her future is make sure her Mexican home life and her white school experience never intersect.

However, Rosa's two worlds collide when her best friend, Ramon, and classmate Julianne meet and find themselves entangled in a star-crossed romance. Rosa is terrified about what their relationship could mean for her and them . . . and her worst fears are soon realized in an unspeakable tragedy. Rosa is thrown into the center of a town-wide scandal and her true identity is put in the spotlight. With the help of Marco, Ramon's brooding and volatile brother whose passion ignites hers, Rosa must choose what is more important to her—protecting her fragile future or risking everything to help her friends find justice.

Rosa by Any Other Name is a harrowingly beautiful coming-of-age tale that shines a light on an important and often overlooked facet of US history. An extensive author's note with research details and a further reading list are included.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Hailey Alcaraz enjoys writing stories about multicultural Latinx characters, girls who choose a difficult path when it comes to love, and the clumsy journey of “finding yourself” as a young adult. She is a second-generation Mexican American woman, a middle school English teacher for mostly Hispanic students in South Phoenix, and a lover of powerful female protagonists. She lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, with her husband, daughters, and German shepherd, Lemon.

You can visit her online at HaileyAlcaraz.com and follow her on social media @AlcarazBooks.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

One
Thursday, August 18, 1955
I woke before the sun, in near silence. Such a rare thing in our barrio. No rumble of overworked pickup trucks chugging between fields of crops on dirt roads. No neighbors calling across fences to borrow a few eggs or a cup of milk. No scampering of feet or slamming of doors or music or . . . anything, really. Nada. Just the rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze, the faint cooing of a mourning dove, and my own pulse. Fast but steady.
It's the first day of school, I thought, scarcely a heartbeat before the rhythm and ruckus of our morning routine came roaring to life with my mother's approaching footsteps.
"Rosa, hija, ¿estás despierta?" Mamá's voice called out onto the sleeping porch from the kitchen. She didn't wait for me to answer before busying herself with her next task. I could hear her set a pan on the stovetop, could hear the rhythmic ticking of the gas burner trying to catch.
"Sí, Mamá," I responded, swinging my legs out of bed at the same time she repeated her question with a hitch of impatience. Mornings were not a time for idleness. I shrugged my robe on, tying the belt in a loose knot over my white nightgown as I made my way inside.
Mamá was already dressed, setting a plate of fresh tortillas on the table. She wore her usual long-sleeved cotton dress and headscarf to protect her from the sun on the long days spent in the fruit fields. The radio, a big old Westinghouse that sat on its own table in the living room, exuded a steady stream of music, the melodic thrum of the guitar and accordion competing with the noises of my mother's rapid movements. She wasn't one to indulge in many frivolous activities; we didn't own a television, and I'd scarcely seen her sit down to read anything longer than a recipe-but morning radio was her one vice. There weren't a lot of Spanish language options-even in Phoenix, where there were so many of us who spoke Spanish-but early in the morning, before sunrise there was En este momento, a Spanish show targeted at all the farm laborers and workers who rose before the sun.
It was much warmer in the kitchen than it was on the sleeping porch, and already I missed the cool solitude of the cot I slept on in the summer months.
"Buenos días," Mamá said with a quick smile, though she did not stop moving, did not even slow down-gliding back and forth between the stove, table, and counter. "¿Qué estabas haciendo?" Her brows pinched together as her eyes darted up at me over the eggs sizzling in her pan.
Even though it was early, I knew what she meant; she wasn't really asking what I had been doing. She was worried, and what better way to show it than by prodding with questions she already knew the answer to. "Just waking up," I told her, forcing a smile to assure her that I hadn't been lying in bed for hours, contemplating what lay ahead, like she feared. The metal kitchen chair screeched against our floor as I pulled it out and sank into it.
She made a quick humming sound. "Mi querida, are you excited for school?" she prompted, switching to English and adding a cheerier lilt. Though her English was heavily accented and often interrupted by bits of Spanish, she tried to use it with me as often as she could so we could both work on smoothing out the edges of our accents. Mine was almost nonexistent at this point, but it would pop up on the most unexpected words, especially when I was nervous or distracted. Mamá had always thought it was important to speak in clear American English, no long vowels or rolling r's. Even though I understood why she felt so strongly about it, it still made me a little sad to listen to her squash out her native tongue with the kind of unyielding force I'd seen Papi use to crush scorpions underneath the heel of his work boots.
"I ironed your skirt for you," she said before I could respond. "And your lunch is just over there." She tipped her chin at a paper sack to her right.
"Gracias, Mamá."
She shot me a look over her shoulder. "Oye, you need to eat something. You can't go to school on an empty stomach."
"Yes, Mamá," I murmured, setting a small scoop of frijoles onto my plate obediently. I could feel the genuine concern underneath her busy fussing. Even after a year of going to school on the north side, deep down I still felt a lot of the same anxiety my mother did about our situation.
And with good reason, of course.
What we were doing-what I was doing-was dangerous. Integration was happening, sure. The courts told us that it had to, but it wasn't nearly as quick or easy as those folks in Washington seemed to think it was. Race mixing was messy business, no matter how you looked at it.
Just because I was allowed to go to school at North Phoenix High didn't mean I was welcome.
"And your bus money?" Mamá continued, reaching over to smooth my hair. "You'll remember to comb your hair back, yes? It's gotten so long. Maybe I should've cut-"
"Mamá."
She swept one last lock away from my forehead and sighed, turning back to the sink.
A few minutes later, Papi joined me at the table, his movements purposeful and urgent-as always-as he dug into the huevos and papas Mamá had placed in front of him. He began talking about the workday ahead of them at the citrus farm with barely a pause after he wished us a buenos días. He worried about the heat, about one of his friends who hurt his back the day before, about the foreman who always popped up at the wrong time.
"Oye, Maria, pack some extra napkins in my lunchbox, will you? My hands were so sticky yesterday"-he paused suddenly to shoot me a scowl, his cheeks full of food. "Why do you look so . . . ?" He gestured his fork at my face obscurely.
Mamá glanced at us, nodding in agreement as she placed an empty coffee mug in front of my father. "Sí, sí. I thought so too."
I struggled to soften my expression into something more pleasing for my parents. "I don't know what you mean," I mumbled feebly.
Mamá reached toward me, placing a warm calloused hand on my forehead. "No está enferma."
Papi snorted in relief, busying himself with pouring a splash of steaming hot water into his cup from the kettle Mamá handed him. "Good. What a day to be sick that would be, eh?" He wrenched open the lid to the Taster's Choice, scooping a generous spoonful of instant coffee into his mug. His dark eyes flitted up to meet mine every few words, watchful and concerned. "You're not too tired, are you? I told you it wasn't a good night to meet up with Ramón, didn't I? The night before your first day of school, Rosa?" His spoon ping-pinged in his mug as he stirred. The bitter, acidic scent of the coffee wafted between us.
"I'm not tired. I was home before supper."
Another grunt from Papi's end of the table. "You can't be exhausted if you're going to school with the gringos, hija. You have to be at your best all the time."
"I know that."
"You know how important this opportunity is," he said, his volume growing louder as he navigated toward a conversation we'd had countless times. A familiar lecture since I switched schools last year. "You must take it seriously, Rosa. You can't spend all your time and energy playing with the chico down the street like you used to when you were a child, eh? You're a young woman now. Almost an adult."
With a sigh, I gave him a slow nod. "Yes, Papi."
"And you must be aware!" Mamá chimed in, her pans clattering into the sink. "You must always be thinking a step ahead. If you are tired, you put yourself at risk, ¿verdad?"
She waited for one more dutiful nod from me before she continued scrubbing the pan in her hands. I turned my gaze down to my plate as I moved my now-cold egg around with the tip of my fork. I thought about the day that lay ahead of us. Me, across town at North Phoenix High...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Young Readers Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2025
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593525574
• ISBN 13: 9780593525579
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 416
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: preigu GmbH & Co. KG; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; Niedersachsen; 49078; Deutschland