All You Have to Do - Hardcover

Allen, Autumn

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593619048 ISBN 13: 9780593619049

Verlag: Kokila, 2023

Inhaltsangabe

Powerful, thought-provoking, and heartfelt, this debut YA novel by author Autumn Allen is a gripping look at what it takes (and takes and takes) for two Black students to succeed in prestigious academic institutions in America.

In ALL YOU HAVE TO DO, two Black young men attend prestigious schools nearly thirty years apart, and yet both navigate similar forms of insidious racism.

In April 1968, in the wake of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s assassination, Kevin joins a protest that shuts down his Ivy League campus...

In September 1995, amidst controversy over the Million Man March, Gibran challenges the “See No Color” hypocrisy of his prestigious New England prep school...

As the two students, whose lives overlap in powerful ways, risk losing the opportunities their parents worked hard to provide, they move closer to discovering who they want to be instead of accepting as fact who society and family tell them they are.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Autumn Allen teaches literature and writing workshops for young people and edits picture books as a senior editor at Barefoot Books. She teaches children’s literature at the Harvard Graduate School of Education and holds graduate degrees in education, children's literature and writing for children from Harvard and Simmons Universities. Her forthcoming picture books, Step On Board: Sculpting a Memorial to Harriet Tubman, illustrated by Ekua Holmes, and Answered Prayers, will be published by Knopf. All You Have to Do is her debut novel. Autumn grew up in Boston and lives in Massachusetts with her family. Visit her website at autumnallenbooks.com.

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1
GIBRAN
Massachusetts | September 1995
The bass is thumping. I can feel it in my bones. It’s begging me to bob my head, laugh, and shout. In another place, I would get up, my boys in step with me, rush the stage, dance. But in Thatcher Hall, at Lakeside Academy, I freeze.
Three white boys—­two seniors and a junior—­bounce onto the stage, smirking. The bass becomes a warped noise as my eyes take in every inch of their costumes.
Six pairs of sneakers, all mixed up on three pairs of feet. Yellow and red. Red and black. Black and green.
They’re high-­top sneakers—­good ones. Expensive ones. And they’re brand-­new. No doubt bought on their parents’ credit cards, just for this one stunt.
They march back and forth, pretending to warm up to the music, acting like they’re going to rhyme. I watch those sneakers, obsessed with the fact that they’ll never wear them again.
They wear baggy jeans so new, they’re creased and saturated with dye.
Crisp white T-­shirts, extra extra large.
The jeans, the shirts—­they won’t wear those again either.
They got the brands right mostly, but their ignorance shows in the details.
Their Red Sox caps betray them. Faded all over and frayed at the edges. If they knew anything about us, they’d know you can’t perform in that. The contrast is almost funny.
But those mismatched shoes. And the walk. An exaggerated pimp walk. Dip, hop, dip, hop. Arms swinging, greedy grins on their faces, swaying to a rhythm that doesn’t match the beat still rattling my bones. Mics held to their thin lips, their mouths move, but I can’t hear the words they’re lip-­synching. I can barely hear the muffled laughter of the other white students who watch.
I tear my eyes away from the stage and scan the audience. The boys’ friends crack up and cheer them on. Other white students cover their smiles with one hand, wide-­eyed, not sure if they should find this funny.
The boys onstage are laughing. Their blue, green, hazel eyes gleam with something that feels sinister. They wear a confidence that was never taken from them. I want to steal it now.
What can I do? Stop the show? Bash the speakers? Slap the microphones out of their hands? I savor the fantasy, but there are too many witnesses. To be the aggressor in front of the whole school—­that would guarantee my expulsion. I wouldn’t mind; it could be worth it. If only it weren’t for my mother’s tears. My family’s pleas.You’re almost there, Gibran. Just graduate. Finish your last year.
Like it’s easy. No. The longer I’m here, the harder it gets.
On my right, James’s dark eyes are narrowed, following the boys across the stage, trying to figure out if this is for real. 
On my left, David glares at the wall behind them, expressionless, holding himself together. 
The three of us make eye contact and exchange thoughts silently.
Here we go.
These dudes.
Are they serious right now?
I check for the other Black students. The new ones are surprised and confused. The student-­of-­color orientation ended today—­that blissful week of brown and Black faces making this place our own. Now, this “talent show,” the first all-­school event of the year, reveals what Lakeside is really like. 
The rest of the Black students stare—­at the stage, at the floor, some at the wall—­determined not to be provoked. Not to put their emotions on display. They wear their discomfort, disbelief, and disgust as lightly as possible, trying not to offend. They wait. Wait for it to be over.
None of these white people—­students or faculty—­can see what we see. The boys onstage commit the offense, but we’re the ones being careful.
I can’t do it anymore.
I get up. I’m thinking I’ll go outside, get some air, wait ’til this insult is over, and come back. It’s not much—­barely a protest—­but it’s something. At least I can liberate myself. I walk toward the auditorium door. But I slow down as something catches my eye.
The speaker is plugged into an extension cord that runs by the door to the hallway. It’s an old building in an old boarding school—­several hundred years old. Its prestige comes from age and pedigree. My eyes travel the length of the wire.
People accuse me of acting without thinking. The thing is, though, I’malways thinking. I just calculate differently. I think one thing: Right or wrong?
Is it right for me to let everyone else sit here, subjected to this nonsense, while I go get some air? No.
Is it right for me to stop this show if I can do it without damaging any property or injuring any bodies? Hell yeah.
So I continue out the door. And as I go, I bend down and yank the cord out of the wall. The music stops. The roaring in my ears stops. My back feels lighter, and my chest opens up. I can breathe.
There is a sweet moment of silence. 
Then the reactions begin.
Gasps. Murmurs. A boy calls from the low stage, “Hey, what the—­”
A voice from the Black students: “Ohhh snap!”
I let the door swing behind me.
I cut swiftly through the hallway, where the old stuffy white guys on the walls stare down at me. I resist the urge to give them the finger:How ya like me now? I act casual, just in case. I could maybe pretend it was an accident.
I reach the door to outside and shove the brass bar to open it. It creaks and falls closed behind me with a clang. The night is warm, and the stone steps glow silver gray. I take a deep breath and smile.
—
I’m slurping instant oatmeal and bobbing my head to Mobb Deep when Mom rushes into the kitchen. Her soft suede jacket and boots meet at her knees, layered over jeans and a blouse. She caresses my head as she passes me. She opens the fridge, scans its contents, checks her watch, and closes the fridge. She never eats breakfast. I don’t know why she pretends to consider it every morning.
I finish scraping the bottom of my bowl and then find Mom looking at me. I reach to pull off my headphones, but she beats me to it. She shakes them at me, her silver bracelets jingling, and then drops them in my lap.
“These things are the death of the family unit.”
“Sorry,” I say, suppressing a smirk. I only wear headphones at home when I’m playing music with “explicit lyrics.” Which is most of my music. But that’s not why she calls them “the death of the family.” She thinks I don’t listen  to her. But it’s not the headphones. “What’s up?” I ask.
“Isaid, are you going to make your bus?”
“Oh yeah. I got plenty of time.”
“Famous last words.”
I stand up. “I’m heading out right now. Don’t worry.”
She exhales. “Okay.” She squares her hips and points her finger. This is her lecturing stance.
“Be careful,” I recite for her. “Follow the rules.” I turn and rinse my bowl in the sink.
She pulls me around to face her with surprising strength for her petite frame. The concern in her eyes makes me shift my gaze to her freckled nose, her soft curls, her beaded earrings.
“Listen,” she says. “You are there for one reason and one reason only.”
“I know—­”
“I said listen. It doesn’t matter what anyone else does or says. Don’t let it bother you. You have to work—­”
“Twice as hard to get half as far,” I chime in.
She...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Kokila
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2023
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593619048
• ISBN 13: 9780593619049
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 432
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Purmerul LTD; https://strengholt.nl/en/; ; 22 Liuleburgaz Str., floor 4, app. 9; Plovdiv; Bulgarien