We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire
(Sprache: Englisch)
From the author of the acclaimed Blood Water Paint, a new contemporary YA novel in prose and verse about a girl struggling with guilt and a desire for revenge after her sister's rapist escapes with no prison time.
Em Morales's older sister was...
Em Morales's older sister was...
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From the author of the acclaimed Blood Water Paint, a new contemporary YA novel in prose and verse about a girl struggling with guilt and a desire for revenge after her sister's rapist escapes with no prison time.Em Morales's older sister was raped by another student after a frat party. A jury eventually found the rapist guilty on all counts--a remarkable verdict that Em felt more than a little responsible for, since she was her sister's strongest advocate on social media during the trial. Her passion and outspokenness helped dissuade the DA from settling for a plea deal. Em's family would have real justice.
But the victory is short-lived. In a matter of minutes, justice vanishes as the judge turns the Morales family's world upside down again by sentencing the rapist to no prison time. While her family is stunned, Em is literally sick with rage and guilt. To make matters worse, a news clip of her saying that the sentence makes her want to learn "how to use a sword" goes viral.
From this low point, Em must find a new reason to go on and help her family heal, and she finds it in the unlikely form of the story of a fifteenth-century French noblewoman, Marguerite de Bressieux, who is legendary as an avenging knight for rape victims.
We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire is a searing and nuanced portrait of a young woman torn between a persistent desire for revenge and a burning need for hope.
Lese-Probe zu „We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire “
Chapter OneYou can t react. Mom smooths her hair for the forty-seventh time since we parked in the public garage a block away from the courthouse. Now we sit in the freezing car. Waiting. No matter what. All the cameras
I know.
Don t snap at your mother, Marianne.
I watch the slice of Papi s face in the rearview mirror. The fresh gray at his temples, the new lines around his eyes.Weary would be a specific word choice.
They re so afraid, my larger-than-life parents. Shrinking into themselves for nearly a year, layering on armor that doesn t even protect them. Retreating when they should have been on the front lines. With me.
My fury begins to unfurl, deep down. If I stay trapped in their inaction, it will spill out, blazing hot, and scorch them until their skin blisters, the seats of this ancient car melt, the whole thing burns down.
I have to stretch my legs.
I bolt from the car before they can object.
They would object. They want to keep me close, muzzle me,don t write your columns about the case, Marianne, don t be so outspoken, Em, don t, don t, don t.
Outside the car, I m free of their crushing inaction but I m boxed in by the dark, low ceilings of the parking garage, the stench of furtive smoke breaks, urine, and gasoline seeped into concrete that ll never be washed clean.
I walk toward the hazy light of the exit to the street. Every step I take away from the car, I know my mom is fretting. We re supposed to wait for Layla! Walk in together. United front!
But the slick sidewalk grounds me, the damp air, the concrete and steel fading into skies that are yet another shade of gray. This is my Seattle. I dig a dollar out of my pocket and hand it to the guy huddled in the opposite corner of the parking garage entrance.
... mehr
Mom can still see me from the car. And I can see the courthouse down the block. It was imposing at first. Now, after so many months, I yawn at the building. The way my sister s tabby always yawned his ambivalence about human existence. Until he got hit by a car, at which point he was probably less ambivalent.
Across the street, a guy immersed in his phone looks up, leers. Does he recognize me from the trial coverage? Or is he a dime-a-dozen dirtbag?
I hold his gaze until he looks away.
Dirtbag, then. The trial never looks away.
Even after it s over so soon, it will be over its gaze will linger.
A car pulls into the garage and I catch a glimpse of Layla s hijab, bright orange in the dull beige of her ancient station wagon. Nor pulls in right behind Layla, as though the victim advocate took her job so seriously she escorted my sister all the way from campus. Really, we re all here at the same time by horrible circumstance.
Papi climbs out of our car and heads around to open Mom s door like he always does, but she bursts out on her own.
Good morning. Layla s voice echoes in the parking garage and I flinch at the slam of her car door. How are we doing?
Papi gives her a tight smile and nod, but Mom can t rip her eyes off my sister s car. She s fighting every instinct she has to race over, throw open Nor s door, and yank her out into her arms. I know, because I m doing the same thing.
We re okay, I say. How are you?
Layla gives her familiar smile, the one we ve seen for months. It manages to be warm and supportive, while never dismissing the reason she s in our lives. One of my neighbor s new chickens has turned out to be a rooster, she says. But aside from that I can t complain
Mom can still see me from the car. And I can see the courthouse down the block. It was imposing at first. Now, after so many months, I yawn at the building. The way my sister s tabby always yawned his ambivalence about human existence. Until he got hit by a car, at which point he was probably less ambivalent.
Across the street, a guy immersed in his phone looks up, leers. Does he recognize me from the trial coverage? Or is he a dime-a-dozen dirtbag?
I hold his gaze until he looks away.
Dirtbag, then. The trial never looks away.
Even after it s over so soon, it will be over its gaze will linger.
A car pulls into the garage and I catch a glimpse of Layla s hijab, bright orange in the dull beige of her ancient station wagon. Nor pulls in right behind Layla, as though the victim advocate took her job so seriously she escorted my sister all the way from campus. Really, we re all here at the same time by horrible circumstance.
Papi climbs out of our car and heads around to open Mom s door like he always does, but she bursts out on her own.
Good morning. Layla s voice echoes in the parking garage and I flinch at the slam of her car door. How are we doing?
Papi gives her a tight smile and nod, but Mom can t rip her eyes off my sister s car. She s fighting every instinct she has to race over, throw open Nor s door, and yank her out into her arms. I know, because I m doing the same thing.
We re okay, I say. How are you?
Layla gives her familiar smile, the one we ve seen for months. It manages to be warm and supportive, while never dismissing the reason she s in our lives. One of my neighbor s new chickens has turned out to be a rooster, she says. But aside from that I can t complain
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Joy McCullough
Joy McCullough writes books and plays from her home in the Seattle area, where she lives with her family. She studied theater at Northwestern University, fell in love with her husband atop a Guatemalan volcano, and now spends her days surrounded by books and kids and chocolate. Her debut novel, Blood Water Paint, was longlisted for National Book Award and was a finalist for the William C. Morris Debut Award. Her debut picture book, Champ and Major, was a New York Times bestseller.
Produktdetails
- Autor: Joy McCullough
- Altersempfehlung: Ab 14 Jahre
- 2022, 400 Seiten, Maße: 13,7 x 20,6 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Penguin Random House
- ISBN-10: 0525556060
- ISBN-13: 9780525556060
- Erscheinungsdatum: 28.01.2022
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"What is art if not a sword? With We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire, Joy McCullough wields and strikes her sharp-edged, finely honed blade. A fierce beauty. Elana K. Arnold, Printz Honoree and National Book Award Finalist"Intense, unrelenting, and inspiring." Kirkus, starred review
"McCullough emphatically confronts the toll that sexual violence takes and deftly questions who gets to control history s narrative." Publishers Weekly, starred review
"McCullough borrows judiciously from the headlines, and readers will find her story all the more affecting because of its seemingly eternal relevance." Booklist, starred review
"Unforgettable.... A must read." SLC, starred review
"A meditation on the power of uncovering past heroines, especially for young women who are looking for strength." Bitch Magazine
"Ferociously honest, unequivocally feminist . Appreciators of Elana K. Arnold's Red Hood or Courtney Summers's Sadie should pick up this title immediately." Shelf Awareness
A Chicago Public Library Best Book of 2021
A Kirkus Best Book of 2021
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