# data[].attributes.body
Category
Realistic Fiction

Summary
In the real world, Kiera is one of the only Black students at Jefferson Academy, relied on by her friends as the voice of Black America. Online, Kiera becomes Emerald, the revered developer of SLAY, a role-playing game that unites Nubian gods and goddesses across the globe. Kiera’s real world and online refuge collide when a murder forces her to fight for what is most important to her.

Reaction/How to Use
SLAY is a fast-paced book that shifts through multiple perspectives to show there is no one way to be – no one way to be Black, no one way to be a teen, no one way to woman – and we must acknowledge and celebrate these voices, even when the real world works to suppress them. There are many nuanced discussions of Race that will be better understood by older teens, but I think most teens can identify with the experience of needing to act differently depending on your audience.  Overall, I loved this book and felt like Kiera’s story is especially relevant to readers in our increasingly online world.

SLAY is a terrific example of the communities we create versus the ones we are given and can be used as a recommendation for gamers and tik-tokers alike year-round. Seasonally, I would use it as part of a display during National Coding week (September 14-20) alongside other books that feature female coders, like Amie Kaufman’s unique Illuminae, to promote digital literacy and STEM engagement.

Students can also access the truncated version of SLAY the game online.

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Chapter 1: Playing the Game 1. PLAYING THE GAME
By day, I'm an honors student at Jefferson Academy. At night, I turn into the Nubian goddess most people know as Emerald.

The second the bell rings, I'm out of my desk seat and bolting through the classroom door. There's a battle tonight between PrestoBox, a master wizard from the Tundra, and Zama, a Voodoo queen from the same region. I absolutely can't miss it. Once safely in the hallway, I pull out my phone and open WhatsApp to find a new text from the game mod, Cicada.

Cicada: You watching the tundra semifinals tonight?

I smile, glancing up for a second to watch where I'm going as throngs of students pour from classrooms and navigate around me.

Me: Wouldn't miss it.

"Hey, Kix!" comes Harper's voice, startling me from my thoughts. I look up to see her and my sister, Steph, walking toward me in their matching pink T-shirts with the Greek letters for Beta Beta Psi, a collective of the eight most outspoken, unapologetic, woke feminists at Jefferson Academy. Leave it to my parents to transfer us to a high school that prepares its students for college so thoroughly, they claim to have the most robust high school Greek life program in the country.

"Hey, Harp. Hey, Steph," I say, trying not to sound disappointed that I won't get out of here for another ten minutes. I slip my phone into my back pocket and put on my best happy to see you face.

"Hey, Kiera," Steph says with a grin, brushing her bangs out of the way of her lime-green glasses. Steph has a new pair of cheap plastic glasses for each day of the week, and her hair is always pressed straight and cut neatly at her shoulders. She insists keeping her hair straight saves time in the morning, but until she can prove it, I'll keep my five-minute wake-up-and-shake-out-my-twist-out routine.

"I'm heading home early today to get started on our Beta Beta posters for the game next week," she says. "Each one is going to have an inspirational word at the top in huge bubble letters-like 'endurance' and 'perseverance.' We're going to have the players sign them and put them up in the halls around school afterward. Plus, Mom said she'll take me out later tonight to get more permit hours. Wanna walk with me?"

I thought endurance and perseverance were kind of the same thing, but if I start in on that conversation, I really won't get out of this hallway before the duel starts. Harper chimes in before I can answer.

"Actually, Steph," says Harper, "I wanted to talk to Kix for a second. Need to ask her advice about something."

That's what she calls me. Kix. Like the cereal. Or like the shoes. I can't tell and never bothered to ask. Steph and I look at each other. We both know what's coming. Harper is about to ask me an impossible question, because she knows Steph isn't going to give her a straight answer.

"Well, now I'm curious," says Steph. "What is it?"

Harper glances over her shoulder as if she's watching for someone, and she folds her arms across her chest and shrugs.

"It feels kind of weird to even be asking this question, but I'm asking because I genuinely don't know the answer."

I sigh and nod at her to just ask the question already. She always prefaces these with a disclaimer if it's going to be one of those questions with two wrong answers. She didn't used to be like this. When we were kids, Harper used to come over our house for Mario Kart, Legacy of Planets, and snacks. We used to talk about Usher and Fresh Prince, and boys in our class, and babysit her little brother, Wyatt. But now Steph is president of Beta Beta, and Harper is VP, and as royalty of the most feminist high school sorority in the country, Harper acts like she has to talk about polarizing stuff all the time.

"Okay, fine," says Harper when it becomes apparent Steph isn't going anywhere. "I was thinking about changing my hair. Something fun and new, but, like, with bohemian vibes. There's one style I really want to get, but I need to ask you about it first."

Steph and I exchange looks again. When it comes to hair discussions, Steph and I have been on the Black girl hair journey together, and we have more in common than she and Harper ever will in the hair department. But I look back up at Harper, with her short blond pixie that hasn't held a curl since middle school prom, when her mother had to use half a can of hair spray. She's the only person I know who can rock a pixie like that, and since she stands about a foot taller than me with a long, willowy frame, it fits her. But I let her finish her question.

"I need to, like, ask you, though, and don't be afraid to say no," she begins. "Am I allowed to get dreadlocks?"

Oh, what a question. Is she allowed to get dreadlocks? She's asking permission to wear a hairstyle that's been debated by people of many races for years and years as to whether it's appropriating Black culture. How am I supposed to tell her yes without giving the disclaimer that I can't speak for all Black people, and that she could ask any of us this question and get a different answer every time?

"That'd make a great question for the Weekly!" chimes in Wyatt, stepping between Steph and me, leaning his arm on her shoulder and grinning at me. Nobody would guess by their looks that Harper and Wyatt are brother and sister. And by Wyatt's freckles, bright blue eyes, messy dishwater-blond hair, lanky frame, and lack of height, nobody would guess he's sixteen, and not twelve.

"I, uh...," I begin, looking to Steph. She's always better with these kinds of situations than I am.

"Seriously, Kiera, can I interview you about this?" Wyatt asks with that big, toothy grin. Even though he's only a junior, he's chief editor for the Jefferson Weekly, and he runs the political topics column like a criminal investigator, hyperanalyzing his interviewees' answers, looking for cracks in their views so he can write them up with those clickbaity titles he always uses. I can see it now: "Black People Don't Mind White People Wearing This ONE Hairstyle."

Between Wyatt as chief editor for the school newspaper even though he's only a junior, and Steph, also a junior, as president of Beta Beta Psi, I feel like my college applications could have been so much more resplendent than they were when I submitted them. If only I could include my favorite after-school activity in my list of accomplishments.

"You can interview me!" offers Steph, and I can't help but smile a bit. There's no way Wyatt's going to go for that. Steph is an expert debater who gives airtight answers to any question you ask her.

"We all know what you think about white people doing things, Steph," says Wyatt. "You tell us all the goddamn time."

Steph punches his arm so hard, he flinches and holds it close to him.

"Really?" he asks.

"I mean, if you're going to assume I'm going to be an angry Black woman about this, I wouldn't want to disappoint you."

"Steph," I say, shaking my head. She's talking too loud in this hallway, and people are looking at us now. The last thing the only two Black girls at Jefferson Academy need is to be seen as the loud ones. I just want to go home. Without having to answer Harper's question. I just want to log in, transform into Emerald, and talk to Cicada for the rest of the night.

"I'll have to think about that, Harper," I say, hoping she'll wait awhile and maybe forget about it.

"Okay," she says, obviously disappointed, folding her arms over her chest. "Oh, we're still on for math at eight tonight, right?"

Oh shit. It's Thursday. I had to move Harper's and my tutoring lesson to Thursday this week since Wyatt is playing in the Civil War baseball game next week and Steph and Harper need time tomorrow when they're both available to write their opening speech as president and VP of Beta Beta. But I do need the money. Cicada and I want to add more RAM to our servers because we're about to launch more game cards soon. That's sixty bucks down the drain if I cancel this week.

"Uh," I begin. When I say I absolutely can't miss the Tundra Semifinals today, I mean it. I need to be there. The game gets bugs sometimes. Weird stuff starts happening when people try to hack in coins or trade new weapons. Lately, characters have been glitching out when they use a new crossbow that was released last week-falling through the map or losing upgrades-and when that happens, everyone blows up my DMs. Why?

Because I'm the game developer.

Nobody knows. Not even my family. Not even my boyfriend, Malcolm.

"Pretty sure my queen is busy tonight," comes a familiar voice from behind me. Two strong arms encircle my waist and kisses are being planted gently up the back of my neck, and I can smell Malcolm's Ralph Lauren cologne behind me.

"Hey," I say happily, looking up to see the progress he's making with his goatee, smiling when I see he had his dreads freshly twisted this weekend, his Killmonger hairdo. I cuddle up under his arm. Normally, I would call him Boo, but I feel weird using that word in front of everyone here.

"Aaaand, that's my cue to go!" announces Steph, turning on her heel and heading swiftly for the front door.

I have to physically concentrate on not rolling my eyes. Steph and Malcolm hate each other for the pettiest reasons. Malcolm thinks Black women don't need sororities because they're already sisters, and the word "sorority" is a fancy word for clique. Steph thinks men have no business telling women what to do. That leaves me in the chasm in the middle, agreeing with both of them.

Harper and Wyatt exchange glances. They always get quiet around Malcolm, the kid who got expelled from Belmont High on the south side.

"Right," says Wyatt, glancing over his shoulder, probably to make sure Steph is far enough away not to hear him. "Soooo, just let me know about the interview, okay?"

I look up at Malcolm, whose thick eyebrows have sunken slightly.

"What kinda interview?" he asks.

"Wyatt wants to interview me for the Jefferson Weekly," I say quickly, hoping Wyatt catches my hints. "It's about Black hair. I think Wyatt's trying to give diverse opinions some visibility in the paper."

Malcolm motions to Wyatt with his chin and says, "?'Bout time we had more diverse opinions in the Weekly. Okay, Wyatt, I see you."

Which means, in Malcolm-speak, "well done."

I nod and smile at Wyatt and glance at Harper, who's looking between me and Malcolm like she knows there's nothing she can contribute to this conversation, and that we'll have to discuss the whole dreadlocks thing later, when we're not in front of Malcolm, whose verdict on the subject she already knows.

"Tutoring some other time, Harper, okay? I'm sorry, but I really am busy tonight. We'll meet next week."

I'll let Harper and Wyatt think I want a night alone with Malcolm. I'll let Malcolm think I have homework.

"Thanks," I say to him once Harper and Wyatt have turned and walked halfway down the hall. But before I can even begin explaining to him why he can't come over tonight, he's looking at me with disappointment in his dark, glistening eyes, studying mine.

"What's up?" I ask.

"You were doing it again," he says, pulling his arm from around me and opening his locker. He slings his backpack off his shoulder, pulls out a couple of textbooks and his vape pen from the bottom shelf, and stuffs them inside his bag.

"Doing what?"

"The voice."

I roll my eyes.

"That's the only voice I have."

"That's the only voice you have when you're around those two," he says, pointing down the hall at them. Then he pauses, and his expression softens. "I love you. You know that."

He leans in and kisses my forehead before pressing his forehead against mine.

"I want you to be yourself around me, and around them. I want my Black goddess all the time, but you out here sounding like you work in a call center."

I wish I could invite Malcolm into my world after school, into my game, where every word I speak reflects the Black goddess he sees in me, the one he got to see at Belmont, the one who rocked braids and almost made the Belmont High drill team. The walls may have been defaced with vandalism, and the lockers may have been falling apart, but at least we got to be ourselves.

I smile up at him now. He has a scar in the middle of his bottom lip from the fight that got him expelled from Belmont-the fight that might have gotten me hurt if he hadn't intervened.

I step up on my tiptoes and kiss that scar. Malcolm and I left Belmont together after freshman year, and Steph joined us. I left so many of our Black friends there, and I appreciate Malcolm doing his best to make sure I don't leave my Blackness there with them. If he knew about SLAY, if he'd just give the game a chance, he might realize just how proud I am of us. But I can see the whole conversation now. He'd ask me why I've poured so much effort into a video game when I could be focusing on college prep and getting a good job, so I don't join what he is constantly reminding me of: the mass of Black people who waste their lives on video games, junk food, drugs, unemployment, baby daddy drama, and child support. According to him, video games are distractions promoted by white society to slowly erode the focus and ambition of Black men. He wouldn't understand.

"I'm sorry," I admit. If I was doing the telephone voice, I didn't mean to.

He grins and rubs his nose against mine.

"Now, about me coming over tonight."

I know in my head that I can't actually have him over to my house tonight, but the way he says it...

I bite my lip and smile. Malcolm is fine as hell, and he knows I know it. We're lucky-his parents don't care what he does or where he goes, and my parents don't mind giving us privacy at the house, since they'd rather we be there than at "some drunken party," as Mom puts it.

Not sure what kinds of drunken parties she thinks are going down here at Jefferson. If people are throwing them, Malcolm and I are never invited.

"I have homework," I say. It's not a complete lie. I do have homework. There's a math test next week on polynomials that's going to kick my ass if I don't get it together and start studying.

"Can I help?"

He knows damn well if he came over, we wouldn't be studying anything but each other.

"It's American history," I lie. His least favorite subject. It's the only way to keep him away from the house while I immerse myself in the game. As far as Malcolm is concerned, American history is white history, and therefore antiBlack.

"You actually study for that shit?"

"I study so my final transcript doesn't disappoint Spelman. Even if they admit me, if my final grades are too low and they change their mind, Atlanta won't be a thing for us."

That's it, Kiera, I think, guilt-trip him.

"Fine, whatever." He shrugs. "I've got some decolonizing to do anyway. S'called The 48 Laws of Power. Robert Greene. You heard of it?"

By "decolonizing," he means reading. Knowing Malcolm, the book is written by a Black man about Black men getting their education, starting their own businesses, becoming the heads of households, and raising gorgeous little Black children with their gorgeous Black queens. Malcolm's happily ever after. He'll stay up all night reading books like that. I can't complain about it, though-there's something sexy about a strong, stoic boy who reads a lot. But he only reads books by Black men, Black women who edify Black men, and white men who reinforce his non-race-related philosophies, leaving me to keep my Cline and Le Guin to myself.

I laugh at the irony of all those conversation-ending texts I get saying he's going to go "decolonize," leaving me to play SLAY uninterrupted.

"Well, maybe I should read it to you sometime," he says, leaning in close and whispering in my ear. "Maybe right before I put you to sleep."

I roll my eyes, but his game is working. My whole body is screaming to let him come over tonight. The duel starts in fifteen minutes, which means it might be over by the time he reaches my house. That should give us a couple of hours together before Mom gets home. Just because my parents are lax about us having sex in the house doesn't mean we want them hearing us.

But just before I can give in, Malcolm is backing away from me.

"But I'll leave you to your homework," he says, hands up comically with that big, goofy smile of his. "Just let me know when I can come over. I want to worship my queen."

And he winks and turns away, shrinking farther and farther down the hall among the rest of the students clustered in groups to gossip before whatever after-school clubs they might have. I sigh, wishing so badly that I could invite him into the game with me. His attitude and curiosity would make him an expert dueler. I don't know if I'll ever convince him that SLAY is different. To him, video games may be a distraction from becoming great, but I meant for it to do the exact opposite: to showcase how awesome we are as Black people, how multifaceted, resilient, and colorful we are. And I've tried hypothetical questions with him, like What if someone made a game that was just for Black people? but he doesn't even entertain the idea. "They make things 'just for us' all the time-we've got Black movies and Black History Month. They give us our own shit to distract us from the fact that we don't have control over their shit. Separate is not equal. That doesn't even come close to leveling the field."

He'll never get it. It's whatever. I've just decided to stop bringing it up.

At least, at last, I'm finally free to go home. I clip my backpack across my chest and race down the Jefferson front steps, past the students clustering in their cliques, past the kids waiting for their parents to pick them up.

My house is just down the street from the school, so I walk home most days. It gets annoying sometimes, living so close. Game days make traffic on our street a nightmare.

But I can't complain about the neighborhood. Bellevue, Washington, is one of the cleanest cities I've ever seen, in real life or on TV. Perfectly manicured trees line every public sidewalk, like they do at Disneyland, and I haven't seen a pothole since we moved here from SoDo-that's "south downtown"-three years ago, when Dad got promoted. Lucky for me, it happened shortly after Malcolm got expelled, and I got to follow him out here to Jefferson, which I love and hate. I love that I can charge these kids sixty dollars a session to tutor them in math. It's a nice addition to my résumé, and it gives me extra cash to spend on RAM, server maintenance, and in-game artwork. But I hate, and I mean hate, being "the voice of Blackness" here. At Belmont, where 50 percent of the students are Black, and 70 percent are people of color, Malcolm and I got to be normal. Nobody was asking to touch my twist-out, nobody was asking him about his locs, and nobody was asking us for permission to appropriate Black culture as if we're the authority for our entire race.

I take in the fresh air. It's only Thursday, and if I'm going to get through the rest of this week, the rest of this semester, and graduate, I'm going to have to stay calm and focus on my homework. I'll be out of here, and hopefully into Spelman, soon enough.

I reach our little gray house at the end of the cul-de-sac that caps Newberg Lane. It's smaller than most of the houses on this street, but it still doesn't feel like home. Not like our home in SoDo anyway. This new house has two obnoxious white pillars on either side of the front door, and a wreath, and a peephole.

I notice a new decoration on the porch-a stuffed rabbit doll made of pink tube socks, sticks, and various brightly colored plastic eggs. That wasn't here when I left for school this morning. Mom is clearly home early, and in a decorating mood, which means she's going to ask me for help. Good thing I didn't invite Malcolm over.

I mentally prepare myself for the encounter, since I have to get through it quick. Then I pull my keys out of my backpack's water bottle compartment, unlock the front door, and swing it open.

"Mom?" I ask.

"We're in the dining room!" I hear Steph from the other side of the house, since she had a five-minute head start on me. A much quieter voice mumbles something, and I assume it's Mom reminding Steph not to yell in the house, even though no one's home but the three of us.

I carefully untie my shoes and carry them with me into the kitchen, where I keep my shoe toothbrush in the pen drawer, so nobody will confuse it for a mouth toothbrush. I don't know why I'm so particular about keeping my white shoes white. They're just Keds. Not like they're a pair of two-hundred-dollar Yeezys a lot of other Jefferson kids have. But it still irks me when they get dirty.

I find Mom and Steph sitting at the dining table, which always has eight place mats and a seasonal centerpiece, just in case Mom ever wants to throw a spontaneous dinner party. Although with her new schedule at the dental clinic, I doubt she'll ever really have time. She and Steph are hard at work poking pink and yellow plastic gerbera stems into a horn-shaped white basket in the center of the table and eating popcorn.

"Hey!" exclaims Steph. She looks up at me through new red glasses-apparently, she's already bored of the green ones she was wearing earlier. These ones are as big around as baseballs, with the lenses punched out. Mine are boring black frames, with prescription lenses. Simple.

"Hey." Mom smiles up at me.

"You're home early," I say.

"I finished with my last patient and they told me they were okay for the rest of the day, probably because of that billboard we put up last year reminding people to brush twice a day. I told y'all it was a good idea," says Mom, tossing a few kernels of popcorn into her mouth.

"Haven't you also been telling people to avoid hard candy, caramel, and popcorn?" Steph asks, reaching for another handful and widening her eyes and smiling playfully across the table.

"I know optometrists who stare at their cell phones all day, and I know doctors who eat peach cobbler," says Mom with a grin, sliding the bowl closer to herself and grabbing a huge handful. She shrugs and looks up at me.

"Sit down with us and have some, Kiera. We're decorating, if you want to join us." Mom pulls out the empty chair between them at the head of the table.

"No thanks," I say as politely as I can. "I have homework. Steph, I thought you were coming home early to work on posters."

Steph wrinkles her nose playfully at me and glances at Mom.

"I can't have a snack first?" she asks, and shoves another handful of popcorn into her mouth.

She's staring at me with one eye narrowed, which means she's analyzing me. It's like she can see exactly what I'm thinking. Since I'm the worst at maintaining a poker face, I reach for the bowl of popcorn and toss a few kernels into my mouth. They're buttery and salty, and I think Mom used some of that cheese powder her assistant, Karen, got us for Christmas last year. But Steph isn't letting me off that easy. She's still staring at me.

"Why do you ask?" she pries.

"No reason," I say, just as my phone buzzes with a text.

"You expecting someone? Maybe a certain someone? A certain Hotep whose name I won't mention?"

She calls Malcolm a Hotep, which, in her mind, is a brotha who claims he's for Black power, when he's really for Black male power, homophobia, misogyny, and other regressive ideologies. I say as long as Malcolm is encouraging our people to do better, and me to do better, I can't complain, even if he says a few off-color things every so often. He may not "get" feminism all the way yet, but he's a work in progress.

I deflect her question. "Jealousy ain't cute, Steph."

"Don't say ain't in my house," says Mom with raised brows.

I made "Ain't" a card in the game, since Ebonics is part of what differentiates the American Black experience from American "other" experiences. It's ours. And I'll use the word "ain't" however I please as soon as I log in.

But my mom's raised eyebrows ain't playing. "Boo-Boo the Fool" is another card in the game. It's a Battle card, since "Do I look like Boo-Boo the Fool?" is a rhetorical question that essentially translates to "I wasn't born yesterday." It's a challenge to say something else and see what happens, and so are raised eyebrows, which is why the card features an artistic rendition of my mom's. But as long as my mom still feels the need to "correct" Ebonics, like when we say words like "ain't," she'll never see the card, or the game. She'd just be disappointed.

It's not that I don't get why she does it. She doesn't want us to walk into a job interview one day with "Ay, bruh, I ain't got much 'sperience, but I'ma do what I gotta do to get the job done, you feel me, cuz?" but Steph and I know how to alternate. It's like speaking two different languages. One when I'm home, FaceTiming Malcolm, and one when I'm at Jefferson, blending in. I can do both flawlessly. But some nagging fear in the back of my mom's mind thinks that if she doesn't snuff out every "finna" and "talmbout" and "I'on," Steph and I will be forever unemployable, and every dime she's spent at Jefferson will go down the drain.

"Yes, Mom," I say, pulling my phone out and stealing a glance at the screen. A new text from Malcolm.

Malcolm: See you tomorrow. Until then, listen to this and miss me.

He attached a new song by the Weeknd-that one that was nice and slow that I suggested we make love to. Why does he insist on teasing me like this when he knows he can't come over tonight? I let out a frustrated sigh and look back up at Mom and Steph.

Steph is looking at me with a smirk now, and I'm sure she knows it's Malcolm. She changes the subject, and I'm grateful, but the new topic she chooses is one I've heard a thousand times.

"Did you notice my new glasses?"

I nod. "Red looks nice on you."

"Thanks!" she beams, rolling up both sleeves of her tight pink sweater.

Mom leans in closer to Steph, examining her glasses extra close, so close that Steph actually leans backward a bit.

"Is that... Scotch tape?" asks Mom.

"They're from Goodwill," explains Steph with a shrug as she picks up a big green leaf and nestles it in the basket. "But they broke in my purse on the way home. Had to fix 'em somehow."

"You couldn't find another pair of red glasses?" asks Mom.

"Not ones that look like the ones from Rihanna's music video. I may go to Jefferson, but I'm not about to spend Jefferson money on glasses."

I smile at that. Steph and I have our frugality in common, although mine is mostly based on the fact that I use every last dime I can find to maintain the game.

"But Scotch tape, Steph? Really," says Mom. "You could find a nice new pair on Amazon that doesn't look so..."

Steph leans back against her chair and folds her arms over her chest, challenging Mom to finish the sentence.

"Tacky," says Mom. I know she's avoiding the word "ghetto," after Steph's lecture to the family last week about how "ghetto" is just a derogatory code word for innovative. "I just don't want those kids at Jefferson ostracizing you and your sister."

Too late for that.

"I get it, Mom," replies Steph. "But I genuinely don't care. If I wear red tape-covered glasses, quote lyrics from The Chronic regularly, and speak in AAVE, and that's enough to get me ostracized, it's going to happen no matter what I do."

Okay, I have to ask. "What's AAVE?"

"Oh, please don't get her started," sighs Mom, looking up at me like I just asked Steph to recite the Gettysburg Address for us.

"No, Mom, this is important. Kiera needs to hear this. It stands for African American Vernacular English, and-"

"Actually," I say, glancing back at my phone. It's already 3:08. I have seven minutes to log in. "Sorry I asked. I need to get to studying. Biology exam tomorrow."

I turn to leave through the kitchen just as Steph launches into, "Okay, we'll talk later, though, right? This is important!" at a thousand decibels, after which comes a swift shhhhhhh from Mom to remind her not to yell in the house.

When I get to my room, I lock the door and run to my computer chair. When I log in, there are 641 new DMs in my SLAY inbox. That's the name of the game- SLAY. It's not an acronym, although that's always the first question of anyone who joins, and people have been offering suggestions for acronyms ever since its launch. It's a double entendre, meaning both "to greatly impress" and "to annihilate." I thought the name was more than appropriate for a turn-based VR card game where players go head-to-head in card duels using elements of Black culture. Steph would love it if she ever knew about it. Or if she knew I was the developer. But for all the confidence I have in my sister, one thing she absolutely can't do is keep a secret. And on top of that, her constant jabs at Malcolm make me wonder if she'd get the game. There are players from all over the world, all walks of life, many who grew up poor like Malcolm, regularly "decolonize" like Malcolm, and surround themselves with specific kinds of Black influences, like Malcolm. I don't know if I can share SLAY with her, because I don't know if she'll accept it- all of it. Not without overthinking it. So I won't. Probably not ever.

I scan the messages for anything important, like major game glitches. I don't want people to miss the semifinals because of technical problems. Most of them are asking what time the duel begins, even though I put a section clearly marked Duel Calendar in the navigation panel on the left side of the screen, the panel that you have to look at whenever you're configuring your character.

I roll my eyes at the willful ignorance and glance at the clock. Five minutes till duel. I'll read the rest of the messages later. I unlock the bottom drawer of my desk and pull out my headphones, and the gray VR socks, gloves, and goggles my family doesn't know I bought.

My heart pounds as I slip them on. I can't wait until I go off to Spelman so I can play with a noise-canceling headset. For now, I have to listen for my mom yelling through the door that it's dinnertime, so I can say five more minutes and deflect suspicion.

I log in and my pulse races as I watch my logo appear in brilliant green all caps against a black background. SLAY, it says on the screen inside my goggles.

I get up and stand in the middle of my room so I don't knock anything over. All I keep in my room are my bunk bed with the sofa on the bottom, my bookcase, my dresser, my pouf, my desk in the corner by the door. When it comes to VR, the less furniture around me, the safer. Come on, come on, I urge as the map fills the screen. It's nighttime in this region-the Tundra-so the navy skybox is up, almost black, peppered with shimmering stars. I look up and around at them all, and suddenly I miss all those summer nights Malcolm and I used to lie in my backyard in SoDo and watch what little of the night sky the city smog would leave us. Nights when we got to shut out the rest of the world and just be ourselves, swapping music, talking about which Black genius's opinions he was reading that day. I captured several of his favorites in SLAY -Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, and Langston Hughes.

I left my character, Emerald, here in the Tundra so it would be easier to get to the duel. The snowy mountains contrast nicely against the sky, spiking upward in a basin all around me. I raise my hand to slide the virtual keyboard from the right side of the screen, type Fairbanks Arena using the holographic keys, point my left hand to the north, and pull my trigger finger, allowing me to teleport at light speed. New players might think I named the arena after Fairbanks, Alaska, but the information panel would tell them I actually named it after Mabel Fairbanks, one of the first Black professional figure skaters.

Mountains zoom past me. I smile, impressed at how good they look up close. I was having a fantastic day when I created the Tundra. The textures are flawless-smooth and realistic. The snow looks fluffy up close. Every mountain looks hand-painted, thanks to donated art from a few indie artists who SLAY. I built the arena itself entirely of diamonds, because I could, and because a diamond arena in an icy region is hella dope. It's one of the biggest, too. It can hold three million people, since I hope one day the game gets that big.

For now, chat reads over a hundred thousand logged-in people out of the five hundred thousand people with SLAY accounts, which is still a lot for a single duel, even if it's the semifinal round of a tournament, but I guess it's prime time for people my age to be online, at least here on the West Coast. I'm close enough to see the people forming a line into the arena now. I slow my pace and I'm flying smoothly over all the attendees. Most players choose to be either royalty or characters with special powers or weapons. I descend to the ground and join them, walking in place in my room to make Emerald move.

A few people recognize me and step aside.

"It's Queen Emerald!" says the text over the head of an especially tall woman in a bloodred strapless gown with a fifty-foot train flowing behind her. Her wrists have golden bracelets up to her elbows, and her neck has similar ones. Her hair is twisted up into an enormous bulb on top of her head, with a huge golden crown encircling it, a giant ruby as wide as her torso set right in the middle.

At first I tried to make the dresses realistic and material, but it was causing problems when people would step on the trains, veils, and robes, and keep characters from walking smoothly. So she's wearing a dress that's immaterial, meaning the fabric will go right through other players and objects without obstruction, a weird concept-based on collision physics-to think about when you're talking to her face-to-face.

A woman in bone armor notices me and takes a fighting stance. Her unnaturally large boobs and red headband around her enormous Afro make her look like a Mortal Kombat character.

Text appears above her head. "I hope you got my message, Emerald. We meet at dawn."

Everyone says, "We meet at dawn." It's how we say, "I challenge you to a duel at a later time." In fact, it's become an identifier in the real world. About a year ago, kids in the grocery store started coming up to me and asking, "Did you thaw the meat?" or "Did you get the meat?" or "Do you eat meat?" and after some perusing in chat, I realized it's a coded question. They ask pretty much any question involving meat, to which I'm supposed to reply, "We meet at dawn" if I want them to know I SLAY.

When Reddit first launched, it was so secretive that Redditors in real life used to ask the highly conspicuous question "When does the narwhal bacon?" but I like our version better. It's more covert. "Did you thaw the meat?" is a totally normal question to ask. "When does the narwhal bacon?" will make people ask, "WTF are you Internet kids up to?" which is exactly what I don't want to happen. I know there are SLAYers who are just like me-who live one way during the day at work or school, and would rather their nonBlack classmates or coworkers not know they live completely differently online. Completely authentically.

I walk past the woman in bone armor and spot a character in a dark gray hooded robe that extends about thirty feet behind him. He's wielding a katana in each hand and has the words JUSTICE FOR TRAYVON written across the back of his robe in bloodred. Not going to lie, his outfit is pretty legit. When text on clothing was enabled, I just wrote EMERALD down the leg of a lime-green jumpsuit I had stuffed in the back of my inventory. The text was impossible to line up with various articles of clothing, so I ended up giving up on the function, and now I'm wishing I'd written something meaningful instead of my name, because it'll be awhile before I'll have time to sort that feature out.

The entrance to Fairbanks Arena is everything I'd imagined a Hollywood movie premiere to be. Neon-blue and purple strobe lights are creating a faux aurora borealis across the night sky and across all sides of the building. At least I hope people recognize it's the aurora. It looks a little like a sloppy watercolor potion, which I guess is okay since this region is full of witches and magicians. It's much easier to mix potions when you live right next to the mines, where the crystals are-in yellow, blue, and pink.

The purple carpet leading up to the front steps only appears thirty minutes before a tournament duel, mostly to alert players in the area who don't check the schedule that a tournament duel is about to happen. Players can initiate a regular duel at any time, anywhere, by sending a request to any character they wish. But the tournament duels are where the real athletes come to play. Those are the duels that get spectators. I hike up my dress out of habit, since it's immaterial and poses no risk of tripping, and race up the steps. My green gown flies behind me, and I pound the + button on my virtual screen, allowing my character to grow to ten times her size so people know I've arrived.

The minute I step through the front door, having to duck just to fit into the arena, the people in the stands roar to life. I look up and around the arena in awe. The stands reach so high into the rafters that I can't see the top on account of the light from the moon, which is directly above us in the night sky. Characters jump and scream, waving veils and scarves and jangling bracelets and jewelry. Anything to attract my attention. I can't stop looking around. Everyone's configured their characters to be different shades, from Zendaya to Lupita, and I am living for it. There's forehead jewelry and face paint, flowers, feathers, beads, glitter, Afros the size of small vehicles and braids as long and thick as pythons. I spot dashikis, Mursi lip plates, otjize clay, Ulwaluko blankets, Marley twists, Michael Jackson's glove, and a man in a purple cape twice as tall as me in the front row who's trying a little too hard to be Prince. And this splendor, this orchestra of Black magnificence, extends all the way up to the ceiling, beyond my vision.

Steph would cry tears of joy if she could see this.

To make my way up the steps to the middle of the arena, I march my VR-socked feet against my rug-the rug I asked for last Christmas to cover up the sound of me dueling. In the middle of my bedroom, I raise my gloved hand and Emerald's hand shoots up in the air. The conversations of over a hundred thousand people dissipate into immediate silence. I don't think I'll ever get tired of that satisfaction.

I raise my index finger and see the virtual white-gloved hand slide my virtual keyboard from the right side of my screen.

"Welcome, kings and queens," the text above my head reads. I wish I could use a mic, but there's no way I'd be able to keep up the whole "secret identity" thing in a house with walls this thin. The crowds roar to life again, and I keep typing.

"Tonight, we await a fierce match between two of the greatest magicians in the Tundra. Our very own civil war."

The applause doesn't stop. So many people so excited to be here. I can't even.

"In one corner of the ring-some call her a Voodoo queen, some call her a dark witch, and others just call her the Shadow. Please welcome... Zama!"

I extend my hand toward the Western Gate as a cacophony of cheers and boos melds into an uproar. Zama speeds from the gate under a bear-size wolf pelt with her head tucked down low and bare arms extended like airplane wings. Her tail extends twenty feet behind her as she glides across the arena floor and around the ring. She runs as gracefully as a bird flies, so fast that the whole pelt stays off the ground. Her fans-mostly from the front rows-erupt into soulful howls that echo all the way up to the invisible ceiling. Zama finally turns and races up the steps to the ring where I am, and raises her hands to her worshippers, who continue to howl their respect.

I've seen Zama duel before. She must be a professional martial artist in real life, with access to an entire gymnasium of space, because she can flip across the whole arena and roundhouse-kick her opponents clean out of the ring. Once, in the Rain Forest region, I saw her leap into the air, grab a vine that was hanging in a loop above the arena, and ninja-kick her opponent hard enough to knock six hundred points off the board in a single blow. Her agility and mastery of the cards earned her immediate popularity in SLAY, and now that she's climbed the ranks to the top of the Tundra warriors roster, her fans have crossed over from a fan base to a cult following.

"And in the other corner," I type, "we have a wild card of a warrior. They're mighty, they're unpredictable, and they have a whole book of tricks up their sleeve. Please welcome PrestoBox!"

More applause and booing as I gesture to the Eastern Gate, where a black disk emerges and slides across the floor. It's like a shadow, but with nothing creating it. It slides right up the steps, headed straight for me. Just as I think it's going to stop, it slides underneath me. I glance over my shoulder as it emerges from under my sparkly green train and stops beside me. The cheering hasn't stopped, and it hums louder as a mountain of black lumps rises slowly from the disk, which is shrinking. The lumps slowly take shape into shoulders and a head. Then a face forms-one with a Guy Fawkes mask and a black Zorro hat-they look a bit like No Face from Spirited Away. The body is just a nondescript black cloak, concealing whatever tricks lie underneath. I've never seen Presto duel before, but I know rumors have been circulating about them since they joined six months ago. Presto has been accused of hacking because they've discovered spells so rare that Cicada was convinced nobody would ever figure them out. To create a spell in SLAY, you have to find specific ingredients, combine them in your inventory in a specific order to make a spell base, and enter codes to add certain qualities to the spell so you can actually use it. Presto managed to unlock a spell that allows you to fly-or more accurately, hover-and everyone flipped out and assumed that since no one had seen it before, it couldn't be real. But it's very real. To get it, you have to combine a Pink Crystal from the Tundra region, an Ostrich Feather from the Savanna region, and a rare Foxblood Flower from the Forest region. Then you have to find four numbers on the back of a framed photo in one of the pyramids in the Desert region and enter them into the spell code box backward. Cicada's idea. She wanted the coolest spells-the ones that let you teleport, see through walls, become invisible, levitate objects, and summon thunder-to be almost impossible to figure out. But they're very real, just waiting for players to discover them, and of all the spellmasters I've seen duel, Presto has the most potential to find them first. PrestoBox is silent and makes no movement, so I begin typing again.

Before I can enter my next sentence, a loud thunderclap explodes through the arena and a shadow appears over the ring, startling even me. I gasp and suddenly hope my mom didn't hear me from the hall. PrestoBox has raised their arms and thrown their cape fifty feet in all directions above my head and Zama's, consuming us in darkness. I look over at PrestoBox, who has revealed their body underneath the cape. They're wearing the standard black stretchy shorts that every character gets by default, since we can't have characters walking around naked, and they have gorgeous skin, the color of raw umber, with white body paint made to look like a skeleton from neck to toes.

The crowd can't get enough. If PrestoBox had fans before walking in here, they have at least double that now.

As quickly as they'd flung the cloak over the whole ring, they retract it, sucking it into their body like a Shop-Vac sucking up motor oil. PrestoBox takes a bow and raises a black lump to the crowd in a wave. I grin at their style, which has turned out to be as magnificent as their reputation.

I click enter.

"Kings and queens, you know the drill. We are here first and foremost to celebrate Black excellence in all its forms, from all parts of the globe. We are different ages, genders, tribes, tongues, and traditions. But tonight, we are all Black. And tonight, we all SLAY."

I raise my right arm for dramatic effect, and the audience members jump up and down in their seats. A shrill voice in the front screams, "I love you, Zama!"

"The rules of duel engagement are simple," I type. "Each dueler will draw six cards-two Battle cards, two Hex cards, and two Defense cards. Once the cards are drawn, duelers will have ten seconds to determine the order in which they want to use their cards. Duelers will fight using two cards each per round, in any combination they choose. In regular duels, Dueler One will launch attacks at the same time as Dueler Two. But because this is the Tundra Semifinals, and because luck makes everything more interesting, for this match, the dueler who draws the higher initial card will be allowed to use their first two cards five seconds before their opponent in round one. Defense cards beat Battle cards. Battle cards beat Hex cards. In rounds two and three, duelers will launch attacks at the same time, as per normal duel rules. The scores will appear on the Megaboard as the game progresses, and the drums will signal the beginning and end of each round. Is everybody ready?"

More cheering and hollering from the crowd. Everyone is so hyped for this online world. I wonder how many of these people ran home from school just to log on and watch.

"Duelers," I type, "face your opponent."

Zama and PrestoBox turn to stare each other down as I navigate to my inventory and pull out the deck of gold-plated cards. They come in three colors-Hex are purple, Battle are red, and Defense are blue. For the initial draw-the one that determines which dueler will go first-I keep them scrambled. I hold my arms out on either side of me, right here in my room, and watch the virtual cards shuffle theatrically through the air over my head in a shimmering arch. I look up, spinning them in all directions until they fall like a stack of leaves neatly into my hand. The crowd has gone silent as I whip my arm in front of me, casting the cards across the ring until they're sucked up into two piles, one at the feet of Zama, and one at the feet of PrestoBox.

"Duelers, draw your initial card to determine who will go first."

PrestoBox levitates their card into the air and flips it over so I can see it.

"It's the Innovation card!" I announce. I look at the Megaboard behind me, a TV screen the size of a football field floating in midair. PrestoBox's Innovation card appears enormously, in great detail, on the screen. The light bulb pictured in the middle of the card is another donated piece of artwork. It's a Hex card, the lowest ranking of the three categories. Zama draws a card from the top of her deck, glances at it, and then hands it to me.

"It's the Representation card!" I declare, watching the card appear on the Megaboard with the image of three identical silhouettes, since it duplicates the dueler times three. "A Defense card! Zama goes first."

An eruption of howls from Zama's fans drowns out the applause and booing. Zama and PrestoBox continue to stare at each other. I point to the ceiling and pull my trigger finger lightly, pulling me up into the air like I have an invisible grappling gun. I watch the ring grow smaller below me as I type with my free hand.

"On my count, the duelers will have ten seconds to study their six cards-two Battle cards, two Hex cards, and two Defense cards."

I arrive at my seat, which is high above the Megaboard where I can see a hundred more rows of stands. I programmed a holographic projection of the stage a hundred rows high so people too high up to see the floor can still see the match clearly. I prefer to watch from up here because it's much quieter, and I can watch the match under the stars. It's a game of strategy and timing. Zama and PrestoBox stare each other down like cats about to rip each other apart. Each has three stacks of cards at their feet-one red, one blue, and one purple, all with that iconic SLAY golden trim.

"Ready?" I type as I gather my gown around my feet and sink into my thronelike chair, which would fit two of me. "Go!"

Zama kneels, snatches up her deck, and flings cards one by one onto the ground in a two-by-three formation, faceup. PrestoBox's cards move on their own, six arranging themselves in the same way.

The Megaboard counts down from 10... 9... 8...

Zama studies her cards and slides all six of them around on the ground in front of her. Presto calmly moves just two of theirs to different positions. Both duelers can see their own cards clearly-the titles, the stats, and the artwork. But Cicada and I figured out pretty fast that characters in the front rows could see some of the cards with more striking artwork, ruining the surprise. So to those of us who aren't dueling, including me, the cards look like solid gold rectangles. No text, no art, nothing. Not until Zama or Presto decide to use them.

The voices of a hundred thousand characters chant along with the Megaboard: "Three!... Two!... One!" And then those drums thunder through the whole place, signaling the end of Zama's and Presto's chance to study them. All twelve cards on the floor between them flip over, facedown. It's up to the duelers to remember the order they chose and be prepared to fight with them, two cards at a time.

"Duelers," I type, "have you studied your cards?"

Zama raises her fist and releases a mighty roar among the howls of her fans. PrestoBox lifts an amorphous lump from under their cloak and waves it up at me. I'll take that as a yes.

"Excellent," I type. I have the next part memorized now, but it took me forever to write at first, jotting down the words in notebooks, on napkins, and in my phone until they clicked perfectly. "These are the rules of tournament engagement: Using the unique powers indicated on each card, duelers will battle each other until their powers run out and they return to the state in which you see them now. Then we will progress to round two. The dueler left with the most points at the end of round three wins the match. Attacks in rapid succession are permitted-duelers may deal as many strikes as they want before the timer runs out and their powers disappear. Duelers may use items and spells during game play. The restrictions are few: in-game betting on opponents, hacking, lag mechanisms, and unapproved mods to characters, skills, and environments are strictly prohibited. In general, no-"

The audience yells it as my next text appears:

"Tomfoolery!"

I grin as I type the next part:

"And finally, remember that little queens and kings are watching. Opponents, respect each other in words and in actions. No trash talk. Let your skills speak for themselves. Now, are you ALL READY?!"

The crowd roars to life and Zama begins hopping up and down to loosen up. PrestoBox widens their stance under their robe.

"Duelers! On my count, flip your first pair of cards! Ready? Three... two... one... Flip!"

Zama flips the two cards closest to her. Two cards flip on their own in front of PrestoBox. The four cards appear on the Megaboard, and I hurry to read their names so I can type.

"Zama has chosen the Gabby Douglas card and the Twist-Out card for a deadly combination. Very nice, but will it withstand PrestoBox's selections, the Jimi Hendrix card and the Swerve card? We'll find out in three! Two! One! And begin!"

Those drums thunder away through the arena.

Zama taps the Twist-Out card first, and her hair grows into two monstrous ropes as thick in diameter as Thanksgiving dinner plates, ropes that deal no damage but can render the opponent immobile if they catch them. They fly straight for PrestoBox, who ducks and rolls out of the way, just barely escaping their grasp in time as the two ropes untwist into four. Presto reaches their hand out from under the inky black cloak and touches the Jimi Hendrix card, and an electric purple haze falls over the ring, descending from the sky like a tropical rain. I debated between calling this one the Jimi Hendrix card after his song "Purple Haze" or the Prince card in honor of "Purple Rain," but in the end, it looked more like a "Purple Haze" to me, and since it clouds the opponent's vision by 75 percent, the name stuck.

Zama begins to stumble amid the violet fog. The crowd is loving this, and I'm loving it along with them. Even though I have all the cards' stats memorized since I wrote most of them, I never know for sure how a match will end. The outcome depends on so many factors besides luck of the draw-aggressiveness, patience, reverse psychology, game theory, character strength, and frankly, how skilled the person behind the character is at using VR equipment. It's impossible to tell who has the upper hand, and I realize I'm holding my breath.

Zama's untwisted ringlets split into a flailing spiral of fifty locks of hair. The crowd gasps as all tendrils zoom straight at PrestoBox, who can't escape them this time. Presto is sucked up into a jet-black bouquet of gorgeous natural hair that I'm envious of. My twist-outs have been stuck at my shoulders since junior high. Presto squirms fruitlessly as Zama leaps forward into a handspring with one of her hands on the Gabby Douglas card, and her feet follow effortlessly. She tumbles and flips across the ring with such speed and strength that people are rising out of their chairs in awe. A swift roundhouse to the face sends PrestoBox flying mask-first into the ground.

I gasp and realize I'm clenching my fists, and then I take a deep breath and remind myself that none of this is real, and that Presto isn't really hurt, and that my animations are just that realistic. I steal a glance at the Megaboard. That blow gave Zama a whopping twelve-hundred-point lead.

"Come on, Presto," I urge. My heart skips as I realize I've said it in real life, and I lift one headphone to listen to the quiet of my room, just to make sure Mom hasn't heard me.

PrestoBox is off the ground, tapping their second, and last, round one card-the Swerve card, one of my favorites, marked by a black steering wheel as the artwork, since it comes from the expression "swerve," which means "step off" or "stay in your lane." It blocks 80 percent of opponent damage. To use this as a round three card usually means the player has given up on offense and they want to block as much damage as possible in a last-ditch effort to stay in the game. Using the Swerve card in round one means Presto anticipated Zama would take the offensive out the gate and is giving themselves time to catch up. The crowd erupts in boos, and Zama shrugs, circling the ring with a raised hand to calm her supporters down. Her twist-out is still billowing behind her. With Zama's back to the ring, PrestoBox glides across the floor in her direction. I smirk at Zama's carelessness. We're only two minutes into round one, with sixty seconds left. There's no way she should be this confident yet. If there's one thing that'll get you flattened in the ring, it's pride.

Presto leaps through Zama's hair tentacles and engulfs her in that inky black cloak until both duelers are a tangle of hair, wolf pelt, and shadowy blackness under a purple haze. I can barely make out anything through all that, so I watch the Megaboard as Presto's points tick up and up and up. Three hundred, four hundred, five fifty, six fifty. It's thirteen hundred to eight hundred as Zama breaks free and sics her hair on PrestoBox again. Presto reverts to shadow form, sinking into the floor until they're a pool of black zipping all over the ring. Zama's eyes can't keep up, and she looks ridiculous tap-dancing around in her regal wolf cloak to keep her feet away from the shadow.

I can't help it-I burst into laughter.

My mom's voice comes instantly.

"Honey, I hope you're studying in there," she calls.

"Yeah," I holler, probably a little too fast. "I'm just taking a quick break."

"Well, dinner's almost ready anyway. You can take a break with us."

"Is Dad home already?" I exclaim. It can't be. It's only-

I glance at the clock in the corner of my navigation panel. 3:45. What in the world is Dad doing home so early on a random Thursday?! Why, of all days, did both my parents decide to show up early from work today? I'm only halfway through round one of the Tundra Semifinals. I can't just leave!

PrestoBox is flipping Zama over their shoulder now and slamming her flat on the ground. It's time for me to chime in again. I begin typing and talking at the same time, which is always dangerous. I type: "A spectacular move by PrestoBox! What a show!" at the same time as I say, "Fine, just let me finish this show," instead of what I meant to say: Fine, just let me finish this assignment. I scramble to correct myself. "I'm writing a report on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and its impact on Black culture in the nineties. I'm kind of in the middle of a train of thought here."

"Yes, well, you won't be able to think if you don't get some nourishment," calls Mom.

"Yes, ma'am," I say begrudgingly, knowing a fight with my mom over dinner will not end in my favor. I listen to the ensuing silence until I'm sure she's gone, and then I focus back in on the match. Zama is swinging her staff, knocking away sickle-shaped darts flying out from under PrestoBox's cloak. We're nearing the end of round one, and the Megaboard reads 1500-1300, with Zama in the lead. It's so close, but there's no way I'll make it through to the end of round three without Mom pounding angrily at my door with the news that dinner is getting cold.

I call in the only reinforcement I can count on: Cicada.

I slide my chat panel out on my VR screen and open a private convo with her, relieved to find her name lit up in green.

Me: Please tell me you're watching this.

Cicada: Zama and Presto? It's past midnight here and I have a final exam tomorrow. In other words, wouldn't miss it. :)

I smile. I don't know where Cicada lives, but she's somewhere in the Central European Time Zone, putting her somewhere south of Norway and north of Nigeria, which doesn't narrow it down much. I don't know a lot about her, really, since most of our conversations are strictly business-related to game updates, new cards, landscape artwork, or server maintenance-but I know that I can trust her. She's been on this SLAY train since the beginning, faithfully moderating matches when I can't, and it works, since she's somewhere on the other side of the world. She's awake when I'm not.

I type a reply into our private chat box.

Me: Thank God. Listen, it's dinnertime and if I don't get out there soon, my mom is going to have a liter of kittens.

Cicada: Spell-check? Or did your mom take "Kittens in a Blender" too literally?

I manage to contain a laugh and send a crying laughing emoji right back, and a grateful IOU a major one.

Then I navigate back to my announcement panel and type to the masses just as Zama reciprocates PrestoBox's earlier body slam.

"Attention, lovely kings and queens, I leave you in the capable hands of Cicada. Be conscious, and be well."

I don't want to log off. The score is tied 1700-1700, and Zama's hair is weakening its grip from around Presto's amorphous form. The purple haze is fading. Round one is ending in a tie. The crowd is roaring as the imminence of round two sinks in. I see Cicada's name light up in the stands on the opposite side of the arena, and freestanding, glowing white text appears above her bald head in a floating holographic speech bubble. It says "What a maneuver! Moves like that only come from the Tundra, am I right, kings and queens?"

I love her gown. It's all white, off shoulder with white fur lining the neckline. A single strip of black fur lines the hood, which is pulled elegantly over her head. Her face is actually devoid of makeup. She just has the base-model face. But sometimes, if she's feeling spunky, she'll don the Princess Mononoke mask-the red and white one with the brown eyes. So badass. She's sitting in the stands, so I can only see her from the torso up, but I've seen the gown in all its glory before. She looks like an ice princess. I wonder if she's bald in real life too.

"Kiera!"

The yell makes me jump, and I scramble to log out, kill the power, yank off my headphones, headset, and gloves, hop across my carpet as I pull off one sock at a time, and get all my equipment back into the drawer before the knocking starts.

"Hold on!" I holler. I try to keep my keys as quiet as possible while I lock the bottom drawer.

"Dinner is getting cold!"

"I know, just-" I'm trying to catch my breath after being startled, so I don't emerge from my room a raging ball of nerves. I'm already sweaty from the excitement of the match. I don't want to look like I've just run a marathon while I'm supposed to be watching Fresh Prince.

"Just, get started without me. I'll be out in five."

"If you think you're going to leave your father and me to listen to this rant about African American Vernacular English by ourselves, you've got another think coming."

I smile and shake my head, wiping the sweat from my forehead and turning off my computer. As I open my door and follow Mom down the hall toward the dining room, I wonder which cards Zama and Presto will be using in round two.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Chapter 1: Playing the Game 1. PLAYING THE GAME By day, I'm an honors student at Jefferson Academy. At night, I turn into the Nubian goddess most people know as Emerald. The second the bell rings, I'm out of my desk seat and bolting through the classroom door.

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Category
Memoir

Summary
Maia Kobabe (ey/em/eir) never fit inside a binary. In Gender Queer Kobabe charts the many poignant moments that built eir identity. Spanning adolescence through adulthood, this graphic novel explores gender, sexuality, and the secrets we keep.

Reaction/How to Use
To ban Gender Queer is to do a huge disservice to readers across the country. Kobabe includes a straightforward discussion of topics I have never encountered in a protagonist – this graphic novel can make young readers feel seen, and foster understanding and empathy for caregivers who want to support the children in their lives.

One of the panels illustrates how Alison Bechdel’s groundbreaking graphic memoir Fun Home helped her find the word for masturbation (p.135). In that same tradition, Kobabe puts language to experience, defining terms like “a.f.a.b” or “autoandrophilia,” allowing readers to identify with a new term or simply learn something new. As a school librarian, I realize not every site will have this in their inventory; however, I would try to make this book available for my students. Kobabe is a wonderful writer who highlights the many strong relationships that helped em discover eir identity and deserves to be a role model for readers.

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2020 ALA Alex Award Winner
2020 Stonewall - Israel Fishman Non-fiction Award Honor Book

In 2014, Maia Kobabe, who uses e/em/eir pronouns, thought that a comic of reading statistics would be the last autobiographical comic e would ever write. At the time, it was the only thing e felt comfortable with strangers knowing about em. Now, Gender Queer is here. Maia's intensely cathartic autobiography charts eir journey of self-identity, which includes the mortification and confusion of adolescent crushes, grappling with how to come out to family and society, bonding with friends over erotic gay fanfiction, and facing the trauma and fundamental violation of pap smears.

Started as a way to explain to eir family what it means to be nonbinary and asexual, Gender Queer is more than a personal story: it is a useful and touching guide on gender identity-what it means and how to think about it-for advocates, friends, and humans everywhere.
"It's also a great resource for those who identify as nonbinary or asexual as well as for those who know someone who identifies that way and wish to better understand." - SLJ (starred review)

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Gender Queer: A Memoir by Maia Kobabe - 2020 ALA Alex Award Winner 2020 Stonewall - Israel Fishman Non-fiction Award Honor BookIn 2014, Maia Kobabe, who uses...

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The Miseducation of Cameron Post by Emily M. Danforth (2012)

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The Miseducation of Cameron Post by Emily M. Danforth (2012)

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Category
Book vs. Movie

Summary
Cameron Post’s parents die the same night she kisses her best friend. Spanning the early teen years that follow this life-changing event, this coming-of-age novel explores intense friendships, sexual identity, and loss. Set in the early nineties, readers will travel across Montana from rural Miles City to a religious gay conversion center.

Reaction/How to Use
Danforth captures a mix of tingling excitement, shame, uncertainty, and fear that accompanies figuring yourself out. Something The Miseducation of Cameron Post really gets right is the intensity of teenage relationships and the blurry line between friendship and romance that I think readers will be able to identify with regardless of orientation.

This book can be used with teens who have an interest in LGBTQ topics. It is also a terrific example of the ways we can create community outside of our households – in every environment Cam’s friends contribute to the way she sees herself and ultimately builds herself up. The nineties backdrop, with its many cassette tapes and VHS references, also serves as a point of interest for some readers as nineties fashions and music are currently experiencing a resurgence. However, the film by the same name does little to convey the mood of the book.

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The acclaimed book behind the 2018 Sundance Grand Jury Prize-winning movie “LGBTQ cinema is out in force at Sundance Film Festival,” proclaimed USA Today. “The acerbic coming-of-age movie is adapted from Emily M. Danforth’s novel, and stars Chloë Grace Moretz as a lesbia

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The Taking of Jake Livingston by Ryan Douglass (2021)

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The Taking of Jake Livingston by Ryan Douglass (2021)

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Category
Speculative Fiction

Summary
Jake Livingston can see ghosts. Now that he’s haunted by a school shooter, everything that he’s ever tried to hide – his sexual identity and the trauma from being one of the only Black kids in a mostly white school – comes bubbling to the surface. Jake must fight to survive.

Reaction/How to Use
The eye-catching cover and quick blurb make this a unique pick that combines horror with important social issues, but there are elements of the content that give me pause when thinking about widely recommending this to teen readers.

Today’s teens often live on the edge of violence facing school shooter drills, lockdowns, and the regular presence of violence on campuses across the country – reading about school shooters may activate trauma, so a librarian needs to understand the reader or provide a trigger warning prior to a recommendation. In this book, vengeance often leads to violence. For example, Jake stabs Chad with a pencil after relentless racist bullying and then later kills Sawyer’s Uncle Rod while under the dead boy’s possession. Both characters contribute to Jake and Sawyer’s trauma, and it seems like a reader should accept that Chad and Uncle Rod deserved it. Yet, doesn’t violence breed more violence?

In terms of representation, this book is awesome, with its queer Black protagonist that sees ghosts. However, when using this book with teens it may be helpful to have a safe space to decompress and discuss the content, like in a book club setting.

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Praise for The Taking of Jake Livingston:

A 2022 ALA Rainbow Book List Pick
A 2021 Tor.com Young Adult Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror Best Book Pick
A 2021 Black Caucus American Library Association Best of the Best Booklist Pick

" Spine-chilling YA horror." - The Boston Globe

"This book is absolutely incredible, chilling, and a must-read." - BuzzFeed
★ " An exceptional blend of genres-horror, mystery, thriller and contemporary-that brilliantly captures how Jake, a Black gay teen medium, copes with the varying kinds of violence threatening him. . . Douglass creates a clever and effective parallel between what Jake can't control-racism and how his body is perceived, a toxic father, an irresponsible brother, his mother's expectations-and his fight against Sawyer. The story builds to a rewardingly chilling and sentimental climax, as Jake must look deep within himself for the power to break the cycles of harm entrapping him. . . An extraordinarily crafted exploration of agency during Black gay teenhood." - Shelf Awareness, starred review

"A teenage version of Get Out, and you will not be disappointed. . . Douglass looks at race and trauma and death with a comical and horror-esque twist." - The Root

" Crucial social commentary and insight into the ways discrimination can isolate and depress young adults. Lush and emotive prose chronicles Jake's journey... Spooky, atmospheric, and layered."- Kirkus Reviews

"There are many layers to navigate in this fast-paced trip to and from the world of the dead, including identity, violent and sexual traumas, and the stigma of mental illness, all with a supernatural and often gory twist. . . Ultimately, this is a satisfying addition to the supernatural horror section." - The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

"YA readers looking for thrills and chills this summer will find them here." - Brightly

" Captures the pain of navigating teenagerhood when no one around you sees the world the way you do...A quick, worthwhile read that manages to pack a lot of dark themes into a tight space." - The Young Folks

" Chilling, edgy . . . spooky and layered. . .A wonderful genre-meld...This is an excellent debut." - Cinelinx

"This YA debut from Ryan Douglass is a mix of genres-horror, mystery, thriller, and contemporary-that explores how a Black gay teen medium copes with the various kinds of violence that threaten him." - Culturess

" Racial and sexuality themes undercut this gripping novel where a teen is haunted by the repercussions of his own sixth sense." - Cultured Vultures

"A unique and terrifying world built on tension and ghosts." - The Seattle Times

" Tackl[ing] mental illness, rejection, and loneliness. . . this novel takes a hard look at brutality in many forms, racism, homophobia, and consequences of the choices that we make." - School Library Journal, review of the audiobook

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The Taking of Jake Livingston by Ryan Douglass: 9781984812551 | PenguinRandomHouse.com: Books

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Praise for The Taking of Jake Livingston: A 2022 ALA Rainbow Book List Pick A 2021 Tor.com Young Adult Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror Best Book Pick A 2021 Black Caucus American Library Association Best of the Best Booklist Pick " Spine-chilling YA horror."

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Show Me a Sign by Ann Clare LeZotte (2020)

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Show Me a Sign by Ann Clare LeZotte (2020)

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Category
Historical Fiction

Summary
Eleven-year-old Mary Lambert is one of many deaf islanders inhabiting Martha’s Vineyard in 1805. When a scientist insists on finding a cause for the widespread deafness, Mary becomes an unwilling experiment in this story that questions what it means to be normal.

Reaction/How to Use
I had no idea historic Martha’s Vineyard was home to a prevalent deaf community, prior to reading Show Me a Sign. This book is an awesome way to introduce students to a piece of unique history while simultaneously presenting larger ideas like acceptance, prejudice, ability, and racism.

Mary may be young, but she is an astute observer of the world around her, and she questions injustices against the Wampanoag tribe long before she realizes that her own Deaf community can also be ostracized on the mainland – her observations make for an accessible conversation for students. Author Ann Clare LeZotte’s inclusion of further research information, as well as biographical details about her own life as a Deaf writer/librarian, will greatly enrich a much larger unit on history and ability.

Additional opportunities exist to collaborate with a science classroom – chapters 14 and 17 both include descriptions of the development of a hypothesis and the scientific method and can bring science to life.

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Don’t miss the companion book, Set Me FreeWinner of the 2021 Schneider Family Book Award ∙NPR Best Books of 2020 ∙Kirkus Reviews Best Books of 2020 ∙School Library Journal Best Books of 2020 ∙New York Public Library Best Books of 2020 ∙Chicago Public Library Best Books of 2020 ∙2020 Jane Addams Chil…

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Category
LGBTQ

Summary
In the wake of great loss and her sudden disappearance, Marin must face the past in the form of an old best friend. Alternating between past and present, secrets are revealed as Marin tackles the unbearable loneliness inside her.

Reaction/How to Use
This story is breathtaking – the depth of Marin’s loneliness, and the walls she builds in the face of grief and loss are universal.

This book shows the effects of depression and could be helpful for teens – both Marin and her grandfather suffer in secret (her grandfather hides his depression behind smiles and life hacks, while Marin hides from the world).

One thing I think readers will be able to connect with is the resilience of the friendship between Marin and Mabel. Throughout the “present” chapters in the book there is a discomfort between the two characters, despite their palpable connection – everyone needs a friend who loves us deeply and tries to bring us back when we are at our lowest.

Nina LaCour’s picture books normalize LGBTQ families, and We Are Okay is no different. While Marin and Mabel are two girls with a romantic history, this book is not about Marin coming to grips with her sexuality. Instead, it’s simply one facet of a much more complicated story.

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Praise for We Are Okay
One of TIME MAGAZINE's 100 Best YA Books of All Time

"A brief but powerfully affecting meditation on loneliness and grief." - TIME

" A meditation on surviving grief, We Are Okay is short, poetic and gorgeously written.... The power in this little book is in seeing Marin come out on the other side of loss, able to appreciate a beautiful yellow-glazed pottery bowl and other people's kindnesses, and to understand that she might one day have a girlfriend and a future. The world LaCour creates is fragile but profoundly humane." - The New York Times Book Review

"A beautiful, devastating piece of art. . . .The title hints at a happy ending, but the journey toward it passes through some of the darkest corners of the heart. Be prepared to be gutted-and grateful. We Are Okay is an extraordinary work by an author who keeps redefining and elevating her genre." - Bookpage

"Nina LaCour treats her emotions so beautifully and with such empathy. Of course, we'd expect nothing less from the stunning LaCour." -Bustle

★ "Exquisite. " - Kirkus, starred review

★ "LaCour paints a captivating depiction of loss, bewilderment, and emotional paralysis . . . raw and beautiful." - Booklist, starred review

★ "Beautifully crafted . . . . A quietly moving, potent novel." - School Library Journal, starred review

★ "A moving portrait of a girl struggling to rebound after everything she's known has been thrown into disarray." - Publishers Weekly, starred review

★" Bittersweet and hopeful . . . poetic and skillfully crafted." -Shelf Awareness, starred review

"So lonely and beautiful that I could hardly breathe. This is a perfect book." -Stephanie Perkins, bestselling author of Anna and the French Kiss

" As beautiful as the best memories, as sad as the best songs, as hopeful as your best dreams."
-Siobhan Vivian, bestselling author of The Last Boy and Girl in the World

"You can feel every peak and valley of Marin's emotional journey on your skin, in your gut. Beautifully written, heartfelt, and deeply real." -Adi Alsaid, author of Never Always Sometimes and Let's Get Lost

MORE PRAISE FOR NINA LACOUR

Hold Still:
YALSA Best Books for Young Adults (2010); 2010 William C. Morris Honor Book

★ "LaCour makes an impressive debut with an emotionally charged young adult novel about friendship and loss." - "LaCour strikes a new path through a familiar story, leading readers with her confident writing and savvy sense of prose." - Kirkus

"The book is written with honesty, revealing one's pain after the loss of a loved one." - SLJ

The Disenchantments:
YALSA Best Books for Young Adults (2013); Kirkus Best Teen Book of 2012; A Publishers Weekly Best Summer Book

★ "This is about the inside and outside of characters, the past and future of their lives-and it is astonishing." -Booklist

"Quietly compelling . . . well rendered, bittersweet and hopeful." -Los Angeles Times

★ "A rich tapestry that will make readers confident that they are in the hands of a master storyteller. . . . . Hauntingly beautiful." -Kirkus

★ "LaCour skillfully draws connections between art and life as she delves into the heart of her characters." -Publishers Weekly

★" Bittersweet and hopeful . . . poetic and skillfully crafted." -Shelf Awareness

★ "LaCour's writing style is laid-back, low key, and totally on point." -VOYA

Everything Leads to You:
★ "Underneath the privilege surges real pain, longing, and feeling in a way that makes it easy to imagine this novel as a film." - Publishers Weekly

Boston Globe Best Book of the Year SELECTION 2017

New York Public Library Books for the Teen Age SELECTION 2017

ALA Best Books for Young Adults AWARD 2018

Michael L. Printz Award Winner AWARD 2018

Printz Awards AWARD 2018

Get the latest updates about Nina LaCour

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We Are Okay by Nina LaCour: 9780142422939 | PenguinRandomHouse.com: Books

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Nina LaCour's award-winning, achingly beautiful novel is now available in paperback! -Includes a new foreword by Nicola Yoon, #1 bestselling author of The Sun is Also a Star and Everything, Everything-...

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Laura Dean Keeps Breaking Up With Me by Mariko Tamaki (2019)

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Laura Dean Keeps Breaking Up With Me by Mariko Tamaki (2019)

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Category
Graphic Novel

Summary
Freddy is stuck in a loop. One day she’s in the effortlessly cool Laura Dean’s arms and the next day she’s dumped. She has to do something before she loses all her friends and herself.

Reaction/How to Use
This graphic novel perfectly illustrates the impossible tug of childhood and adulthood that many teens can identify with – Freddy hooks up with Laura Dean in a bedroom filled with funky stuffed animals she’s sewn with her best friend Dood. Each page examines the important roles these many relationships play in a teen’s life.

I would absolutely recommend it to any mature teen who enjoys graphic novels, LGBTQ themes, or romantic struggles. There are some mature (but necessary) conversations approached in this book. For example, Dood and Freddy discuss the age of consent and why it exists (and because Freddy's being a bad friend, she does not question why Dood friend brought it up) – eventually it is revealed that Dood had an affair with a married man and needs an abortion. These issues underscore the toxicity of the relationships surrounding the characters and are absolutely relevant to teens’ lives.

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One of FORBES Best Graphic Novels of 2019

On BCCB 2019 Blue Ribbons List

One of NPR's Best Books of 2019

Booklist 2019 Editors' Choice

One of Bitch Media's Best Queer YA Novels of 2019

Author Mariko Tamaki and illustrator Rosemary Valero-O'Connell bring to life a sweet and spirited tale of young love in Laura Dean Keeps Breaking Up with Me, a graphic novel that asks us to consider what happens when we ditch the toxic relationships we crave to embrace the healthy ones we need.

Laura Dean, the most popular girl in high school, was Frederica Riley's dream girl: charming, confident, and SO cute. There's just one problem: Laura Dean is maybe not the greatest girlfriend.

Reeling from her latest break up, Freddy's best friend, Doodle, introduces her to the Seek-Her, a mysterious medium, who leaves Freddy some cryptic parting words: break up with her. But Laura Dean keeps coming back, and as their relationship spirals further out of her control, Freddy has to wonder if it's really Laura Dean that's the problem. Maybe it's Freddy, who is rapidly losing her friends, including Doodle, who needs her now more than ever.

Fortunately for Freddy, there are new friends, and the insight of advice columnists like Anna Vice to help her through being a teenager in love.

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One of FORBES Best Graphic Novels of 2019 On BCCB 2019 Blue Ribbons ListOne of NPR's Best Books of 2019Booklist 2019 Editors' ChoiceOne of Bitch Media's Best Queer YA Novels of 2019Author Mariko Tamaki and illustrator Rosemary Valero-O'Connell bring to life a sweet and spirited tale of young love in Laura Dean Keeps Breaking Up with Me, a graphic novel that asks us to consider what happens when we ditch the toxic ...

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Bomb: The Race to Build – and Steal – the World’s Most Dangerous Weapon by Steve Sheinkin (2012)

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Bomb: The Race to Build – and Steal – the World’s Most Dangerous Weapon by Steve Sheinkin (2012)

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Author Assignment

Summary
The story of the atomic bomb is one of great collaboration and immense destruction. Sheinkin traces the development of this devastating weapon, emphasizing the unique influence of the key scientists, politicians, army personnel, and spies involved in the tale.

Reaction/How to Use
Sheinkin turns history into thrilling adventure in this quick read that crosses countries and allegiances. There are many important players that weave through this history, and the story captures the emotion of creating a weapon capable of destroying the world.

Combining physics, history, and story, Bomb presents an opportunity for cross-classroom collaboration. For example, a school librarian can partner with a history teacher for a “and the world was never the same” research project. At the close of Bomb, the characters are left grappling with the way their actions changed the course of human history and Sheinkin underscores the effects those actions still have on us today – teachers can use this as a bridge to other times our world underwent drastic change and what that means in the present.

Bonus: Sheinkin includes a citation list, as well as a walk-through of the ways his many resources supported this story – this serves as inspiration for the ways students can use a variety of sources for research.

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Perfect for middle grade readers and history enthusiasts, New York Times bestselling author Steve Sheinkin presents the fascinating and frightening true story of the creation behind the most destructive force that birthed the arms race and the Cold War in Bomb: The Race to Build-and Steal-the World's Most Dangerous Weapon.
A Newbery Honor book
A National Book Awards finalist for Young People's Literature
A Washington Post Best Kids Books of the Year title
In December of 1938, a chemist in a German laboratory made a shocking discovery: When placed next to radioactive material, a Uranium atom split in two. That simple discovery launched a scientific race that spanned three continents.
In Great Britain and the United States, Soviet spies worked their way into the scientific community; in Norway, a commando force slipped behind enemy lines to attack German heavy-water manufacturing; and deep in the desert, one brilliant group of scientists was hidden away at a remote site at Los Alamos. This is the story of the plotting, the risk-taking, the deceit, and genius that created the world's most formidable weapon. This is the story of the atomic bomb.
"This superb and exciting work of nonfiction would be a fine tonic for any jaded adolescent who thinks history is 'boring.' It's also an excellent primer for adult readers who may have forgotten, or never learned, the remarkable story of how nuclear weaponry was first imagined, invented and deployed-and of how an international arms race began well before there was such a thing as an atomic bomb." - The Wall Street Journal
"This is edge-of-the seat material that will resonate with YAs who clamor for true spy stories, and it will undoubtedly engross a cross-market audience of adults who dozed through the World War II unit in high school." - The Bulletin (starred review)
Also by Steve Sheinkin:
The Notorious Benedict Arnold: A True Story of Adventure, Heroism & Treachery
The Port Chicago 50: Disaster, Mutiny, and the Fight for Civil Rights
Undefeated: Jim Thorpe and the Carlisle Indian School Football Team
Most Dangerous: Daniel Ellsberg and the Secret History of the Vietnam War
Which Way to the Wild West?: Everything Your Schoolbooks Didn't Tell You About Westward Expansion
King George: What Was His Problem?: Everything Your Schoolbooks Didn't Tell You About the American Revolution
Two Miserable Presidents: Everything Your Schoolbooks Didn't Tell You About the Civil War
Born to Fly: The First Women's Air Race Across America

Available to buy

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Perfect for middle grade readers and history enthusiasts, New York Times bestselling author Steve Sheinkin presents the fascinating and frightening true story of the creation behind the most destructive force that birthed the arms race and the Col...

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American Murderer: The Parasite that Haunted the South by Gail Jarrow (2022) 

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American Murderer: The Parasite that Haunted the South by Gail Jarrow (2022) 

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Category
Non-fiction

Summary
For years, the hookworm remained unnoticed, its teeth buried deep into its host’s gut, a blood sucker, and a murderer. Unfortunately, those parasites were no match for Dr. Charles Wardell Stiles. American Murderer: The Parasite that Haunted the South charts the true tale of the man who refused to be foiled by these tiny creatures.

Reaction/How to Use
Filled with sensational language that likens the hookworm to a vampire and a murderer, American Murderer: The Parasite that Haunted the South is an excellent foray into the totally gross history of the hookworm.

Using newspaper headings, photographs from the early 1900s, illustrations, and public health propaganda, this book is an excellent example of the ways primary sources can be used to enhance a story. American Murderer holds cross-disciplinary interest and can be used in partnership with history, language arts, and science classrooms. For example, students can explore the effects of the “dirt-eater" label and the ways language and bias counteracted scientific fact.

This story is not limited to the past. Today’s students have firsthand experience with life during a pandemic and can draw parallels to our own public health crisis.

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American Murderer by Gail Jarrow: 9781684378159 | PenguinRandomHouse.com: Books

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Included on NPR’s 2022 “Books We Love” List Finalist, 2023 YALSA Award for Excellence in Nonfiction ALSC Notable Children’s Book What made workers in the American South so tired and feeble during…

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Audiobook

Summary
Mars is a twin – well, was a twin, that is until his sister tried to kill him and ended up dead. Now, the genderfluid Mars must return to the elite heteronormative summer camp to uncover the secrets his sister kept. He follows the buzz of the beautiful group of mysterious girls called the Honeys in this horror tale of grief and identity.

Reaction/How to Use
The strong narration by Pete Cross paired with sound effects like the buzzing of bees contribute to the overall atmosphere of this horrifying summer at camp.

The Honeys is a great pick for teens in search of a character-driven summer scare. While there are a variety of plot points (camping trips, apiology side bars, a trip to Applebees, bee-driven ceremonial sacrifice), the novel is primary driven by Mars’ running monologue, and the pacing will be slow for some readers. Nevertheless, his internal conflicts offer important discussion topics relevant to our real world, posing issues of bullying, acceptance, gender, jealousy, and grief.  It definitely belongs on the library shelf (or in your Libby app).

One critique – despite the strong character development of Mars, the other characters are mostly underdeveloped, falling heavily in the binary with the girls flitting around like ethereal beauties while the boys play sports and spew sexist commentary.

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From Ryan La Sala, the wildly popular author of Reverie, comes a twisted and tantalizing horror novel set amidst the bucolic splendor of a secluded summer retreat.

Mars has always been the lesser twin, the shadow to his sister Caroline's radiance. But when Caroline dies under horrific circumstances, Mars is propelled to learn all he can about his once-inseparable sister who'd grown tragically distant.

Mars's genderfluidity means he's often excluded from the traditions - and expectations - of his politically-connected family. This includes attendance at the prestigious Aspen Conservancy Summer Academy where his sister poured so much of her time. But with his grief still fresh, he insists on attending in her place.

What Mars finds is a bucolic fairytale not meant for him. Folksy charm and sun-drenched festivities camouflage old-fashioned gender roles and a toxic preparatory rigor. Mars seeks out his sister's old friends: a group of girls dubbed the Honeys, named for the beehives they maintain behind their cabin. They are beautiful and terrifying - and Mars is certain they're connected to Caroline's death.

But the longer he stays at Aspen, the more the sweet mountain breezes give way to hints of decay. Mars's memories begin to falter, bleached beneath the relentless summer sun. Something is hunting him in broad daylight, toying with his mind. If Mars can't find it soon, it will eat him alive.

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From Ryan La Sala, the wildly popular author of Reverie, comes a twisted and tantalizing horror novel set amidst the bucolic splendor of a secluded summer retreat.Mars has always been the lesser twin, the shadow to his sister Caroline's radiance.

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Fruits Basket: Volume 1 by Natsuki Takaya (2015)

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Fruits Basket: Volume 1 by Natsuki Takaya (2015)

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Category
First Title in a Manga Series

Summary
After her mother dies and her grandfather can no longer house her, Tohru Honda moves in with the Sohma Clan. However, the mysterious Sohma boys harbor an unbelievable secret – they turn into animals from the Chinese Zodiac whenever they are touched by members of the opposite sex.

Reaction/How to Use
Fruits Basket balances fantasy with sadness, finding moments of light in a time of grief. Tohru Honda lost her mom and is living in a tent when the Sohma family finds her, yet she tries to find happiness every day. I would use this with students interested in anime.

Something that stood out about Fruits Baskets was that it had very little violence. There are a few fights between the Sohma clan members, but it is primarily punching, and no one gets killed. It would be a nice pick for a school library manga collection. The Collector’s Edition also includes helpful translation notes – this coupled with the Fruits Basket anime series could make for an exciting multimedia display.

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After a family tragedy turns her life upside down, plucky high schooler Tohru Honda takes matters into her own hands and moves out...into a tent! Unfortunately for her, she pitches her new home on private land belonging to the mysterious Sohma clan, and it isn't long before the owners discover her secret. But, as Tohru quickly finds out when the family offers to take her in, the Sohmas have a secret of their own—when touched by the opposite sex, they turn into the animals of the Chinese Zodiac!

A perennial favorite of fans and librarians alike, Natsuki Takaya's beloved bestselling Fruits Basket series returns to print in gorgeous deluxe English-language omnibus editions with beautiful full-color illustrations that are not to be missed!

Product Details

ISBN-13:

9780316360166

Publisher:

Yen Press

Publication date:

06/28/2016

Series:

Fruits Basket Series

Pages:

392

Sales rank:

10,770

Product dimensions:

5.70(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.40(d)

Age Range:

13 - 18 Years

About the Author

Natsuki Takaya burst onto the manga scene in North America with the publication of Fruits Basket which became an immediate sensation. Her other works include Twinkle Stars and Liselotte & Witch's Forest.

Based on the much-beloved Dragon

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Fruits Basket Collector's Edition, Vol. 1|Paperback

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After a family tragedy turns her life upside down, plucky high schooler Tohru Honda takes matters into her own hands and moves out...into a tent! Unfortunately for her, she pitches her new home on private land belonging to the mysterious Sohma clan, and it isn't long before the owners discover...

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Category
Verse

Summary
Xiomara struggles to be – too curvy to go unnoticed, too quick to fight to protect her twin, too many questions to accept God like her mami. But with her words she gives breath to the Poet X and finds the girl she needs to share with the world.

Reaction/How to Use
This book is incredible.

This novel in verse can be used in place of (or alongside) lyrical works like Shakespeare and can be used in partnership with a language arts classroom. Acevedo’s controlled word choice activates the senses, and the school library offers the opportunity to pull in a range of multidisciplinary resources (the music of J. Cole, videos of teen slam poets, images of Harlem) to engulf students in this world and illustrate the relevance of poetry and the power words can hold.

Ms. Galiano tells Xiomara, “words give people permission to be their fullest self/ And aren’t these the poems/ I’ve most needed to hear?” (p. 345). Acevedo’s words give a voice to issues that many teens can connect with today, including sexuality, body image, familial expectations, and new relationships.

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Fans of Jacqueline Woodson, Meg Medina, and Jason Reynolds will fall hard for this astonishing New York Times-bestselling novel-in-verse by an award-winning slam poet, about an Afro-Latina heroine who tells her story with blazing words and powerful truth.
Xiomara Batista feels unheard and unable to hide in her Harlem neighborhood. Ever since her body grew into curves, she has learned to let her fists and her fierceness do the talking.

But Xiomara has plenty she wants to say, and she pours all her frustration and passion onto the pages of a leather notebook, reciting the words to herself like prayers-especially after she catches feelings for a boy in her bio class named Aman, who her family can never know about.

With Mami's determination to force her daughter to obey the laws of the church, Xiomara understands that her thoughts are best kept to herself. So when she is invited to join her school's slam poetry club, she doesn't know how she could ever attend without her mami finding out. But she still can't stop thinking about performing her poems.

Because in the face of a world that may not want to hear her, Xiomara refuses to be silent.
"Crackles with energy and snaps with authenticity and voice." -Justina Ireland, author of Dread Nation "An incredibly potent debut." "Acevedo has amplified the voices of girls en el barrio who are equal parts goddess, saint, warrior, and hero." This young adult novel, a Plus don't miss Elizabeth Acevedo's With the Fire on High and Clap When You Land! selection of the Schomburg Center's Black Liberation Reading List, is an excellent choice for accelerated tween readers in grades 6 to 8. -Ibi Zoboi, author of American Street -Jason Reynolds, author of the National Book Award Finalist Ghost

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Winner of the National Book Award for Young People's Literature, the Michael L. Printz Award, and the Pura Belpré Award! Fans of Jacqueline Woodson, Meg Medina, and Jason Reynolds will fall hard for this astonishing New York Times-bestselling novel-in-verse by an award-win

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Category
Gothic/Audiobook (Free Choice)

Summary
Olivia may not have a voice, but she can see ghouls. Summoned to an estate called Gallant by a long dead uncle, she must navigate family mysteries and shadows in an effort to find a home.

Reaction/How to Use
This spooky story draws you into the once lustrous, but now decrepit Gallant.

This is a great example of the use of atmosphere. From the disjointed ghouls to the shadow world, to the recurrence of the little gray mouse imagery, this horror seeps into your bones. A perfect recommendation to accompany the chill of autumn or for a year-round horror fan who enjoyed the likes of Neil Gaimon’s The Graveyard Book. This book is heavy with mystery, and themes of identity and home are revealed slowly to the reader, as Olivia Prior learns more about where she came from.

This novel also offers representation of a person with disabilities as Olivia uses sign language to communicate with those around her. Not everyone understands her, and she must break things to express her emotions and finally be heard.

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A KIRKUS BEST BOOK A USA TODAY BESTSELLER A NATIONAL INDIE BESTSELLER
"A bone-chilling standalone . . . which fuses Shirley Jackson's gothic horror sensibilities with the warmth and dark whimsy of Neil Gaiman." -Publishers Weekly (starred review)

"Gripping worldbuilding, well-rounded characters, and fantastic horror." -Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

"Unsettling and intriguing." -Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books (starred review)
Everything casts a shadow. Even the world we live in. And as with every shadow, there is a place where it must touch. A seam, where the shadow meets its source. #1 New York Times-bestselling author V. E. Schwab weaves a dark and original tale about the place where the world meets its shadow, and the young woman beckoned by both sides. The Secret Garden meets Crimson Peak in this stand-alone novel perfect for readers of Holly Black and Neil Gaiman.
Olivia Prior has grown up in Merilance School for Girls, and all she has of her past is her mother's journal-which seems to unravel into madness. Then, a letter invites Olivia to come home to Gallant. Yet when Olivia arrives, no one is expecting her. But Olivia is not about to leave the first place that feels like home; it doesn't matter if her cousin Matthew is hostile, or if she sees half-formed ghouls haunting the hallways.

Olivia knows that Gallant is hiding secrets, and she is determined to uncover them. When she crosses a ruined wall at just the right moment, Olivia finds herself in a place that is Gallant-but not. The manor is crumbling, the ghouls are solid, and a mysterious figure rules over all. Now Olivia sees what has unraveled generations of her family, and where her father may have come from.

Olivia has always wanted to belong somewhere, but will she take her place as a Prior, protecting our world against the Master of the House? Or will she take her place beside him?

New York Times-bestselling author V. E. Schwab crafts a vivid and lush novel that grapples with the demons that are often locked behind closed doors. An eerie, stand-alone saga about life, death, and the young woman beckoned by both. Readers of Neil Gaiman, Holly Black, Melissa Albert, and Garth Nix will quickly lose themselves in this novel with crossover appeal for all ages.

Available to buy

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AN INSTANT #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLERA KIRKUS BEST BOOKA USA TODAY BESTSELLERA NATIONAL INDIE BESTSELLER"A bone-chilling standalone . . . which fuses Shirley Jackson's gothic horror sensibilities with the warmth and dark whimsy of Neil Gaiman."-...

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Category
Realistic Fiction (Free Choice)

Summary
Told through alternating perspectives, Dig reveals the story of five White teenagers linked by blood and potatoes. Privilege and racism rest at the core of this surreal novel.

Reaction/How to Use
When thinking about what state to claim as his prior home, the Shoveler explains that “everyone sees the world different from everybody else” (p. 250). In Dig, each of the characters offer their various viewpoints to inch us closer to the truth of their reality. A.S King’s novel challenges its readers to critically view the society in which we live, racism (both overt and hidden), and our ability to disrupt familial cycles.

King explains that this book is uncomfortable, and in our current climate integrating a book like this into curriculum could receive challenges; however, this book is hard, and I think teens would love to be challenged by it in a classroom setting. Dig employs metaphor, tangled character relationships, and heavy themes – giving this to students shows them that you think they are smart. It shows them that you believe in them as much as A.S. King does.

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Winner of the 2020 Michael L. Printz Medal
A Finalist for the 2020 Los Angeles Times Book Prize

"A.S. King challenges readers from the first page to the last. Dig will make you question the confines of your comfort zone-if you have one. An incredible addition to an already impressive body of work."-Erin Entrada Kelly, New York Times bestselling author and Newbery medalist

"King's fierce empathy for young people is evident throughout, matched by her gift for a brand of weirdness that somehow manages to capture the intensity, wonder and pain of being alive. Anyone who thinks YA books can't also be great literature needs to read this author."- Irish Times

★ "[King's] trademark surrealism and trenchant prose will speak profoundly to a generation of young people who are waking up to the societal sins of the past and working toward a more equitable future."- The Horn Book, starred review

★ "This visceral examination of humanity's flaws and complexity [...] cultivates hope in a younger generation that's wiser and stronger than its predecessors."- Booklist, starred review

★ "[P]urely mesmerizing ... the most haunting exploration in youth literature to date of the advantage and poison that is white privilege, and the resentment of young people at the toxicity of what they inherit. King fans know to expect the unexpected, and they'll be richly rewarded with this intricate, heartfelt, readable concoction." - BCCB, starred review

★ "Sometimes, once you start digging, you find the poisonous parts, but you also find the fruit that will keep you alive."- SLC, starred review

★ "A.S. King's novels...are in another solar system entirely."-Bookpage, starred review

★ "This combination of masterly storytelling, memorable characters, and unexpected twists and turns make this book into an unforgettable, lingering read."- SLJ, starred review

"[This] strange and heart-wrenching tale is stunningly original." -Kirkus

"[P]rofound ... offers hope that at least some of these characters will dig themselves out from under the legacy of hate they have unwillingly inherited.""This is one of the best written, most memorable young adult novels I've ever read. It's that good."-Richie's Picks
"No apologies necessary. is writing at its finest."-Book and Film Globe
[T]aut, mesmerizing...The story fearlessly navigates intellectually and emotionally challenging terrain-racism and whiteness, abuse and assault, misogyny, and other violence-as the teens consider and confront painful truths."-Cooperative Children's Book Center" There is no other writer like her. She has the power to astonish like a natural wonder. And her books-the raw honesty, beauty, and singular strangeness of them-make me feel less alone in the world."-Martha Brockenbrough, author of The Game of Love and Death

* A School Library Journal Best Book
* A Boston Globe Horn Book Fanfare Book
* A Chicago Public Library Best Book
* A BCCB Blue Ribbon Book
* A YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults Title
* A YALSA Amazing Audiobooks Top Ten Title

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Dig by A.S. King: 9781101994931 | PenguinRandomHouse.com: Books

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Winner of the 2020 Michael L. Printz MedalA Finalist for the 2020 Los Angeles Times Book Prize "A.S. King challenges readers from the first page to the last. Dig will make you question the confines of your comfort zone-if you have one.

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Category
Graphic Novel (Free Choice)

Summary
In one timeline, Mia soars across space, restoring buildings to their previous splendor while searching for a lost love. In the other, she meets Grace in boarding school and finds love. Together, they tell a story of identity, community, and resilience.

Reaction/How to Use
The sweeping epic that is On a Sunbeam is one of the best graphic novels I have ever read. With its cast of exclusively female and non-binary characters in a stunningly crafted outer space universe, it holds appeal for both queer readers, stem afficionados, and graphic novel fans alike.

At its heart, this story celebrates identity, and includes parts that I think will resonate with today’s teens. As Jules explains, “you don’t get to decide what’s important for us. You can choose for yourself, but no one else...something that’s trivial to you could mean so much more to someone else?” (pp. 286-287). The crew (Mia, Jules, Alma, Char, and El) build a community of support and trust, willing to travel into The Staircase for their own.

And teens do not have to be limited by collection quantities - every chapter of On a Sunbeam is available online.

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Two timelines. Second chances. One love. A ragtag crew travels to the deepest reaches of space, rebuilding beautiful, broken structures to piece the past together. Two girls meet in boarding school and fall deeply in love-only to learn the pain of loss. With interwoven timelines and stunning art, award-winning graphic