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Información sobre el libro

Spotlight: A Golden Light Anthology

Por Deborah Prum, Sarah Meira Rosenberg y Alexandra Singer

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Longitud: 166 página2 horas

Editorial:: BookBaby
Publicado:: Oct 5, 2012
ISBN:: 9780985936143
Formato:: Libro

Descripción

Spotlight
A Golden Light Anthology

Spotlight: A Golden Light Anthology features young adult stories of hope. Themes of rejection and forgiveness, of loss and triumph, of loneliness and friendships, of struggles and determination, of betrayal and overcoming, lace each story.

Authors Deborah Prum, Sarah Meira Rosenberg, T.K. Richardson, Alexandra Singer, Tucker Cummings, Lynda Lee Schab, Jason Hinz, Carmen Tudor, and Lisa Marie Lopez offer stories grounded in reality or sprinkled with fantasy, but feature main characters that face real issues – issues that are often hidden in the darkness.

Step out of the shadows and into the light with Spotlight: A Golden Light Anthology

***

Look for more books in the series -

Lamplight : A Golden Light Anthology
Christian and Inspirational Short Stories and Poems

Gaslight : A Golden Light Anthology
Historical Short Stories

Nightlight : A Golden Light Anthology
Children’s Short Stories and Poems

Limelight : A Golden Light Anthology
Science Fiction and Fantasy Short Stories

Spotlight : A Golden Light Anthology
Young Adult Short Stories

Acciones del libro

Comenzar a leer

Información sobre el libro

Spotlight: A Golden Light Anthology

Por Deborah Prum, Sarah Meira Rosenberg y Alexandra Singer

Longitud: 166 página2 horas

Descripción

Editorial:: BookBaby
Publicado:: Oct 5, 2012
ISBN:: 9780985936143
Formato:: Libro

Acerca del autor

Deborah Prum

Deborah M. Prum's humorous young adult novel, FATTY IN THE BACK SEAT, is about 15-year-old Cuss who is not a criminal. Well, maybe a slight criminal in the state of New York where he accidentally burns down his neighbor's barn. The judge tells Cuss to behave or he'll wide up behind bars. For Cuss, behaving is almost impossible.FIRST KISS AND OTHER CAUTIONARY TALES is a collection of Prum's essays most of which originally aired on NPR-member stations. In these essays, you will: Learn about: spring-loaded toilet seats in the Pisa Airport (a creation of the Devil). Find out why Googling "How to Pick Up a Chick" is not the best strategy for determining the best way to scoop up live poultry. Discover the ancient secret of an Italian grandmother's deadly chicken soup recipe. (Hint: it's all in the feet.)RATS, BULLS AND FLYING MACHINES is Prum's funny and anecdotal young adult novel about the Renaissance and Reformation.Prum's award-winning fiction appeared twice in The Virginia Quarterly Review and in many other journals. Excerpts from her novel-in-progress The String Theory of Love have been included in several anthologies. She's written on the craft of writing for both The Writer magazine and The Writer's Handbook.

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Spotlight - Deborah Prum

Tudor

Daddy’s Girl

By Sarah Meira Rosenberg

Why does the mom always die?

What? I ask around a mouthful of Alaska roll, trying to pry the sushi rice from my teeth with my tongue without Brett noticing. Why on earth did I agree to go for sushi after the movie? Oh, right, because he’s the first boy who’s ever asked me out and he’s too lactose intolerant for pizza and too broke for that spiffy new Italian place. Thank god he’s cute.

In movies like that. Brett puts down his piece of spicy tuna roll. "Why does the mom always die before it starts, and why does the kid always have those big sad eyes and the huge imagination? Don’t they have other ways to make you care? It’s so tired. Not to mention manipulative."

Oh, and he’s smart. Did I mention smart? I should have mentioned smart. Because yeah. He’s the kind of 16-year-old who uses the word tired instead of clichéd because clichéd is so cliché.

I mean, he pushes on, dipping the spicy tuna into the spicy sauce because I guess he likes lighting his tongue on fire, you’ve only got one parent and you’re not all tortured and introverted just because you’re from a broken home.

I swallow even though there’s nothing left in my mouth, and his eyes go wide.

Oh my god, Ellie, I didn’t mean—I - I’m such a—just feel free to slap me or, or throw water in my face or—

You’re cute when you stutter, I blurt, which isn’t the worst thing in the world to say, since it’s okay to tell guys they’re cute if you’re kind of kidding about it. Aleeza says that stops it from going to their heads because they don’t know how much you mean it.

I didn’t mean it as an insult, I just meant—

You meant that I’m so awesome you’d never guess that society considers me disadvantaged. Society and its disadvantages can go jump in a toilet, as my lone remaining parent likes to say.

Yes! Yes, that is what I meant. He grins, crooked and toothy and seriously adorable.

And then just serious again. He bites his lip.

What. I say it instead of asking, because that’s a look that means things are probably about to get awkward, and I’m not sure why.

I just … I’m actually really curious, Brett says, eyes fixed somewhere around my hairline instead of my face.

Like, bi-curious? I joke, trying to deflect where I think this is going. Because I’m not sure that’s a subject for a first date—

Curious about what it’s like. You know, not having two parents. And permission to slap me still stands, he adds with a nervous smile.

I’m not going to slap you, I say automatically, but part of me wants to. What a ridiculous question. What’s it like? As if there’s something I’m supposed to compare it to? Brett the Brain should know better. But these are the kinds of things people talk about on dates, right? Family, friends, likes, dislikes. Life outside school because hopefully you have one. So … I draw the word out theatrically, buying time to think, you want the inside scoop on broken homes.

He looks down at his plate where most of the spicy tuna roll is languishing.

I’m not an expert, I say finally. My home hasn’t been broken for that long.

Brett’s shoulders are starting to hunch. He’s definitely uncomfortable and embarrassed, but he’s not taking back the question. He really is curious. I kind of like that. No, I really like that. Too many people are happy not knowing stuff. Brett’s not one of those. He wants the truth about things whether he can handle it or not, even if it’s awkward or humiliating to get it. Such a nerd.

I lower my voice, hoping he’ll look up. "I can tell you one thing that most people from broken homes can’t."

He lifts his head, brown eyes sharp and alert. Yeah?

Most people don’t know why their homes are broken. My hands twist under the table. It’s usually a combination of factors, not just one thing. But I know exactly what broke mine.

Yeah? What was it?

I take a breath, look him straight in the eye, and say what I’ve never said to anyone who wasn’t being paid by the hour to listen to me whine:

Me.

* * *

I never saw it coming.

There was nothing weird about my family.

There was nothing weird about me, or my mom, or my dad, or how we went about our business every day.

Mom walked me to the bus stop every morning. I went to school. 4th grade. I took notes, or if I was too tired or lazy, I’d doodle because I knew Leezie’d let me copy hers. I’d hang out with my friends at lunch. Daddy picked me up ten minutes after the final bell rang. He’d make me do my homework before I could watch TV. He’d cook us dinner. Mom got home from work late but in time to tuck me into bed, ask about my day, read me a bedtime story, and tell me she loved me.

Okay, maybe Mom was a little weird because she was a grown-up and still sang her lungs out in the shower every morning, but my science teacher said it was normal to like singing in the shower because tiles in bathrooms make your voice sound better.

And maybe I was a little weird because I was adopted when I was two years old, but Leezie had two dads and was shipped in from Korea as a baby, which is like ten times more unusual.

And maybe Daddy was a little weird because he’d never tell me he loved me, but Leezie’s papa didn’t say stuff like that either. Maybe it was a macho thing. Dad was a lot less macho than Leezie’s papa, at least; Leezie’s papa was all no-nonsense, no noise, no fun, and my dad was all talky and smile-y and spent hours building Lego castles with me and rolling on the floor having tickle fights until Mom would make us knock it off.

I got so used to not seeing things as weird that I never thought anyone else could. That was stupid of me.

Hey, how’re you doing, Slugger? Daddy called from the bottom of the steps outside my school, waving me down.

I jumped up and slid down the banister, kicking my feet in the way that always scared him because he thought I’d fall and crack my head open or something. Or kick some other kid down the stairs, maybe. Like it was my fault if they didn’t get out of the way in time.

Don’t call me ‘Slugger’! He called me that because I hit a home run in one softball game. One home run. One time. And only because the outfielder got attacked by bees.

Oh? What should I call you then? ‘Princess’?

Ugh, ew! We had this argument pretty much every week. We’d gone through about a gazillion nicknames since last year — Sweetie, Buddy, Honey, Kiddo, Champ, Baby (gag) — but Dad just kept going back to Slugger.

But today I was going to change that. You said when I was big enough you would start using my real name. And today I’m big. Ten is big.

He blinked, opened his mouth, and shut it. Then he whistled. "I should have known making you a party next Sunday and secretly getting you an ice cream cake wouldn’t be enough of a birthday present for you."

"You got me an ice cream cake? I almost leapt out of my shoes. Where? Where?"

Melting in the front seat of the car. Hurry up, we gotta get home and stuff it in the freezer, come on!

I grabbed his hand and ran to the car, dodging the other students and their parents. He buckled me in even though I’d been able to do that myself since I was four, then went around to the front seat, vroomed up the engine, turned on the music, and we both sang along at the top of our lungs.

Halfway home I remembered that he didn’t give me a straight answer. So no more nicknames, okay, Daddy?

Dad stopped singing, blue eyes looking at me quickly in the rearview mirror. You know, your mom and me didn’t pick your real name. You came with it when we got you.

Yeah, I know that. I never liked the way he said it, like they bought me at a store because I looked cute in the window. So what?

His hands squeezed the steering wheel. His eyes stayed looking in the mirror at me for so long that if Mom were in the car she’d have snapped at him to keep his eyes on the road, but then he smiled and looked away. "Yup, when the stork dropped you off that day with that parachute, in your tiny basket on the doorstep, all you came with was a teensy card that said: Eleanor, age 2, handle with care. So we did."

"Da-a-ad. We don’t have a doorstep, we live in an apartment. You’re being silly."

I’m a silly guy. He grinned at me, the big grin that made his eyes practically disappear. Guess what shape your cake is!

It was a Batman-shaped cake, but it was kind of melty and smudged by the time we got home, so his ears weren’t very pointy and he looked more like a black and yellow Iron Man. But I couldn’t say that to Dad since Batman is DC Comics and Iron Man is Marvel, which made him basically the devil. At least to Dad.

Um, Daddy, I don’t think we can use this cake at the party, I said, looking down at the runny icing and imagining how bad it’d look if we refroze it.

Well, good thing I got it for tonight then, he laughed. How about dessert first? Or just ice cream cake for supper?

Oh my gosh, you are like, my most favorite person in the world! I launched myself at him and hugged him around the middle, or at least as far as my arms would go, which was actually pretty far since his new diet was definitely working.

Ow, easy, easy … He chuckled in that embarrassed sort of way — Mom said he was bad at accepting compliments. She also said that the only way to cure that was to give him lots and lots of them. We’ll see how much you like me when I tell you supper’s not until you finish your homework.

I dropped my arms instantly. What? But—

Even birthday girls have to do homework, he said firmly, opening the freezer and sticking the cake inside. Otherwise they flunk out of school and who gets blamed for that?

I sighed. The daddies.

Yup. The daddies. He shut the freezer door.

Dad kept checking his watch the whole time I was doing homework. It was annoying. I was working as fast as I could, and it wasn’t like I was the one who said no cake until—

Surprise!

The door burst open and I almost fell backward off my chair, but it was just Mom, all bundled up in her bright purple coat, swinging her overstuffed attaché case with the monogrammed L and the Yankees sticker on the front. She was home super early. Daddy’s face lit up.

You made it! He was on his feet, hugging her. She hugged back and kissed his cheek. They never kiss on the lips around me because I say that’s gross. Mom says she likes hugs better than kisses anyway. Dad says that’s because he’s a bad kisser. Leezie says that’s what’s called TMI.

So, shall I fetch the cake?

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Información sobre el libro

Spotlight: A Golden Light Anthology

Acciones del libro

Descripción

Acciones del libro

Información sobre el libro

Spotlight: A Golden Light Anthology

Descripción

Acerca del autor

Otros autores relacionados

Relacionado con Spotlight

Categorias relacionadas

Vista previa del libro

Spotlight - Deborah Prum

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Lo que la gente piensa acerca de Spotlight