Seventeen-year-old Shavonne has been in juvenile detention since the seventh grade. Mr. Delpopolo is the first counselor to treat her as an equal, and he helps her get to the bottom of her self-destructive behavior, her guilt about past actions, and her fears about leaving the Center when she turns eighteen. Shavonne tells him the truth about her crack-addicted mother, the child she had (and gave up to foster care) at fifteen, and the secret shame she feels about what she did to her younger brother after her mother abandoned them. Meanwhile, Shavonne's mentally unstable roommate Cinda makes a rash move, and Shavonne's quick thinking saves her life—and gives her the opportunity to get out of the Center if she behaves well. But Shavonne's faith is tested when her new roommate, mentally retarded and pregnant Mary, is targeted by a guard as a means to get revenge on Shavonne. As freedom begins to look more and more likely, Shavonne begins to believe that maybe she, like the goslings recently hatched on the Center's property, could have a future somewhere else—and she begins to feel something like hope.
This is a brutally honest but hopeful story of finding yourself and moving beyond your past.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of eBook: Something Like Hope|
|Release Date: 12-28-2010|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Random House Children's Books|
This eBook download is available in the following formats:
|Parent title||Something Like Hope|
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Something Like Hope
Lying on the cold hard floor of a locked room, I wish. Is it bad to wish? It feels bad, but only because my wishes drift away. They escape from me and go wherever wishes go. Where do wishes go? Better places, I hope.
Right now I am wishing to get out of here, to go far away where nobody knows me. Maybe a big city where I could blend in and walk for miles through streets crowded with anonymous people. I could listen to the cars and buses, and smell the food from the hot dog carts and pizza stands. I could get a job in an office in a nice building and work hard. With my paychecks I would buy expensive clothes: skirts, blouses, and sweater sets, all with matching shoes. And I would find an apartment, a studio where I’m the only one with a key and I can decorate it and keep it clean. I will have a down comforter on the bed and lots of soft pillows and a tortoiseshell cat that will sleep with me and I will be warm and safe and happy.
I keep trying to add more wishes, but they don’t take hold. I concentrate hard, to keep the fantasy together: matching dishes, a soft rug by the bed, real furniture. But it all fades. Thick cotton bath towels and a dish of little soaps shaped like fish and shells, and still it goes away. Wishes. Dreams. People. They go away from me. And nothing remains except this cold hard floor and me.
How long have I been in this room? It seems like a long time, but I can’t remember. I run my tongue over the jagged edge of my tooth and feel white-hot pain—and then I remember . . . stealing Ms. Williams’s sandwich . . . busting her pretty face with my elbow in a fight. I got in some good blows until they took me down. I know I shou...