Fresh Ink
by Giles, Lamar (EDT)







Foreword1(2)
Lamar Giles
Eraser Tattoo
3(11)
Jason Reynolds
Meet Cute
14(24)
Malinda Lo
Don't Pass Me By
38(17)
Eric Gansworth
Be Cool for Once
55(17)
Aminah Mae Safi
Tags
72(14)
Walter Dean Myers
Why I Learned to Cook
86(15)
Sara Farizan
A Stranger at the Bochinche
101(11)
Daniel Jose Older
A Boy's Duty
112(21)
Sharon G. Flake
One Voice: A Something In-Between Story
133(14)
Melissa de la Cruz
Paladin/Samurai by Gene Luen Yang, with illustrations
147(9)
Thien Pham
Catch, Pull, Drive
156(16)
Schuyler Bailar
Super Human
172(17)
Nicola Yoon
About the Authors189(8)
About We Need Diverse Books197


Edited by the Edgar Award-nominated author of Fake ID and featuring contributions by some of today's most recognizable diverse authors, a boundary-breaking anthology includes short stories, a graphic novel and a one-act play on such topics as gentrification, acceptance, poverty and coming out. Simultaneous eBook.





Lamar Giles writes novels and short stories for teens and adults. He is the author of the Edgar Award nominees Fake ID and Endangered, as well as the YA novel Overturned. He is a founding member of We Need Diverse Books, and he resides in Virginia with his wife. Check him out online at lamargiles.com or follow @LRGiles on Twitter.





*Starred Review* This collection of 12 young adult short stories is for the teens who've long had to skim an anthology searching for that so-called hidden gem-the rare story that reflects their world back to them. Giles, a cofounder of We Need Diverse Books, has assembled short stories that feature a wide array of characters, situations, and formats, capturing the diversity found within teen readership. From best-selling author Melissa de la Cruz's "One Voice: A Something in Between Story," exploring an act of hateful graffiti that rattles an undocumented Stanford student's college experience, to a WWII-set historical piece, "A Boy's Duty," by Sharon G. Flake, to Sara Farizan's story of a bisexual Iranian American young woman learning the ways of the kitchen from her grandmother to impress her girlfriend, each carries its own unique appeal and significance. Two particular standouts come late in the collection, including "Catch, Pull, Drive," from Schuyler Bailar, a hapa Korean American and the first out transgender NCAA Division I men's athlete. The final story may linger longest, since it resonates so strongly to this particular cultural moment: in "Super Human," Nicola Yoon writes about a masked black superhero, X, whose superpowers were born of his mother's wish for "a world where bullets could never break his skin." A powerful and varied collection deserving of shelf space in every library. Grades 9-12. Copyright 2018 Booklist Reviews.





Thirteen leading YA voices from diverse backgrounds lend their talents to this anthology of 12 fictional short stories. The collection represents the lives of people of color, immigrants, poor, and nonheteronormative individuals, drawing the reader into narratives that touch on universal themes of love and youth in its many iterations. Whether the reader dives into Eric Gansworth's story of a youth from the rez grappling with racism and identity in high school, Malinda Lo's tale of sexism and gender-flipping costumes at a science-fiction convention, or Melissa de la Cruz's story of an undocumented Filipina student who wants "America to want me because I was already a part of the fabric of the country," each contribution reminds us of the diverse individuals that make up the United States. Together they form a beautiful quilt of marginalized voices that include both bestselling authors, such as Jason Reynolds and Gene Luen Yang, as well as up-and-coming writers. The complexiti es of intersectional identities are also explored, for example in Sara Farizan's story of a bisexual Iranian-American girl who introduces her girlfriend to her immigrant grandmother. United by vivid descriptions of food, language, and cultural norms, the collection will serve as both mirror and window to teens from all walks of life. This beautiful, moving, and insightful collection is quintessentially American and a valuable addition to all middle and high school classrooms. (Short stories. 12-18) Copyright Kirkus 2018 Kirkus/BPI Communications. All rights reserved.





Shay’s father climbed up into the driver’s seat of a rental truck and slammed the door. Started the engine, cut the emergency blinkers, then honked the horn twice to say goodbye, before pulling off. Moments later, another truck pulled up to the same spot—­a replacement. Double-­parked, killed the engine, toggled the emergency blinkers, rolled the windows up until there was only a sliver of space for air to slip through.

“What I wanna know is, why you get to give me one, but I can’t give you one?” Dante asked, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes on the street as the people in the new truck—­a young man and woman—­finally jumped out, lifted the door in the back, studied whatever was inside. Brooklyn was being its usual self. Alive, full of sounds and smells. A car alarm whining down the block. An old lady sitting at a window, blowing cigarette smoke. The scrape and screech of bus brakes every fifteen minutes. A normal day for Brooklyn. But for Shay and Dante, not a normal day at all.

“Oh, simple. Two reasons. The first is that I can’t risk getting some kind of nasty eraser infection. I’m too cute for that. And the second is that my dad will come back, find you, and kill you for marking me,” Shay replied, stretching her arms over her head, then sitting back down on the stoop beside Dante.

“Kill me? Please. Your pops loves me,” Dante shot back confidently. He wiped sweat from his neck, then snatched the pencil he had tucked behind his ear and gave it to Shay. They had been planning this ever since she got the news—­ever since she told him she was leaving.

“Um . . . ‘love’ is a strong word. He likes you. Sometimes. But he loves me.” Shay pushed her finger into her own sternum, like pushing a button to turn her heart on. Or off.

“Not like I do.” Dante let those words slip from his lips effortlessly, like breathing. He’d told Shay that he loved her a long time ago, back when they were five years old and she taught him how to tie his shoes. Before then, he’d just tuck in the laces until they worked their way up the sides, slowly crawling out like worms from wet soil, which would almost always lead to Dante tripping over them, scraping his knees, floor or ground burning holes in his denim. Mrs. Davis, their teacher, would clean the wounds, apply the Band-­Aid that would stay put only until school was over. Then Dante would slowly peel it off because Shay always needed to see it, white where brown used to be, a blood-­speckled boo-­boo waiting to be blown. Kissed.

•••

Shay smiled and bumped against Dante before turning to him and softly cupping his jaws with one hand, smushing his cheeks until his lips puckered into a fish face. She pressed her mouth to his for a kiss, and exaggerated the suction noise because she loved how kissing sounded—­like something sticking together, then coming unstuck.

“Don’t try to get out of this, Dante,” she scolded, releasing his face. “Gimme your arm.” She grabbed him by the wrist, yanked his arm straight. Then she flipped the pencil point-­side up and started rubbing the eraser against his skin.

They’d been sitting on the stoop for a while, watching cars pull out and new cars pull in. Witnessing the neighborhood rearrange itself. They’d been sitting there since Dante helped Shay’s father carry the couch down and load it into the truck. The couch was last and it came after the mattresses, dressers, and boxes with shoes or books or shay’s misc. in slanted cursive, scribbled in black marker across the tops. Up and down the steps Dante had gone, back and forth, lifting, carrying, moving, packing, while Shay and her mother continued taping boxes and bagging trash, pausing occasionally for moments of sadness.

Well, Shay’s mother did, at least. She couldn’t stop crying. This had been her home for over twenty years. This small, two-­bedroom, third-­floor walk-­up with good sunlight and hardwood floors. A show fireplace and ornate molding. Ugly prewar bathroom tiles, like standing on a psychedelic chessboard. This was where Shay took her first steps. Where she took sink baths before pretending her dolls were mermaids in the big tub. Where she scribbled her name on the wall in her room under the window, before slinking into her parents’ bed to snuggle. This was where she left trails of stickiness across the floor whenever coming inside with a Popsicle from the ice-cream truck. Where she learned to water her mother’s plants. Plants they weren’t able to keep because now this space—­their space—­was gone. Bought out from under them. Empty. All packed into a clunky truck that was already headed south. And since Shay’s father left early to get a jump on traffic, it seemed like a good idea to let her mother take a much-­needed moment to weep in peace.

Plus, then Shay could have a much-­needed moment to eraser-­tattoo Dante.






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