Great Upending
by Kephart, Beth






If eleven-year-old Sara and her brother Hawk can complete a task involving the reclusive author renting out the silo on their farm for the summer, they will receive reward money that will pay for Sara's life-saving surgery.





*Starred Review* Sara is a wordsmith. Although she's overly tall, has a weak heart, and has poor sight (all due to a condition called Marfan syndrome), she's sensitive to the world around her. She's especially loyal to her brother, Hawk, and his belief that the mysterious Mister renting their parents' renovated silo/guesthouse holds the key to some sort of good fortune. It's a fortune the Scholl family needs because, as Sara notes, Farms are full of losing. Fruit to flies, seeds to breeze, chicks to coons, fences to time, crops to drought. Hard times are compounded when the hay barn burns down after the family gets the news that Sara needs an expensive operation-and soon. Then Hawk learns that an editor is desperately trying to reach the Mister, even offering a reward to deliver a letter to him. Despite their parents' warning about the Mister's privacy, Hawk and Sarah start digging into his identity. As the siblings' snooping puts the Mister in a new light, they journey to New York City to plead his case for artistic freedom as the author of a well-known series awaiting a sequel. Further plot twists lead to an unexpected ending, which readers who love good storytelling and spirited heroines will find satisfying. National Book Award nominee Kephart's latest is ultimately as refreshing as rainfall on a dry field. Grades 4-7. Copyright 2020 Booklist Reviews.





*Starred Review* Sara is a wordsmith. Although she's overly tall, has a weak heart, and has poor sight (all due to a condition called Marfan syndrome), she's sensitive to the world around her. She's especially loyal to her brother, Hawk, and his belief that the mysterious Mister renting their parents' renovated silo/guesthouse holds the key to some sort of good fortune. It's a fortune the Scholl family needs because, as Sara notes, Farms are full of losing. Fruit to flies, seeds to breeze, chicks to coons, fences to time, crops to drought. Hard times are compounded when the hay barn burns down after the family gets the news that Sara needs an expensive operation-and soon. Then Hawk learns that an editor is desperately trying to reach the Mister, even offering a reward to deliver a letter to him. Despite their parents' warning about the Mister's privacy, Hawk and Sarah start digging into his identity. As the siblings' snooping puts the Mister in a new light, they journey to New York City to plead his case for artistic freedom as the author of a well-known series awaiting a sequel. Further plot twists lead to an unexpected ending, which readers who love good storytelling and spirited heroines will find satisfying. National Book Award nominee Kephart's latest is ultimately as refreshing as rainfall on a dry field. Grades 4-7. Copyright 2020 Booklist Reviews.





A family struggles to keep their farm afloat and to afford medical care for 12-year-old Sara, who has a heart condition due to a disorder called Marfan syndrome. Sara and her younger brother, Hawk, are kids who have grown up accustomed to being competent and useful, and their drought-stricken farm, which has been in their family for generations, can use all the help it can get. Since she feels she's letting her family down, it's particularly hard for Sara to cope with her diminished physical abilities, and when surgery becomes inevitable, she and Hawk hatch a wild scheme to raise the necessary funds that involves their mysterious, elderly tenant, known to them as The Mister. Lyrical first-person narration from Sara's perspective—presented in short chapters that occasionally almost take the shape of brief poems—takes its time setting the stage for this tender, classic mystery. The rural Pennsylvania setting and family traditions, such as making half a dozen pies in one go, often feel like throwbacks in time though the novel is contemporary. Older middle graders and young teens with a taste for literary fiction will savor th e language and appreciate the quirky, sympathetic characters, who are mostly white, or assumed to be, as race or ethnicity is not specified. Kephart describes her research and writing process in a closing note. A meandering, gentle, lovely tale of a deeply bonded family, replete with a clever mystery. (Fiction. 10-12) Copyright Kirkus 2019 Kirkus/BPI Communications. All rights reserved.





´╗┐Full of Shine

Full of Shine


Moon's in bloom," Hawk says. "Just hanging there. No strings."

"Big and fat? I ask. Through the wall that divides us.

"Biggest. Fattest. I'm heading out."

I hear the springs of Hawk's mattress creak. I hear him creep across the floor. I hear the screen in his window go up and his one foot crump and his other foot crump down onto the roof that we call our pier.

"Show's on," he says.

I push up to my elbows. See Hawk through my window, his pale face and his big eyes. He presses his face up against the screen, and then he turns and puts his arms out for balance. The moon pours its bucket of yellow down.

"Coming? he says, his voice on the edge, in the dark.

I creak up. Put my feet on the floor. Crouch so my hair won't snag on the low rafters, so my head won't scrape. I cross the planked floor and push the screen up and away from the sill. Catch my breath. Swing my daddy long legs and my daddy long arms out into the night, sit down, butt-scoot forward, reach the edge, and throw my legs out into the air beside Hawk's.

Catch more breath.

Fix my vision.

Hawk kicks his bare feet. I kick mine. The air freckles up with fireflies. The trees wave their hands in the breeze. The baled hay we haven't barned up yet looks like waves rushing in.

"Lighthouse is full of shine," Hawk says.

I look where he's looking'toward the old silo where The Mister lives. It's round and it's tall and it's silver. It's got a red front door and a band of windows around its top that blinks on and off.

"You think he's in there? I ask Hawk, feeling my heart flop around between the bones in my chest.

"Where else would he be? Hawk whispers, as if The Mister could hear us from all the way here, where we are, which he can't.

"Mom says"

"I know Hawk pulls a stick of dried hay from his hair. He bends it between his fingers. "Shhhh," he says, for no good reason, because I'm already shhhh-ing.

The farm noises up. There are cows in the cow barn, goats in the goat barn, cats in their cuddle, and the old horse Moe, who snorts like a warthog. Also there's Mom and Dad in the kitchen with their decaf, talking low, thinking we can't hear them. Thinking that I haven't heard the latest news, but I've heard it, I've heard it plenty.

Sky is zero clouds and star stuff. It's August 3 and has not rained for twenty-two days. Morning, noon, night, Dad drives his old Ford to the top of the forest hill to check the water in the cistern. The water that feeds the pipes in the house, the cows in the field, the pigs in the sunflower stalks, the goats and their milk, the seeds in the earth. The water that vanishes inch by inch. When it rains, we pull the pots and pans and buckets to the roof and watch the water in them rise. When it rains, Mom hangs the laundry on the old rope to wash. When it rains, Dad checks the cistern so many times Mom sometimes makes him walk so he'll save the gas in the truck.

But now we're on water rations, and here is Hawk and here is me, sitting at the edge of the pier, waiting for our ship to come in.

"Interesting," Hawk says.

He gets to his feet, sets himself up into a crouching rock, and watches. I think about Dad and Hawk and sometimes me, with my helpful height, building those three rooms into that old silo, a Dad scheme to save the farmanother Dad scheme; he's had lots. Each round room sits ten feet above the next round room. A spiral staircase dials through the cutout middle of each floor. Sun pours through the top window band and down the spiral steps and ends in a pretty yellow pool on the first floor. The table and the benches and the bed were built round to fit the round. The last time I was there, the place still smelled like sawdust. It smelled like the refrigerator motor, too, and the lavender wreath Mom had hung.

It was Mom who advertised the place. Mom who wrote the words, and they worked: Come. Stay. Sixteen days ago, The Mister drove up the dusty back road in a Cadillac limo so wide and long Hawk gave it a name, and that name is Silver Whale. I'd been down in the garden with my basket and Hawk had been out with the pigs in the stalks and Dad had been up on the hill with the Ford. I'd heard the puttering car, didn't think much of it.

I didn't stand up until I heard Hawk running.

"To the pier! he said, flying past.

By the time I got in the house and up the stairs and out of my window and onto the pier beside Hawk, The Mister had arrived. He wore a blue coat, Hawk said, narrating, on account of my eyes. He carted his things from the trunk of the limo through the red of the door by way of the rusty wheelbarrow Dad had left there once the work on the lighthouse was done. He opened the door with the key Mom had left hanging the night before from a little outdoor hook. He was a small man with a hunched back, Hawk said, or maybe he was just hunching under the weight of things. "How many things? I asked. "Lots," Hawk said.

Come.

Stay.

That was two weeks and two days agoand all we've figured out since is that The Mister came from far away. He wants his privacy, Mom says. No fresh tomatoes, no slice of pie, no two kids named Hawk and Sara showing up at his front door.

"No prying eyes," Mom said. "Okay? Nobody spying on The Mister."

"Can't help what I see," Hawk said. Mom shook her head.

Now, past the bales of hay that Dad cut and raked and bound, the bales he hasn't loaded yet into the old hay shed, I squint. All I can see through the windows of the lighthouse is a white streak, like a cloud tied to a string.

"Can't figure this," Hawk says, rocking and rocking.

"Can't figure what?"

Hawk rocks. Keeps his figuring to himself, which drives me just about nuts. "Whoa," he finally whispers. "Like a circus act. The guy's wheeling around on a unicycle! Rounder and faster by the minute."

"Unicycle?"

"Serious."

"The old man?"

"Give me a sec."

I wait. Across the dark, under the stars, all I see is that puff of cloud being yanked around by a string. The Mister's hair, it's got to be.

"You rock any harder, you'll fall," I say, because Hawk has stopped reporting again and sometimes it's just too lousy to get your news secondhand, to not see what you want to see, to be relying on your best friend who is your brother. Sometimes I just can't stand that what I see best is my own imagination and not what's out there, in front of me. So that right now I'm seeing with my mind's eye, and what I'm seeing is a figment of thought, by which I mean I half see, half imagine Hawk spying so hard that he tips and he falls into the crunch of apple trees. I half see and half imagine me scrambling through the window and down the stairs and running and Dad calling after me and Mom crying and two kids out of two kids in the Scholl family needing doctors the Scholls can't afford. That's what I see, while Hawk gets to see the actual unicycling Mister.

I catch Hawk's arm in the hook of my own. I yank him back. He falls flat on the roof and looks up and I lie back and something blinks.

"He knows we're here," Hawk whispers, even quieter now. "The Mister."

"You got proof? I say, my heart flopping hard.

"He turned off the light. Just this second, now. It was on and now it's off and that means that he's seen us."

"Seen you, maybe. Not seen me."

"Like you're not here? Hawk says. "Like you wouldn't be the easiest of us to see?"

"Stop it," I whisper, louder than him. "Just"

"Mom can't know, right? Hawk says. "Mom can't know, and we're not telling."

"You don't tell, I won't tell," I say, and breathe. More trouble is the last thing we Scholls need.






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