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Overview
Patrice Williams was happy living in Georgia with her grandmother, who called her "cocoa grandbaby." Then her mother lured her to Chicago and ended up in jail. Now Patrice lives with her Auntie Mae, and her new nickname is "Puffy" – thanks to her giant poof of hair. But Patrice's hair isn't the only reason she sticks out: she cares about her grades and strives for the best. That's why Monty Freeman, another eighth grader who lives in the building, asks Patrice to tutor his little brother. Even though Monty's friends make Patrice uneasy, Monty himself is friendly, confident, and surprisingly smart. When he becomes her guardian angel, Patrice begins to think something stronger than friendship might be growing between them. Still, nothing will stop her from applying for a scholarship at prestigious Dogwood Academy – her ticket out of the project and a school populated by gangs and drug runners.
In her debut novel, Traci L. Jones presents a girl with grit she never knew she had, and a boy so inspired by her that he begins to take pride in his own abilities.
Standing Against the Wind is a 2007 Bank Street - Best Children's Book of the Year and the winner of the 2007 Coretta Scott King - John Steptoe New Talent Award.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429930468 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Farrar, Straus and Giroux |
| Publication date: | 03/22/2010 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 192 |
| Sales rank: | 865,425 |
| Lexile: | 780L (what's this?) |
| File size: | 298 KB |
| Age Range: | 12 - 14 Years |
About the Author
TRACI L. JONES lives with her husband and children in Denver, Colorado.
TRACI L. JONES's first novel, Standing Against the Wind, was met with critical acclaim, won the Coretta Scott King-John Steptoe New Talent Award, and was named to five state reading lists. Her subsequent novels include Finding My Place and Silhouetted by the Blue. Jones lives with her husband and children in Denver, Colorado.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Most days, Patrice Williams really didn't know which she liked least: walking home or actually getting there.
"Just two more blocks," she whispered to herself as she stood waiting for the light.
During the bitterly cold days of winter, the thirteen-year-old had gotten into the habit of counting the blocks until she was safe at home — safe from the freezing cold wind, safe from the nasty comments made by girls who had cut school and were always hanging out in front of the local drugstore, safe from the gang of boys who had all but quit school and who hung out in the broken-down playground in front of her building. They all seemed to have something mean to say about her.
"One more block."
Patrice's quick steps slowed as she noticed the gang of boys from her middle school gathered at the foot of the stairs in front of her building. She had hoped that Chicago's frigid cold would have driven them inside. But even in this weather they were assembled at the only unlocked entrance, attempting to make everyone else's life miserable. They were talking and laughing, looking like teen dragons as the puffs of warm air from their mouths mixed with the clouds of cigarette smoke they blew nonchalantly. Those not smoking blew on their hands and rocked back and forth on their feet, trying to keep warm and look cool at the same time.
The January wind blew directly into Patrice's face. It seemed to reach right through her coat's thin fabric and under her hand-me-down sweatshirt, and pinch her arms with icy, sharp fingers. With the straps of her old backpack long since broken, Patrice's hand felt frozen in a tight fist around its tattered handle. She shivered again, this time more from nervous anticipation than cold.
Trying not to look at the gang of boys, she stopped at the corner to switch the backpack to the other hand. For a brief moment, she wished she had not given her new Christmas gloves to her little cousin. Her old gloves, so worn that the tips of her fingers were poking through holes, were no match against the weather. Clutching her backpack, she scrunched down deeper into her coat to protect her neck from the cold and crossed the street. She shivered again. No matter which direction she walked in, it seemed that the wind blew right in her face, as if to stop her from moving forward.
Patrice was always cold. Her grandmother would have said it was because she was too thin, not enough meat on her bones. Patrice's grandmother used to try and fatten her up with an endless parade of after-school cakes, cookies, and pies.
"Some chocolate cake for my cocoa grandbaby," Grandma would say as she slid an oversized plate of sweets in front of her. And maybe if she had stayed with her paternal grandmother, Patrice wouldn't be a walking stick. But since her mother had spirited her away from her grandmother a little over a year before, her small frame looked as if it hadn't gained one ounce. There was nothing big about Patrice except her large doelike brown eyes and her famous mop of hair.
The only reason Patrice was noticed at Martin Luther King, Jr. Middle School, and in her new neighborhood, was her abundant hair. So aggressive was it that it almost seemed alive. With effort, it could be coaxed into thick braids and ponytails, or even reluctantly convinced to lie in thick, shiny waves that tickled her shoulders. But since there was no one, including Patrice herself, with the time or motivation to coerce her hair into a style, it was usually a big poof that threatened to swallow her head whole. One of her eighth-grade classmates told Patrice that her hair had all the personality, leaving none for the shy, studious girl who lived underneath it.
As she got closer to the building, Patrice quickly surveyed the group, looking for the only semi-friendly face she could hope to find. She breathed a tiny sigh of relief when she saw Monty Freeman. While Monty wasn't her friend, she knew he wouldn't let the other boys harass her too much. She didn't know what made him cut off their teasing — he never even talked to her — but she was definitely grateful for his sympathy.
Of the five or six boys, there were only three who ever caught her attention. Monty she liked, because of the pity he took on her; Eddie Brooks and Rasheed Walters she despised. They seemed to take pleasure in making her miserable.
Throwing her shoulders back and pretending to be braver than she felt, Patrice picked up her pace and marched toward the steps. She flashed a brief, shy smile at Monty, who returned her acknowledgment with the tiniest, quickest, and, of course, coolest lift of his chin. The other boys smirked at one another and sauntered to the center of the steps, creating a barrier, blocking her access to the door.
"Hey, Puffy!" sneered Eddie. "When you gonna get that hair of yours done?"
Monty shot a quick neutral glance at Eddie. The other boys snickered, and Patrice's shoulders dropped a bit.
"Yeah, Puffy!" added Rasheed. "Them naps on your head are bad. Ain't your sister still working over at the Cut'n'Style? You need to ask for a family discount."
"Shoot, if her sister is still at the Cut'n'Style, I'll go there myself. She is too fine!" hooted Eddie. "Your sister looks good, Puffy. You sure you all got the same mama?"
Patrice threw an angry glare in Eddie's direction and tried to weave her way through the hooting and howling boys, without much success. She didn't know what it was about her that they hated so much, but from the moment she had arrived to live with her aunt they seemed to relish teasing her to tears.
"Leave her alone, fellas," muttered Monty. "As nappy as y'all's heads look, you shouldn't be talking. Let her in."
Heeding their leader's command, the gang of boys cleared a path. Patrice hurried up the stairs and yanked open the door to the building. As it closed slowly behind her, she heard Eddie shout one last nasty comment: "Maybe when your mama get out of jail, she'll comb that head!"
Patrice jabbed the elevator button over and over again, until, through the tears in her eyes, she noticed the OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the door.
With a little whimper, she pulled the stairwell door open and started up the fifteen flights to her auntie's apartment. At least she would get a chance to stop the tears.
Although the stairwell wasn't exactly what you would call warm, it was better than outside, and the hike up the stairs began to thaw her out. Stopping at the tenth-floor landing, Patrice sat down and tried to compose herself. She knew her auntie Mae would be upset if she came home crying again. Last week she had overheard her aunt talking about her on the phone and it had scared her.
"Yeah, girl, Patrice is a good kid, but she's so tenderhearted. Soft, you know," Auntie Mae had said between puffs on her cigarette. "She smart as a whip in school, but she ain't got no street sense. It's hard to believe she's NaNa's daughter. NaNa always had some angle. NaNa's street through and through. Shoot, that's why her fast behind is locked up. But Patrice, she ain't like no kid of mine, or them other kids of NaNa's. Growing up down South with her daddy's mama made her too soft. I don't know if she can make it here or not. Always coming home crying 'bout what them ghetto children be saying to her. When she first got here, they teased her about her accent. Then once she somehow got rid of most of that, it was her hair."
Patrice knew her auntie was right. When she had just arrived, all the kids laughed and mimicked her soft Georgiadrawl. Before long she stopped talking to most people, and when she did talk, she tried hard to suppress her accent. She was a shy girl anyway, and the teasing had made her feel worse. Now, even though much of her accent had disappeared, except when she was angry, Patrice was still quiet as a church mouse and twice as shy.
Between puffs on her Newports, her auntie had continued: "Patrice's gotten so quiet. She don't even say nothing back. Just stands there, all hurt. I worry to death about that girl. She may not be able to live here too long. Girl, she can't take it. She ain't got no fight in her. She didn't have much when she got here. Now there ain't no spunk or fire in her at all. This place gonna eat her up. She do help around the house a lot, though. I'll give her that — especially since I had to take on that extra job. I get home and can put my feet up 'cause she done done most of my chores. I'll tell you what, though, my sister was right to take that child to her daddy's mama when she was a baby. Miss Shanice Renée Brown did Patrice a disservice by bringing her up here. She's a sweet girl; I hope she can stay that way."
Patrice shook the memory out of her head and stood up. Auntie Mae was the only one of her mother's five brothers and sisters who'd agreed to take her in, along with her older sister, after her mom got sent to Mount Rose Women's Correctional Center. Her fifteen-year-old half brother, Marquis, had been sentenced to a few years at a juvenile boot camp for trying to rob the local grocery store with a BB gun, so he had a place to stay, at least for the next three years. Patrice and her then seventeen-year-old half sister, Cherise, had almost become wards of the state. So the last thing Patrice wanted to do was make her auntie worry. She might say Patrice was too much trouble to take care of. Auntie Mae worked two jobs and was always so tired. Patrice felt like a burden and went out of her way to help.
She used her still unthawed hands to wipe any trace of tears from her face. Gathering her stuff, she finished hiking the rest of the way to apartment 1525.
Even before opening the door, she could hear the yells coming from inside the apartment.
"It's my turn to pick the show!" shouted Nefrititi, Auntie Mae's seven-year-old daughter.
"Is not!" retorted MarcAnthony, her nine-year-old brother. "You were watching that stupid rabbit show when I got home!"
"Hey, guys," Patrice greeted them. "What's the problem now?"
"MarcAnthony won't let me watch my share of TV," whined Nefrititi. "He got to watch two shows yesterday. I should get to watch two shows today."
"Yesterday's all done. Today's a new day!" MarcAnthony boomed in a deep voice, imitating the preacher at their church.
"Is your homework finished? What about your chores?" asked Patrice, moving the day-old newspapers, half-empty glasses, and overfull ashtrays off the wobbly dining room table and pulling out her schoolwork.
"Yeah," replied MarcAnthony. "It's right there. Mom helped me today." With one hand, he gestured to a pile of paper hanging over the edge of the table, and with the other, he fended off his little sister.
Some cigarette ashes had spilled onto his homework, and he had put a half-empty glass of milk on it as well, leaving a damp circle over problems six and seven. His other schoolwork lay on the floor, scattered under the table. But, despite the mess, the homework was indeed finished.
Patrice sighed. "MarcAnthony, how many times do I have to tell you to put your homework in your backpack when you're done. Where's Auntie Mae? Didn't she walk you home today?"
"Yeah. She just went to the store to get some more cigarettes. Plus, she gotta send a money order to your mama."
Patrice frowned. Mama oughta be sending money to Auntie Mae, not the other way around. Auntie Mae had enough trouble making ends meet since they cut her hours at the factory.
"Why you frowning, Puffy?" asked Nefrititi. "What you mad at?"
"I'm not mad at anything," snapped Patrice. "And stop calling me Puffy. My name is Patrice."
"I know, but everybody at your school calls you Puffy, and them boys downstairs call you Puffy, and your hair's all puffy," Nefrititi rattled off.
"Yeah, so what," Patrice spat. "If everyone jumped out the window, would you be dumb enough to jump, too?"
"I'm sorry." Nefrititi sniffed, apparently contrite. "Don't be mad. I won't ever, ever call you that again. Okay?"
Nefrititi wrapped her skinny arms around Patrice.
"Okay, okay," Patrice said, freeing herself from the too-tight hug. "I'm sorry I snapped at you. I just don't like being called that."
"Then why you let them do it?" asked Nefrititi, putting her little hands on her hips. "I wouldn't let no one call me some stupid name if I didn't like it."
Patrice looked down at her shoes, unwilling to meet her cousin's defiant eyes, and shrugged. "Just don't you call me that, okay?" she muttered.
MarcAnthony, who had been crawling around the floor gathering his homework during this exchange, stood up and looked at Patrice closely. "Well, your hair is puffy, but the rest of you is skinny," he observed wisely. "But since you always help me with my homework and stuff, I won't call you Puffy neither. And I'll knock anybody in the head who does, as long as they're not bigger than me."
Patrice smiled, embarrassed that her young cousins had much more nerve than she did. "That won't be necessary, but thank you for the offer, MarcAnthony."
After getting the TV feud settled and cleaning off the dining room table, Patrice sat down and worked diligently on her homework. Unlike other kids in the eighth grade, she liked homework. Since she didn't have any friends, it didn't cut into her social life, and it gave her something to do besides her chores and taking care of MarcAnthony and Nefrititi. She also liked knowing that she had the best grades in class. No matter what the other kids said or what names they called her, they couldn't take that away.
"Aw, man," whined MarcAnthony, looking around the living room for the remote he had hidden from Nefrititi.
"What's the matter now?" asked Patrice, leaning back in her chair to see if the cable had gone out again.
"My show ain't going to be on," he answered. "Some news stuff is on instead."
Patrice shrugged and turned to finish what was left of her homework when she heard the announcer say something that interested her: "Scholarships are available for outstanding African American students. Dogwood Academy is one of the five predominantly African American boarding schools in the nation. For more —"
MarcAnthony had dug the remote out of the sofa and clicked off the TV.
"Wait!" shouted Patrice.
"What?" MarcAnthony said.
"That show, turn it back on!"
"... and they will send you information about this unique academic opportunity for promising African American scholars, aged thirteen to fifteen."
"Darn it!" shouted Patrice. "What show was that?"
MarcAnthony shrugged. "I don't know. It wasn't Dragon Ball Z, though."
Patrice didn't know why, but what little she had heard sent sparks shooting through her body. Staring at the blank television, she made a mental note to be sure to get home quicker tomorrow and watch whichever channel it was until she heard that information again. What she had heard sounded, to her, just like hope.
As Patrice was finishing the last of her homework, Auntie Mae came home, puffing and wheezing from her cold walk to the store and her hike up the stairs with three grocery bags — her hacking and coughing made worse by her two-pack-a-day habit.
Patrice had already started dinner and stood at the stove, stirring Tuna Helper with one hand and holding her assigned reading book with the other.
"Auntie Mae, did you remember to —" started Patrice.
Auntie Mae interrupted her. "Patrice, I saw that boy Monty in the stairway. He asked me to tell you to stop by his apartment after dinner. Apartment 1010."
Patrice stared at her aunt. Stunned, she stopped stirring. "Monty said what?" she asked incredulously.
Auntie Mae appeared half amused at the open-mouthed, wide-eyed, unbelieving look on her niece's face, and half annoyed at having to repeat herself. "The boy said that he wants you to come by his apartment after dinner. Apartment 1010."
"Why?" asked Patrice, mostly to herself.
"Lord, I don't know." Auntie Mae huffed, taking the spoon from Patrice's hand and stirring the tuna mush. "Anyway, I told him you'd be there 'bout seven-thirty."
"Seven-thirty?" Patrice repeated. "His apartment?"
"Girl, what is your problem? Seven-thirty. His apartment. He probably got to watch them bad kids till his mama get home. Said he would have called you, but they phone got cut off. His mama sure 'nuff is a mess."
"He would have called me?" Patrice muttered.
"Lord Jesus. The boy said he would have, but the phone is cut off! Have mercy. He cute now, but ain't nobody that cute," said Auntie Mae. "This stuff is done; call them kids for dinner."
Patrice barely heard the chatter that was batted back and forth across the Tuna Helper. She hardly ate anyway, but tonight, in a stupor, she ate less than usual, and sat there half dreading, half anticipating the end of the meal.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Standing Against the Wind"
by .
Copyright © 2006 Traci L. Jones.
Excerpted by permission of Macmillan.
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