Saint Ivy , livre ebook

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107 pages

English

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A thoughtful middle-grade novel about caring for others and for yourself--and what it truly means to be kind and vulnerable Thirteen-year-old Ivy Campbell has always been a good kid: She supports her soccer-star brother, bakes with her nana, and puts her friends' needs before her own. So of course, Ivy is 100 percent supportive when her mom decides to be a gestational surrogate, carrying and giving birth to her friends' baby. But when Ivy finds out the surrogacy treatment worked and her mom is pregnant-and has been for weeks-she's shocked that she's jealous and worried about what others will think. And most of all, she's ashamed that she isn't reacting to this news in the right way. The Ivy way. Ivy is determined to prove to herself that she's just as unselfish as she's always believed, and she gets the chance to do that when she receives an anonymous email from someone who needs her help. But the more Ivy dives into helping this anonymous person, the further she gets from the people she loves-and from the person who she wants to be.

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Publié par	ABRAMS BOOKS
Date de parution	18 mai 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781683357506
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0350€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Cover page titled "Saint Ivy: kind at all costs" by Laurie Morrison is shown. The photo shows a girl dressed in a t-shirt over a shorts worn over leggings stand with one hand on her hip and the thumb of her other hand hooked into the pocket of her shorts. She is surrounded by images of an ultrasound showing a baby, a folder with a scale, pencils, a protractor, and a compass placed on top, cupcakes, an open pencil purse, a laptop, a thumbs-up icon, a baking tray with cookies, a plastic spatula, doughnuts, and a blender whisking up a mixture in a bowl.
Title page of the book is decorated with images of a blender whisking up a mixture in a bowl, cup cakes, messages of love at the click of a button, an open pencil purse, and a folder with a scale, pencils, a protractor, and a compass placed on top.
The title of the book "Saint Ivy: kind at all costs" by Laurie Morrison is shown. The title is surrounded by images of doughnuts, a heart-shape, a broken heart, a laptop, and a heart-eyes emoji.
For everyone who struggles to be as kind to themselves as they are to other people
PUBLISHER S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4197-4125-8
eISBN 978-1-68335-750-6
Text copyright 2021 Laurie Morrison
Cover illustrations copyright 2021 Jason Ford
Book design by Marcie J. Lawrence
Published in 2021 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.
Amulet Books is a registered trademark of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
ABRAMS The Art of Books 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007 abramsbooks.com
CHAPTER ONE
The first anonymous email wasn t that big a deal. Not right away, at least.
Ivy was on the bus, heading home from school, when she saw it on her phone. The subject line said, Thank you, and the sender came up as downby thebay5@mailme.com: no name. For a second she thought it was spam, but the preview text started with the words Dear Saint Ivy.
Saint Ivy. That s what her best friend, Kyra, called her sometimes, and how would a random spammer know that? So she opened the email and read.
To: Ivy Campbell ivy.campbell@lelandmagnet.org
From: downbythebay5@mailme.com
Subject: Thank you
Dear Saint Ivy,
Somebody really smart used to tell me that there should be two different kinds of thank-yous. A basic, throwaway kind for when somebody holds a door open or says bless you when we sneeze or something. And then a special version that tells a person, What you just did for me mattered . It gave me hope when I didn t have any. It turned a really awful day into an almost-okay one. Because if we just mumble a quick thanks either way, people don t know when they ve really made an impact, and that s a shame.
So, here goes. My day today was really awful, and you made it almost okay. It probably wasn t a big thing for you, what you did. But it was a big thing for me. So I want to let you know that. I want to say the special kind of thank-you.
From, your friendly anonymous good-deed appreciator
Huh.
The bus turned left, rumbling past the used book-store, the Italian restaurant Ivy s family used to love, and the CVS.
Was this a joke? It didn t seem like a joke.
If she really improved somebody s day this much, she was happy. But she was confused, too. Why did this person want to be anonymous? Who was it? She scanned the email again, searching for clues, but she came up empty.
Kyra was the one who started calling her Saint Ivy, but now some other kids said it, too, and anybody could have heard. And Ivy had done nice things for a lot of people that day.
Maybe the email was from Sydney DelMonte, a junior in high school who lived next door to Ivy s dad and had been crying on a bench outside the middle school that morning. Or Lila Britton, who d borrowed Ivy s math textbook so she wouldn t get in trouble for forgetting hers for the third time in a week. Although . . . Lila wasn t exactly Ivy s number one fan. Or maybe Josh Miller, the boy Ivy s other best friend, Peyton-and pretty much everybody else-had a crush on. He d been hobbling around on crutches after he hurt his knee so badly at soccer, and Ivy had picked up his things when they spilled out of his backpack and then carried his bag to his next class.
Actually, the email could have been from Peyton herself. She d been extra quiet today, and extra appreciative when Ivy went with her to the music room and played along on the piano while she practiced her solo for chorus. But Ivy did stuff like that for Peyton all the time, and Peyton had already thanked her plenty. Plus, Peyton had told Kyra that Saint Ivy was kind of a strange nickname since Ivy was Jewish on her mom s side and Jewish people don t even have saints.
The bus pulled up to Ivy s stop, so she put her phone away and let the mystery go, mostly. Maybe she d figure it out later, once she loosened up her mind and stopped actively wondering, the way she could sometimes remember a word in Spanish class as soon as she moved on to something else. For now, she and Nana had some pastries to bake.
Nana used to live in the suburbs just outside Philadelphia, but she d moved into the city last year. Now she lived five blocks away from Ivy, down the hill in a one-bedroom rental on the twenty-first floor of a big apartment building.
Every Friday afternoon, Ivy went to Nana s after school. Today, Nana was waiting in the hallway, wearing an impressively bright pink apron that said F.A.B. in black cursive letters.
Ta-da! Nana said, doing a little twirl. I got us aprons. Do you love them?
Um, wow! Ivy replied. They re-
I know! Nana pointed at the letters one by one. Friday Afternoon Baking. F.A.B. Fab -ulous, right?
Definitely fabulous, Ivy agreed.
Nana kissed her cheek. I knew you d love them.
She handed Ivy a matching apron in bright purple. It was stiff and scratchy and completely ridiculous, but Nana s whole face lit up when Ivy put it on.
Now, don t just stand there, Nana said. This hallway s sweltering and our time is limited.
Ivy wasn t sure if Nana meant our time in a literal sense, as in the two and a half hours before Ivy went home and Nana went to her neighbors apartment for Shabbat dinner, or in a more philosophical sense, as in their time on this planet as mortal beings. It could have been either, because Nana said tons of super-morbid things. Mom said it was because she had too much time to think, now that she d retired from her job as an elementary school principal.
In fact, the whole reason they d started Friday afternoon baking lessons was because every time Nana baked something delicious, she reminded Mom, Ivy, and Ivy s brother, Will, that she didn t cook from a book, so after she died, all her recipes would go with her. Mom got sad and flustered every time she said it and Ivy didn t have anything else to do on Friday afternoons, so the whole thing was a win-win. A win-win- win , actually, because everyone got to eat a whole lot of truly outstanding desserts, too.
Nana led Ivy into the kitchen, where she d lined up flour, sugar, salt, walnuts, and chocolate chips on the shiny-clean counter.
It s a perfect day to make rugelach, don t you think? she asked.
Definitely, Ivy said, because rugelach was delicious-especially Nana s rugelach-so there couldn t be an im perfect day to make it.
Nana plucked the cold stuff out of the fridge, adding butter, cream cheese, and blackberry preserves to her ingredient parade, and Ivy turned to a fresh sheet of paper in her recipe notebook.
She wrote the word rugelach in her prettiest handwriting and copied down the facts Nana rattled off: how the word rugelach was Yiddish for rolled things, and rugelach was an American version of an old Eastern European pastry called kipfel . Nana said the only real difference was that Jewish bakers in the U.S. had added cream cheese to the dough a couple generations back.
Now. It s fine to change up the filling however you want, but the dough is just right as it is, you got that? Nana said, pointing at Ivy with a bright pink fingernail that matched her apron-Nana believed in signature colors, and bright pink was hers.
Got it, Ivy replied.
No substituting coconut oil or fat-free yogurt or any of that health-food stuff for these good fats. Rugelach isn t going to be healthy, and that s why it s good for you. You write that down, too.
That was kind of a knock on Ivy s dad and his partner, Leo, who had gone through a health-food kick recently when they swore by chia seeds and flaxseed meal and made some extremely disappointing cookie bars, but it wasn t a mean knock, because Nana loved Dad and Leo.
Ivy wrote, No substitutions for fats! and then they got to work. Ivy copied down measurements and ingredients, and they cut and dumped and sifted butter, cream cheese, flour, and sugar into the food processor. Then they pulsed it all together until a delicious-smelling dough formed.
Almost like magic, huh? Nana said as they put the dough in the freezer to chill.
And it did feel a little bit magical to see how much the ingredients changed one another when they came together to create something new.
They mixed up the blackberry-chocolate filling, and once the dough was cool enough, t