The grass in the backyard is halfway to my knees, and there’s weeds higher than that. But the neighbors can’t see, because my father built a fence around it. Guess you could call it the world’s smallest prairie.
There’s a little bed of soft stuff on the floor of Mouse House.
Now Abby and I tell stories to Scooter.
My mother goes to garage sales every Saturday morning. She goes to the supermarket that gives double coupons. Whenever I ask her if she’s gotten me anything at Second Time Around yet, she reminds me that I told her not to tell me. All I know is, there’s a suspicious-looking shirt hanging in my closet.
I used my sneaker money to buy Mom a set of paints. She’s going to start by painting us all again.
We’re going to a ball game! My mother got the tickets. Five of them—for herself, Scooter, Abby, me, and my father. He says he won’t have time to go. My mom says he’ll be there. Abby bet me a water ice that my mom will win. I said my dad. Hope I lose.
I’ve been invited to a Fourth of July party at Jane Forbes’s.
Penn Webb is my best friend.
Read an excerpt from Stargirl,
Jerry Spinelli’s novel about the fleeting,
cruel nature of popularity—and the
thrill and inspiration of first love.
Available from
Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers
0-679-88637-0
“A magical and heartbreaking tale.”
—Kirkus Reviews, Starred
“Part fairy godmother, part outcast, part dream-come-true … [Stargirl] possesses many of the [same] mythical qualities as the protagonist of [Spinelli’s] Maniac Magee.”
—Publishers Weekly, Starred
An ALA Best Book for Young Adults
A Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year
A Parents’ Choice Gold Award Winner
A New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age
A New York Times Bestseller
Excerpt from Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli
Copyright © 2000 by Jerry Spinelli
Jacket Illustration copyright © 2000 by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.
Published in the United States of America by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
PORCUPINE NECKTIE
When I was little, my uncle Pete had a necktie with a porcupine painted on it. I thought that necktie was just about the neatest thing in the world. Uncle Pete would stand patiently before me while I ran my fingers over the silky surface, half expecting to be stuck by one of the quills. Once, he let me wear it. I kept looking for one of my own, but I could never find one.
I was twelve when we moved from Pennsylvania to Arizona. When Uncle Pete came to say good-bye, he was wearing the tie. I thought he did so to give me one last look at it, and I was grateful. But then, with a dramatic flourish, he whipped off the tie and draped it around my neck. “It’s yours,” he said. “Going-away present.”
I loved that porcupine tie so much that I decided to start a collection. Two years after we settled in Arizona, the number of ties in my collection was still one. Where do you find a porcupine necktie in Mica, Arizona—or anywhere else, for that matter?
On my fourteenth birthday, I read about myself in the local newspaper. The family section ran a regular feature about kids on their birthdays, and my mother had called in some info. The last sentence read: “As a hobby, Leo Borlock collects porcupine neckties.”
Several days later, coming home from school, I found a plastic bag on our front step. Inside was a gift-wrapped package tied with yellow ribbon. The tag said “Happy Birthday!” I opened the package. It was a porcupine necktie. Two porcupines were tossing darts with their quills, while a third was picking its teeth.
I inspected the box, the tag, the paper. Nowhere could I find the giver’s name. I asked my parents. I asked my friends. I called my uncle Pete. Everyone denied knowing anything about it.
At the time I simply considered the episode a mystery. It did not occur to me that I was being watched. We were all being watched.
1
“Did you see her?”
That was the first thing Kevin said to me on the first day of school, eleventh grade. We were waiting for the bell to ring.
“See who?” I said.
“Hah!” He craned his neck, scanning the mob. He had witnessed something remarkable; it showed on his face. He grinned, still scanning. “You’ll know.”
There were hundreds of us, milling about, calling names, pointing to summer-tanned faces we hadn’t seen since June. Our interest in each other was never keener than during the fifteen minutes before the first bell of the first day.
I punched his arm. “Who?”
The bell rang. We poured inside.
I heard it again in homeroom, a whispered voice behind me as we said the Pledge of Allegiance:
“You see her?”
I heard it in the hallways. I heard it in English and Geometry:
“Did you see her?”
Who could it be? A new student? A spectacular blonde from California? Or from back East, where many of us came from? Or one of those summer makeovers, someone who leaves in June looking like a little girl and returns in September as a full-bodied woman, a ten-week miracle?
And then in Earth Sciences I heard a name: “Stargirl.”
I turned to the senior slouching behind me. “Stargirl?” I said. “What kind of name is that?”
“That’s it. Stargirl Caraway. She said it in homeroom.”
“Stargirl?”
“Yeah.”
And then I saw her. At lunch. She wore an off-white dress so long it covered her shoes. It had ruffles around the neck and cuffs and looked like it could have been her great-grandmother’s wedding gown. Her hair was the color of sand. It fell to her shoulders. Something was strapped across her back, but it wasn’t a book bag. At first I thought it was a miniature guitar. I found out later it was a ukulele.
She did not carry a lunch tray. She did carry a large canvas bag with a life-size sunflower painted on it. The lunchroom was dead silent as she walked by. She stopped at an empty table, laid down her bag, slung the instrument strap over her chair, and sat down. She pulled a sandwich from the bag and started to eat.
Half the lunchroom kept staring, half started buzzing.
Kevin was grinning. “Wha’d I tell you?”
I nodded.
“She’s in tenth grade,” he said. “I hear she’s been home-schooled till now.”
“Maybe that explains it,” I said.
Her back was to us, so I couldn’t see her face. No one sat with her, but at the tables next to hers kids were cramming two to a seat. She didn’t seem to notice. She seemed marooned in a sea of staring, buzzing faces.
Kevin was grinning again. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he said.
I grinned back. I nodded. “Hot Seat.”
Hot Seat was our in-school TV show. We had started it the year before. I was producer/director, Kevin was on-camera host. Each month he interviewed a student. So far, most of them had been honor student types, athletes, model citizens. Noteworthy in the usual ways, but not especially interesting.
Suddenly Kevin’s eyes boggled. The girl was picking up her ukulele. And now she was strumming it. And now she was singing! Strumming away, bobbing her head and shoulders, singing, “I’m looking over a four-leaf clover that I overlooked before.” Stone silence all around. Then came the sound of a single person clapping. I looked. It was the lunch-line cashier.
And now the girl was standing, slinging her bag over one shoulder and marching among the tables, strumming and singing and strutting and twirling. Heads swung, eyes followed her, mouths hung open. Disbelief. When she came by our table, I got my first good look at her face. She wasn’t gorgeous, wasn’t ugly. A sprinkle of freckles crossed the bridge of her nose. Mostly, she looked like a hund
red other girls in school, except for two things. She wore no makeup, and her eyes were the biggest I had ever seen, like deer’s eyes caught in headlights. She twirled as she went past, her flaring skirt brushing my pant leg, and then she marched out of the lunchroom.
From among the tables came three slow claps. Someone whistled. Someone yelped.
Kevin and I gawked at each other.
Kevin held up his hands and framed a marquee in the air. “Hot Seat! Coming Attraction—Stargirl!”
I slapped the table. “Yes!”
We slammed hands.
A graduate of Gettysburg College, JERRY SPINELLI went on to win the Newbery Medal for Maniac Magee, the sixth of his more than fifteen acclaimed books for young readers. They include Milkweed, Stargirl, Wringer, and Knots in My Yo-yo String: The Autobiography of a Kid. Growing up, he played no fewer than five different sports—from football and track to basketball. He wanted to be a shortstop in the majors, long before it occurred to him to be a writer.
Crash came out of his desire to include the beloved Penn Relays of his home state of Pennsylvania in a book. And, of course, to show the world a little bit of what jocks are made of.
Published by
Dell Laurel-Leaf
an imprint of
Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
Text copyright © 1996 by Jerry Spinelli
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Alfred A. Knopf.
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eISBN: 978-0-307-55539-7
RL: 4.8
Originally published as a Borzoi Book by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., in 1996
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