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All American Boys Paperback – 29 Aug. 2017
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In this New York Times bestselling novel, two teens--one black, one white--grapple with the repercussions of a single violent act that leaves their school, their community, and, ultimately, the country bitterly divided by racial tension.
A bag of chips. That's all sixteen-year-old Rashad is looking for at the corner bodega. What he finds instead is a fist-happy cop, Paul Galluzzo, who mistakes Rashad for a shoplifter, mistakes Rashad's pleadings that he's stolen nothing for belligerence, mistakes Rashad's resistance to leave the bodega as resisting arrest, mistakes Rashad's every flinch at every punch the cop throws as further resistance and refusal to STAY STILL as ordered. But how can you stay still when someone is pounding your face into the concrete pavement?
There were witnesses: Quinn Collins--a varsity basketball player and Rashad's classmate who has been raised by Paul since his own father died in Afghanistan--and a video camera. Soon the beating is all over the news and Paul is getting threatened with accusations of prejudice and racial brutality. Quinn refuses to believe that the man who has basically been his savior could possibly be guilty. But then Rashad is absent. And absent again. And again. And the basketball team--half of whom are Rashad's best friends--start to take sides. As does the school. And the town. Simmering tensions threaten to explode as Rashad and Quinn are forced to face decisions and consequences they had never considered before.
Written in tandem by two award-winning authors, this four-starred reviewed tour de force shares the alternating perspectives of Rashad and Quinn as the complications from that single violent moment, the type taken directly from today's headlines, unfold and reverberate to highlight an unwelcome truth.
- Print length336 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- Publication date29 Aug. 2017
- Grade level2 - 9
- Reading age13 - 17 years
- Dimensions13.97 x 2.29 x 20.96 cm
- ISBN-101481463349
- ISBN-13978-1481463348
- Lexile measureHL770L
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Review
*"The scenario that Reynolds and Kiely depict has become a recurrent feature of news reports, and a book that lets readers think it through outside of the roiling emotions of a real-life event is both welcome and necessary." -Publishers Weekly, starred review
*"With Reynolds writing Rashad's first-person narrative and Kiely Quinn's, this hard-edged, ripped-from-the-headlines book is more than a problem novel; it's a carefully plotted, psychologically acute, character-driven work of fiction that dramatizes an all-too-frequent occurrence. Police brutality and race relations in America are issues that demand debate and discussion, which his superb book powerfully enables."-Booklist, starred review
"...a deeply moving experience." -Kirkus Reviews
"ALL AMERICAN BOYS is a terrific story that will compel readers to consider who they are, what they stand for, and what they should stand for. It's that good." -Richie's Picks
About the Author
Brendan Kielyis the New York Times bestselling author of All American Boys (with Jason Reynolds), Tradition, The Last True Love Story, and The Gospel of Winter. His most recent book is The Other Talk: Reckoning with Our White Privilege. His work has been published in over a dozen languages, and has received the Coretta Scott King Author Honor Award, the Walter Dean Meyers Award, and ALA's Top Ten Best Fiction for Young Adults. A former high school teacher, he is now on the faculty of the Solstice MFA Program. He watches too much basketball and reads too many books at the same time, but most importantly, he lives for and loves his wife and son. Find out more at BrendanKiely.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
RASHAD
Your left! Your left! Your left-right-left! Your left! Your left! Your left-right-left!
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
I left. I left. I left-left-left that wack school and that even more wack ROTC drill team because it was Friday, which to me, and basically every other person on Earth, meant it was time to party. Okay, maybe not everybody on Earth. I’m sure there was a monk somewhere on a mountain who might’ve been thinking of something else. But I wasn’t no monk. Thank God. So for me and my friends, Friday was just another word for party. Monday, Tuesday, Hump Day (because who can resist the word “hump”?), Thursday, and Party. Or as my brother, Spoony, used to say, “Poorty.” And that’s all I was thinking about as I crammed into a bathroom stall after school—partying, and how I wasn’t wanting to be in that stiff-ass uniform another minute.
Thankfully, we didn’t have to wear it every day. Only on Fridays, which was what they called “uniform days.” Fridays. Of all days. Whose dumb idea was that? Anyway, I’d been wearing it since that morning—first bell is at 8:50 a.m.—for drill practice, which is pretty much just a whole bunch of yelling and marching, which is always a great experience right before sitting in class with thirty other students and a teacher either on the verge of tears or yelling for some other kid to head down to the principal’s office. Fun.
Let me make something clear: I didn’t need ROTC. I didn’t want to be part of no military club. Not like it was terrible or anything. As a matter of fact, it was actually just like any other class, except it was Chief Killabrew—funniest last name ever—teaching us all about life skills and being a good person and stuff like that. Better than math, and if it wasn’t for the drill crap and the uniform, it really would’ve just been an easy A to offset some of my Cs, even though I know my pop was trying to use it as some sort of gateway into the military. Not gonna happen. I didn’t need ROTC. But I did it, and I did it good, because my dad was pretty much making me. He’s one of those dudes who feels like there’s no better opportunity for a black boy in this country than to join the army. That’s literally how he always put it. Word for word.
“Let me tell you something, son,” he’d say, leaning in the doorway of my room. I’d be lying on my bed, doodling in my sketch pad, doing everything physically possible to not just stop drawing and jam the pencils into my ears. He’d continue, “Two weeks after I graduated from high school, my father came to me and said, ‘The only people who are going to live in this house are people I’m making love to.’?”
“I know, Dad,” I’d moan, fully aware of what was coming next because he said it at least once a month. My father was the president of predictability, probably something he learned when he was in the army. Or a police officer. Yep, the old man went from a green uniform, which he wore only for four years—though he talks about the military like he put in twenty—to a blue uniform, which he also only wore for four years before quitting the force to work in an office doing whatever people do in offices: get paid to be bored.
“And I knew what he was trying to tell me: to get out,” Dad would drone. “But I didn’t know where I was going to go or what I was going to do. I didn’t really do that well in school, and well, college just wasn’t in the cards.”
“And so you joined the army, and it saved your life,” I’d finish the story for him, trying to water down my voice, take some of the sting out of it.
“Don’t be smart,” he’d say, pointing at me with the finger of fury. I never managed to take enough bite out of my tone. And trust me, I knew not to push it too far. I was just so tired of hearing the same thing over and over again.
“I’m not trying to be smart,” I’d reply, calming him down. “I’m just saying.”
“Just saying what? You don’t need discipline? You don’t need to travel the world?”
“Dad—” I’d start, but he would shut me down and barrel on.
“You don’t need a free education? You don’t need to fight for your country? Huh?”
“Dad, I—” Again, he’d cut me off.
“What is it, Rashad? You don’t wanna take after your father? Look around.” His voice would lift way higher than necessary and he’d fling his arms all over the place temper-tantrum style, pointing to the walls and windows and pretty much everything else in my room. “I don’t think I’ve done that bad. You and your brother have never had a care in the world!” Then came his favorite saying; it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had it tattooed across his chest. “Listen to me. There’s no better opportunity for a black boy in this country than to join the army.”
“David.” My mother’s voice would come sweeping down the hallway with just enough spice in it to let the old man know that once again, he’d pushed too hard. “Leave him alone. He stays out of trouble and he’s a decent student.” A decent student. I could’ve had straight As if I wasn’t always so busy sketching and doodling. Some call it a distraction. I call it dedication. But hey, decent was… decent.
Then my father’s face would soften, made mush by my mother’s tone. “Look, can you just try it for me, Rashad? Just in high school. That’s all I ask. I begged your brother to do it, and he needed it even more than you do. But he wouldn’t listen, and now he’s stuck working down at UPS.” The way he said it was as if the lack of ROTC had a direct connection to why my older brother worked at UPS. As if only green and blue uniforms were okay, but brown ones meant failure.
“That’s a good job. The boy takes care of himself, and him and his girlfriend have their own apartment. Plus he’s got all that volunteer work he does with the boys at the rec center. So Spoony’s fine,” my mother argued. She pushed my father out of the way so she could share the space in the doorway. So I could see her. “And Rashad will be too.” Dad shook his head and left the room.
That exact same conversation happened at least twenty times, just like that. So when I got to high school, I just did it. I joined ROTC. Really it’s called JROTC, but nobody says the J. It stands for the Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps. I joined to get my dad off my back. To make him happy. Whatever.
The point is, it was Friday, “uniform day,” and right after the final bell rang I ran to the bathroom with my duffel bag full of clothes to change out of everything green.
Springfield Central High School bathrooms were never empty. There was always somebody in there at the mirror studying whatever facial hair was finally coming in, or sitting on a sink checking their cell phone, skipping class. And after school, especially on a Friday, everybody popped in to make sure plans hadn’t been made without them knowing. The bathroom was pretty much like an extension of the locker room, where even the students like me, the ones with no athletic skill whatsoever, could come and talk about the same thing athletes talked about, without all the ass slapping—which, to me, made it an even better place to be.
“Whaddup, ’Shad?” said English Jones, making a way-too-romantic face in the mirror. Model face to the left. Model face to the right. Brush hairline with hand, then come down the face and trace the space where hopefully, one day, a mustache and beard will be. That’s how you do it. Mirror-Looking 101, and English was a master at it. English was pretty much a master at everything. He was the stereotypical green-eyed pretty boy with parents who spoiled him, so he had fly clothes and tattoos. Plus his name—his real name—was English, so he pretty much had his pick when it came to the girls. It was like he was born to be the man. Like his parents planned it that way. But, unstereotypically, he wasn’t cocky about it like you would think, which of course made the ladies and the teachers and the principal and the parents and even the basketball coach even more crazy about him. That’s right, English was also on the basketball team. The captain. The best player. Because why the hell wouldn’t he be?
“What’s good, E?” I said, giving him the chin-up nod while pushing my way into a stall. English and I have been close since we were kids, even though he was a year older than me. We were two pieces of a three-piece meal. Shannon Pushcart was the third wing, and the fries—the extra-salty add-on—was Carlos Greene. Carlos and Shannon were also in the bathroom, both leaning into the urinals but looking back at me, which, by the way, is a weird thing to do. Don’t ever look at someone else while you’re taking a piss. Doesn’t matter how well you know a person, it gets weird.
“You partying tonight at Jill’s, soldier-boy?” Carlos asked, clowning me about the ROTC thing.
“Of course I’m going. What about you? Or you got basketball practice?” I asked from inside the stall. Then I quickly followed with, “Oh, that’s right. You ain’t make the team. Again.”
“Ohhhhhhhhhhh!” Shannon gassed the joke up like he always did whenever it wasn’t about him. A urinal flushed and I knew it was him who flushed it, because Shannon was the only person who ever flushed the urinals. “I swear that’s never gonna get old,” Shannon said, laughter in his voice.
I unbuttoned my jacket—a polyester Christmas tree covered in ornaments—and threw it over the stall door.
“Whatever,” Carlos said.
“Yeah, whatever,” I shot back.
“Don’t y’all ever get tired of cracking the same jokes on each other every day?” English’s voice cut in.
“Don’t you ever get tired of stroking your own face in the mirror, English?” Carlos clapped back.
Shannon spit-laughed. “Got ’im!”
“Shut up, Shan,” English snapped. “And anyway, it’s called ‘stimulating the follicles.’ But y’all wouldn’t know nothin’ about that.”
“But E, seriously, it ain’t workin’!” from Shannon.
“Yeah, maybe your follicles just ain’t that into you!” Carlos came right behind him. By this point I was doubled over in the stall, laughing.
“But your girlfriend is,” English said, with impeccable timing. A snuff shot, straight to the gut.
“Ohhhhhhhh!” Of course, from Shannon again.
“I don’t even have no girlfriend,” Carlos said. But that didn’t matter. Cracking a joke about somebody’s girlfriend—real or imaginary—is just a great comeback. At all times. It’s just classic, like “your mother” jokes. Carlos sucked his teeth, then shook the joke off like a champ and continued, “That’s why we gotta get to this party, so I can see what these ladies lookin’ like.”
“I’m with you on that one,” English agreed. “Smartest thing you’ve said all day.”
Off went the greenish-blue, short-sleeved, button-up shirt, which I also flung across the top of the door.
“Exactly. That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Shannon said, way too eager. “?‘See what these ladies lookin’ like,’?” he mimicked Carlos, the slightest bit of sarcasm still in his voice. If I picked up on it, I knew Carlos did too.
“I can’t tell you what they’ll be lookin’ like, but I can tell you who they won’t be lookin’ at… you!” Carlos razzed, still on get-back from Shannon being slick and for laughing at my basketball crack. It had been at least three minutes since I made that joke, and he was still holding on to it. So petty.
“Shut up, ’Los. Everybody in here know I got more game than you. In every way,” Shannon replied, totally serious.
I kicked my foot up onto the toilet to untie my patent leather shoes. Just so you know, patent leather shoes should only be for men who are getting married. Nothing about patent leather says “war.”
“Argue about all this at the party. Just make sure y’all there. It’s supposed to be live,” English said, the sound of his footsteps moving toward the door. He and Shannon didn’t have mandatory basketball practice like usual, but were still going to the gym to shoot around because, well, that’s what they did every day. For those guys, especially English, basketball was life. English knocked on my stall twice. “Look for me when you get there, dude.”
“Bet.”
“Later, ’Shad,” from Shannon.
“Aight, ’Shad, hit me when you on your way over,” Carlos called as the door closed behind them. Carlos grew up right down the street from me, and, like English, was a senior and therefore could drive, and therefore (again) was always my ride to the party. We smoked him with the jokes all the time because he’d tried out for the basketball team every single year, and got cut every single year, because he just wasn’t very good. But if you asked him, he was the nicest dude to ever touch a ball. What he actually was good at, though, was art, which is also why he and I got along. He wasn’t into drawing or painting, at least not in the traditional sense. He was into graffiti. A “writer.” His tag was LOS(T), and they were all over the school, and our neighborhood, and even the East Side. Whenever we were heading to a party, for him it was just another opportunity to speed around the city in his clunker, the backseat covered in paint markers and spray cans, while he pointed out some of his masterpieces.
Really they were more like our masterpieces, because I was the one who gave him some of the concepts for where and how to write his tag. For instance, on the side of the neighborhood bank, I told him he should bomb it in money-green block letters. And on the door of the homeless shelter I suggested gold regal letters. And on the backboard of a basketball hoop at the West Side court, I suggested he write it in gang script. I never had the heart to do any actual tagging. I mentioned how my father was, right? Right. Plus Carlos was a pro at it. He knew how to control the nozzle and minimize the drip to get clean tags. Like, perfect. I never really told him, just because that wasn’t something we did, but I loved them. All of them.
When I walked out of that stall a few minutes later, I was a different person. It was like the reverse of Clark Kent running into the phone booth and becoming Superman, and instead was like Superman running into the booth and becoming a hopefully much cooler Clark Kent, even though I guess Superman might’ve been more comfortable in the cape and tight-ass red underwear than an ROTC uniform. But not me. No cape (and for the record, no tight-ass red underwear). I stepped out as regular Rashad Butler: T-shirt, sneakers that I had to perform a quick spit-clean on, and jeans that I pulled up, then sagged down just low enough to complete the look. My brother had given me this sweet leather jacket that he had outgrown, so I threw that on, and bam! I was ready for whatever Friday had in store for me. Hopefully, a little rub-a-dub on Tiffany Watts, the baddest girl in the eleventh grade. At least to me. Carlos always said she looked like a cartoon character. Like he could ever get her. A cartoon character? Really? Please. A cartoon character from my dreams.
But before I could get to Jill’s and get all up on Tiffany, I had a few stops to make. It was still early, and I had a couple bucks, so I could get me some chips and a pack of gum to kill the chip-breath. Can’t get girls with the dragon in your mouth. But other than that I was flat broke, and it was never cool to party without cash, just because you always had to have something for the pizza spot—Mother’s Pizza—which everyone went to either after the party was over or when the party got shut down early, which happened most of the time. Plus, you had to have money to chip in for whoever’s gas tank was going to be getting you to and from the party, like, for instance, Carlos. So I caught a bus over to the West Side to first pick up my snacks, then meet Spoony at UPS, just a few blocks from home, so he could spot me a twenty.
The bus took forever, like it always did on Fridays. Forever. So at Fourth Street, I got off and walked the last few blocks toward Jerry’s Corner Mart, the day darkening around me—crazy how early it gets dark in the fall. Jerry’s was pretty much the everything store. They sold it all. Incense, bomber jackets, beanies, snacks, beer, umbrellas, and whatever else you needed. It was named after some dude named Jerry, even though nobody named Jerry ever worked there. Jerry was probably some rich old white dude, chillin’ on the East Side, doing his thing with some young supermodel with fake everything on a mattress made of real money. Lotto-ticket money. Cheap-forty-ounce money. Bootleg-DVD money. My money.
I pushed the door to Jerry’s open. It chimed like it always did, and the guy behind the counter looked up like he always did, then stepped out from behind the counter, like he always did.
“Wassup, man,” I said. He nodded suspiciously. Like he always did. There were only two other people in the store. A policeman and one other customer, back by the beer fridge. The cop wasn’t a security guard, the weaponless kind with the iron-on badges. The kind my dad tried to get my brother to apply for because they pay decent money. Nah. This cop was a cop. A real cop. And that wasn’t weird because Jerry’s was pretty much known for being an easy come-up for a lot of people. You walk in, grab what you want, and walk out. No money spent. But I never stole nothing from anywhere. Again, too scared of what my pops would do to me. Knowing him, he’d probably send me right to military school or some kind of boot camp, like Scared Straight. He’d probably say something to my mother about how my problem is that I need more push-ups in my life. Luckily, I’m just not the stealing type. But I know a lot of people who are, and there was no better playground for a thief than Jerry’s. I guess, though, after a string of hits, Jerry (whoever he is) finally decided to keep a cop on deck.
I bopped down the magazine aisle toward the back of the store, where the chips were. Right by the drinks. Grab your chips, then turn around and hit the fridge for a soda or a beer. Boom. I looked at the chip selection. Like I said, Jerry’s had everything. All the stank-breath flavors. Barbecue, sour cream and onion, salt and vinegar, cheddar ranch, flaming hot, and I tried to figure out which would be the one that could be most easily beaten by a stick of gum. But plain wasn’t an option. Seriously, who eats plain chips?
While I was trying to figure this out—decisions, decisions—the other person in the store, a white lady who looked like she’d left her office job early—navy-blue skirt, matching blazer, white sneakers—seemed to be dealing with the same dilemma, but with the beer right behind me. And I couldn’t blame her. Jerry’s had every kind of beer you could think of. At least it seemed that way to me. I didn’t really pay her too much mind, though. I figured she was just somebody who probably had a long week at work, and wanted to crack a cold brew to get her weekend started. My mother did that sometimes. She’d pop the cap off a beer and pour it in a wineglass so she could feel better about all the burping, as if there’s a classy way to belch. This lady looked like the type who would do something like that. The type of lady who would treat herself to beer and nachos when her kids were gone to their father’s for the weekend.
Now, here’s what happened. Pay attention.
I finally picked out my bag of chips—barbecue, tasty, and easily beatable by mint. That settled, I reached in my back pocket for my cell phone to let Spoony know I was on my way. Damn. Left it in my ROTC uniform. So I set my duffel bag on the floor, squatted down to unzip it, the bag of chips tucked under my arm. At the moment the duffel was open, the lady with the beer stepped backward, accidentally bumping me, knocking me off balance. Actually, she didn’t really bump me. She tripped over me. I thrust one hand down on the floor to save myself from a nasty face-plant, sending the bag of chips up the aisle, while she toppled over, slowly, trying to catch her balance, but failing and falling half on me and half on the floor. The bottle she was holding shattered, sudsy beer splattering everywhere.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” the lady cried.
And before I could get myself together, and tell her that it was okay and that I was okay, and to make sure she was okay, the guy who worked at Jerry’s who everyone knew wasn’t Jerry, shouted, “Hey!” making it clear things were not okay. At first, I thought he was yelling at the lady on some you-broke-it-you-bought-it mess, and I was about to tell him to chill out, but then I realized that he was looking at my open duffel and the bag of chips lying in the aisle. “Hey, what are you doing?”
“Me?” I put my finger to my chest, confused.
The cop perked up, slipping between me and the clerk to get a better look. But he wasn’t looking at me at all. Not at first. He was looking at the lady, who was now on one knee dusting off her hands.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” the officer asked, concerned.
“Yes, yes, I’m—”
And before she could finish her sentence, the sentence that would’ve explained that she had tripped and fell over me, the cop cut her off. “Did he do something to you?”
Again, “Me?” What the hell was he talking about? I zipped my duffel bag halfway because I knew that I would have to leave the store very soon.
“No, no, I—” The lady was now standing, clearly perplexed by the question.
“Yeah, he was trying to steal those chips!” the clerk interrupted, shouting over the cop’s shoulder. Then, fixing his scowl back on me, he said, “Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you were trying to do? Isn’t that what you put in your bag?”
Whaaaaa? What was going on? He was accusing me of things that hadn’t even happened! Like, he couldn’t have been talking to me. I wanted to turn around to check and make sure there wasn’t some other kid standing behind me, stuffing chips in his backpack or something, but I knew there wasn’t. I knew this asshole was talking to… at… about… me. It felt like some kind of bad prank.
“In my bag? Man, ain’t nobody stealing nothing,” I explained, getting back to my feet. My hands were already up, a reflex from seeing a cop coming toward me. I glanced over at the lady, who was now slowly moving away, toward the cookies and snack cake aisle. “I was just trying to get my phone out my bag when she fell over me—” I tried to explain, but the policeman shut me down quick.
“Shut up,” he barked, coming closer.
“Wait, wait, I—”
“I said shut up!” he roared, now rushing me, grabbing me by the arm. “Did you not hear me? You deaf or something?” He led me toward the door while walkie-talkie-ing that he needed backup. Backup? For what? For who?
“No, you don’t understand,” I pleaded, unsure of what was happening. “I have money right here!” With my free hand, I reached into my pocket to grab the dollar I had designated to pay for those stupid chips. But before I could even get my fingers on the money, the cop had me knotted up in a submission hold, my arms twisted behind me, pain searing up to my shoulders. He shoved me through the door and slammed me to the ground. Face-first. Hurt so bad the pain was a color—white, a crunching sound in my ear as bones in my nose cracked. After he slapped the cuffs on me, the metal cutting into my wrists, he yanked at my shirt and pants, searching me. I let out a wail, a sound that came from somewhere deep inside. One I had never made before, coming from a feeling I had never felt before.
My initial reaction to the terrible pain was to move. Not to try to escape, or resist, but just… move. It’s like when you stub your toe. The first thing you do is throw yourself on the bed or jump around. It was that same reflex. I just needed to move to hopefully calm the pain. But moving wasn’t a good idea because every time I flipped and flapped on the pavement, with every natural jerk, the cuffs seemed to tighten, and worse, I caught another blow. A fist in the kidney. A knee in the back. A forearm to the back of the neck.
“Oh, you wanna resist? You wanna resist?” the cop kept saying, pounding me. He asked as if he expected me to answer. But I couldn’t. And if I could’ve, I would’ve told him that I didn’t want to resist. Plus, I was already in cuffs. I was already… stuck. The people on the street watching, their faint murmurs of “Leave him alone” becoming white noise—they knew I didn’t want to resist. I really, really didn’t. I just wanted him to stop beating me. I just wanted to live. Each blow earthquaked my insides, crushing parts of me I had never seen, parts of me I never knew were there. “Fuckin’ thugs can’t just do what you’re told. Need to learn how to respect authority. And I’m gonna teach you,” he taunted, almost whispering in my ear.
There was blood pooling in my mouth—tasted like metal. There were tears pooling in my eyes. I could see someone looking at me, quickly fading into a watery blur. Everything was sideways. Wrong. My ears were clogged, plugged by the pressure. All I could make out was the washed-out grunts of the man leaning over me, hurting me, telling me to stop fighting, even though I wasn’t fighting, and then the piercing sound of sirens pulling up.
My brain exploded into a million thoughts and only one thought at the same time—
please
don’t
kill me.
Product details
- Publisher : Atheneum/Caitlyn Dlouhy Books; Reprint ed. edition (29 Aug. 2017)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 336 pages
- ISBN-10 : 1481463349
- ISBN-13 : 978-1481463348
- Reading age : 13 - 17 years
- Dimensions : 13.97 x 2.29 x 20.96 cm
- Best Sellers Rank: 650,935 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- Customer reviews:
About the authors
The first name bits:
What Jason knows is that there are a lot — A LOT — of people, young, old, and in-between, who hate reading. He knows that many of these book haters are boys. He knows that many of these book-hating boys, don't actually hate books, they hate boredom. If you are reading this, and you happen to be one of these boys, first of all, you're reading this Jason's master plan is already working (muahahahahahaha) and second of all, know that Jason totally feels you. He REALLY does. Because even though he's a writer, he hates reading boring books too.
So here's what he plans to do: NOT WRITE BORING BOOKS.
That's it, and that's all.
Now, for the last name bits:
Jason Reynolds is an award-winning and #1 New York Times bestselling author. Jason’s many books include Miles Morales: Spider Man, the Track series (Ghost, Patina, Sunny, and Lu), Long Way Down, which received a Newbery Honor, a Printz Honor, and a Correta Scott King Honor, and Look Both Ways, which was a National Book Award Finalist. His latest book, Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You, is a collaboration with Ibram X. Kendi. Recently named the National Ambassador for Young People’s Literature, Jason has appeared on The Daily Show with Trevor Noah, Late Night with Seth Meyers, and CBS This Morning. He is on faculty at Lesley University, for the Writing for Young People MFA Program and lives in Washington, DC. You can find his ramblings at JasonWritesBooks.com.
Brendan Kiely is The New York Times bestselling author of All American Boys (with Jason Reynolds), Tradition, The Last True Love Story, and The Gospel of Winter. His most recent book is The Other Talk: Reckoning with Our White Privilege. His work has been published in over a dozen languages, and has received the Coretta Scott King Author Honor Award, the Walter Dean Meyers Award, and ALA’s Top Ten Best Fiction for Young Adults. A former high school teacher, he is now on the faculty of the Solstice MFA Program. He watches too much basketball and reads too many books at the same time, but most importantly, he lives for and loves his wife and son.
Find out more at www.brendankiely.com.
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Customers enjoy the book and find it an important read for young adults. They appreciate the balanced, thoughtful pacing and emotional themes. The subject is handled sensitively and brings the reality of the fallout to life.
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Customers enjoy the book. They say it's a great read, especially for young adults.
"...A great and important read, especially for the young adults it is aimed at." Read more
"...to take. all in all it is really enjoyable." Read more
"My son loves the book." Read more
Customers appreciate the book's pacing and thoughtful storytelling. They find the subject sensitively handled and the story an important read for young adults.
"...The authors have cleverly crafted the novel; so that you are given the opportunity to understand both the narratives of Rashad and Quinn...." Read more
"...The subject is dealt with very sensitively, and it really brought the reality of the fallout from these events home in a way that we can all relate..." Read more
"From the first sentence I was hooked. Not only a great story but a thought provoking insight into the lives of both black and white communities..." Read more
Top reviews from United Kingdom
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- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 22 July 2018All American Boys is a YA novel with beautiful depth and emotive themes. The authors have cleverly crafted the novel; so that you are given the opportunity to understand both the narratives of Rashad and Quinn. Rashad and Quinn come from entirely different backgrounds, upbringings and circumstances. But can they be united by their common belief in humanity?
The novel opens with Rashad and his backstory is slowly expanded upon. We learn that he is being pressured into a military career by his father. Rashad’s father has served as both a former soldier and former cop. When Rashad becomes the victim of police brutality that is largely based upon his race; it shakes the family to its very foundations.
Rashad attends Springfield Central High School, he also regularly attends junior reserve officer training corps (ROTC) to please his father. Upon leaving ROTC he enters Jerry’s a local shop that is known to him. There is an innocent accident, then accusations are thrown and before anyone can attempt to open a dialogue. Rashad finds himself cuffed and being beaten.
‘I just wanted him to stop beating me. I just wanted to live’ – Rashad
The police officer in question maintains that a HANDCUFFED teenage was ‘resisting’. But it is only later, when we discover the full extent of Rashad’s injuries, we learn this was a violent assault on an innocent teen.
‘My brain exploded into a million thoughts and only one thought at the same time -
Please
don’t
kill me’ – Rashad
Quinn is then introduced into the novel. He is a young man living with his widowed mother Mia and brother Willy. His father died in Afghan, due to an IED attack. What we learn from Quinn’s internal thoughts is that Quinn was present that day at Jerry’s, he witnessed the brutal assault and fled. Will he now have the courage to stand up for what is right?
The dilemma within the novel, is that Quinn is good friends with the police officer that delivered the violent beating. To Quinn he is a father figure, and this forces Quinn to question everything he has ever known about Paul. Did Paul really assault Rashad due to his race? Was the assault racially motivated?
Rashad is slowly recovering in hospital. He must deal with a father that blames him for the assault and a brother hellbent on fighting the injustice. Then mobile phone footage of the assault is released online. Suddenly Rashad’s assault has gone viral and the world wants answers. . .
‘I didn’t deserve this. None of us did. None of us’ – Rashad
Soon there is a graffiti tag ‘Rashad is absent again today’ and #RashadIsAbsentAgainToday is trending. Kids begin to speak up about racial injustice and question their own internal prejudices. None more so than Quinn.
When Quinn attend the Galluzzo family BBQ, he over hears some comments that leave him emotionally troubled. Quinn fears exposure as a witness to the assault. He fears that others will know he witnessed an attack and fled. Is Quinn part of the problem?
The novel forces you to see the world through both boy’s eyes. Obviously, we build an emotional response to Rashad’s experience. But we also begin to question and speculate what Quinn will do. It is very cleverly structured, and I think perfect for young teens in education settings.
I can’t fully get across how I feel about this novel in text. But it made me think about what I teach my kids. That it is important to educate them not just on injustice, but HOW they should respond in certain situations. As a mother I really felt for Rashad’s situation, you desperately want to reach through the pages and help him. But realistically what Rashad needs, is to learn to come to terms with his experience in his own time.
Emotive, moving and intelligently written. 5* Genius
- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 6 April 2021Dealing with a subject matter that has been at the forefront of media attention over the last twelve months due to the killing of George Floyd, this would be a great book to give a teen who wanted to read something that grapples with issues that they see in the news in a way that is approachable but also makes them think and try and understand the tensions that arise after such incidents.
The book is told from the dual viewpoints of Rashad, the victim of the violent act, and Quinn, his classmate and friend of the brother of the policeman involved in the arrest. Quinn is very torn between loyalty, and the tensions that arise in his school as everyone begins to take sides. It is a very effective way to present the different perspectives on the events of the book and to see how people are pressured to taking a stand for one side or another, and how the tension spreads quickly through a community. The subject is dealt with very sensitively, and it really brought the reality of the fallout from these events home in a way that we can all relate to.
The book is emotional and difficult to read in parts, but these are issues that need to be brought into the open and discussed in the light, even if that makes us uncomfortable, so I would highly recommend this as a book you can give to young people in your life as a way of introducing them to the topic and giving you a jumping off point for discussion. I am certainly going to be encouraging my teenage daughters to read it as another step in the conversations I have already had with them following the events of the last twelve months.
The writing between the two authors is seamless, you wouldn’t know it was co-authored if you hadn’t been told, but I am sure the input of both made this book the balanced and considered telling of the story that it is. A great and important read, especially for the young adults it is aimed at.
- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 17 August 2021From the first sentence I was hooked.
Not only a great story but a thought provoking insight into the lives of both black and white communities and how they interact. It doesn't dwell on racism solely but how individuals acts affect those around them.
- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 10 February 2018The book is well written and brings home the difficulties Afro-Americans face by certain law enforcers. But like all the previous cases mentioned in the book this one is just as inconclusive. No one is brought to justice and the same old protests take place, but that’s it. So will there be a follow up?
- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 20 July 2018really enjoyed this book.
it is about two characters and relates to racism one who experiences it
and another who observes it. it is a interesting dive into the experiences
of different individuals and how they make the choices they make.
it was interesting to see the struggle of one character who saw the racism and
struggled to understand and compute what the right course of action is for him
to take.
all in all it is really enjoyable.
- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 7 December 2019My son loves the book.
Top reviews from other countries
- Brian TaylorReviewed in the United States on 20 February 2025
5.0 out of 5 stars Must Read
This should be required reading in schools. Great way to frame so many serious issues. Five out of five stars.
- patricia nelson-robineauReviewed in Canada on 30 April 2024
5.0 out of 5 stars Great book
Had to read this for school and honestly, was not expecting this to be so good. I just had to buy my own copy to keep
-
ankeReviewed in Germany on 13 December 2020
5.0 out of 5 stars Sehr gut geschriebenes Buch - Lieblingsbuch
Sehr gut geschriebenes Buch ... Lieblingsbuch auf jeden Fall
- Lunch LadyReviewed in Canada on 2 February 2023
5.0 out of 5 stars "Outstanding Book" says Mom
My mom read this book after seeing the authors on a TV show. One author is black and the other is white, which would enhance perspectives on specific issues. She said it was really good and glad she read it.
- EmilyReviewed in the United States on 13 February 2017
5.0 out of 5 stars 10/10 would read again (and i did)
“All American Boys” tells the story of Rashad Butler (black) and Quinn Collins (white) who don’t really socialize but go to the same school. When Rashad is involved in an incident on his way to a party, he starts getting a ton of attention. Throughout the book, we see how Rashad recovers from this incident and how people he would have never suspected support him. This book has points that will have you almost in tears of joy and points that leave you in shock.
I noticed a change in the book's theme as it book goes along. It starts off almost hateful but then it has a theme of generosity or support near the end. Without spoiling too much, the events of the first chapter are never forgotten about. With every page, you see the effects of what happened. A quote from the book, “Nobody says the words anymore, but somehow the violence still remains. If I didn’t want the violence to remain, I had to do a hell of a lot more than just say the right things and not say the wrong things.” , perfectly reflects how I felt reading this book.
The two authors Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely try to maintain a balance between Rashad and Quinn. The middle of the book is very focused on Quinn and him dealing with betrayal and his friends, while Rashad is focused on more in the beginning and end of the book. I guess this makes sense because Rashad was just in the hospital, but I feel that there was more he could have done at certain points. The support given to Rashad by his friends, English, Carlos, and Shannon, is the opposite of how Quinn’s friendships are falling apart.
I am disappointed that some parts of this book were not as challenging for me, and also that there was no real struggle for me in deciding which side I was on, but I think it was a very good book. Although there were things they could improve on, the message is good and the book as a whole is definitely a 5/5. The book is the perfect amount of pages to last you a good week or two, and it is immersing. There were parts of this book where I would not put it down until my kindle died.
I have read this book twice and I am reading it a third time. I would recommend this to every reading teacher out there. This is a must read and can replace books like “Old Yeller” and “To Kill a Mockingbird” in required reading. It gives a good stance on current political issues and gives different views on those issues. Every library, bookstore, and online bookstore needs to have this book. This book will brighten the minds of the latest generation while giving them a good time. This book is one of the best books I have ever read, and that really says something about this book. I look forward to reading the author's other books.