Like home

Louisa Onomé

Book - 2021

Chinelo is all about her neighborhood Ginger East, but when her friend Kate's parent's store is vandalized and the vandal still at large, Nelo and her beloved Ginger East are shaken to their core.

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YOUNG ADULT FICTION/Onome Louisa
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Subjects
Genres
Fiction
Young adult fiction
Published
New York : Delacorte Press [2021]
Language
English
Main Author
Louisa Onomé (author)
Edition
First Edition
Physical Description
403 pages ; 22 cm
Audience
Ages 12 & Up.
Grades 7-9.
ISBN
9780593172599
9780593172612
Contents unavailable.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Chinelo "Nelo" Agu, 16, who is Nigerian Canadian, is content with life in her hometown of Ginger East, in the greater Toronto area. She has a fierce love for her home, despite a shooting years ago that made headlines and cast the town in an unflattering light ("That place is no good for children. It's not a good place to grow up"). Though many of her friends moved away, Chinelo still has her best friend, Kate Tran, a Vietnamese Canadian girl whose parents own a popular store in town. But when the store is vandalized, and developers move in to persuade the residents of Ginger East to sell their properties, Chinelo knows it's up to her ("because my mind, my body, is so rooted in Ginger East") to defend her city from the outsiders who seek to gentrify it: "I swear people who don't know anything about what it's like to live here will come in, do whatever they want, and then leave, pretending they did us any favors--pretending we need them." Chinelo's unwavering devotion and hope for her hometown drive this debut; Onomé delves into the meaning of home and the negative impacts of redevelopment. While Chinelo's outright denial of any problems in Ginger East becomes repetitive, this novel explains what gentrification can mean to existing communities, beneath its promises of prosperity. Ages 12--up. Agent: Claire Friedman, Inkwell Management Literary. (Feb.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 6--10--Ginger East is the only home Nigerian American 16-year-old Chinelo, or Nelo as her close friends call her, has ever known. It has a reputation for being unsafe, but Nelo knows it's just a misconception formed by tragic events that happened in the past. An act of vandalism at her best friend's neighborhood store combined with the news of a fancy corporate spice store coming to her neighborhood send her reeling and seeking a way to express herself. When a viral video pushes Nelo into the spotlight, she becomes the face of Ginger East. On top of her sudden fame, it seems as though her best friend Kate, who is Vietnamese American, now wants nothing to do with her, and Nelo seeks out forms of protest through a neighborhood community group that shares her feelings about the recent changes. Nelo has to confront that whether she likes it or not, things are changing around her and she has to fight for her home. This book brings readers into the world of Ginger East, a neighborhood that is no stranger to violence, gangs, and police brutality, but introduces these topics in a way that is palatable for a middle school audience. The diverse cast of characters were a tight-knit group of best friends as kids, most of whom moved away from their neighborhood and now have been reunited through their shared experiences in Ginger East. VERDICT A touching coming-of-age story, this is highly recommended for younger audiences who are looking for alternatives to more mature titles like Angie Thomas's The Hate U Give and Nic Stone's Dear Martin without losing the poignancy of the topics at hand. A must-have for middle school collections.--Erica Coonelly, Monroe Township M.S., NJ

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Chinelo is happy the way things are; she just has to convince everyone else to stop seeking change. Nigerian Canadian high schooler Chinelo has accepted the fact that some of her childhood neighborhood crew have left for what their families perceived as better neighborhoods. At least Kate Tran, her Vietnamese Canadian best friend, still lives in Ginger East. The Trans, who are like a second family to Chinelo, still run their store, a neighborhood institution. But things are changing: Rents are going up, and upscale shops are appearing along with a new crosswalk. But when the Trans' store is vandalized and Kate starts pulling away from Chinelo, the changes become too much. As Chinelo tries to prove it was an outsider to the neighborhood who threw the brick through the store window, her outspokenness lands her in a viral video and on the TV news, and a neighborhood protest she helps organize ends badly. Chinelo's youthful, down-to-earth voice is humorous and utterly believable. The serious topics of gentrification, stereotyping, and inequality are ruthlessly examined without getting in the way of an engaging story of a young woman trying to find her place in a changing world. The effortless diversity of the cast--supporting characters are Black, Trinidadian, and Colombian--is a model for fiction. Light and serious, playful and real, this is a debut not to be missed. (Fiction. 14-18) Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Chapter One My shoes scratch against the uneven pavement, and I know right away that they've been scuffed real bad. I immediately think of my mom--­I pretty much begged her to buy these shoes for me. "Take it out of my college fund or something," I told her, like an idiot, and she laughed in that stiff way she does whenever we talk about money. If she sees them scuffed up so early, I'll never hear the end of it. I'll never hear the end of the shoes, the same way I'll never hear the end of this--­this bra thing. I gotta tell Kate. It is April, and Ginger East is quiet early in the morning, so my light footsteps sound like heavy boots as I run. The sun creeps over the top of the highest building on the main road, casting stale light on dusty storefronts and barely swept roads. A set of duplexes that used to be cash-­and-­carry outlets stares back at me as I reach the end of my street, Ginger Way. Mom used to buy fish and bedding from there. Two different departments, same store. They moved out a long time ago. Now it's a coffee place open bright and early at seven a.m. Man, the only people up this early in Ginger East are us schoolkids who need to catch a bus, the few homeless people who live in that shed behind the liquor store, and the Trans--­Kate and her family--­because they run Ginger Store. My feet slow as I round the corner approaching Ginger Store, and then stop as I pull open the door. It's hard to get in with how the wind seems to be pushing at it. Mrs. Tran is at the register and immediately leans past the counter to see who it is. She frantically waves at me and says, "Chinelo? Shut the door, please." I do as I'm told, and the fierce wind tunnel dies. My carefully straightened hair, which I tried so hard to smooth down this morning, is frizzing around my shoulders. "The back door is open," she says, settling onto her stool behind the counter again. "Kate's dad is mopping the storage room, and with all the doors open--­ whoosh, " she explains, waving her hands around to symbolize the movement of air. "Why doesn't he tell Jake to do it?" I ask. Jake is Kate's useless older brother who's gotten away with doing the absolute least because he's a boy. He'll straighten one shelf and complain for hours. He outgrew his cool-­older-­brother phase ages ago. Mrs. Tran makes a face like she knows her son is useless and why would she even consider asking him? I laugh, a difficult feat after sprinting all the way here, and ask, "What about Kate?" The sound of a freezer slamming in the back rings out, and then I notice Kate trudging up the middle aisle, her arms extended in front of her. Her lips are curled into a pout as she approaches, her stark dark hair gathered messily around her neck. "How many things do you want me to do in one morning? Like, damn." She grunts, shaking her hands. I look at her fingers, because I feel her eyes are urging me to. They just look dry. "What's your problem?" She ignores me and takes a slow step toward her mom at the counter. "Mom, my hands are fro-­zen. Can't I organize the ice cream after school? No one's out here buying ice cream before noon." Her mom frowns all strict. Mrs. Tran is definitely the nicest Tran, so the small tic between her eyebrows really strikes fear into my scuffed-­shoed feet. I loop my arm with Kate's instantly, saying, "I'll help you." "See?" Mrs. Tran cuts in with a wry smile. "Nelo is a good worker." Kate's mouth drops open. "Worker? But you're not even paying her, though. You're not even paying me --­" "Ah, so I should pay you to live in my house?" I snort. My mom and Mrs. Tran are pretty much the same person at this point. They probably share insults on some group chat called Neighborhood Moms. "Come on," I say to Kate, tugging her down the aisle. From where we disappear to, I can hear Mr. Tran sloshing a mop across the linoleum tile in the hallway. Even so, the smell of chocolate is strong back here. Ever since that hot-­chocolate-­machine explosion incident when we were nine, the store has smelled like chocolate--­and old building and cardboard and musty floor wax. Kate shimmies free of my grasp as soon as we're hidden. She gives me a knowing look and says, "I got you," before dipping into the freezer for a Vita ice cream bar. It's seven a.m., but I don't argue. I snatch it from her, peel off its wrapper, and stuff it into my mouth as if it was made for me. She tries not to cackle. "You're so extra!" "I love these," I say through a cold mouthful. Vita ice cream is the best ice cream, my absolute favorite. Ginger Store is the only place around here that sells it, and every time I eat it, it reminds me of some of the best times I've ever had. Usually, in the summer, my friends and I used to meet up here and buy ice cream. Sitting at the curb by the storefront, watching customers come and go amid the humidity and heat. We were all about the stickiness of sunrise-­to-­sundown adventures and the cool, calming wave brought on by tubs and tubs of ice cream. Nothing really has come close ever since. Life split us up. I guess that's normal, but it still sucks. Our friends moved to a nicer neighborhood closer to school. It's only Kate and me who live on Ginger Way and who still talk about summers with too much ice cream. A small part of me feels it's a matter of time before she leaves too, but I know the Trans, and they wouldn't leave. Ginger Store is as much the neighborhood's as it is theirs, so they'd never sell. So many businesses have come and gone around here, cash-­and-­carries turned into hair salons turned into loan offices, but Ginger Store is a staple. Ginger East would be nothing without it, but if I'm being honest, maybe I'd be nothing without it too. Kate purses her lips, biting back another laugh. Then she points a stern finger at me and says, "Do not say anything to my mom. She's doing inventory." "Uh, why would I?" "You and my mom are obviously like this," she says, crossing her fingers. I snort, say "Shut up," and punch her in the arm as lightly as I can. I barely feel her thick sweater on my knuckles, so I punch her again, but this time deeper. She gasps and returns the favor, except she misses my arm by an inch and her knuckles land square on my left tit. Her face says it all. Her mouth makes a perfect O, and her brows arch so high, they almost meet her hairline. I instinctively bring a hand to shield my chest in case she does it again. And she does, but this time she leans forward, tipping the top of my animal-­print sweater so she can see down my shirt. When I try to swat her away, she takes a step back and gapes even wider. She whispers, "Are you, like, padding your bra now?" My face is burning up under the store lights and her growing shock. Her eyes--­she's watching me so hard! "No! Why would I?" "Then what . . . ?" she asks, letting her eyes drop to my heavily sweatered chest. I take a second and cast a quick look over my shoulder through the store. Everything is undisturbed. The aisles of food, scissors, telephones--­you know, corner-­shop stuff. Mrs. Tran's shelf of used books stares back at me from the wall. The lotion that's mad scented when you apply it but then dies after an hour is untouched on the counter. It's quiet and safe enough for me to turn back around and whisper to Kate: "Okay, so this morning my mom comes to me, right, and peeks down my shirt, and was like, 'Chi-­chi--­' " "Who's that?" "Me." Kate screws up her face with disbelief. "Since when?" Exactly! Even she knows that no one has ever called me that. "I don't know. Mom just started calling me that one day, maybe literally the day Dad left to go to Calgary for work. She'd never call me that if he was here." There's a Chi-­chi in every Nigerian Igbo family, and I don't know why my mom is trying to turn me into Chi-­chi when I already have a cousin who claimed the name. "It doesn't suit you." "That's what I'm saying! And she was like, 'Chi-­chi, we need to think about getting you a bigger bra.' If you heard how she enunciated 'bra.' And I was like, I mean, I didn't even say nothing. Just ran. How awkward is that?" Excerpted from Like Home by Louisa Onome All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.