Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Vanessa Diffenbaugh’s new release WE NEVER ASKED FOR WINGS!
From the beloved New York Times bestselling author of The Language of Flowers comes her much-anticipated new novel about young love, hard choices, and hope against all odds.
For fourteen years, Letty Espinosa has worked three jobs around San Francisco to make ends meet while her mother raised her children—Alex, now fifteen, and Luna, six—in their tiny apartment on a forgotten spit of wetlands near the bay. But now Letty’s parents are returning to Mexico, and Letty must step up and become a mother for the first time in her life.
Navigating this new terrain is challenging for Letty, especially as Luna desperately misses her grandparents and Alex, who is falling in love with a classmate, is unwilling to give his mother a chance. Letty comes up with a plan to help the family escape the dangerous neighborhood and heartbreaking injustice that have marked their lives, but one wrong move could jeopardize everything she’s worked for and her family’s fragile hopes for the future.
Vanessa Diffenbaugh blends gorgeous prose with compelling themes of motherhood, undocumented immigration, and the American Dream in a powerful and prescient story about family.
Read an exclusive excerpt from We Never Asked for Wings:
It wasn’t too late to turn back. Driving through the fog at a quarter past midnight, Letty waited for the exit signs that appeared without warning, willing herself to swerve off the freeway and return the way she’d come. But at each split-second opportunity she wavered just a moment too long. The exits came and went, and she was left with nothing but a wall of fog and the tequila in her water bottle, pushing her forward—past San Jose and Los Banos and Coalinga and through the sour cloud of Harris Ranch, accelerating until even the short length of yellow line she’d been following for over two hundred miles transformed into a rush of white.
She’d left her children.
It wasn’t premeditated, she told herself, as if this made it any less criminal. And it was true that it had happened quickly—too quickly for her to think, or to wake them up, or to take them with her. She’d come home to find her two children asleep in their beds in an empty apartment, a hastily scrawled letter on the kitchen table. Reading it, panic overwhelmed her, and Letty had done the only thing she could think of to do: she added her name to the bottom of the letter and ran out the door the way she’d come.
Her youngest, Luna, slept diagonally. Letty imagined her now, stretched across the bed they shared, searching for her mother in the darkness. Luna’s hands would be cold, the covers a tangled mess on the floor. Across the room, in his small bed beneath the window, Alex would be snoring softly, or talking in his sleep—a scientific babble that only Letty had ever heard, and no one, including Alex, believed occurred.
“I’ll be home before you wake up,” Letty whispered, wanting it to be true.
But she kept driving, away from them.
At the base of the Tahachapi mountains, Letty dumped the remains of the tequila-water out the window and squinted into the night. Somewhere ahead of her, a Greyhound bus lurched toward the Mexican border, its pull as strong as a rope tied from the bumper to her beating heart. Once, she might have cut that rope and taken off running in the opposite direction. But that was a long time ago, now. A lifetime of mistakes had taught her what everyone around her already believed: that she couldn’t do it; that alone, she wasn’t enough, and so she’d long ago surrendered her life to the one person in the world capable of holding it all together.
She needed her mother.
The edge of the mattress dipped as Alex sat down. Luna was curled into a ball, doing that thing she did when she wanted someone to believe she was still asleep: eyes scrunched too tightly closed, lips pulled down at the corners because Alex had told her once that she smiled when she faked sleep, so now she overcorrected. Wisps of long black hair had escaped her braids and tangled around her gold earrings; a smudge of drool flaked white off her cheek. Checking to see who was there, she squinted at Alex through crusted eyelashes and then snapped her eyes shut again. Where she’d recently lost her two front teeth, her gums were swollen and red.
How could he possibly tell her?
She was only six. Only six and tiny too—even with their grandmother cooking constantly, there were weeks she lost weight instead of gaining it, and she didn’t have any to lose. What would he feed her? He felt again the despair washing over him, as it had when he’d first woken up and read the letter; with puffed cheeks, he held his breath until it passed. Everything is going to be fine, he told himself. Everything is going to be just fine. He was fourteen years old, fifteen in a month. He’d been watching his grandmother long enough to know what to do. But it wouldn’t be easy. Luna wasn’t the kind of kid who just listened.
Getting her to do anything took extensive negotiation, distraction, and occasionally—even with his grandmother—bribery.
Alex decided to skip straight to the bribery.
“Too bad Luna’s not awake, because I’m about to have donuts for breakfast.”
She pressed her face into the pillow to muffle a squeal and clamped her hands over her ears as if this might prevent their grandmother from hearing. It was breaking three rules, at least: (1) Stopping anywhere on the way to school, (2) Eating sugar before noon, and (3) Eating donuts, ever.
“Don’t worry, she isn’t here.”
Luna peeled away from the pillow. Her brown eyes studied Alex, looking for clues as to how she should feel about this unfamiliar state of being. “Where is she?”
He forced himself to smile. “Mom took her to get Grandpa.”
“They found him?”
Alex paused, then moved his head in a kind of circle, a motion that Luna would interpret as a yes but that was ambiguous enough to get Alex off if he was ever questioned for lying at the gates of heaven. He’d hidden his grandmother’s letter behind the tip jar his mother kept in the kitchen cabinet, which he’d hoped would be full (she’d taken most of the money, though, leaving only three inches of coins at the bottom of the jar) and estimated the time it would take for them to return by the miles to Oro de Hidalgo and back, calculated at seventy miles an hour. Best case scenario: “They’ll be back on Friday.”
Luna was quiet, and for a minute Alex thought she was worrying, as he was, about how his mother would get his grandparents, Maria Elena and Enrique, back across the border—or whether they would get back at all. But then she asked what day it was.
She hummed the days of the week to the tune of “Clementine” and counted on her fingers. “Three days.”
“Exactly. Three days of eating whatever we want and staying after school with our friends.”
They didn’t have any friends; Luna did not look convinced.
He squeezed her feet through the blankets, trying to think of something to comfort her. “We’ve been alone before, remember?”
She nodded, fear in her eyes for the first time, and he realized too late that it was the wrong thing to say. They’d both gotten stomachaches from the potatoes he’d half-baked, and she’d cried, inconsolably, the whole night through. That time, Maria Elena hadn’t meant to leave them alone. She and Enrique had gone out of town and hired a babysitter, but the girl got sick and left, and even though they’d called Letty in a panic, she hadn’t come home until six o’clock in the morning.
“I’m older now,” he said and then, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say: “Sprinkles?”
Luna studied him. “Are we really going to get donuts?”
“If you ever get out of bed, we are.” She reached out, and he pulled her up and set her on the floor. “Need help?”
“Nana said I could wear my heart dress. She said she’d wash it.”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“But she said.”
It was exactly the kind of conversation that could spiral into hysteria; the recovery would take half the morning. “Hold on.”
He looked in the closet, where his grandmother hung the clothes she’d ironed, and then in the kitchen sink, where she soaked things overnight; finally, he found it on the drying rack in the stairwell, stretched flat on top of a towel.
“It’s wet,” Luna said when he handed it to her.
“So wear it wet, or wear something dry.”
“But I want to wear this. And I don’t want it to be wet.”
She held her dress by the sleeves and swung it around in a circle. The material flew just inches from his face. He reached out and grabbed it.
“Stop that. Come here.” From her dresser he found leggings and a long-sleeved shirt, and dressed her in both before pulling the damp dress over her head. “You can’t even tell it’s wet.”
Luna wrinkled her nose. “But why are we even going to school?” she asked. “Please, please, please, can we stay home and watch TV?”
“No way,” Alex said. They were so different, he and his sister, that sometimes he couldn’t believe they were even related. But then, Alex was different from just about everyone he’d ever met. While the other eighth graders in his class read banned magazines behind textbooks and painted their nails under their desks and avoided answering questions, Alex came to school every day armed with some strange fact to shock or impress his teacher. Most of these facts he got from his grandfather, the only person he knew who was like him. Enrique could recite the name of every bird that traveled the Pacific Flyway in alphabetical order, a skill he’d learned from his own father, and his grandfather before that. Alex had been able to do it for as long as he could remember.
Grabbing his clothes from the closet, he went to the bathroom to get dressed. Behind the locked door he pulled on the white shirt his grandmother had ironed. The kids at Cesar Chavez called him “Newsman” because of his shirts, but Alex knew he looked nothing like a television reporter. He was too skinny, for one, and his nose had grown before the rest of his face. But the real problem with Alex’s appearance was his hair: a wavy, almost-blond mop he assumed he’d inherited from his father. Alex had never seen him, but in a shoe box under Letty’s bed was a sealed envelope addressed to Wes Riley, 536 Elm Street, Mission Hills, California. When he’d searched the name on his school computer, Alex had found images of a man who looked almost exactly like him—blue eyes, milky skin, and a square jaw. In every photograph he wore scrubs and held a different dark-skinned baby. The captions read “Mumbai,” “Malawi,” “Guatemala City.” He’d been given some kind of award in 2005, but the article about it was written in an African language Alex didn’t recognize and couldn’t understand.
But of all the information he’d gathered about his father, the address was the thing that most captivated him. It was just over the freeway. For years, Alex had imagined walking past the house, his father recognizing him from the window and rushing out. He’d never gotten far enough from Maria Elena’s watchful eye to venture there alone, though, and he’d never summoned the courage to ask his mother about the man or the circumstances of his birth—mostly because he’d never summoned the courage to ask his mother about anything at all.
Excerpted from WE NEVER ASKED FOR WINGS by Vanessa Diffenbaugh Copyright © 2015 by Vanessa Diffenbaugh. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Books, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Meet the Author:
VANESSA DIFFENBAUGH was born in San Francisco and raised in Chico, California. After graduating from Stanford University, sheworked in the non-profit sector, teaching art and technology to youth in low-income communities. Following the success of her debut novel, The Language of Flowers, she co-founded Camellia Network, a non-profit whose mission is to connect every youth aging out of foster care to the critical resources, opportunities, and support they need to thrive in adulthood. She currently lives in Monterey, CA, with her husband and four children.
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