Publisher Description

From the critically acclaimed author of Anything But Typical comes a "tense...and thought-provoking" (Kirkus Reviews, starred review) look at the days leading up to the tragic events of September 11, 2001, and how that day impacted the lives of four middle schoolers.

Ask anyone: September 11, 2001, was serene and lovely, a perfect day-until a plane struck the World Trade Center.

But right now it is a few days earlier, and four kids in different parts of the country are going about their lives. Sergio, who lives in Brooklyn, is struggling to come to terms with the absentee father he hates and the grandmother he loves. Will's father is gone, too, killed in a car accident that has left the family reeling. Naheed has never before felt uncomfortable about being Muslim, but at her new school she's getting funny looks because of the head scarf she wears. Aimee is starting a new school in a new city and missing her mom, who has to fly to New York on business.

These four don't know one another, but their lives are about to intersect in ways they never could have imagined. Award-winning author Nora Raleigh Baskin weaves together their stories into an unforgettable novel about that seemingly perfect September day-the day our world changed forever.

Author Biography

Nora Raleigh Baskin is the ALA Schneider Family Book Award-winning author of Anything But Typical. She was chosen as a Publishers Weekly Flying Start for her novel What Every Girl (Except Me) Knows, and has since written a number of novels for middle graders and teens, including The Truth About My Bat Mitzvah, The Summer Before Boys, and Ruby on the Outside. Nora lives with her family in Connecticut. Visit her at NoraBaskin.com.

Review

"Baskin creates sharply defined, emotionally compelling characters in a few elegant words . . . Daringly, Baskin saves the events of 9/11 for the last act, effectively ending her book with its inciting event. . . . Though some might wonder if a calm and bloodless novel about 9/11 misses the point, its poise allows Nine, Ten to honor the emotional distance many kids today feel from the tragedy." * The New York Times Book Review * "Baskin's novel reminds readers that our lives are interconnected in ways we might never understand; by focusing on four young characters, she underscores the effects September 11 had on those involved and those bearing witness . . . a gentle introduction to a difficult topic for young readers, many of whom will be too young to remember the events firsthand." -- Booklist * "A powerful account of how the events changed lives. . . . There are no graphic displays of violence; Baskin focuses on how her characters emerge wiser, worldlier, and more sensitive to others' pain after surviving a profound and tragic piece of history." -- Publishers Weekly, starred review * "Readers will have different reactions to the work depending on their ages and how much prior knowledge they bring to it. . . children may gain a small sense of the magnitude of the changes that day wrought on our world. Tense, disturbing, and thought-provoking." * Kirkus Reviews, starred review *

Review Quote

* "Readers will have different reactions to the work depending on their ages and how much prior knowledge they bring to it. . . children may gain a small sense of the magnitude of the changes that day wrought on our world. Tense, disturbing, and thought-provoking."

Excerpt from Book

Nine, Ten: A September 11 Story September 9, 2001 7:46 a.m. CDT O''Hare International Airport It was September 9, 2001, raining in that Chicago slow-drizzle sort of way. Outside the windows of O''Hare International Airport, the sky was painted a particular shade of gray and leaving droplets of water on the large glass windows that looked out onto the airstrip. Sergio and another boy from New York were at the gate, early for their flight home. Their university escort was sitting, eyes closed, listening to her Discman, waiting for the boys to board so she could go home. What was the other boy''s name? Sergio couldn''t remember. L-something? Or M-something? For two days Sergio had recognized him as, simply, the white boy with the red hair. "Let''s go see what''s in the candy shop." The redheaded boy pointed to the newsstand, which was filled with everything anyone could possibly think of needing before getting onto a plane: newspapers, magazines, headrests, paperback novels, earphones, small suitcases, cold drinks, and lots of candy. Sergio glanced over at the escort, who didn''t look up. She didn''t even open her eyes. "Okay," Sergio said. He took one more glance around to make sure they could find their way back to their gate. Everything in the airport appeared the same, every corner, every window, every set of plastic seats, every gate. It would be easy to get lost. Sergio made sure he would not. Then he checked the information on the board again. Flight 563, JFK. On time, gate 10. His grandmother would be getting up right about now. It was Sunday. Her one day to sleep in. But she was probably up already, making coffee, knowing Sergio would be home in a few hours. Sergio didn''t realize how homesick he was, he had been, the whole time, until just then, when he started thinking about his grandmother. It was the first time he had ever been away from home. And he''d only agreed to go at all because his grandma was so proud of him. Five kids from New York State had been chosen to be honored at this ceremony at the University of Chicago, all based on one math test they had taken at the end of last year. And for that Sergio had been flown to Chicago, put up in a hotel, and given three meals a day, and when they had called his name--his full name, Sergio Kinkaid Williams--he had walked across the gigantic stage of the Court Theatre and received his plaque, which was now weighing down his carry-on bag as he perused the newsstand. Kinkaid was his father''s last name. Of his father, that was pretty much all he wanted to know. "You getting anything to eat?" the redheaded boy asked when they got into the checkout line. Sergio slipped his hand into his jeans pocket to feel the twenty-dollar bill his grandmother had given him three days ago. He didn''t want to break it if he didn''t have to. "Don''t they give us lunch or breakfast or something on the plane?" "Yeah, but they won''t give us Kit Kat bars." The boy with the red hair put two candy bars on the counter. Sergio shook his head. "Nah, I''m good." They finished checking out, and the boy handed Sergio one of the Kit Kats. "I hate to eat alone," he said. "Thanks." Sergio took the candy. He wasn''t expecting that. It was nice. The redheaded boy began to unwrap his candy, then stopped. He appeared to be more interested in something across the store. "That is so weird, isn''t it?" he said. He pointed. "What''s she got on her head?" Sergio tried to figure out what the boy was talking about, but didn''t see anything. "What''s weird? Who?" "Her." The boy gestured across the news shop, to a girl with her back toward them, facing a full wall of magazines. She was wearing regular clothes, jeans and a sweater, but her head was wrapped in a shawl, a thin brown veil. Sergio knew what that meant. She was Muslim. There were a lot of Muslim girls in his neighborhood and in his school, but this kid had probably never seen anyone dressed like that. He was from way upstate New York somewhere. At that moment the girl turned toward them as if she had heard them talking. Her head scarf completely covered her head and neck, all the way down to her shoulders. Like a child''s drawing, her pale face was floating in a sea of brown fabric. Her lips pressed together. Her brow furrowed. Her eyes were blue, like the Mediterranean Sea. "Hey, man. Let''s go," Sergio said. It was so not cool to stare. * * * Naheed was used to it. Being looked at. She was used to people asking if she was wearing a costume. Or saying: "I didn''t know you were Arab." "Can you belly dance?" "Do you believe in God?" "Do you really not eat for a month?" She wasn''t Arab. She was Middle Eastern. Well, she was American, born twelve years ago in Columbus, Ohio, and she had never lived anywhere else. She had never once been to Iran, where her Persian mother and father had grown up. She couldn''t belly dance either. But she was used to people staring as soon as she left her house, her neighborhood, her school, her friends, and was out in public, as she was here in O''Hare Airport, waiting for her uncle and aunt to arrive. Their flight hadn''t come in yet. Naheed''s family could have just waited outside for Uncle Iman and Aunt Judith to go through security and baggage, but her dad wanted to be right at the gate when his brother got off the plane, so they had gotten to the airport early. Really early. They had already had snacks, gone to the bathroom, and wandered through all the gift shops, and Uncle Iman''s plane was still not here. "Why don''t you get yourself a magazine?" Naheed''s father offered. "One I would approve of," he quickly added. Naheed gazed at the display wall. There were hundreds of magazines, all with exciting, colorful covers, pretty girls, beautiful clothing, and lots of bare skin. But there wasn''t one magazine on this wall her father would let her buy. The girls with their hair blowing freely all around their heads like someone had a fan right in their faces, their bare arms showing even though they were advertising winter fashions; Naheed knew it was immodest. "A girl does not need to flaunt her beauty to the world," her mother had told her many times. "Real beauty is inside, and the right boy will see that." Naheed decided she didn''t need anything after all. She turned to head back to her family. Only now there were people everywhere, filling the news shop, heading in all directions, strolling, rushing, dragging children and bags, but nowhere did she see her mother''s or father''s or little sister''s familiar face. Her father had been standing right there a minute ago. Hadn''t he? Naheed looked straight ahead in the direction she had just come from. Or was it that way? Or there? It all looked the same. There were faces everywhere, but no one she knew. Her heart started to pump more quickly, and she felt the heat filling up her body. A tiny band of sweat formed instantly across her forehead. How would she ever find them? She could feel tears springing into the corners of her eyes. There were people all around her. Too many people. Too many faces. She didn''t want to start crying, but it was about to happen anyway. She kept walking, looking down at the ground, hoping her feet would keep working even if her brain wasn''t. In this way she banged directly into something solid, unmoving, and talking. "Hey, watch where you''re going." Naheed looked up. It was so weird--for a second it seemed that a girl from one of those magazines had actually stepped out and was here, right in front of her. Light brown hair, long and straight, carefully pulled away from her face and delicate neck. She had perfect skin, and a perfect outfit: white T-shirt with some kind of logo, tucked into her belted jeans. "Oh no, now look what happened," the girl said. The impact of two bodies had sent the girl''s bag spilling onto the floor. ChapStick. A water bottle, a Walkman, and a plastic change purse, unfortunately not quite tightly closed. "I''m sorry. I didn''t mean to. . . ." Now surely Naheed was going to cry. She began to bend down next to the girl to help her, when she saw, across the way, her little sister, Nouri, waving her arms. "Here! Here," Nouri was saying. Naheed felt a wash of comfort pour over her. Her mind cleared. Her heart slowed with relief, then sped back up with joy. She hadn''t lost them. There was her family, standing by the far window. The plane had arrived. Even Uncle Iman and Aunt Judith were a welcome sight. Naheed stopped trying to collect the girl''s things. She stood up. "Oh, never mind," the girl said, wisps of her hair now loose and falling into her eyes as she gathered her things from the floor. "I got it." "Sorry. I mean thanks," Naheed called back. "I mean sorry." But her voice was absorbed into the airport terminal din. * * * Aimee grabbed for the loose coin that was standing upright and rolling across

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