Blended

Eleven-year-old Isabella's blended family is more divided than ever in this thoughtful story about divorce and racial identity from the award-winning and New York Times bestselling author of Out of My Mind , Sharon M. Draper.

Eleven-year-old Isabella's parents are divorced, so she has to switch lives every week: One week she's Isabella with her dad, his girlfriend Anastasia, and her son Darren living in a fancy house where they are one of the only black families in the neighborhood. The next week she's Izzy with her mom and her boyfriend John-Mark in a small, not-so-fancy house that she loves.

Because of this, Isabella has always felt pulled between two worlds. And now that her parents are divorced, it seems their fights are even worse, and they're always about HER. Isabella feels even more stuck in the middle, split and divided between them than ever. And she's is beginning to realize that being split between Mom and Dad is more than switching houses, switching nicknames, switching backpacks: it's also about switching identities. Her dad is black, her mom is white, and strangers are always commenting: "You're so exotic!" "You look so unusual." "But what are you really?" She knows what they're really saying: "You don't look like your parents." "You're different." "What race are you really?" And when her parents, who both get engaged at the same time, get in their biggest fight ever, Isabella doesn't just feel divided, she feels ripped in two. What does it mean to be half white or half black? To belong to half mom and half dad? And if you're only seen as half of this and half of that, how can you ever feel whole?

It seems like nothing can bring Isabella's family together again--until the worst happens. Isabella and Darren are stopped by the police. A cell phone is mistaken for a gun. And shots are fired.

Blended CHAPTER 1 PLUNK. Plink. Ripple. Rumble. Tinkle. Twinkle. Boomble. I know that's not an actual word, but it's a real sound. I can create any musical combination of sounds on my piano. That's my superpower. I sit, hands perched with thirsty fingers, as I get ready to play. I work hard at it, always trying to find the right melodies and harmonies. The upstairs-downstairs scales that rise and fall. The three- and four-finger chords that stomp. The fingernail-delicate tiptoeing up and down the keyboard, each touch a new sound. White keys. Black keys. One at a time. Chords all together. Two keys make a different sound than three played together. Four or five mashed at the same time is even better. I can do nine keys, even ten, to make a chord, but to be honest, that sounds weird. Each combination at the piano is different. Bass. Treble. Major tones. Minor wails. Bass like a celebration. Treble like tears. Five-four-three-two-one. One-two-three-four-five. Up. Up. Up. Down. Down. Down. Harmony. Melody. Chords. Scales. The black keys play sad sounds, like somebody crying. The white keys sometimes laugh. Using only my fingers, I can make the black and white keys dance together and do whatever I want. When I play the piano, I rock! It would be nice if the rest of my life came together like some kind of a magical musical symphony. But, nah, not usually. Excerpted from Blended by Sharon M. Draper 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.