Quinny & Hopper

Book 1: Quinny & Hopper

by Adriana Brad Schanen

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Quinny has a lot to say. Hopper gets to the point. Quinny has one speed: very, very, extra-very fast. Hopper proceeds with caution. Quinny has big ideas. Hopper has smart solutions. Quinny and Hopper couldn't be more different. They are an unstoppable team. But when summer ends, things suddenly aren't the same. Can Quinny and Hopper stick together in the face of stylish bullies, a killer chicken, and the brand-new Third Grade Rules-especially the one that says they aren't allowed to be friends anymore? Praise for Quinny & Hopper : "First-time children's author Schanen skillfully captures Quinny's zest and Hopper's timidity through their interactions and alternating narratives, and Swearingen's smudgy spot illustrations amplify the lively tone. The story's best moments showcase the spirited friendship between Quinny and Hopper, but there's much to appreciate throughout this exuberant debut." -- Publishers Weekly "The book is engrossing, and the likable duo change and grow in believable ways. Quinny and Hopper, who take turns narrating, have distinct, well-differentiated voices, and Schanen makes good use of her individuated secondary characters as well. Swearingen's black-and-white drawings both capture the spirit of the characters and enhance the narrative. This endearing story about true friendship should appeal equally to boys and girls." -- Kirkus Reviews

Release date: June 10, 2014

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 240

Sample

One

The moving truck is so tall that you have to climb up stairs to get into it. So I do.

Inside it’s got a steering wheel as big as a hula hoop and tons of rocket-ship control panels and a bouncy driver’s seat that’s a trampoline just for my bottom. Plus the air in here smells warm and gooey, like pizza and cinnamon buns all squished together.

“Quinny Bumble, get down from there!” calls Mom from the sidewalk.

The good news is, in eight years I’ll be old enough to drive this thing.

The grumpy news is, today we’re moving.

We = me + Mom + Daddy + Pee-U Piper + icky-sticky-screamy Cleo + 147 boxes of all our stuff.

Good-bye, New York City. Hello, some other place in the middle of nowhere that we have to go live for Mom’s new job.

The list of things I’m going to miss about my city is very, very, extra-very long.

I’ll miss climbing the wall of bookshelves in our apartment and saving Central Park snowballs in our freezer. I’ll miss digging for buried treasure in the recycling closet down the hall and chatting in the lobby with our doorman, Paco. I’ll miss riding my scooter through goopy green puddles at the curb and taking the train to school—underground!

I’ll miss my friends the most. I’ve got friends from all nine floors of my building, from all three floors of my school, from theater camp, tap dance, tae kwon do, and accordion lessons. I’ve got friends from the farmers’ market, the bagel store, the bookstore, the thrift store, and from just walking through Central Park.

“You’ll make new friends and new lists when we get to our new town,” says Mom.

Baking cookies from scratch = fun.

Starting life from scratch = no fun.

Daddy won’t even let me ride in the giant moving truck. He makes me squeeze into the backseat of our tiny car between Pee-U Piper, who’s four and licks, and icky-sticky-screamy Cleo, who’s one and bites. There’s barely enough room back here for my mini-cooler, which fits just one precious Central Park snowball from our freezer. Plus did I mention that Piper picks her nose and Cleo farts so loud it sounds like she’s got a tuba in her diaper?

We speed up onto the West Side Highway, zooming away from my fabulous city. We cross the George Washington Bridge, probably for the last time ever. I’m so sad thinking about it that I fall asleep. But

in the middle of my nap, Piper sticks a licky-wet finger in my ear. Deep, deep, deep into my warm, dry, sleepy ear. I wake up and howl, which makes Cleo wake up and howl, which makes Mom howl from the front seat: “Quinny, please!”

“Please what? She licked me again!”

But spit is see-through, so I never have any proof.

“Honey, she’s just four,” says Mom.

“When she’s five, you’ll say, ‘She’s just five.’ When she’s six, you’ll say, ‘She’s just six.’”

I put my hand over Piper’s face and squeeze, as a consequence for her inappropriate behavior.

“Quinny Bumble, that’s enough!” Mom howls again.

“She started it!”

“Then be the one to finish it. You’re the oldest, so set a good example.”

Mom is always going on about this setting an example stuff. I’m sick of it. Just because I’m almost nine (which is the age in between eight-and-a-half and really, truly, absolutely nine) she expects me to be perfect. Why doesn’t Mom make Piper set an example for Cleo? She’s older than Cleo, after all!

It’s going to be a long ride. Hours and hours long…hours of trying to stop Cleo from biting my hair…hours of playing Crazy Eights with Piper (who cheats)…hours of holding it in till the next gas station and belting it out to “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” by the Beatles (the most awesome band ever invented)…hours of staring out at nature, nature, and more nature…

I wait for all this nature to turn back into something interesting, like a subway stop or a skyscraper, but it doesn’t. Finally, we pass a sign: WELCOME TO WHISPER VALLEY.

“This is it!” says Daddy.

“This is what?” I ask.

“Our new town,” says Mom.

I look around. Whisper Valley has a million trees but no people. The houses don’t even touch each other—no wonder they look so bored. I lower the car window. It’s quiet out here, way too quiet. I sniff the air, which has exactly zero flavor.

“Look, here’s the downtown!” says Mom. “Isn’t it charming?”

There’s not much town in Whisper Valley’s downtown. You can practically see the whole thing with one eyeball.

Hardware store + deli + dry cleaners + pizza place < downtown.

“Where’s the bagel store?”

“Not every town has a bagel store,” says Daddy. “The deli here sells bagels.”

“Where’s the bookstore?”

“Quinny, please.”

The sidewalk here looks so clean I don’t think anyone ever walks on it. We drive by an empty train station. We drive by an empty playground. Where is everybody?

Finally the car stops—in front of a barn.

“This is it!” says Daddy.

“This is what?” I ask.

“Our new home,” says Mom.

“We’re moving into a barn?”

“It’s not a barn,” says Mom. “It’s a house. It’s called a Dutch Colonial. Isn’t it lovely?”

I take another look. It’s the shape of a barn. The color of a barn. “Are there cows and pigs inside?” I ask.

Mom rolls her eyes. She learned that from me.

Our new barn-house comes with new rules.

“No touching the rosebushes out front,” says Daddy.

Ouch! Now I know why.

“No swinging on the porch swing,” says Mom.

No fair. It’s not called a porch sit-still-and-be-bored, is it?

“No riding your scooter around the living room,” says Daddy.

Why not? This place is huge.

“We finally have room for a dog!” I call out. “Let’s go to the shelter and pick one out!”

“Quinny, please,” answers more grown-up groaning. “Go check out your new room.”

My new room is up eleven creaky stairs and down an ultralong hallway that’s perfect for bowling. It’s got one squeaky door, two sunny windows, a closet that smells like Grandma’s hugs, and a ceiling that looks like coconut frosting. (I don’t know if it tastes like coconut frosting, because it’s too high up to lick. I’m going to need a ladder.)

The good news about having my own room is I won’t have to smell Piper’s pee-u when she doesn’t wake up in time to run to the bathroom at night. Plus I can decorate this place any way I want. My favorite paint color is a tie between green with orange polka dots and orange with green polka dots. Maybe I’ll even put in a porch swing.

The grumpy news about having my own room is it’s kind of lonely in here. How will I fall asleep at night without Piper’s snoring? How will I wake up without her hunting for boogers up my nose with a flashlight?

“Time for lunch,” Daddy calls from outside.

My parents unpack a picnic in our new backyard. Mom hands out sandwiches to everyone except Cleo (who has to eat soft-serve peas because she doesn’t have any teeth yet).

“Isn’t this beautiful?” says Daddy.

“I guess. If you like trees.”

“Quinny, what’s gotten into you? You loved Central Park, and it was full of trees.”

“But Central Park had other stuff, too.”

It had crazy-bright Rollerbladers and freaky-fast bikers and zoomy runners. It had singers and guitar players and picture-painters in wacky outfits. It had dogs galore and a whole zoo, even, plus a skating rink, a puppet theater, and a giant pond. Our new yard has just us in it. And all the yards around us are empty. Where is everybody?

Finally something happens. A chicken hops by. A real, live chicken, just like the kind you hear about in books. Except this one’s stylish—it’s got black and white stripes, like a zebra.

I knew this house was really a barn!

“Mom, Daddy, look!”

But Mom’s busy tr. . .