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Rosie and her mother coexist in the same house as near strangers. Since Rosie's father abandoned them years ago, her mother has accomplished her own disappearing act, spending more time with her boss than with Rosie. Now faced with losing her grandfather too, Rosie begins to visit him every day, traveling across town to his house, where she helps him place the things that matter most to him "In Trust." As Rosie learns her grandfather's story, she discovers the role music and motion have played in it. But like ...
Rosie and her mother coexist in the same house as near strangers. Since Rosie's father abandoned them years ago, her mother has accomplished her own disappearing act, spending more time with her boss than with Rosie. Now faced with losing her grandfather too, Rosie begins to visit him every day, traveling across town to his house, where she helps him place the things that matter most to him "In Trust." As Rosie learns her grandfather's story, she discovers the role music and motion have played in it. But like colors, memories fade. When Rosie stumbles into the House of Dance, she finds a way at last to restore the source of her grandfather's greatest joy.
Eloquently told, National Book Award finalist Beth Kephart's House of Dance is a powerful celebration of life and the people we love who make it worthwhile.
Distinguished more by its sharp, eloquent prose than by its plot, Kephart's (Undercover) second YA novel probes the fear of loss by introducing a heroine who overcomes it. Abandoned by her father years ago, emotionally distant from her mother, who is caught up in an affair with her married boss, 15-year-old Rosie spends much of the summer before junior year with her terminally ill, widower grandfather, helping him sort through his belongings, all of them stuffed with mementos. As his health rapidly declines, Rosie realizes: "You cannot buy a man who is dying a single meaningful thing. You can only give him back the life he loved and awaken the memories." Determined to retrieve the time her grandfather misses most, when music filled the evenings and he could watch his wife dance, Rosie sets about throwing a dance party at her grandfather's house. Poetically expressed memories and moving dialogue both anchor and amplify the characters' emotions. Ages 12-up. (June)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Gr 8 Up- Rosie's grandfather is slowly dying. Rosie's mother, who has not spoken to the man in years, is in the throws of an affair with a creepy married man, leaving the teen to sort through her grandfather's possessions to decide what to keep and what to toss. As she wades through his belongings, she has glimpses into his life as a younger man; his fascination with travel; and his love of music, dancing, and his wife. Rosie begins to plan a party for him. She arranges special food, special costumes, and most importantly, she enrolls at the House of Dance so she will be able to ballroom dance at the party. Although the portrayal of intergenerational relationships tugs at the heartstrings, the plot is a bit slow, and the writing, while often fresh and lovely, in other places is convoluted or confusing, giving the novel limited teen appeal.-Leah Krippner, Harlem High School, Machesney Park, IL
House of Dance
In the summer my mother grew zinnias in her window boxes and let fireflies hum through our back door. She kept basil alive in ruby-colored glasses and potatoes sprouting tentacles on the sills. On her bedroom ceiling she'd pressed glow-in-the-dark dots into constellation patterns, so that the stars, as she put it, would always be near. Andromeda. Aquarius. The major and minor Ursas. Pisces. Creatures with wings or with horns.
When I was younger, I'd lie beside her, with all those stars pressing in like tattoos. I'd listen for the wind through the trees, or a finch with a song, or music from the Burkeman house next door. "Not a word, Rosie," she would say. "Let the day be," and my thoughts would float until they drifted toward something that was fixed and sure. My mother cleaned windows for Mr. Paul. She spent her days looking through other people's worlds. In her own house, she said, she needed quiet to remember who she was.
"Not a word, Rosie. Not a single one." You could get a lot of thinking done when you were with my mother. You could ask yourself a million questions.
I was nine and ten and eleven and twelve. My dad, who had left us years before for what he called a scratchy itch, had never made it home. He sent me twenty dollars every week. Proof, he wrote in his notebook-paper scribbles, that he loved me still. I kept the cash in a shoe box in the bottom of my closet, behind a crate of used-up toys. Proof, I'd have said, if he had asked me, that love cannot be bought.
I was thirteen, I was fourteen, I was fifteen. My mother still cleaned windows, still left the house every day in her stainedoveralls, her cantaloupe-colored rubber gloves, her denim visor. Except that now she and Mr. Paul were what she called partners, and her days were that much longer, and there were no more potatoes with octopus tentacles on the sill. Sometimes Mom didn't get home until midnight. Sometimes she was, in the softest voice, singing. Sometimes she forgot that I was there at all, and that is why what happened happened. Because I had been put in charge of myself, and my grandfather was dying.
He didn't live far; he never had. He'd always been where he was, on the other side of the train tracks, on the opposite end of town, at the final step of a twenty-minute walk. You'd go down to the end of my street. You'd turn. You'd walk beneath the big stone railroad bridge, where there was wetness no matter what the temperature was, something like stalactites daggering down. You'd get back out into the windswept air and go up the hill and turn left onto the street of shops: Whiz Bang, the balloons and party favors store; the deli named Pastrami's; Sweet Loaves Bread; Mr. Harvey's Once-Read Books; Bloomer's Flowers; the hardware store that had become a discount drugstore that was now a sort of everything store, where the mannequins never changed the clothes they wore and the same rocking chair kept rocking.
It was all redbrick on either side, and above the ground-floor retail there were second-story rooms where people I never did see lived, hung their birdcages on curtain rods and umbrellas out their windows, left their happy birthday signs and colored streamers for months and months on end.
My grandfather lived at the edge of all that, in a house of six rooms and one attic, the first house past retail, he called it. When I was little, he would sit in a chair on his porch all summer, watching the cars and the bikes and the buses go by, reading his National Geographic magazines and expedition catalogs. My grandmother had died before I was born. I'd known him only as a man who said there had been places he might have gone, regrets that he'd got stuck with, times that had slipped away like sand. I'd known him only as my mother's father until the summer he got sick. "Rosie," my mom said, the night she told me, "he's going to need you now."
"What do you want me to do?"
"What you can, Rosie. Whatever you can."
My mother had long, dark hair. It was her shield, her protection. She turned her face and I couldn't see her eyes, and I could not for the life of me guess what it was she planned to do. "How sick, Mom?" I asked.
"Multiple myeloma, Rosie."
"What does that mean?"
She sighed, and it was a very sad sound. She looked away from me. "That he's tired. That he'd like to see you. That I need you to help him through this. Help me."
My mother was an only child like I was an only child. I stared at her black, silky profile. "I bet he'd like to see you, too," I said.
"Rosie," she said.
And I was quiet. Because of course I knew that they had had their falling-out, that they hadn't been speaking, not lately. Of course I knew. Still, he was dying. Still, she was letting their argument, or whatever it was, be bigger than the love she felt inside. That was how I saw it anyway.
Truth of it was that school had let out two weeks before, and I was still angling for a purpose. My best friend, Leisha, had gone off to the shore to play nanny to her cousins, who were three, four, and five and hot spikes of trouble. Nick Burkeman from next door was working at his father's shop, lying under cars all day and staring at their bellies, even though what he loved most was the great outdoors, something his father called useless. Everyone else I knew had gotten some kind of gainful employment—at the pool or the mall or the movie theater—or was prepping for the SATs with a tutor who came to breakfast. "Your tutor eats breakfast at your house?" I'd said to Rocco, in May, in disbelief. "Yeah," Rocco had answered, rolling his eyes. "Yeah. That's right. He does. Barks vocab words at me when I'm buttering my toast."House of Dance. Copyright © by Beth Kephart. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Posted November 1, 2008
Rosie Keith is in for a long summer. Her friends are all scattered for the three months at various jobs and camps, and her mother is hardly ever home, preferring to spend time with her business partner, who is also the man she is having an affair with. So Rosie turns to her grandfather, who is dying of cancer. <BR/><BR/>During those long summer days, she helps Granddad clean through his multitudes of possessions, placing things to keep In Trust. It is on one of those day she discovers The House of Dance, and begins taking lessons there, hoping to put In Trust again a few of Granddad's long-ago memories before he is gone for good. <BR/><BR/>HOUSE OF DANCE is a distinct and intense look at Rosie's life, her losses, and how her family reacts to same. Kephart's words are lyrical and her incisive style propels the reader easily through the book. Her in-depth look at illness and foreshadowing of death are very realistic and heartfelt. You will find yourself relating easily to Rosie, and admiring her strength in this wonderfully crafted novel.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 27, 2008
I loved House of Dance, definitely my kind of book. I love when there is dancing in a book, even if it has a small, understated part of the book like in this one. It's hard to describe but I enjoy the feel it gives the whole novel. The characters in House of Dance are all well developed, even the minor characters. Flashbacks to Rosie's childhood give a stronger sense of who these people are while they play less of a role during the summer season. The main focus of the novel is Rosie's relationship with her dying grandfather. I think anyone could relate to this by comparing it to a close relationship they have with a parent, aunt or someone else they're close to. But I felt it an especially touching story because I am close to my grandparents. The direct connection to the character made it all the more enjoyable and relatable for me. Overall House of Dance is a sweet, heart warming novel that I highly recommend. I definitely plan on reading Beth's other novel, Undercover which sounds completely charming.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted May 19, 2010
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