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Summary
Summary
"A gorgeously kind, wonderfully gentle, and unfailingly compassionate depiction of OCD...bursting with light."
-- Ashley Woodfolk, critically acclaimed author of NOTHING BURNS AS BRIGHT AS YOU
Exploring the harsh reality of OCD and violent intrusive thoughts in stunning, lyrical writing, this novel-in-verse conjures a haunting yet hopeful portrait of a girl on the edge. From the author of Dear Medusa , which New York Times bestselling author Samira Ahmed called "a fierce and brightly burning feminist roar."
Ariel is afraid of her own mind. She already feels like she is too big, too queer, too rough to live up to her parents' exacting expectations, or to fit into what the world expects of a "good girl." And as violent fantasies she can't control take over every aspect of her life, she is convinced something much deeper is wrong with her. Ever since her older sister escaped to college, Ariel isn't sure if her careful rituals and practiced distance will be enough to keep those around her safe anymore.
Then a summer job at a carnival brings new friends into Ariel's fractured world , and she finds herself questioning her desire to keep everyone out--of her head and her heart. But if they knew what she was really thinking, they would run in the other direction--right? Instead, with help and support, Ariel discovers a future where she can be at home in her mind and body, and for the first time learns there's a name for what she struggles with--Obsessive Compulsive Disorder--and that she's not broken, and not alone.
Author Notes
Olivia A. Cole is a writer from Louisville, Kentucky whose essays have been published by Bitch Media, Real Simple, the Los Angeles Times, HuffPost, Teen Vogue, Gay Mag, and more. Olivia is the author of several books for children and adults.
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Queer 17-year-old Ariel Burns begins to fear her own mind when intrusive thoughts about harming others intensify during a pivotal summer in this arresting verse novel by Cole (Dear Medusa). Ariel likens the thoughts to a "green and scaly" crocodile, appeased only by careful rituals: counting, isolating, walking in circles, escaping into movies, and working her carnival job. But as the rituals lose efficacy, Ariel's world narrows and past traumas surface. Recognizing her behaviors as symptoms of obsessive compulsive disorder, and lacking consent from her conservative, religious parents to attend therapy, Ariel manages her self-diagnosis with help from her older sister, coworkers, and new friends. Against a heady backdrop of carnival attractions and filmmaking that yield painfully apt metaphors for challenges surrounding identity, Cole sharply exposes the legal shortcomings and binary fallacies that sometimes complicate healing. Vivid, emotionally charged verse renders terse, illuminating discussions of gender, race, religion, and sex that candidly contextualize OCD, and give teeth to this dazzling, layered story of self-acceptance and agency. Ariel reads as white. An end note addresses the author's experience with OCD. Ages 14--up. Agent: Patrice Caldwell, New Leaf Literary. (Mar.)
Booklist Review
For as long as Ariel Burns can remember, she has had thoughts that are disturbing and violent in nature. For example, she has a vivid memory from when she was younger of watching a girl she had a crush on die at a softball game, and her first thought was how giving her CPR would be like kissing her. As she gets older, Ariel's thoughts get more intrusive and troubling, and she finds herself completing rituals to stave off the "crocodile" in her head. With help from her friends and her sister, she discovers that she has obsessive-compulsive disorder. Ariel works to manage her diagnosis despite her father's adamant insistence that she pray away her thoughts. Cole's novel in verse is a poignant, raw masterpiece that unbraids the harmful stereotypes of not only mental illness but gender and racial identities as well. Within the book, Ariel's friends are in various stages of self-discovery and healing, and they serve as both foils and advocates. It is through Ariel's different relationships that a modern bildungsroman unfolds, perfectly portraying her journey of acceptance and agency. As usual, there is a searing vulnerability in Cole's verses that stays with the reader long after they have finished the book, making this a necessary and important read.
School Library Journal Review
Gr 9 Up--Ariel must complete a series of rituals including tapping, counting, and chanting to keep her family safe. If she misses a beat or tally, the scaly green crocodile creeps in with horrific intrusive thoughts of stabbing, slicing, crashing, and burning others. A hidden secret even from her bestie, Leah, only Ariel's sister Mandy knows the truth about the rotting, putrid depravity inside her. She doesn't want to hurt anyone, but maybe her brain does. She is grappling with society's expectations of her size, her parents' expectation of faith, questioning her gender and sexuality, and thwarting the crocodile tangle into chaos in her mind. Verse is a perfect fit for Ariel's narrative, as her intrusive thoughts beat a sharp staccato that interrupts her story metaphorically. Although Mandy is away at college, she provides a safe space of sorts for Ariel to talk that neither her parents nor Leah offer. Addressed in a sensitive and clinical but clear way, obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) is explained by psychology student Mandy in a highly accessible story about the amygdala who sounds the alarm in the brain. Ariel develops new coping skills, so she has the ability to live her life authentically and robustly with hope. VERDICT This deeply compassionate and sharp-edged dive into OCD is a must for all collections.--Lisa Krok
Kirkus Review
Vulnerability and openness may hold the key to survival for a teenager struggling with violent, intrusive thoughts. Without best friend Leah there, Ariel's usual summer job at Wildwood carnival just feels scary and unfamiliar. To make matters worse, Ariel's sister, Mandy, is away at college, leaving Ariel to bear the full brunt of their parents' disappointments and her own violent, aggressive thoughts, which continue to escalate. Though she tries to mask her internal struggles to cope with her heightened ritualistic behaviors, things reach a fever pitch--until Mandy shares information about intrusive thoughts and OCD, and Ariel, a white lesbian, begins to suspect that's what she's suffering from. Having parents who aren't supportive of therapy means she's left to find ways to manage until she can seek out treatment on her own, but Mandy, along with new Wildwood friends Ruth (who's Black) and Rex (who's trans and reads white), prove to be lifelines. Immersive dialogue and realistic emotions lend a sense of intimacy to the narrative; as Ariel begins to accept that her thoughts do not make her a monster, she also begins to accept her tall, muscular frame and non-feminine gender presentation, too. The verse format provides readers with the space that Ariel desperately craves from her uncontrollable thoughts, balancing out the density and weight of the subject matter. A revelatory, razor-sharp, and powerfully honest depiction of the reality of living with OCD. (Verse fiction. 14-18) Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
I have to. Every time I leave the kitchen whether I'm going in or out of the house. It's a rule written in blood. This morning, like every morning, I stare down at the collection of kitchen knives in the drawer by the stove. There are ten of them, one for each finger, short and long, serrated and not, silver silver silver I know them all well. This is the rule: in order to stop myself from driving one of them into my father's chest I must open the drawers--the silent kind that don't slam--and tap each blade with one finger, six times for each knife: tap tap tap tap tap tap I have to concentrate. Each tap measured, firm. On the third knife, the fifth tap is too soft. I start over. Two more times until I get it right and all the scales growing inside me soften back into flesh and smooth wet organs. Only then can I go to the front door. Everyone is safe. For now. I'm going to try one more time. The bus stop is where I used to think my best thoughts-- maybe because there, the world is as noisy as the inside of my head: clangor and clamor and squeaking brakes people nodding to music and each other, coming and going. I can wear headphones with no music and no one knows any different-- if my head twitches or my neck bends they all think MUSIC. That girl is into her music. On the bus, I can make myself small all 5′11″ of me balled against the smudged window. I am part of the scenery--we all are. I haven't tried in one week because it already happened once and I wanted to give it time, maybe let it fade. Today it's not rush hour. Today the rush is less rushing-- an old woman and her shopping bag two young guys with backpacks and me. A bus is coming but it's not ours and the old woman has old woman eyes so she can't see that it's the 44 not the 14 so she's stepping forward to the curb expectantly and the bus isn't slowing down and then it happens. I'm pushing her. My muscles seize-- something green and scaly nestled between ropes of my intestine coming awake and thrashing its tail. screech of the bus sickening thud of steel against eighty-year-old bones shopping bag catches the wind sweeps out into the street a single apple rolls toward the sewer and at first I'm running away then, when my lungs shout, walking. Four blocks away I finally look back. The 14 is pulling up and one of the guys with backpacks holds the woman's shopping bag while she climbs slowly on board. The insistent beeping of the bus's kneel ricochets down the block. When the bus catches up to me, the wind from it blowing by throws my hair in a cyclone. Three miles to go. Other buses will come but they're not an option anymore. In the pit of my stomach the crocodile is awake and by now I know that the only way to keep everyone safe is by making sure the beast has lots of space. Meeting Leah should feel like comfort-- a friendship sprouted on a school bus in fourth grade, both of us small (even me, then) with big voices, yelling at a boy who emptied his pencil sharpener down the back of a girl's shirt. Neither of us was afraid to use the word fuck and when neither of us got in trouble, it felt like we were charmed, that we had charmed each other. Leah's voice has grown and grown: president of the Jewish Student Union, co-chair of the Young Chemists Society. I asked her on Halloween if she'd outgrown me. You can't outgrow what you're made for, she'd said, but it didn't feel like an answer, and lately it feels like even if she's not outgrowing me, then maybe the tree of her is merely growing in another direction, like the peace lily in my mom's office always arching toward the window. Leah has a boyfriend--Cesar-- with a smile like that: like the sun. I don't blame her for leaning into him when lately everything about me is mist. It's June but Leah wants hot chocolate and these are the things I love about her, but when I sink down across from her I almost forget to smile. Across the street, a cat stares at itself in a store window, lashing its tail, suspicious of its own reflection. I feel the same way and this is why: Excerpted from Ariel Crashes a Train by Olivia A. Cole 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.
