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Summary
Summary
The New York Times bestselling author of Tell Me Three Things and What to Say Next delivers a poignant and hopeful novel about resilience and reinvention, first love and lifelong friendship, the legacies of loss, and the stories we tell ourselves in order to survive.
"A luminous, lovely story about a girl who builds a future from the ashes of her past." --KATHLEEN GLASGOW, New York Times bestselling author of Girl in Pieces
Sometimes looking to the past helps you find your future.
Abbi Hope Goldstein is like every other teenager, with a few smallish exceptions: her famous alter ego, Baby Hope, is the subject of internet memes, she has asthma, and sometimes people spontaneously burst into tears when they recognize her. Abbi has lived almost her entire life in the shadow of the terrorist attacks of September 11. On that fateful day, she was captured in what became an iconic photograph: in the picture, Abbi (aka "Baby Hope") wears a birthday crown and grasps a red balloon; just behind her, the South Tower of the World Trade Center is collapsing.
Now, fifteen years later, Abbi is desperate for anonymity and decides to spend the summer before her seventeenth birthday incognito as a counselor at Knights Day Camp two towns away. She's psyched for eight weeks in the company of four-year-olds, none of whom have ever heard of Baby Hope.
Too bad Noah Stern, whose own world was irrevocably shattered on that terrible day, has a similar summer plan. Noah believes his meeting Baby Hope is fate. Abbi is sure it's a disaster. Soon, though, the two team up to ask difficult questions about the history behind the Baby Hope photo. But is either of them ready to hear the answers?
Author Notes
Julie Buxbaum is a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and Harvard Law School. She is the author of The Opposite of Love, After You, and the New York Times bestseller, Tell Me Three Things.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
In this novel, Buxbaum (Tell Me Three Things) offers up an emotionally resonant, wryly humorous portrayal of two young adults navigating trauma and acceptance years after 9/11. Nearly 17-year-old Abbi Hope Goldstein is eager to spend the summer as an anonymous camp counselor instead of as Baby Hope, the famous toddler turned cultural artifact who was photographed being carried to safety as the first tower fell on Sept. 11, 2001 (her first birthday). She also intends to enjoy a carefree eight weeks before telling her parents about an increasingly worrying cough that she suspects is 9/11 syndrome-complications from breathing the toxins at ground zero. Immediately recognized by fellow counselor and budding comedian Noah Stern, Abbi reluctantly agrees to help interview other figures in the Baby Hope photograph, unaware that Noah has a hidden personal motivation. Told in alternating perspectives between the two teens, the novel sensitively depicts how definitively 9/11 split countless lives into before and after. Directly affected by the events but too young to remember them, Abbi and Noah provide distinctive points of view with which teen readers, for whom 9/11 is history, will identify. Ages 12-up. (May) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Horn Book Review
On September 11, a now-iconic photograph captures one-year-old Abbi "Baby Hope" in front of the collapsing World Trade Center. Almost sixteen years later, Abbi just wants to be an anonymous camp counselor--but fellow counselor Noah knows who she is and needs her help. This heartbreaking, romantic, and, yes, hopeful novel conveys the grief and strength of those affected by the 2001 tragedy. (c) Copyright 2021. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
The legacy of 9/11 asserts its mark on a pair of contemporary, white, Jewish teens.On Sept. 11, 2001, Abbi Hope Goldstein was immortalized in a famous photograph taken on her first birthday, in which she was being carried out of her day care while the first World Trade Center tower collapsed in the background. Thereafter known as "Baby Hope," 17-year-old Abbi is recognized all over her suburban New Jersey town. When she starts to develop a bloody cough, her instinct is to hide her symptoms from her worrying parents so that she can enjoy one last summer before having to face the likelihood that she will succumb to 9/11 syndrome, which afflicts some of those exposed to toxins at ground zero. Working as a summer camp counselor a few towns over, she is immediately recognized by her co-worker Noah Stern, who sees in Abbi the potential to answer a life-defining question regarding his own 9/11 tragedy. Together they embark on a mission to talk to the other individuals pictured in the Baby Hope photo, an emotional journey that is tempered by a generous amount of banter between the quick-witted, endearingly awkward pair. Ultimately, their story delivers its fair share of gut punches and cathartic moments, couched in an overall light-toned narrative.A valuable addition to the growing body of 9/11-related teen literatureone that will be especially appealing to teens today. (author's note) (Fiction. 14-18) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
Abbi cherishes her anonymity, and hopefully, as she spends this summer as a camp counselor out of town, no one will recognize her as Baby Hope. Even 15 years after 9/11, people still recognize her from the iconic photo of her one-year-old self clutching a balloon as she was rescued from day care at the World Trade Center complex. So much for plans, though: classmate Noah turns up as a fellow counselor. He not only knows who she is but also pressures her into working on a school journalism project identifying others shown from the back in the photo. In spite of Abbi's wishes for privacy, the two develop a partnership and eventual romance, narrating in alternating chapters. Noah's real reason for pursuing the project and suspense over Abbi's worrisome cough drive a strong plot with vivid characterizations and heartfelt emotion. Buxbaum evokes the tragedy and horror of a fateful day, spotlighting the post-9/11 lives of survivors and those who lost loved ones, as well as an illnesses linked to toxic exposure at the site. An illuminating and gut-wrenching tale.--Anne O'Malley Copyright 2019 Booklist
Excerpts
Excerpts
Even back in my fairy-tale days, I never liked those inevitable opening words--once upon a time. Their bookend--happily ever after--at least made sense to me. The main character ended up happy forever. That was a no-brainer and nonnegotiable, the absolute bare minimum we could expect from a good story. The once upon a time, though? Let's just say I had questions. What "time" were they talking about--Today? Yesterday? Tomorrow?--and what did it mean to be upon it? I was uncomfortable with its free-floating slipperiness. It felt like a cheap literary dodge. I've long outgrown fairy tales, but I still have trouble with the concept of time. Maybe it's because my own life has always been an exception to the rule: I lived once when I was supposed to die. And so this story, the one I'm telling you now, has two distinct beginnings. There's the one that starts with, and feel free to groan, a once upon a time. Or at least, it feels that way to me because I don't remember it happening, and yet, once upon a time, a click of the camera changed the entire trajectory of my life. I know exactly the when: Tuesday, September 11, 2001, approximately 9:59 a.m. The morning of my first birthday. In the photograph, the one that turned me from Abbi Hope Goldstein into The Baby Hope, I'm being whisked away to safety by Connie Kramer, one of the women who worked at the day-care center in the World Trade Center complex. I'm wearing a paper crown and holding a red balloon, and behind me the first tower is collapsing. An AP photographer managed to capture the dust-filled moment, though I have no idea how. You've probably seen the picture. It's everywhere. You can find it hanging on living room walls and in dorms and nursing homes and museums and even printed on T-shirts and tote bags. I kid you not, I once saw baby me on a hat at Six Flags. Like in an actual fairy tale, there are some sad parts to this story, which are an unfortunate narrative necessity. Let's get those out of the way as quickly as possible. Connie died seventy-five days ago. Her diagnosis was ovarian cancer. Stage IV. Which for reasons I don't know--maybe because it's serious--is written with Roman numerals. She was only forty-six. XLVI. Connie was thirty on September 11, 2001. In my house we all knew that Connie really died of 9/11 syndrome, the catchall diagnosis for the group of health problems caused by the exposure to toxic chemicals in the air at Ground Zero. For some survivors, it starts with inflammation of the lungs. For others, like Connie, it's mutations and tumors, the assault of that day being retold on the cellular level. On September 11, 2001, twenty-four thousand gallons of jet fuel blew up. Those of us there breathed in a chemical bouquet that included crystalline silica (which = bad), asbestos, carbon monoxide, hydrogen sulfide (or "sewer gas"), and God only knows what else. No. We do know what else: human ash and human bone. Hair and teeth and nails and dreams. Before things get any more morbid, let me share an important bit of happily-ever-after. Not only did I survive on 9/11 (and get almost sixteen bonus years so far), but somehow, defying all statistical odds, so did my parents. My mom and dad both worked in One World Trade (the North Tower), on floors 101 and 105, respectively, when no one survived above the 91st floor. Ninety-five percent of the people in the company they worked for got wiped out. Had they been at their desks like they were supposed to be, I would be an orphan. Instead, when the planes hit, my parents were sipping Frappuccinos three blocks away at a ground-floor Starbucks, which is the best advertisement for dessert disguised as coffee I've ever heard. In 2001, my parents went to fifty-three funerals in one month. They bought condolence cards in bulk from Costco. And then they went back for more. We live in Oakdale, New Jersey, which is the town outside New York City that had the highest number of 9/11 casualties, so the loss was everywhere: colleagues, neighbors, friends. Five kids from my class alone lost a parent on the same day, including my former best friend, Cat. Sixteen years later, Oakdale High is this weird hybrid of those who don't really care about September 11 and those whose whole lives were shaped by it. For the former, the event is just another chapter in our history books, like Pearl Harbor or the Vietnam War or landlines. For the latter, it's forever part of our peripheral vision. We may not remember, but we can never forget. That's the first beginning, which I tell you only because otherwise the rest won't make any sense. To meet Abbi Hope Goldstein is to meet Baby Hope, and to understand that in my town, at least, I get pointed at--people know my name even though we've never met--and occasionally, someone will corner me in a supermarket line while my hands are full of deodorant and hummus and tell me where they were that morning, like it's something I want to know about them. The absolute worst is when I make strangers cry. But as promised, there's a second beginning. Right here, right now, in a moment of rare triumph, the first days of summer vacation. Sunday night, nine p.m.: me, age sixteen, rocking out alone in my bedroom. I belt a girl-power ballad into a makeshift microphone, aka a dry shampoo bottle, because I can't find my brush. Shimmy. Shimmy. Hair flip. Shimmy. Tomorrow I start as a counselor for four-year-olds at Knight's Day Camp, two towns away. When I visited for the interview, there were lush green lawns and an old-fashioned red barn and something they called the "plake," which is a hybrid pool/lake. We'll have pajama day and a bouncy castle water slide and a Color War. Also arts and crafts and potato-sack races and even a Dance Dance Revolution activity block. Knight's is a happy place, by far the happiest place I could find in the tri-state area, and believe me, I looked. Even went as far as to Google "happy places in New Jersey." Now I get to go there eight hours a day five days a week, and for two months, not a single person will look at me and see Baby Hope. Time is still confusing and slippery. Based on some unexpected medical developments, there's a good chance I'm running out of it. But for the next blissful eight weeks, I am going to be just Abbi Goldstein. I'll get to make little kids laugh and not a single stranger cry. Excerpted from Hope and Other Punchlines by Julie Buxbaum 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.