By Jerry Spinelli
A smooth vintage from Newbery medalist Jerry Spinelli.
"Readers will consume this funny glimpse of what jocks are made of." --School Library Journal, starred review
Cocky seventh-grade super-jock Crash Coogan acquired his nickname the day he used his first soccer helmet to knock his cousin Bridget flat on her bottom. And he has been working over humans ever due to the fact, specially Penn Webb, the dweeby, vegetarian Quaker child who lives down the block. throughout the eyes of Crash, readers get an extraordinary glimpse into the lifetime of a bully during this unforgettable and cherished tale approximately stereotypes and the surprises existence can bring.
"Without being preachy, Spinelli packs a strong ethical wallop, leaving it to the pitch-perfect narration to force domestic his element" --Publishers Weekly
"Spinelli's writing kind is superb for children during this age-group, fast paced and funny." --Booklist
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Extra resources for Crash
I laughed. “Me? You’re crazier than crazy. ” I laughed some more. As usual, we ordered pizza from my house. My mother told me that from now on I had to ask Abby if she wanted pizza too. As usual, she was in the backyard. She wanted some. I ordered two mediums to cover the three of us, both with pepperoni. When they came, Abby took three slices and started picking off the pepperonis. ” I said. She was stacking up the pepperonis like quarters on her plate. ” Mike sneered. ” She looked at me all snooty.
I came back to the table. They were all staring at me. I stared back. ” The words came from the kid. I stared at him. ” He said it again. ” He wagged his head, eyes all wide. ” “I play. ” “And we go places,” the father chimed in. “We’re looking forward to visiting places around here,” said the mother. ” “Crash”—the father spoke—“we’re thinking of driving out to the Amish country this Saturday. I understand we’re not too far from there. ” “I’ll be watching cartoons,” I said. ” “Nah. ” He backed off.
8 That’s about as close as I ever got to the Webbs. Not that they didn’t keep asking me over for dinner. They did. I guess they didn’t know it was me who meatballed them. Webb even said they would cook some real meat hamburgers just for me, or I could bring my own. They kept asking me to go other places, too. I just said no to everything, or I told them my father was taking me to ball games and stuff. Along around third grade they finally stopped pestering me, so I could stop pestering my dad. As the years went by, Webb found other members of his own species—a dork here, a nerd there.
Crash by Jerry Spinelli