Excerpt from Butterfly Yellow by Thanhha Lai, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Hằng nodded, uncertain which question she was answering. The more Hằng nodded, the more En-Di started packing shorts and tank tops and T-shirts. She was puzzled when Hằng insisted on pants and long-sleeved shirts, but sure, she had those too. Even gave away sixty dollars saved for a dance contest. As a final touch, En-Di stuffed everything into a bag with straps. An ingenious invention, as the straps clung to Hằng's shoulders and settled the weight on her back. As if she were carrying air.

As she drove, En-Di spilled forth an ever higher mountain of words.

"Be careful out there, don't make eye contact with nobody. You have to do this, right? Dad's going to be heartbroken. He gave out cupcakes at work when we got word months ago that you made it to a refugee camp. Are you sure you can't wait for my dad to take you? You haven't even gotten a haircut. Honestly, you need one, bad. You haven't even been here a whole day. I'll fib to Dad when he gets off the overnight that you're sick in your room and can't be bothered. Oh, you'll save yourself a lot of trouble if you call yourself Moon, you said that's what Hằng means anyway."

Understanding half the words is more than enough, because when En-Di talks her voice acts, her hands dance. But no matter how well-meaning the suggestion, Hằng won't be switching to Moon as though she were a hippie with oily hair and a long skirt and a tambourine, as she's seen in National Geographic.

Before driving off, En-Di shouted a last advice: "No offense, but you look about twelve to Texans, they're just big folks. See if you can get a child's ticket. They'll go for it. Remember, your name is Moon, and if anyone asks say your hippie parents let you travel alone. This is one big adventure."

Hằng doesn't believe in adventures. There are steps that must be done, and once done, another step awaits. The last step, after six years of minute planning by her grandmother, is a bus ride away. In A-ma-ri-lo her baby brother has to be waiting. In her imaginings, he is always waiting. She plans to lunge at him and squeeze chubby gooey flesh. His coarse hair will thrill her skin, the salty heat of him will cushion her nostrils.

Her brother is the only person left from her youth. Grandmother gone, Father gone, Mother gone. Hằng never would have crossed the sea on a rotting fishing boat if he weren't waiting for her. It has taken too many years, but finally, since landing here yesterday, the two of them are enveloped in the same landscape and the same heat.

The bus continues rocking as she keeps hugging the shoulder-strap bag. The ginger is nibbled to a nub. Now acclimated, every fiery scrape releases sparkles of moss and rain. Flames that had singed her taste buds now glide down sweet and velvety, soothing the bus-sick eels.

A highway sign states Amarillo—60 miles, which Hằng instinctively recalculates to 96 kilometers. A tingle begins in her toes; her cheekbones lift. This, despite a distrust of hope.

Horseshoe Mustache

LeeRoy drums his right palm on the steering wheel. Something called rap, just hitting the mainstream with Blondie's "Rapture." His cousin has included "That's the Joint" by Funky 4 + 1 in a mix tape sent for graduation. Living in the Bronx, the cousin always introduces LeeRoy to the latest. This kicking new sound is between singing and talking, with bass and maybe drums, while the words rhyme to a rhythm like hyped-up disco. A girl's voice and at least three boys'. LeeRoy can't make out all the lyrics. Still, it's damn fun.

We're gonna hum hum hum that we're real,
We're gonna hum hum hum we know the real deal.

In between drumming LeeRoy twirls the ends of his horseshoe mustache, grown in tribute to Bruce Ford's signature look. His is red while Ford's glows a sunny blond. But some things can't be helped.

Excerpted from Butterfly Yellow by Thanhha Lai. Copyright © 2019 by Thanhha Lai. Excerpted by permission of HarperCollins Children's Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.