Brooklyn, Burning

By Steve Brezenoff

When you're sixteen and no one understands who you are, sometimes the only choice left is to run. If you're lucky, you find a place that accepts you, no questions asked. And if you're really lucky, that place has a drum set, a place to practice, and a place to sleep. For Kid, the streets of Greenpoint, Brooklyn, are that place. Over the course of two scorching summers, Kid falls hopelessly in love and then loses nearly everything and everyone worth caring about. But as summer draws to a close, Kid finally finds someone who can last beyond the sunset.

Brooklyn, Burning is a fearless and unconventional love story. Brezenoff never identifies the gender of his two main characters, and readers will draw their own conclusions about Kid and Scout. Whatever they decide, Brooklyn, Burning is not a book any teen reader will soon forget.
Brooklyn, Burning is the story of two summers in Brooklyn, two summers of fires, music, loss, and ultimately, love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lerner Publishing
• Release date: Aug 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781467731881

Steve Brezenoff

Steve Brezenoff is the author of the young adult novels The Absolute Value of -1, which won the IPPY Gold Medal for young adult fiction, and Brooklyn, Burning, which was named a Kirkus Reviews Best Book, was a Best Fiction for Young Adults selection by the American Library Association, and won the ForeWord Book of the Year Gold Medal for young adult fiction. Born on Long Island, Steve now lives in Minneapolis with his wife, Beth, and their son and daughter, Sam and Etta. His main is a Blood Elf monk, but he's been known to run a Night Elf priest from time to time.

Book preview

REPLACEMENTS

(The Mural)

On the corner of Franklin and India streets in Green-point, Brooklyn, is the north wall of Fish’s bar. If you stand across India from Fish’s, you get the best view of the mural, twenty feet high and thirty feet wide. It hasn’t been there long, and in this part of the neighborhood it doesn’t get much attention. Even folks going to Fish’s bar don’t notice, because they usually walk up from Williamsburg to the south, or along Greenpoint Avenue down from Manhattan Avenue and its bus and subway lines. Those who do see it, stare at it from the launderette across the street instead of watching the clothes go round.

It spans day and night, with the sun rising way to the left—out of a blast of yellows and golds and reds—and the moon and stars blossoming at the right, all indigo and silver and purple and deep, deep black. In between the beginning and the end is our Brooklyn—mine and Felix’s—with its blocks and bridges and bottles. Beautiful. Right in the center is the warehouse, looming over the river, stout and ancient. Above it all are our mothers and fathers: the skyscrapers and dazzling glass across the river, holding back while looking down over us, an air of protection (imaginary) and authority (meaningless). And then there’s Felix—blink and you’ll miss him—walking into the night, with his head low and swinging, and his eyes closed.

On the sidewalk under his loping right foot is written 1986–2005, and beneath that, the signature: KID.

Scout

What about you?

I asked you that question for the first time on the morning I found you, sitting against the dropped gate of Fish’s bar. The sun wasn’t even up, and my feet were sore from wandering all night with my bag on my back, looking for nothing but too excited to sleep and unwilling to stay in one place.

You probably don’t remember it like I do.

Are you waiting for Fish? I said. You didn’t even look up from under your dark black bangs, so I kicked your foot gently. If you’re waiting for Fish, she won’t be here for like seven hours.

Then you looked up. I didn’t notice that your ears stick out, just a little, so you look like a pixie sometimes, or an elf. I didn’t notice that the corners of your mouth always seem like they’re trying to smile, while the rest of your mouth wants to pout. I didn’t notice the little bump on your nose, near the bridge but slightly to the right—the bump I’d trace with my finger over and over, not soon enough. I didn’t notice your long hands and rough fingertips, or the dozens—is it hundreds?—of bracelets on your left wrist, made of busted guitar strings.

I noticed your eyes, because they looked wet; maybe it was a trick of the light—the fluorescent and neon lights falling over your face from the bodega next door. But I didn’t think about neon or fluorescence, not then. I didn’t think about love, and I didn’t see right down to your heart. But I must have stared—did I?—because there was your spirit, right there before me, and when you found my eyes I knew I’d pulled that spirit back from someplace amazing, not Greenpoint, not the summer sidewalk in front of Fish’s bar, smelling of old alcohol and piss.

But it must have been a trick of the light, because when you stood up, you were smiling, and your bright eyes looked alive and right there, with me, on Franklin Avenue in Brooklyn, New York, Earth.

You didn’t answer me, not directly. Instead you reached into the back pocket of your jeans and pulled out a slip of paper and held it out to me. I’m looking for Felix.

I took the flyer. I’d seen it a hundred times. I was there with Felix when he’d made them. That they were still out in the world ... It felt like forever ago.

DUO LOOKING FOR MORE. PLAY ANYTHING, BUT BE AMAZING, BECAUSE WE ARE. COME TO FISH’S ON FRANKLIN ANY TIME AND ASK FOR FELIX.

Felix is gone, I said. I crumpled the flyer to hide the shaking in my hand and tossed it into the street. If you want to join a band, I’m all that’s left of that project.

What do you do?

You looked confused, or maybe you didn’t believe me. You made me distrust myself, and I looked at my feet, then swung my bag off and pulled out my sticks as evidence. Drums.

With a little willpower I got my chin to rise and looked at your face. Your eyes were leaving again, going wherever they’d been, so I tried to hold them there. I can let us in, I said. If you want.

Is there a band?

I noticed for the first time the gig bag leaning against Fish’s dropped gate and shrugged. There can be, I said. I mean, we can make one. Anyone can make one.

You didn’t say anything, just picked up that gig bag, so I dug around in my backpack again and found my key ring to let us into the cellar. When I swung open the gate in the sidewalk, you looked down the steps into the darkness.

Down there?

It’s just a practice space, I said, heading down. I found the dangling chain to turn on the naked bulb. It’s nothing fancy. I sleep here most nights.

I don’t think I want to go down there. I don’t like being cooped up like that.

I stood at the bottom of the steps, rolling my eyes up at you. It’s barely seven steps down. And hey, we can open the back doors to the garden if you want.

You shouldered your bag and took two steps down, then ducked a little to get a look. It was nothing impressive, of course. I mean, Felix’s Christmas lights were still up; if he hadn’t come back for three amps and a drum set, he wasn’t coming back for Christmas lights. They gave the place a certain charm. I figured I’d plug those in for the full show, and you jumped a little. I admit I laughed.

Come on, I said, unplugging the lights, then I reached out my hand with a sigh, like you might need help with the steps.

You took my hand and another step. From there I guess you spotted the ratty couch and the back door and windows. They must have made you feel safe. Or maybe I had. I felt your fingers close over my hand, tightly, and then you came all the way down.

You can put that down if you want to, I said. What’s your name? I went to the back, toward the garden door.

Scout. You laid your gig bag down on the couch but didn’t sit down yourself. Can we open that door? For some air?

I nodded and laughed a little, then opened the heavy bolt and swung the back door open. You followed me as I stepped out into the garden. I sat down on a cast-iron chair, part of Fish’s patio set, and lit a cigarette. The sun’s starting to come up, I said, gazing over the buildings behind Fish’s place, from way out at the tip of Long Island. The east end is where the sun comes up. It goes down in New Jersey. That’s what Felix told me.

A little panic started rising in my chest, so I took a long drag and exhaled it slowly and coolly into the east.

You sat opposite me, just staring at me for a while. I could feel your eyes on me. When I faced you, you turned and looked at the sunrise. I guess I must have sounded pretty crazy to you just then.

So, who are you? you finally said.

I’m the drummer, I said. I help out Fish at the bar upstairs when she lets me. I haven’t seen my parents in about nine months, but I still go to school for most of the day. Or I did until last week; school’s out. I’m also the genius who painted the mural on the side of the bar.

I saw it, you said. Where do you live?

Right here, like I said. Lately.

What’s your name?

Everyone calls me Kid, I said. I don’t even look my sixteen years. As in ‘Billy the.’

Is your name really Billy?

My name is really Kid. I clenched my teeth. Okay?

You nodded. Do you want to play something?

Fish would kill us if I started drumming at this hour. Her neighbors are terrible people. They’d have the cops here in no time, and I’m not exactly old enough to be hanging around a bar. I found a scratch in the center of our little patio set and picked at the paint with my chewed-down fingernail. What about you?

You looked at my finger as it worked. Are you asking my age?

Why are you here? Where are you from? What’s your story? I prodded.

It’s summer, isn’t it? you asked, and I nodded. Then it’s summer, and none of that matters. For now, I’m whoever I want to be.

I looked up from the table for a minute and into your eyes, saw myself in them, but you seemed to be sliding off again. Your chin went up and your eyes let out for the horizon.

I need sleep, I said, getting up and stamping out my cigarette in the ashtray on the table. I’ve been walking all night just to hit that couch. You’ve already interrupted my schedule. I should be fifteen minutes into Sleep Town by now.

Well, do you mind if I plug in? You jumped up and went in ahead of me. I caught how your jeans sat halfway down your ass, and your long shirt, tucked in, didn’t hide how slim you were, almost skinny—hungry. If not for the studded belt holding up those jeans they’d have been around your ankles.

I’ll keep it very low. I can play you to sleep.

I didn’t even answer, but you pulled the gig bag off the couch and I took its place. As I closed my eyes and let myself slip away, I heard one of Felix’s old amps crackle to life, and then crackle again as you plugged in. You strummed and tuned and strummed again.

The tone was like honey, better than anything Felix had ever gotten out of that amp, and your voice was more delicious still—warm and sweet, but there was a darkness in it, and it showed me all those places I’d seen in your eyes. Your song crept over me as I drifted, the room spinning ever so slightly, and I rolled onto my side and pulled up my knees, facing the back of the couch, and put my hands up together by my chin, like your music was a blanket I could gather around me.

School's out

We never talked about where you planned to stay. That first night—I guess it was morning already, really, when I met you—I don’t even know if you slept. I woke up still on the couch, but my arm wasn’t under my head, going numb pressed against my ear, like usual. Instead your lap was there, and your hand was in my hair, like I was the family dog, and when I rolled onto my back and the side of my face pressed against your belly, your wide-open eyes shined back at me.

I sat up and quickly got on my feet. What are you doing?

Nothing, you said, letting your hands fall onto your thighs. I wasn’t sleepy, so I just sat down and...

I took a step out into the garden, grabbing a cigarette on the way. Don’t get the idea we have some connection now, okay? I said over my shoulder. You showed up with a stupid flyer I made a year ago. That doesn’t mean you get to pet my head and act all lovey-dovey, okay? It’s meaningless.

I lit my cigarette and let the smoke roll between my lips and up my face, up the side of the building, past the fire escapes and along the windows on the second and third floors, over the roof, toward the river.

Got it, you said, and I heard the amp pop as you switched it on. No connection. Meaningless.

You started playing, and I told myself the music I remembered as beautiful—ethereal—last night wasn’t special. I’d just been tired, riding a little drunkenness. But that was a lie, because I was already feeling my chest about to burst, so I took another desperate drag before pulling the garden door closed and sitting down.

...

I burst in through the back door of the bar the moment Fish opened the latch. It wasn’t even eleven.

Is everyone getting an early start this morning? she said, and I smiled and threw my arms around her neck and wrapped my legs around her hips. She’s a goddamn Amazon, and I’m scrawny as hell, so that’s no trick. Nice to see you too.

School’s out! I shouted next to her ear, then spotted Konny walking toward us through the otherwise empty bar. Think Jonny’ll show up this morning?

Fish smiled and I released her from my hug to meet Konny halfway.

I hope so, Fish said. She switched on the jukebox. "I could use the extra

Reviews for Brooklyn, Burning

[kcarrigan-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Review from library copy but at one point I had an e-ARC

I'm now kicking myself for not reading this when I had an ARC from NetGalley. Absolutely amazing. I'm glad we don't know what Kid and Scout look like at all. Highly recommended.

[elissajanine · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I like this book even more than its awesome cover. Understated prose, deliberately ambiguous gender and sexuality and love and pain and hope, music that doesn't overpower or date the book, and a setting that feels like a living, breathing part of the story...all ingredients for a truly interesting read.

[skaohee · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Brooklyn, Burning is first and foremost about Kid. Is Kid a boy or a girl? After reading this book I still don't know the answer to that question but I think that's what the author was intending. We, the reader, don't know who/what Kid is because I don't think Kid does either. This is a story about identity, even when your parents may not understand.This novel consisted of interwoven and non-chronological stories, told from Kid's perspective, about two summers in Brooklyn. Each summer is focused on Kid's current love interest. And while at first I found the style of how the stories are woven together confusing and unappealing, after I finished the book I took a step back and could really appreciate the way the entire overall novel was written. Steve Brezenoff had it right in the way that he chose to present Kid's story.I think one of the stronger and simultaneously weaker points of the book for me was the setting. Brooklyn, New York is a place that I have never been before and therefore it was hard for me to imagine it just as it is and was described in this book. At the same time, I feel like Brooklyn was described so accurately (with street names, etc) that if the reader had been there, then the entire map would have been laid down crystal clear. I could appreciate the setting, while at the same time having it be a little ambiguous.Brooklyn, Burning is a good book but it took me more than half of it to get into it. So if you do pick up this book, make sure to read the whole thing before coming to a conclusion.

[ilikethesebooks · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Sadly, my favorite thing about this novel was the cover. Brooklyn, Burning and I were just not a great match. I may have been missing something, but I was constantly confused by the writing style. I feel dumb to admit it, but for an absurd amount of time, I didn't know which characters were boys and which were girls. I really don't think it was that clear... Also, I was confused by what was taking place in the present and what was taking place in the past since the scenes were switching back and forth all the time. There were a few other aspects that just didn't mesh well with me, but I'm not going to sit here and tear apart the book - we just didn't match up.I will say though, I did like the setting. I liked how Brooklyn was portrayed in the way it actually is. Filled with bland buildings, bars, and colorful characters. The setting seemed to take on the role of a character in a way. Brooklyn is what kept me reading.So, I didn't like it. I'm sorry. It happens. But maybe you will? Check out the other reviews along this tour and make up your own opinion. This book wasn't terrible, it just wasn't for me. The book was published, someone liked it - there's a chance you will too.

[jimrgill · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Among the many, many Young Adult novels that I’ve read, *Brooklyn, Burning* is unique in two distinct ways. First—and most obviously—it refuses to gender its protagonist, Kid, or the object of Kid’s affection, Scout. Initially, this (intentional) failure to identify the gender of the two characters at the center of the novel evoked anxiety and discomfort in me—how could I imagine these characters, I thought, if I don’t know their respective genders? As I became more acquainted with Kid and Scout, however—and this is largely due to Brezenoff’s skill as a storyteller—their genders no longer mattered to me. I was more concerned with their happiness. And this reading experience, I realized, brilliantly reflects one of the novel’s prominent themes—love, affection, and genuine emotional connection transcends gender (whether socially constructed, biologically determined, ambiguous, definite, known, or unknown). This novel’s other unique characteristic is its focus on homelessness and the impact of gentrification on urban neighborhoods and the queer youth who inhabit them. Kid and Scout—as well as their friends Konny and Jonny (and Felix—a spectral yet significant presence whose past is crucial in understanding Kid’s character)—lack any sort of nurturing home environment (whether in the conventional sense or any other sense), and the circumstances that resulted in their homelessness are directly related to their ambiguous gender identities and sexual orientations.Employing a contemporary setting and featuring current cultural realities in a story that depicts a quest for the quintessential source of happiness, Brezenoff has woven a masterful and original tale of displaced urban youth in search of love and family.

[strawberryreviews · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I read Brooklyn, Burning this summer and never got around to writing a review for it. That has nothing to do with how I felt about the book since I adored it. I just didn't know how to express how much i loved this book.What really through me for a loop at first is the major switch in point of view. A lot of it is Kid's narrative in first person but whenever Kid is telling Scout's story, there point of view switches to second person. It took some time to get use to it but even though second person is usually a terrible idea, Brezenoff definitely did it right.I really liked how this book was really open ended and really up for interpretation. Kid's gender is never revealed. A ton of LGBTQ are addressed in this book. Kid was kicked out of his house because of as his dad says, "I’ve got the only kid I know who doesn’t know whether to be straight or gay or a girl or a boy or what" and Kid's dad couldn't accept that at all. I really enjoyed this book. The characters are very well developed and I could relate to each of them in someway. It's a book about love and lost and just longing to be accepted. Beautiful really. I definitely recommend this book.