A Chance in the World (Young Readers Edition): An Orphan Boy, a Mysterious Past, and How He Found a Place Called Home

By Steve Pemberton

No matter how broken our past or great our misfortunes, we can create a new beginning and build a life of love and kindness.

Taken from his mother at age three, Steve Klakowicz lives in the clutches of a cruel foster family. He finds his only refuge in a box of books given to him by a kind stranger, books that take him to new worlds he can only imagine. He begins to hope that one day he might have a different life.

As he grows, Steve is determined to unravel the mystery of his origins and find his birth family. A light-skinned boy with blue eyes, a curly Afro, and a Polish last name, he embarks on an extraordinary quest for his identity, armed with only one clue. Yet nothing is as it appears.

In this inspiring and harrowing memoir, A Chance in the World teaches children:

• to begin each day with hope
• that there is goodness in the world, and it is possible to be a beacon of light for others
• that they can overcome challenging circumstances
• that everyone comes from different backgrounds and has value
• to apply Steve's inspirational message to their own lives, through age-appropriate discussion questions

This new youth adaption, written for 8 to 12 year-olds, shares Steve's journey with sensitivity, honesty, and hope. Adapted from the USA Today bestselling memoir, A Chance in the World.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Nelson
• Release date: Apr 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781400225163

Steve Pemberton

Steve Pemberton is Chief People Officer for Workhuman, the leading online platform bringing positivity to the workplace through social recognition. Prior to assuming his role at Workhuman, Steve was a Senior Human Resources Executive at Walgreens. Steve and his wife, Tonya, are the proud parents of three children.

Book preview

ONE

THE FIRST MEMORY

For decades a repeating memory haunted me. Or was it a dream?

It’s early evening. I am in the back seat of a moving car, on the right-hand side. Another child sits beside me, on my left. Is this child a boy or girl? How old is he? What is her name? I am cold, hungry, and disoriented. Two adults sit in the front seats, but I cannot tell what they look like. They are asking me questions, and I am answering them. I sense they are trying to reassure me.

The car lurches to a stop. We get out and walk into a large brick building. It is incredibly clean, and my feet squeak when I walk. I think I am in a hospital. Why have I been brought here? The other child remains next to me. The two of us stand against the wall while the adults talk in hushed tones to a woman dressed in white and a strange-looking hat. Then the three of them approach us, and the other child is led away by the woman dressed in white. My companion looks back at me one last time. I don’t know why, but I do not want the white-clad woman to take the child. Still, there is nothing I can do to stop her. I feel a hand on my shoulder holding me in place as they walk out of sight.

Now we are in the car again, driving. The streetlights whip by, fascinating me. Where am I going? We stop again, and I am hustled into another building whose features I can’t discern. Someone carries me into a room and places me on a bed with a pillow. I have never been warmer and more comfortable in my life. Another woman appears, and the three of them keep saying, You’re going to be okay now. I drift off into a peaceful sleep.

For years these events lived in the gray area between memories and dreams. There were times when I accepted that I was never to know what these images meant. Other times I believed that if I investigated the images once more, I would finally unlock their meaning. The persistent visits of these images became a mystery as much as the images themselves. Why had I remembered this? Nevertheless, these events have always been with me, part of the poetry of my childhood. They are interwoven with spelling bees, trick-or-treating, and trips to the local library.

One day I learned the truth. These memories were from the day I was taken from my mother.

I would never see her again.

TWO

THE MIRROR’S SECRETS

As a young boy, and then well into my teens, I would stare long and hard in the mirror, drinking in every detail of my features. First I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the water so the house’s other occupants would believe I was busy. Then, with dramatic anticipation, I would lift my head and peer into the mirror.

I started with my curly brown hair, which I wore in an Afro. The tips carried blond tints that would brighten during the summer. I then proceeded to my strong and prominent forehead. My eyebrows held no real interest for me, although I got distracted from my inspection by trying to raise the right one as well as I was able to lift the left. (I still can’t do it.)

I skipped over my eyes, saving them for last. My nose was straight with no hooks or curves, and my nostrils were flared slightly. My lips were of average size. On the rare occasions that I smiled, I noticed the right side of my mouth turned up ever so slightly. I had brown freckles of various shades under my eyes and on my nose. I also had a habit of tilting my head when I was listening to someone, almost as if I were asking them to pour the information into my ears. My skin was very fair—not white, but close.

On the fifth finger of my left hand was a small nub. I held it up to the mirror, turning it this way and that, hoping that a new viewing angle would tell me what it was and where it had come from. On that same hand, I found a circular scar on the tip of my third finger, almost as if my fingerprint had been sliced off and then reattached. More scars appeared on my rib cage and on my left foot. A story had been written on me, and a violent one at that. But it was a tale I neither knew nor understood.

I ended my regular inspection with my eyes, since these did not seem to match the rest of me at all. They were a deep blue, and I leaned even closer to the mirror to get a better look. With my nose nearly touching the glass, my breath would leave a temporary fog. I could pick out gold flecks around my pupils with little rivers of blue running from them. I would stare so long and hard into my own eyes that I felt almost as if I were looking at another person. The effect dizzied me, so I looked away and shook my head to clear the cobwebs.

This examination did not come from vanity. I was too young to try to determine whether I was handsome or not, or even to care. Nor was I all that interested in determining if I was black or white. I was trying to discover much more important things: Who did I look like? Where had I come from? And most important, where were my mother and father?

Further compounding the mystery was my last name: Klakowicz. This jumble of vowels and consonants felt alien to me. How had I gotten this name? Where did it come from?

I stared into that magnificent piece of glass—asking, probing, and demanding. But the mirror always kept its secrets.

---

WHAT ABOUT YOU?

What family history do you know? What pieces of family history do you not know?

THREE

THIS IS THE PLACE

I was a foster child, a child without a family who had to live in other people’s homes. People described me this way so often that I thought foster was another first name for me.

Finding a new home for kids like me is often the job of social workers who work for an agency called social services. For several months, moving from one foster home to another became my life. None of these homes left me with warm memories.

I yearned for a real home, a place where the family actually wanted to keep me. I also wanted to know about my original family, particularly my mother. Where was she? When was she coming to get me? The many social workers responsible for my case over the years knew the answer, but they never told me. They knew something else too: I was determined to get answers. Several mentioned in my case file that I still felt a strong emotional connection to my family. One observed that, despite my quiet manner, I had some very deep thoughts about my future.

One warm summer afternoon when I was five, I found myself in a car with Patti Southworth, my latest social worker. We drove for a while before the car pulled up to a curb. She shut off the car, turned to me, and said, Now, Steve, do you remember the home we went to visit last week? I certainly did. The woman who lived there had an enormous smile that warmed my soul. The man had given me a red ball to take back to the orphanage where I was staying.

I stepped out of the car and gazed up again at the large building. It was white with green trim on the outside. It seemed to stretch up forever. An iron fence surrounded the house, and a screened-in porch wrapped around the first level. On the street corner was a green-and-white sign that said Arnold Street.

We walked up a small flight of cement stairs. Patti rapped on the white door and was greeted by a familiar, sweet, melodic voice: Come in.

We walked into a very small kitchen and through a larger room onto the back porch. Standing there to greet us was Betty Robinson. She was a short, heavyset African American woman with a caramel-brown complexion, big brown eyes, and perfect teeth. Her pretty smile seemed to say: this is the place.

---

WHAT ABOUT YOU?

Describe the kinds of situations in which you feel out of place. Why do you think you don’t fit in these kinds of places?

FOUR

SOME KIND OF MISTAKE

Welcome to your new home. We’ve been looking forward to having you." At her feet was a small tricycle with an orange frame, bright-yellow handlebars and seat, and blue pedals. The two small wheels in back and one big wheel in front sparkled in the sun. I gawked at it, fascinated.

That, she said, is called a Big Wheel. And it’s yours!

Really? I asked. I had never received anything like this.

Would you like to try it?

I nodded.

She opened the back door of the porch and set the Big Wheel down on the ground. Off in the distance I could hear dogs barking and children playing. It was a smothering, hot summer day.

You can ride it, she said. But you have to stay right here on the sidewalk where I can see you.

Again, I felt that warm rush. As best I could recall, no one had ever seemed concerned enough about me to care where I was going.

I had never ridden a bicycle or anything like it, but it didn’t take me long to figure out the Big Wheel. I put my tiny feet on those blue pedals and roared up and down the sidewalk. My legs moved like engine pistons, and the wind rushed through my ears. Betty and Patti watched with amusement.

I continued pedaling down the block until I saw Patti standing by the front door. Bye, Steve, she said, waving her hand. I’ll be coming back to see you soon.

I waved back and then sped off again on my Big Wheel, trying to impress her with my newfound toy. When I turned around for another circuit toward the house on Arnold Street, she was already in her car and driving away.

Betty was standing by the white screen door at the front of the house. She held it open for me. It’s time to come inside, she said, her face now blank. Make sure you bring the Big Wheel with you.

I pedaled up to the front porch, stopping abruptly. I had hoped to impress her too with my skill on the Big Wheel. But her expression did not change. Where is her smile?

I grabbed the Big Wheel and mounted the stairs. The toy was cumbersome and clunky. I banged my shin against a cement stair and yelped. I glanced at Betty, expecting her to help me, but she did not.

Finally, I reached the top of the stairs. You can put it over there, she said, pointing to the spot where I had first seen the Big Wheel. And then come over here.

I did as she asked. She was sitting down now, in a tan wicker chair with a high back that only seemed to heighten her stature. There are rules we have for living here, she said. And one of them is that you are going to have chores around the house, starting with the dishes in the pantry. My son Reggie will show you where they are.

Who is Reggie? I had no sooner posed the question to myself than a large figure appeared in the doorway. Reggie Robinson was about sixteen years old at the time, with round features and a perfectly combed Afro. He was the spitting image of his mother, except taller. Reggie wore a sleeveless T-shirt, gray shorts, and flip-flops.

That way, he said, pointing inside the house.

I began walking where he’d said. Then I felt a shove to my back, propelling me forward faster than my feet could take me. I nearly fell but caught my balance. I looked back at Reggie, bewildered. What was that for? He grinned, and a bolt of fear shot through me. Though I hadn’t seen a look like his before, I understood it immediately. He’s making sure I know my place, I thought. Then I felt another emotion, arresting and frightful. There is something not quite right here.

The pantry was right off the kitchen and only big enough for one person to pass through. Several shelves extended above my head on the left and right. At the pantry’s far end was a large sink.

See these dishes? he said, pointing to a mountain of glasses, plates, and silverware piled in the sink.

I nodded my head yes.

You have to wash and dry all of them.

I looked at the sink and then back at him, completely confused by what he wanted me to do. I had never washed dishes before and didn’t have a clue how. The first problem was that the faucet was set far back in the sink, and I wasn’t tall enough to reach it. I can’t reach that high, I said.

He pointed to a small wooden step stool right in front of the sink. That’s what the step stool is for, stupid.

I am not stupid, I thought.

When I stepped up on the stool, it wobbled, and I hung in that precarious place between balance and free fall before shifting my weight to steady myself. I could feel Reggie’s shadow and vicious grin beating into my back. Still, I wanted to perform my chores correctly. This was my new home, and I didn’t want to do anything to risk losing it. I surveyed

Reviews for A Chance in the World (Young Readers Edition)

[marshapetry · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I guess I'm the only person in the world who hadn't heard about this story. Riveting first half of the book, as the author describes his childhood. 2nd half becomes preachy and if you didn't know that god has a plan to make a little boy suffer years of abuse so that he can attempt to affect some change in the foster system, this book will explain the ever-so-clear (???) logic of this plan. Ummmmm... yah... whatever. But despite the constant god reverence of the later chapters, it was a overall a really good book. Highly recommend.

[temeculamomma · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I cannot honestly say that this book grabbed me from page one. Actually, the first 3 or 4 chapters made me wonder if I would stick with it...but then it grabbed a hold of me and I mean a tight hold! God help anyone who interrupted my reading time once I fell in love with the story of this young abused boy! I'm quite sure that no other book has made me feel so angry before - angry with "The System" and bureaucracy in general. The events in this true story took place in the early 1970's and while I hope that the foster care system has improved dramatically since then, I am not convinced that it has. This young boy, Steve (Klakowicz) Pemberton, was failed repeatedly by so many people that we now call 'Mandated Reporters'. What I like the most about this book is the lesson that small acts of kindness can mean more to the recipient than we ever know. A kind neighbor's gift of a box of books may sound small or insignificant to some, but to Steve the books were an escape to other worlds and the hope of making a new reality for himself someday. The books provided a critical coping mechanism that helped him survive in his harsh conditions.Also notable about A Chance in the World is the historical perspective captured during a racially tumultuous time. This book could be used in a classroom setting and would teach volumes about determination and endurance as well as history.Please note that I received a complementary advance reading copy from the publisher which has not influenced my review. Thank you.