Soon to be a major motion picture starring Jason Isaacs, Taylor Russell, and Lisa Edelstein! * “Self-deprecating humor abounds in this debut novel that pulls no punches about the experience of depression and anxiety for its teen protagonist. . . . Captivating introspection from a winning character.”— Kirkus Reviews, starred review Sixteen-year-old James Whitman has been yawping (à la Whitman) at his abusive father ever since he kicked his older sister out of the house. James’s painful struggle with anxiety and depression—along with his ongoing quest to understand what led to his sister’s exile—make for a heart-rending read, but his wild, exuberant Whitmanization of the world and keen sense of humor keep this emotionally charged novel buoyant. A Morris Award Honor Book. "Roskos has created a character that does not necessarily change throughout the book, but learns to live with himself as he is, to celebrate himself and those around him even as flawed as they are." — VOYA, 4Q 3P S "Self-deprecating humor abounds in this debut novel that pulls no punches about the experience of depression and anxiety for its teen protagonist . . . Captivating introspection from a winning character." — Kirkus, starred review "Author Roskos's strength lies in his refusal to tidy up the mess in James's life and in his relentless honesty about surviving with depression and anxiety." — Horn Book "Roskos effectively sketches James as a boy who is far more comfortable inside his own head than in connecting with others . . . Bravely facing real sorrow, James confronts his problems with grace and courage." — Publishers Weekly "Roskos' first novel is rich with hilarity and realistic inner dialogue . . . Give this darkly funny debut to fans of Stephen Chbosky's The Perks of Being a Wallflower." — Booklist "Roskos perfectly captures the voice of a teen." — School Library Journal "Many teen readers will recognize their own mood swings as they are amplified through James' pendulum, and they'll be enlightened by his revelation that life can be possible and rewarding even when it's really hard." — Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books Evan Roskos’s story “Conspiracy of Males” was chosen by Granta for their New Voices online feature. Narrative named him one of their 20 Best New Writers. He has had stories in Best Fiction , StoryQuarterly , The Hummingbird Review , and other journals. He attended the Bread Loaf Writer's Conference and completed his MFA at Rutgers University Newark in 2009. 1. I YAWP MOST MORNINGS to irritate my father, the Brute. "Yawp! Yawp!" It moves him out of the bathroom faster. He responds with the gruff "All right." He dislikes things that seem like fun. I do not yawp like Walt Whitman for fun. Ever since the Brute literally threw my older sister Jorie out of the house, I yawp at him because he hates it. My father says reciting Walt Whitman is impractical, irrational. My father says even reading Walt Whitman is a waste of time, despite the fact that we share his last name. My father says Walt Whitman never made a dime, which is not true. I looked it up. Not just on Wikipedia but in a book that also said Walt used to write reviews for Leaves of Grass "his own book!'under fake names. Who does that? Walt does! The perfect poet for me. I'm a depressed, anxious kid. I hate myself but I love Walt Whitman, the kook. I need to be more positive, so I wake myself up every morning with a song of my self. Walt says: I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I say: I am James Whitman. I define myself and answer the question that was asked with my momentous birth! I am light! I am truth! I am might! I am youth! I assume myself and become what you assume! I leap from my bed, bedraggled but lively! Vigorous, not slowpoked and sapped with misery (despite my eyes and aching teeth, which grind all night)! I bathe, washing the atoms that belong to me but are not me. I brush my teeth. Away! Away! Gummy grime of six hours' sleep! Six hours of troubled dreams will not slow my hands as they scrunch my cowlicked hair into an acceptable'no, vital "posture! I adorn a bright shirt'sunburst of red on white, a meaningless pattern. But so is a sunset! So are clouds! I choose low-cut socks and cargo shorts with enough pockets to carry all my secrets. It is April, the first warm day of the year, a day where I can loaf and lounge and contemplate a spear of grass lying in my palm. A day when the sun has to work hard to burn off the mildew of a dillydallying winter that beat me to a pulp. A day when I forget depression, forget my beaten and banished sister, Jorie, living alone somewhere. A day to YAWP! out across the moist air of the park on my way to school. I do not mind the grass tickling my ankles. I do not mind the chill because I have my old green hoodie infused with the musk of t