Hurricane is quiet while her Aunt Claire is a force of nature with very particular ideas--and a host of Latin sayings to back them up. When Hurricane gets stuck living with her, she retreats into herself...until a series of unexpected friends, including a mangy cat, help her find her voice in a whole new way. A recipe for The World’s Most Comforting, Twelve-Layer Honeycake: 1 quiet girl named Hurricane, who runs like the wind along the Mighty Atlantic with her old dog Brody-Bear. 1 imperious aunt, who steps up when Hurricane’s world turns upside down. 1 kind-hearted boy, who helps wounded animals (and may smell a little of fish) 1 lonely and flea-bitten cat with a ragged ear and a crooked tail. 1 gentle chauffeur, who knows exactly what to say…and when not to say a thing. Mix them all together in big, fancy house in the city. What you get might surprise you. ★ "Hurricane employs stunningly beautiful, highly descriptive language to narrate her own tale with a depth of feeling and growing awareness of her attributes and true strength of character.... Powerful, emotional, and wondrous ." — Kirkus Reviews , starred review " This swiftly paced novel is filled with strong life lessons about embracing change , using writing as a coping mechanism, and learning how to find one’s voice. Short chapters and frank text entreat to young readers and challenges them to forge their own paths." — Publishers Weekly "Fusco takes her time developing the Depression-era setting and the backgrounds of each character, giving this heartwarming novel depth and authenticity." — The Horn Book "A gentle and heartwarming historical read." — Booklist Kimberly Newton Fusco is the acclaimed author of four other books for young readers: Chasing Augustus, Beholding Bee, The Wonder of Charlie Anne, and Tending to Grace , all of which received starred reviews and many accolades, including the Schneider Family Book Award. As a child, Kim was shy and stuttered and wanted to be a writer more than anything, and now she is! She was a national-award-winning education journalist before becoming a novelist. The mother of four grown children, she lives with her family, a lolloping golden retriever, and a very old cat in a house in rural Rhode Island surrounded by woods and fields where her pet sheep, Huck and Finn, graze. 1. One thing you don’t know about me yet is I am very quiet. It’s one of my attributes, like my big feet and curls that fly out like ruby lightning when I race along the Mighty Atlantic and the way I can tell what my old dog Brody-Bear is thinking, just by looking in his eyes. My big sister, Bronte, is nineteen and very noisy. She can’t hear the stars humming to each other the way I can, or the way the waves call out to the harbor seals at dawn. She’s too busy talking. This is why she doesn’t know my favorite herring gull wants to race this morning, and maybe my dog wants to run, too. Which of course he does. Wouldn’t you? The good thing about Bronte is she says we don’t have to all be the same way: “We’re like pieces of a puzzle that fit together because we’re different.” When my big sister went to the little one-room schoolhouse I go to now, she won a prize for being the best orator. Give Bronte something to debate and she’ll make even the fishermen around here change their minds quicker than their hooks fly. “Boys AND GIRLS Should Attend University Before Making Life Decisions” was the speech she gave down by the docks after she decided there wasn’t a better place to practice her elocution. Someone threw a fish at her, but Bronte kept going. She’s always been the strong one. I am very proud of her. I have many bad days at school because my teacher, Miss Witherspoon, does not think being quiet is a positive trait. She thinks I’m too shy for my own good and I let my imagination run away with me, and she makes me keep my Words of Encouragement Journal buckled away in my leather rucksack. My mama gave it to me before she left, saying if I wrote about everything I see, it would help. I already broke the nib on one pen, and half the pages are full. “You must spend more time with the other pupils, not writing in that book,” my teacher says, finding me out on the cliffs at recess, her frown as big as her desk. “Try to be more outgoing like Meggie Baldwin.” I want to tell her: I’ve never really had a true-blue friend before and I don’t know how to do it, but if I did, Meggie would be the last person I’d pick. Miss Witherspoon thinks I’m awkward and have the potential of a sand flea, and even though she doesn’t use those words, exactly, I see them in her eyes. This is the first annoying thing about grown-ups. They think we don’t know what they’re thinking, but we always do. Just a few minutes in her little class—where all different ages learn together tight as sardines—my throat goes dry as sand and my fingers itch to write in my book so I can start feeling hopeful about things again. It’s how I get a