A teen girl hiding the scars of a past relationship finds home and healing in the words of strong Black writers. A beautiful sophomore novel from a critically acclaimed author and poet that explores how words have the power to shape and uplift our world even in the midst of pain. When Darius told Angel he loved her, she believed him. Angel feels out of sync with the rhythms of her new neighborhood. At school, she can’t shake the feeling everyone knows what happened—and how it was her fault. The only place that makes sense is Ms. G’s class. And as Angel becomes immersed in her revolutionary literature course, the words of Black writers like Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, and Zora Neale Hurston speak to her and begin to heal the wounds of her past. Award-winning author Mahogany L. Browne weaves together prose, poems, and vignettes to tell the story of Angel, a young woman whose past was shaped by domestic violence but whose love of language and music and the gift of community grant her the chance to find herself again. Praise for Vinyl Moon: “Powerful and life-affirming.” —Brendan Kiely, New York Times bestselling co-author of All American Boys “Interweave[s] poetry and prose... portraying with nuance a group of Brooklyn teens unpacking their traumas and finding their joy.” — Publishers Weekly , starred review "A beautiful love letter to Brooklyn, Black authors, and the beats that create the soundtrack of a young life evolving.” –Kirkus Reviews Browne’s bold imagining of robust support systems, reliable friendships, and assertive self-discovery offers a thoughtful roadmap for teens navigating tough times.” –The Bulletin "An important asset for all school and library collections.” –SLJ Praise for Chlorine Sky: "A remarkable, compelling voice that will draw readers both reluctant and eager and make them want to hear more." –The Bulletin, Starred Review "A coming-of-age novel for Black girls who have been told they’re too much and yet never enough." –Kirkus Reviews Mahogany L. Browne , selected as Kennedy Center's Next 50, is the executive director of JustMedia, artistic director of Urban Word, a writer, playwright, organizer, and educator. Browne has received fellowships from Arts for Justice, Air Serenbe, Cave Canem, Poets House, Mellon Research, and Rauschenberg. She is the author of recent works: Vinyl Moon, Chlorine Sky, Woke: A Young Poets Call to Justice, Woke Baby, and Black Girl Magic. Founder of the diverse lit initiative Woke Baby Book Fair, Browne's latest poetry collection Chrome Valley (Norton) is a promissory note to survival. She is the first-ever poet-in-residence at the Lincoln Center and lives in Brooklyn, NY. Hello, Brooklyn . . . Goodbye, California First day of school. East Coast. Brooklyn. And it’s like I’ve never been alive like this before. I walk into Benjamin Banneker and the security guard asks me for my student ID. “It’s--it’s my first day,” I stutter. Not because I’m afraid. But because I’m confused. I’ve never had to have ID to come onto a school campus before. This is real different than California. But after that weird night with my ex-boyfriend, Darius, my mom (she who I now call Elena) drove away with me in the front seat, tears falling down her eyes as she whimpered, “You’re moving to Brooklyn with your uncle Spence.”  I was too numb to answer, my throat was a sea of sandpaper and I couldn’t even cry. My eyes almost swollen closed from the fight that found me and Darius sprawled out on the hood of his Chevy Impala in the school parking lot, is all I can think of. All over some dumb argument during a school basketball game. So, when I mix my words, I think it makes me look guilty. I mean, it’s my fault Darius got in trouble, right?  “Go to the left,” the security guard directs me. He has a tapered fade and black-rimmed glasses. He is almost frowning at me. Maybe he thinks it’s my fault too?    Principal’s Office Chairs Are the Worst  I walk into the office with the glass door covered by brightly colored flyers about the next PTA meeting, the importance of recycling, and something about an open mic night. I am a little surprised there is no bell to signal my arrival, but when the door recoils with a loud prison-door thud, I realize that is the signal itself. I sit in the first empty chair I see. The room is quartered off by a long plank of buffed wood, and there are metal baskets lined up against the wall with last names in front of them. Bernette, Chambers, Elliot, Frederick . . . I am reading the names silently when a brown-skinned woman with a yellow-printed headwrap and glasses latched to a golden chain around her neck walks into the office, where more mailboxes line the wall next to a vase of sunflowers that look back at me. Golden globes of light, Mom--I mean, Elena used to call them. They were her favorite.  My back and arm begin to ache. I blame these stupid chairs. You know the ones with wooden seats and cushioned backs? Like, who d