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West of the Sea

Author Stephanie Willing
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Hardcover
$18.99 US
Penguin Young Readers | Viking Books for Young Readers
5.81"W x 8.56"H x 1.12"D  
On sale Aug 15, 2023 | 352 Pages | 9780593465578
Grades 3-7
Reading Level: Fountas & Pinnell X
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Tae Keller meets Tracey Baptiste in a tale of generational trauma, told with a cryptozoological twist.

Paleontology-loving Haven West and her older sister, Margie, have hardly talked with their mom since she retreated into a deep depression. Each morning Haven wonders if it’s going to be a “good” or “bad” day, and the only thing that seems to occupy her mom is collecting fossils for her bone garden.

But one night, after an ominous moonlight heart-to-heart, her mom disappears—right before Haven discovers she’s inherited a monstrous family trait. It turns out that she is the latest in a long line of cryptids, a past her mom has been hiding. Suddenly, the Texas terrain is full of ghostly dinosaur silhouettes and Haven is breaking out in scales at all the wrong moments. Even worse, she doesn’t know whom she can trust with this information. 

Since the only person who could guide her through this has vanished, Haven sets off on the road trip of a lifetime with Margie and their new friend Rye in tow. Together, they’re determined to find her mom and finally get some answers, hopefully before Haven’s secret is revealed . . .
Stephanie Willing is a writer and audiobook narrator who hasn’t been able to find good Tex-Mex food since she left her home state. She has an MFA in Writing for Young People from Lesley University. Originally from Texas, Stephanie now lives in New York City, and she never misses an opportunity to visit the dinosaurs at the Museum of Natural History. View titles by Stephanie Willing
1

Country girls don’t get scaredwhen things go thump in the night. There’s always some critter out there making noise and trouble. So when I heard the scratching out back, I didn’t think too hard on it.

A low rumble, a scrrritchy sort of sound, and my brain put two and two together: there was an owl with a tummyache scratching at my window. It made perfect sense.

Scrrritch.

Wait, no, it didn’t.

Thump. Scrrrritch. THUD.

I shoved myself upright and rubbed the sleep grit out of my eyes.

There was a face at the window. It had a long, snaky neck and a sharp, pointy beak. Looking at me.

My heart jumped up past my throat and choked off a scream.

But then I slumped against the headboard. I knew that face. It was Harry. My dang peacock. Presumably hoping for breakfast in the middle of the night.

He had no sense of time. He had no sense period, but then, neither did I.

Moonlight spilled over the bed, illuminating me and the fossil I’d fallen asleep holding. I’d scooped this stony relic off one of Mama’s cairns in the weak hope that she’d come looking for it.

I’d actually thought stealing a fossil would do something, like get a reaction.

Mama could smell a fossil five feet out of the ground, so it stood to figure she’d be drawn to this one too, and then I’d get to say goodnight to her before she locked herself in the bathroom to soak in the tub for hours. Again. If I got really lucky, maybe she’d even smooth my hair, or sing me our old lullaby, or scold me for messing up her stack of stones. I wasn’t picky. I’d take anything other than how I became invisible to her at night.

Scritch.Thump.

A draft of cold air rustled the room, and I pulled the quilt up around me. I was almost twelve, not a little girl anymore. I shouldn’t need Mama to come say goodnight to me. It would be better if I learned to not need her, like my big sister, Margie, had.

Scritch scritch SCRATCH.

“Ugh, I’m coming,” I said. Keeping the quilt, I scooted out of bed and stomped over to where my peacock watched me through the window. I pushed the pane up until there was only the screen between us.

Harry scraped and rustled inside a decrepit old wheelbarrow that Mama had parked under my window and made into a flower box. She was always taking broken things and turning them into something beautiful. At least, she used to.

“Harry, it is not breakfast time,” I told him.

He clucked and spread his fan of tail feathers. He was only one year old, so it wasn’t impressive, but I never let on. There was a lot he didn’t know. He’d been born in the drought, and if it ever rained, he’d probably think the sky was falling.

“Yes, you’re very handsome, but not even the handsomest birds get fed before six a.m.”

I scolded him, but I wasn’t really mad. I got it. Sometimes I woke up lonely too and went hunting for a snack.

The night air smelled warm and dry. I wasn’t sure why I’d felt such a chill in the room when I woke up. I let the quilt fall to the floor.

I looked past Harry to our wheat fields. They rustled in endless silver waves under the moon. But the stalks were weak and not as tall as they should be. If the drought didn’t break, we’d be out a year’s harvest, and the lines in Papa’s face would get deeper. Mama would sink even quieter, Margie would get angrier, and I’d . . . I’d be fine.

Harry pressed his face against the screen, and I pushed my hand against the shape of him. He chirruped.

The house was silent. I listened for the soft splish--splash sounds of Mama soaking in the tub down the hall, but she must’ve gotten out while I was asleep. Or maybe she’d dozed off in there. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Thunder rumbled, and I realized I was squeezing the fossil tight in my right hand. I hadn’t noticed I was still holding it.

I frowned. If there was thunder, there should be clouds. And if there were clouds, the moon wouldn’t be this bright.

“Go back to the coop, Harry,” I said. “Papa’s gonna feed you in a few hours.”

Harry closed his fan, bobbed his head, and jumped to the ground.

And that’s when I saw the dimetrodon in the vegetable garden.
Copyright © 2023 by Stephanie Willing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Love for West of the Sea

* "Willing’s sparkling debut incorporates profound family dynamics, ghostly dinosaurs, a shape-shifting cryptid, and Celtic mythology, culminating in a suspenseful, innovative read."—Publishers Weekly, starred review

"Intriguing mythology with a prehistoric twist and an endearing family focus."—Kirkus Reviews

“Part road trip adventure, part family reckoning, Willing’s debut ambitiously approaches loss, mental illness, identity, neurodivergence, and adolescence and executes them with compassion and depth.”—Booklist

About

Tae Keller meets Tracey Baptiste in a tale of generational trauma, told with a cryptozoological twist.

Paleontology-loving Haven West and her older sister, Margie, have hardly talked with their mom since she retreated into a deep depression. Each morning Haven wonders if it’s going to be a “good” or “bad” day, and the only thing that seems to occupy her mom is collecting fossils for her bone garden.

But one night, after an ominous moonlight heart-to-heart, her mom disappears—right before Haven discovers she’s inherited a monstrous family trait. It turns out that she is the latest in a long line of cryptids, a past her mom has been hiding. Suddenly, the Texas terrain is full of ghostly dinosaur silhouettes and Haven is breaking out in scales at all the wrong moments. Even worse, she doesn’t know whom she can trust with this information. 

Since the only person who could guide her through this has vanished, Haven sets off on the road trip of a lifetime with Margie and their new friend Rye in tow. Together, they’re determined to find her mom and finally get some answers, hopefully before Haven’s secret is revealed . . .

Author

Stephanie Willing is a writer and audiobook narrator who hasn’t been able to find good Tex-Mex food since she left her home state. She has an MFA in Writing for Young People from Lesley University. Originally from Texas, Stephanie now lives in New York City, and she never misses an opportunity to visit the dinosaurs at the Museum of Natural History. View titles by Stephanie Willing

Excerpt

1

Country girls don’t get scaredwhen things go thump in the night. There’s always some critter out there making noise and trouble. So when I heard the scratching out back, I didn’t think too hard on it.

A low rumble, a scrrritchy sort of sound, and my brain put two and two together: there was an owl with a tummyache scratching at my window. It made perfect sense.

Scrrritch.

Wait, no, it didn’t.

Thump. Scrrrritch. THUD.

I shoved myself upright and rubbed the sleep grit out of my eyes.

There was a face at the window. It had a long, snaky neck and a sharp, pointy beak. Looking at me.

My heart jumped up past my throat and choked off a scream.

But then I slumped against the headboard. I knew that face. It was Harry. My dang peacock. Presumably hoping for breakfast in the middle of the night.

He had no sense of time. He had no sense period, but then, neither did I.

Moonlight spilled over the bed, illuminating me and the fossil I’d fallen asleep holding. I’d scooped this stony relic off one of Mama’s cairns in the weak hope that she’d come looking for it.

I’d actually thought stealing a fossil would do something, like get a reaction.

Mama could smell a fossil five feet out of the ground, so it stood to figure she’d be drawn to this one too, and then I’d get to say goodnight to her before she locked herself in the bathroom to soak in the tub for hours. Again. If I got really lucky, maybe she’d even smooth my hair, or sing me our old lullaby, or scold me for messing up her stack of stones. I wasn’t picky. I’d take anything other than how I became invisible to her at night.

Scritch.Thump.

A draft of cold air rustled the room, and I pulled the quilt up around me. I was almost twelve, not a little girl anymore. I shouldn’t need Mama to come say goodnight to me. It would be better if I learned to not need her, like my big sister, Margie, had.

Scritch scritch SCRATCH.

“Ugh, I’m coming,” I said. Keeping the quilt, I scooted out of bed and stomped over to where my peacock watched me through the window. I pushed the pane up until there was only the screen between us.

Harry scraped and rustled inside a decrepit old wheelbarrow that Mama had parked under my window and made into a flower box. She was always taking broken things and turning them into something beautiful. At least, she used to.

“Harry, it is not breakfast time,” I told him.

He clucked and spread his fan of tail feathers. He was only one year old, so it wasn’t impressive, but I never let on. There was a lot he didn’t know. He’d been born in the drought, and if it ever rained, he’d probably think the sky was falling.

“Yes, you’re very handsome, but not even the handsomest birds get fed before six a.m.”

I scolded him, but I wasn’t really mad. I got it. Sometimes I woke up lonely too and went hunting for a snack.

The night air smelled warm and dry. I wasn’t sure why I’d felt such a chill in the room when I woke up. I let the quilt fall to the floor.

I looked past Harry to our wheat fields. They rustled in endless silver waves under the moon. But the stalks were weak and not as tall as they should be. If the drought didn’t break, we’d be out a year’s harvest, and the lines in Papa’s face would get deeper. Mama would sink even quieter, Margie would get angrier, and I’d . . . I’d be fine.

Harry pressed his face against the screen, and I pushed my hand against the shape of him. He chirruped.

The house was silent. I listened for the soft splish--splash sounds of Mama soaking in the tub down the hall, but she must’ve gotten out while I was asleep. Or maybe she’d dozed off in there. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Thunder rumbled, and I realized I was squeezing the fossil tight in my right hand. I hadn’t noticed I was still holding it.

I frowned. If there was thunder, there should be clouds. And if there were clouds, the moon wouldn’t be this bright.

“Go back to the coop, Harry,” I said. “Papa’s gonna feed you in a few hours.”

Harry closed his fan, bobbed his head, and jumped to the ground.

And that’s when I saw the dimetrodon in the vegetable garden.
Copyright © 2023 by Stephanie Willing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Praise

Love for West of the Sea

* "Willing’s sparkling debut incorporates profound family dynamics, ghostly dinosaurs, a shape-shifting cryptid, and Celtic mythology, culminating in a suspenseful, innovative read."—Publishers Weekly, starred review

"Intriguing mythology with a prehistoric twist and an endearing family focus."—Kirkus Reviews

“Part road trip adventure, part family reckoning, Willing’s debut ambitiously approaches loss, mental illness, identity, neurodivergence, and adolescence and executes them with compassion and depth.”—Booklist

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