Cover image for Pay it forward : a novel
Title:
Pay it forward : a novel
Author:
Hyde, Catherine Ryan.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York : Simon & Schuster, 1999.
Physical Description:
288 pages ; 23 cm
Language:
English
Reading Level:
630 Lexile.
Program Information:
Accelerated Reader AR UG 5.1 12.0 45545.

Reading Counts RC High School 7.5 18 Quiz: 24049 Guided reading level: NR.
Geographic Term:
ISBN:
9780684862712
Format :
Book

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Summary

Summary

A life-affirming tale of the goodness implicit in everyone follows twelve-year-old Trevor, a boy from a troubled family, who develops a plan as part of a school project that starts people doing good things for each other.


Author Notes

Catherine Ryan Hyde lives in Cambria, California.


Reviews 4

Booklist Review

A best-selling adult novel has been reworked for a younger audience, with mixed results. Trevor McKinney is asked to do a seemingly impossible assignment come up with an idea to change the world and put it into action. His idea is so simple that it might work: do someone a favor and ask them to do a favor for someone else instead of paying it back. Despite being the central character, Trevor is overshadowed by his mom, Arlene; teacher, Reuben; and their complicated relationship. This book may have been stronger had more of the story come from Trevor's point of view. Also, the original book was published in the 1990s, giving this edition a dated feel that adds another distracting layer over the central theme. However, with the growing popularity of books about tolerance and acceptance, such as Schooled (2007), by Gordon Korman, and Wonder (2012), by R. J. Palacio, Pay It Forward will likely find an audience.--Erickson, Tiffany Copyright 2014 Booklist


Publisher's Weekly Review

An ordinary boy engineers a secular miracle in Hyde's (Funerals for Horses) winning second novel, set in small-town 1990s California. Twelve-year-old Trevor McKinney, the son of Arlene, a single mom working two jobs, and Ricky, a deadbeat absentee dad, does not seem well-positioned to revolutionize the world. But when Trevor's social studies teacher, Reuben St. Clair, gives the class an extra-credit assignment, challenging his students to design a plan to change society, Trevor decides to start a goodwill chain. To begin, he helps out three people, telling each of them that instead of paying him back, they must "pay it forward" by helping three others. At first, nothing seems to work out as planned, not even Trevor's attempt to bring Arlene and Reuben together. Granted, Trevor's mother and his teacher are an unlikely couple: she is a small, white, attractive, determined but insecure recovering alcoholic; he is an educated black man who lost half his face in Vietnam. But eventually romance does blossom, and unbeknownst to Trevor, his other attempts to help do "pay forward," yielding a chain reaction of newsworthy proportions. Reporter Chris Chandler is the first to chase down the story, and Hyde's narrative is punctuated with excerpts from histories Chandler publishes in later years (Those Who Knew Trevor Speak and The Other Faces Behind the Movement), as well as entries from Trevor's journal. Trevor's ultimate martyrdom, and the extraordinary worldwide success of his project, catapult the drama into the realm of myth, but Hyde's simple prose rarely turns preachy. Her Capraesque themeÄthat one person can make a differenceÄmay be sentimental, but for once, that's a virtue. $250,000 ad/promo; BOMC and QPB alternates; 7-city author tour; film rights optioned by Warner Bros. (Feb.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved


Library Journal Review

It started with a school assignment that a 12-year-old boy embraced, and it changed everything. When Reuben St. Clair wrote on the blackboard "Think of an Idea for World Change, and Put It Into Action," Trevor McKinney (who understood the concept of compounding) came up with the idea of Paying Forward. That is, he'll do something really good for three people, who, instead of paying him back, will be asked to pay it forwardÄby aiding someone else. (And so on, and so on.) But hard as he tries, Trevor's projects seem to fail: a down-and-out stranger, financed by Trevor's paper route money, buys drink and drugs; widowed Mrs. Greenberg, whose beloved garden Trevor tends, dies; and Trevor's attempts at matchmaking his lonely teacher with his feisty single mother sparks then fizzles. But then, things take a turn for the better: provisions in Mrs. Greenberg's will keep the movement going and saving lives, and then a tenacious reporter tells the story. Even if the seed for this concept came from Lloyd Douglas's Magnificent Obsession, Hyde's (Earthquake Weather) book is still an uplifting, tear-jerking, and inspiring modern fable, with an extremely appealing young protagonist. For all reading audiences. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 10/15/99.]ÄMichele Leber, Fairfax Cty. P.L., VA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


School Library Journal Review

Gr 5 Up-Twelve-year-old Trevor is a caring young man who, through a school assignment, begins a movement of kindness through the act of paying it forward. Encouraged by his mother and physically scarred school teacher, Trevor endeavors to make the world a better place in the midst of perceived failure and exciting social notoriety. As with the original adult version, Hyde brings readers into the Clinton administrative years and the home and life of the protagonist. The characters are believable and likable and children are taken along on their journey as willing participants. An ambiguous ending allows kids to make their own decisions about Trevor and his future.  A thoroughly convincing narrative that will have children questioning the label of fiction. Well worth adding to a library collection.-Elizabeth Speer, Cisco College, TX (c) Copyright 2012. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

Pay It Forward CHAPTER ONE Reuben January 1992 The woman smiled so politely that he felt offended. "Let me tell Principal Morgan that you're here, Mr. St. Clair. She'll want to talk with you." She walked two steps, turned back. "She likes to talk to everyone, I mean. Any new teacher." "Of course." He should have been used to this by now. More than three minutes later she emerged from the principal's office, smiling too widely. Too openly. People always display far too much acceptance, he'd noticed, when they are having trouble mustering any for real. "Go right on in, Mr. St. Clair. She'll see you." "Thank you." The principal appeared to be about ten years older than Reuben, with a great deal of dark hair, worn up, a Caucasian, and attractive. "We are so pleased to meet you face-to-face, Mr. St. Clair." Then she flushed, as if the mention of the word "face" had been an unforgivable error. "Please call me Reuben." "Reuben, yes. And I'm Anne." She met him with a steady, head-on gaze and at no time appeared startled. So she had been verbally prepared by her assistant. And somehow the only thing worse than an unprepared reaction was the obviously rehearsed absence of one. He hated these moments so. She motioned toward a chair, and he sat. "I'm not quite what you were expecting, am I, Anne?" "In what respect?" "Please don't do this. You must appreciate how many times I've replayed this same scene. I can't bear to talk around an obvious issue." She tried to establish eye contact, as one normally would when addressing a coworker in conversation, but she could not make it stick. "You know this has nothing to do with your being African American," she said. "Oh, yes," he said. "I do know that. I know exactly what it's about." "If you think your position is in any jeopardy, Reuben, you're worrying for nothing." "Do you really have this little talk with everyone?" "Of course I do." "Before they even address their first class?" Pause. "Not necessarily. I just thought we might discuss the subject of . . . initial adjustment." "You worry that my appearance will alarm the students." "What has your experience been with that in the past?" "The students are always easy, Anne. This is the difficult moment. Always." "I understand." "With all respect, I'm not sure you do," he said. Out loud. *  *  * At his former school, in Cincinnati, Reuben had a friend named Louis Tartaglia. Lou had a special way of addressing an unfamiliar class. He would enter, on that first morning, with a yardstick in his hand. Walk right into the flap and fray. They like to test a teacher, you see, at first. He would ask for silence, which he never received on the first request. After counting to three, he would bring this yardstick up over his head and smack it down on the desktop in such a way that it would break in two. The free half would fly up into the air behind him, hit the blackboard, and clatter to the floor. Then, in the audible silence to follow, he would say, simply, "Thank you." And he'd have no trouble with the class after that. Reuben warned him that someday a piece would fly in the wrong direction and hit a student, causing a world of problems, but it had always worked as planned, so far as he knew. "It boils down to unpredictability," Lou explained. "Once they see you as unpredictable, you hold the cards." Then he asked what Reuben did to quiet an unfamiliar and unruly class, and Reuben replied that he had never experienced the problem; he had never been greeted by anything but stony silence and was never assumed to be predictable. "Oh. Right," Lou said, as if he should have known better. And he should have. *  *  * Reuben stood before them, for the first time, both grateful for and resentful of their silence. Outside the windows on his right was California, a place he'd never been before. The trees were different; the sky did not say winter as it had when he'd started the long drive from Cincinnati. He wouldn't say from home, because it was not his home, not really. And neither was this. And he'd grown tired of feeling like a stranger. He performed a quick head count, seats per row, number of rows. "Since I can see you're all here," he said, "we will dispense with the roll call." It seemed to break a spell, that he spoke, and the students shifted a bit, made eye contact with one another. Whispered across aisles. Neither better nor worse than usual. He turned away to write his name on the board. Mr. St. Clair. Also wrote it out underneath, Saint Clair, as an aid to pronunciation. Then he paused before turning back, so they would have time to finish reading his name. In his mind, his plan, he thought he'd start right off with the assignment. But it caved from under him, like skidding down the side of a sand dune. He was not Lou, and sometimes people needed to know him first. Sometimes he was startling enough on his own, before his ideas even showed themselves. "Maybe we should spend this first day," he said, "just talking. Since you don't know me at all. We can start by talking about appearances. How we feel about people because of how they look. There are no rules. You can say anything you want." Apparently, they did not believe him yet, because they said the same things they might have with their parents looking on. To his disappointment. Then, in what he supposed was an attempt at humor, a boy in the back row asked if he was a pirate. "No," he said. "I'm not. I'm a teacher." "I thought only pirates wore eye patches." "People who have lost eyes wear eye patches. Whether they are pirates or not is beside the point." *  *  * The class filed out, to his relief, and he looked up to see a boy standing in front of his desk. A thin white boy, but very dark haired, possibly part Hispanic, who said, "Hi." "Hello." "What happened to your face?" Reuben smiled, which was rare for him, being self-conscious about the lopsided effect. He pulled a chair around so the boy could sit facing him and motioned for him to sit, which he did without hesitation. "What's your name?" "Trevor." "Trevor what?" "McKinney. Did I hurt your feelings?" "No, Trevor. You didn't." "My mom says I shouldn't ask people things like that, because it might hurt their feelings. She says you should act like you didn't notice." "Well, what your mom doesn't know, Trevor, because she's never been in my shoes, is that if you act like you didn't notice, I still know that you did. And then it feels strange that we can't talk about it when we're both thinking about it. Know what I mean?" "I think so. So, what happened?" "I was injured in a war." "Vietnam?" "That's right." "My daddy was in Vietnam. He says it's a nightmare." "I would tend to agree. Even though I was there for only seven weeks." "My daddy was there two years." "Was he injured?" "Maybe a little. I think he has a sore knee." "I was supposed to stay two years, but I got hurt so badly that I had to come home. So, in a way, I was lucky that I didn't have to stay, and in a way, your daddy was lucky because he didn't get hurt that badly. If you know what I mean." The boy didn't look too sure that he did. "Maybe someday I'll meet your dad. Maybe on parents' night." "I don't think so. We don't know where he is. What's under the eye patch?" "Nothing." "How can it be nothing?" "It's like nothing was ever there. Do you want to see?" "You bet." Reuben took off the patch. No one seemed to know quite what he meant by "nothing" until they saw it. No one seemed prepared for the shock of "nothing" where there would be an eye on everyone else they had ever met. The boy's head rocked back a little, then he nodded. Kids were easier. Reuben replaced the patch. "Sorry about your face. But, you know, it's only just that one side. The other side looks real good." "Thank you, Trevor. I think you are the first person to offer me that compliment." "Well, see ya." "Good-bye, Trevor." Reuben moved to the window and looked out over the front lawn. Watched students clump and talk and run on the grass, until Trevor appeared, trotting down the front steps. It was ingrained in Reuben to defend this moment, and he could not have returned to his desk if he'd tried. He needed to know if Trevor would run up to the other boys to flaunt his new knowledge. To collect on any bets or tell any tales, which Reuben would not hear, only imagine from his second-floor perch, his face flushing under the imagined words. But Trevor trotted past the boys without so much as a glance, stopping to speak to no one. It was almost time for Reuben's second class to arrive. So he had to get started, preparing himself to do it all over again. From The Other Faces Behind the Movement by Chris Chandler Reuben There is nothing monstrous or grotesque about my face. I get to state this with a certain objectivity, being perhaps the only one capable of such. I am the only one used to seeing it, because I am the only one who dares, with the help of a shaving mirror, to openly stare. I have undergone eleven operations, all in all, to repair what was, at one time, unsightly damage. The area that was my left eye, and the lost bone and muscle under cheek and brow, have been neatly covered with skin removed from my thigh. I have endured numerous skin grafts and plastic surgeries. Only a few of these were necessary for health or function. Most were intended to make me an easier individual to meet. The final result is a smooth, complete absence of an eye, as if one had never existed; a great loss of muscle and mass in cheek and neck; and obvious nerve damage to the left corner of my mouth. It is dead, so to speak, and droops. But after many years of speech therapy, my speech is fairly easily understood. So, in a sense, it is not what people see in my face that disturbs them, but rather what they expect to see and do not. I also have minimal use of my left arm, which is foreshortened and thin from lack of use, and I am deaf in one ear. My guess is that people rarely notice this until I've been around awhile, because my face tends to steal the show. I have worked in schools, lounged in staff rooms, where a Band-Aid draws comment and requires explanation. "Richie, what did you do to your hand?" A cast on an arm becomes a story told for six weeks, multiplied by the number of employees. "Well, I was on a ladder, see, preparing to clean my storm drains. . . ." So it seems odd to me that no one will ask. If they suddenly did, and I were forced to repeat the story, I might decide I liked things better before. But it's not so much that they don't ask, but why they don't ask, as if I am an unspeakable tragedy, as new and shocking to myself as to them. Excerpted from Pay It Forward by Catherine Ryan Hyde All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.