Genre Fiction
![Kai Harris - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B0968Q6RVS.jpg)
What the Fireflies Knew: A Novel
An NAACP Image Award Nominee
Longlisted for the Center for Fiction's First Novel Prize
A Marie Claire Book Club pick
Named a Most Anticipated Book of 2022 by *Marie Claire* *Teen Vogue* *Buzzfeed* *Essence* *Ms. Magazine* *NBCNews.com* *Bookriot* *Bookbub* and more!
"Harris rewrites the coming-of-age story with Black girlhood at the center."
-New York Times Book Review
In the vein of Jesmyn Ward's Salvage the Bones and Sue Monk Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees, a coming-of-age novel told by almost-eleven-year-old Kenyatta Bernice (KB), as she and her sister try to make sense of their new life with their estranged grandfather in the wake of their father's death and their mother's disappearance
An ode to Black girlhood and adolescence as seen through KB's eyes, What the Fireflies Knew follows KB after her father dies of an overdose and the debts incurred from his addiction cause the loss of the family home in Detroit. Soon thereafter, KB and her teenage sister, Nia, are sent by their overwhelmed mother to live with their estranged grandfather in Lansing, Michigan. Over the course of a single sweltering summer, KB attempts to navigate a world that has turned upside down.
Her father has been labeled a fiend. Her mother's smile no longer reaches her eyes. Her sister, once her best friend, now feels like a stranger. Her grandfather is grumpy and silent. The white kids who live across the street are friendly, but only sometimes. And they're all keeping secrets. As KB vacillates between resentment, abandonment, and loneliness, she is forced to carve out a different identity for herself and find her own voice.
A dazzling and moving novel about family, identity, and race, What the Fireflies Knew poignantly reveals that heartbreaking but necessary component of growing up-the realization that loved ones can be flawed and that the perfect family we all dream of looks different up close.
Longlisted for the Center for Fiction's First Novel Prize
A Marie Claire Book Club pick
Named a Most Anticipated Book of 2022 by *Marie Claire* *Teen Vogue* *Buzzfeed* *Essence* *Ms. Magazine* *NBCNews.com* *Bookriot* *Bookbub* and more!
"Harris rewrites the coming-of-age story with Black girlhood at the center."
-New York Times Book Review
In the vein of Jesmyn Ward's Salvage the Bones and Sue Monk Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees, a coming-of-age novel told by almost-eleven-year-old Kenyatta Bernice (KB), as she and her sister try to make sense of their new life with their estranged grandfather in the wake of their father's death and their mother's disappearance
An ode to Black girlhood and adolescence as seen through KB's eyes, What the Fireflies Knew follows KB after her father dies of an overdose and the debts incurred from his addiction cause the loss of the family home in Detroit. Soon thereafter, KB and her teenage sister, Nia, are sent by their overwhelmed mother to live with their estranged grandfather in Lansing, Michigan. Over the course of a single sweltering summer, KB attempts to navigate a world that has turned upside down.
Her father has been labeled a fiend. Her mother's smile no longer reaches her eyes. Her sister, once her best friend, now feels like a stranger. Her grandfather is grumpy and silent. The white kids who live across the street are friendly, but only sometimes. And they're all keeping secrets. As KB vacillates between resentment, abandonment, and loneliness, she is forced to carve out a different identity for herself and find her own voice.
A dazzling and moving novel about family, identity, and race, What the Fireflies Knew poignantly reveals that heartbreaking but necessary component of growing up-the realization that loved ones can be flawed and that the perfect family we all dream of looks different up close.
Editorial Reviews
"Harris rewrites the coming-of-age story with Black girlhood at the center."
-New York Times Book Review
"[A] sensitive, realistic portrait of a ten-year-old trying to understand her world in the wake of her father's death. Sent to spend the summer with a grandfather she barely knows, she contends with her losses and fears while learning more about her family, finding her own voice in the process."
-The Washington Post
"[What the Fireflies Knew] is not an easy read . . . but it feels authentic, and does what good fiction does: takes readers on a journey they otherwise wouldn't travel."
-Associated Press
"What the Fireflies Knew is the best novel I have read in a long time, and Harris has brilliantly captured KB's voice. She jumps off the page so strongly that I was invested not only from the first page but, indeed, the first sentence."
-Free Lance-Star
"Harris's story helped me remember what it was like to be a young Black girl on the border of adolescence."
-The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
"Combining complex characters, writing that instantly penetrates your heart, and the restorative power of nature, What the Fireflies Knew is a luminous reminder that sometimes the only true path to healing is through facing our painful histories, and that we don't have to do it alone. With a debut novel this remarkable, Kai Harris is a writer I hope is around for a long, long time."
-Mateo Askaripour,New York Timesbestselling author ofBlack Buck
"What the Fireflies Knew is a fabulous debut and truly a gem of a novel, full of the beauty, tenderness, and poignancy of Black girlhood."
-Deesha Philyaw, author of
-New York Times Book Review
"[A] sensitive, realistic portrait of a ten-year-old trying to understand her world in the wake of her father's death. Sent to spend the summer with a grandfather she barely knows, she contends with her losses and fears while learning more about her family, finding her own voice in the process."
-The Washington Post
"[What the Fireflies Knew] is not an easy read . . . but it feels authentic, and does what good fiction does: takes readers on a journey they otherwise wouldn't travel."
-Associated Press
"What the Fireflies Knew is the best novel I have read in a long time, and Harris has brilliantly captured KB's voice. She jumps off the page so strongly that I was invested not only from the first page but, indeed, the first sentence."
-Free Lance-Star
"Harris's story helped me remember what it was like to be a young Black girl on the border of adolescence."
-The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
"Combining complex characters, writing that instantly penetrates your heart, and the restorative power of nature, What the Fireflies Knew is a luminous reminder that sometimes the only true path to healing is through facing our painful histories, and that we don't have to do it alone. With a debut novel this remarkable, Kai Harris is a writer I hope is around for a long, long time."
-Mateo Askaripour,New York Timesbestselling author ofBlack Buck
"What the Fireflies Knew is a fabulous debut and truly a gem of a novel, full of the beauty, tenderness, and poignancy of Black girlhood."
-Deesha Philyaw, author of
Readers Top Reviews
allthebooksallthe
I stayed up way too late finishing this. And when I was done, I sighed and hugged my book. ☺️ This was my most anticipated book of February. I pre-ordered it the second I read the synopsis. It did not disappoint!! It was everything I had hoped it would be, and more!! The writing was superb, the characters are authentic and well fleshed out. The pacing and flow is perfection. Harris made me care about her characters and invested in their stories. I have not a single negative thing to say. It was outstanding and I eagerly await her next book(s)!!
Megan StoweCar
This coming of age story never seemed to go anywhere. I kept expecting a plot climax, but nothing ever really happened. The main character didn’t seem to act her age, which was supposed to be 11. She seemed very naive and caught up I’m imaginary stories, or else too adult and facile. I read this for book club, but I didn’t find the story as fulfilling as other readers.
Suzy Megan Stow
I was transported while reading about KB’s summer of discovery and reflection. I laughed, I cried, I experienced emotions that a little girl on her journey to try and make sense of the world had. Like a firefly - brightness and clarity for a fleeting moment - interspersed with long periods of darkness and the quest for illumination. My life has been changed - thank you for writing this story and sharing it.
KSuzy Megan Sto
This book title caught my eye, because of an essay I wrote for a writer's community. It was about a young girl (me) in a place of brokenness who had captured fireflies in a jar in the midwest. Even though at that time, I had not found my freedom, I related to the fireflies in my jar..and I released them to freedom. Me -I was "not yet a firefly". There was so much I related to with KB!. I learned to love her and loved being inside her numbered thoughts. I had a tree just like KB where I went with my library books. Her story made me especially sad that she carried the extra burden of betrayal because she was black. I would love a "KB of Detroit" second book to follow the next chapter of KB's growing up and what happens next. How about it Kai Harris?
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
"We there yet?" My big sister, Nia, unbuckles her seat belt and lays cross the back seat beside me. Her skin shimmers in the sun from a half-cracked window, which lets a tiny breeze slide in that carries her cottony hair back and forth, up and down. People say Nia's the one who looks like Momma. They have the same oval eyes and mahogany skin. My eyes are rounder and my skin pale yellow, like the color of french fries that ain't quite cooked.
Momma ignores Nia's question. Probably cause it's bout the tenth time she's asked. My nose finds the smell of rotten banana and that's got me thinking back to that night, almost six months ago now. The smell fills the car, just like the stench in our old basement that stuck around even after Daddy was buried. I dig my hands into the seat cushions and touch something sticky, but it's more peppermint sticky than banana sticky. Days ago, laying with a book in the back seat, one of my favorite places now, I got interrupted by Momma and Nia, right outside the car door and yelling, like always. They ain't see me, so I crept out before they could, hiding the banana I was just bout to bite. I hid it in a perfect place to come back for later, once all the fighting finally stopped. But it never did, and now I can't remember where I put it. I rub my eyes as I look around. I wanna fall asleep, but now I'm awake and smelling that stink.
Nia don't look my way, just stares out the window, so I stare out the window. Ain't nothin' but flat green spaces. Cars speed by on both sides. I like that Momma drives slower than the other cars, cause then I don't get carsick. I count signs bigger than me as they blur cross my reflection in the car window. There's one for Toys"R"Us with a big picture of the new Easy-Bake Oven and Snack Center right in the middle. A now open sign for a new restaurant called Ponderosa. And one with a picture of a bunch of kids playing with dirt, and words at the bottom that say: new name, same fun. visit impression 5 science center, ahead in 28 miles. I wanna ask Momma to stop-for the restaurant or the science center, mostly, but even a toy would do-but I know we ain't gon' stop. So I count and count and get to twenty-two, then I'm bored.
I find my book between the seat cushions and open to the first page. This gon' be my third time reading this book bout Anne, the Green Gables girl. I wonder what a gable is, and why it's s'posed to be green. I can't always understand the kind of words she's using cause nobody I know talks all proper like that, but in some ways, Anne is just like me, so it's my best book. Besides, even if I don't always get her way of talking, I like the sound of her words, all big and eloquent. Ever since I picked it from my school's Lost and Found, I been reading bout Anne and even learning how to talk like her. I ain't ever had too many books of my own, so when nobody at my school came for it, I did.
The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. I roll the new words over my tongue slow like dripping honey. Myriad, myriad, myriad. Orchard, what is an orchard? Bridal flush of pinky-white bloom. Sometimes I try to use words like in my book, but when I do Nia teases me, saying I don't even know what I'm talking bout. But even if me and Anne don't look the same, we can still talk the same and be alike in other ways.
I read six more pages bout Anne showing up in Avonlea and tryna fit in where she don't belong; then there's a loud clanking sound and the car slows down. Momma mutters a bad word under her breath, the one that starts with D. I said that word once, just to test it out when nobody could hear me. It felt good. I repeat it now in my head like a silent chant, once for each time our car has stopped working-maybe twelve since we got it bout a year ago-but at some point, I stopped counting. Seems like our old Dodge Caravan-nicknamed Carol Anne like the girl in that scary Poltergeist movie-breaks more than it works.
"Nia, KB. Get out and push." We know what Momma is gon' say before she says it, so my seat belt is already undone, and Nia is halfway out the car by the time she finishes the sentence. We step out into the sun, at the top of a stubby hill where the smoking car is stalled. Back when Daddy used to push the car, his muscles would grow big as he pushed, sometimes even up a hill. I am happy we get to go down the hill, at least.
...
"We there yet?" My big sister, Nia, unbuckles her seat belt and lays cross the back seat beside me. Her skin shimmers in the sun from a half-cracked window, which lets a tiny breeze slide in that carries her cottony hair back and forth, up and down. People say Nia's the one who looks like Momma. They have the same oval eyes and mahogany skin. My eyes are rounder and my skin pale yellow, like the color of french fries that ain't quite cooked.
Momma ignores Nia's question. Probably cause it's bout the tenth time she's asked. My nose finds the smell of rotten banana and that's got me thinking back to that night, almost six months ago now. The smell fills the car, just like the stench in our old basement that stuck around even after Daddy was buried. I dig my hands into the seat cushions and touch something sticky, but it's more peppermint sticky than banana sticky. Days ago, laying with a book in the back seat, one of my favorite places now, I got interrupted by Momma and Nia, right outside the car door and yelling, like always. They ain't see me, so I crept out before they could, hiding the banana I was just bout to bite. I hid it in a perfect place to come back for later, once all the fighting finally stopped. But it never did, and now I can't remember where I put it. I rub my eyes as I look around. I wanna fall asleep, but now I'm awake and smelling that stink.
Nia don't look my way, just stares out the window, so I stare out the window. Ain't nothin' but flat green spaces. Cars speed by on both sides. I like that Momma drives slower than the other cars, cause then I don't get carsick. I count signs bigger than me as they blur cross my reflection in the car window. There's one for Toys"R"Us with a big picture of the new Easy-Bake Oven and Snack Center right in the middle. A now open sign for a new restaurant called Ponderosa. And one with a picture of a bunch of kids playing with dirt, and words at the bottom that say: new name, same fun. visit impression 5 science center, ahead in 28 miles. I wanna ask Momma to stop-for the restaurant or the science center, mostly, but even a toy would do-but I know we ain't gon' stop. So I count and count and get to twenty-two, then I'm bored.
I find my book between the seat cushions and open to the first page. This gon' be my third time reading this book bout Anne, the Green Gables girl. I wonder what a gable is, and why it's s'posed to be green. I can't always understand the kind of words she's using cause nobody I know talks all proper like that, but in some ways, Anne is just like me, so it's my best book. Besides, even if I don't always get her way of talking, I like the sound of her words, all big and eloquent. Ever since I picked it from my school's Lost and Found, I been reading bout Anne and even learning how to talk like her. I ain't ever had too many books of my own, so when nobody at my school came for it, I did.
The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. I roll the new words over my tongue slow like dripping honey. Myriad, myriad, myriad. Orchard, what is an orchard? Bridal flush of pinky-white bloom. Sometimes I try to use words like in my book, but when I do Nia teases me, saying I don't even know what I'm talking bout. But even if me and Anne don't look the same, we can still talk the same and be alike in other ways.
I read six more pages bout Anne showing up in Avonlea and tryna fit in where she don't belong; then there's a loud clanking sound and the car slows down. Momma mutters a bad word under her breath, the one that starts with D. I said that word once, just to test it out when nobody could hear me. It felt good. I repeat it now in my head like a silent chant, once for each time our car has stopped working-maybe twelve since we got it bout a year ago-but at some point, I stopped counting. Seems like our old Dodge Caravan-nicknamed Carol Anne like the girl in that scary Poltergeist movie-breaks more than it works.
"Nia, KB. Get out and push." We know what Momma is gon' say before she says it, so my seat belt is already undone, and Nia is halfway out the car by the time she finishes the sentence. We step out into the sun, at the top of a stubby hill where the smoking car is stalled. Back when Daddy used to push the car, his muscles would grow big as he pushed, sometimes even up a hill. I am happy we get to go down the hill, at least.
...
