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I'm not sure if there's a polite way to say this, so I'm not even going to try: Louise Fitzhugh had balls. I ask you, who else could get away with a character calling her 7-year-old brother "faggot" on page two of a middle grade novel? Here's the setup: He may be "only" seven, but Willie already knows right down to his toenails that he wants to be a dancer more than anything in the world. His older sister, Emma, aspires to be a trial attorney, and couldn't care less about her little brother's dreams. However, their bigshot lawyer father is far less than thrilled with both their plans. When Willie inadvertently auditions for a Broadway show, the dominoes begin stacking and falling in ways neither Willie nor Emma could have anticipated. Things learn toward didacticism near the end, and there's more telling (as opposed to showing) than I usually care for in a novel, but geeze Louise, the righteous indignation these obtuse parents provoked in me trumped all of that. I can't remember the last time I wanted to shake two imaginary people by their shirtfronts so badly. And as always with Louise Fitzhugh, the unflinching keenness of the kids' personalities makes for a no-nonsense story that bites back.
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The Teacher's Funeral
I will read anything Richard Peck writes, and listen to anything Dylan Baker reads, which turns this into a match made in heaven. Also, if you can resist this first line, there's something wrong with you: If your teacher has to die, August isn't a bad time of year for it.
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Catching Fire
I can tell you exactly three things about this book without spoiling it: 1. I'm shallow enough that I savored just *having* Catching Fire as much as I enjoyed actually reading it. 2. If you're tempted to be let down by the political domination of the plot in the first half, don't despair. The second 200 pages will nail you. 3. You know that sinking feeling you get when the chunk of pages left to read is getting skinnier and skinnier, but the action isn't winding down? And can't possibly wind down in the remaining 1/8 inch? Be prepared for that. (Especially if you're as great big a pouty-pants about cliffhanger endings as I am.) The end. (Available September 1. As if you aren't already counting the days.)
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Tom's Midnight Garden
I have fond, if hazy recollections of hearing this story as a kid. No wonder I liked it then -- it's sort of The Secret Garden meets Magic Elizabeth. Although it's of the same vintage as the very first book in the Ramona series, it's got a much more old-fashioned feel. This time around, Tom struck me as on the bland side as main characters go, and the story's thinness stood out as well. Still, it's a cozy little adventure with some satisfying connections in the end.
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There is nothing like this book. Steinbeck is a maestro of show-don't-tell with this story; he never once grants direct access to his characters' hearts and minds, yet you're never at a loss for what they think or feel. Now add Dylan Baker, who sounds just enough like Henry Fonda to make the whole thing pitch perfect. Eighteen discs, and I was sorry to come to the end. It's that good.
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The Princess and the Goblin
This guy's dead, right? So I can say things like Oh my God, what a slog this book was! Static characters in a meandering storyline filled out with all-too-convenient magic. Gak. I cannot believe I read this as a kid and retained some positive memory of it. (However, the plot fragments in my recollections bear virtually no resemblance to the actual chain of events -- I seem to have concocted a plot of my own to make up for the lack thereof.) This time around, I stuck with it purely for the sake of research, since a childhood copy of The Princess and the Goblin was found among the Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna's possessions after the murder of the imperial family. I suspect she held onto it for the same reason I have: because someone she loved gave it to her. (An aunt in her case; godparents in mine.)
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Oh, that Kathe Koja. Heard her speak at 9:00 am one morning and had the book read before 9:00 am the following morning. And no, not just because it's short. More like because I had to know what was going on with these two kids and their shrink. Because clearly, they're all playing each other. The question is, who's got the winning hand?
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What's wrong with having one father, three mothers, and twenty brothers and sisters? For 13-year-old Kyra, nothing much at all, actually -- until The Prophet decrees she's to become the seventh wife of a man in his sixties. A man who happens to be Kyra's own uncle. The plot is every bit as stomach-twisting as the premise, but here's the interesting thing: Williams reveals strikingly little about the workings of Kyra's community outside her immediate family's circle of house trailers. No worship services, very little theology or doctrine, limited interaction with other families in the compound. And yet it works. The place quietly scares the bejezus outta you. Maybe because we've all seen enough prime time investigations of polygamist cults to let us fill in the blanks. At any rate, it's not often an author trusts that much of the story so successfully to her readers. Another unusual facet: Kyra's family is, for the most part, happy and contented. She's got a loving, reasonable, father, a gaggle of beloved siblings, and a trio of mothers who get along quite well, all things considered. Except for her furtive trips to the local bookmobile, Kyra's not some dissatisfied rebel just itching to get loose. And that is precisely what makes her thoughts of escape so wrenching.
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Of Mice and Men
Am I seriously going to sit here and pick on John Steinbeck? A little bit, yep: Adverbs, man. Steinbeck's way too good to succumb to adverbs as often as he does in this story. But yowza, the parts when George tells about the rabbits? Snurped me right up, every time. Probably because I know how it ends. And as is to be expected, Gary Sinease rocks.
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Operation Yes
Improv theater at a military base school? Why the heck not? I'll grant you, I haven't read a whole lot of books about contemporary military families, but this ranks among my favorites. It's the unexpectedness of the combination, I guess. That, and I always prefer a story where the military-ness doesn't dominate the entire plot. The business-as-usual approach seems so much more realistic to me.
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Before That Morning, these were the words most often used to describe straight-A student and star soccer player Devon Davenport: responsible, hardworking, mature. But all that changes when the police find Devon home sick from school as they investigate the case of an abandoned baby. Soon the connection is made - Devon has just given birth; the baby in the trash is hers. After That Morning, there's only one way to define Devon: attempted murderer. I've been known to grumble now and then about third person present tense narration. For me, that particular combination often accentuates the sense of outside-looking-in, and I end up feeling a curious detachment from the characters — more like an out of body experience than a vicarious one. However. In the wake of giving birth alone and dumping the newborn in a trash can, Devon disengages so fully from the world that my usual gripes about this point of view actually harmonize with Devon's state of mind. The distance, in this case, works to the story's advantage. For ages, you just can't figure Devon out, and it's because Amy Efaw only gradually lets you into her character's head. The resulting intrigue tinged with frustration keeps the pages whipping along. Meanwhile, you'll never be at a loss for the physical sensations of Devon's environment, from the couch where the cops find her to the rubberized mattress of her cell. (Available in August)
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Faith, Hope, and Ivy June
Imagine two girls from Kentucky in a student exchange program, one a backwoods hillbilly and the other a Lexington snob -- or at least, that's what they think at the outset. It's got a little less subtlety than I look for in a novel, yet nearly every time I picked this book up I ended up reading longer than I intended. The chapters are so nice and short, and this sort of culture shock is by definition irresistible.
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Notes From the Dog
"Sometimes having company is not all it's cracked up to be." Fifteen-year-old Finn is a loner, living with his dad and his amazing dog, Dylan. This summer he's hoping for a job where he doesn't have to talk to anyone except his pal Matthew. Then Johanna moves in next door. She's 10 years older, cool, funny, and she treats Finn as an equal. Dylan loves her, too. Johanna's dealing with breast cancer, and Matthew and Finn learn to care for her, emotionally and physically. When she hires Finn to create a garden, his gardening ideas backfire comically. But Johanna and the garden help Finn discover his talents for connecting with people. Two things you need to know about this book: 1. It's by Gary Paulsen 2. I've never seen an ending that is so merciful, yet not a cop-out.
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Fact: I am scared of plotting. Which is why I've been sissily sticking to the ready-made plots of historical fiction in my own books, and why I go downright berserk when I read a story with such a clever, concise plot as this one. Everything, and I mean everything, counts in this book. Now, because everyone's lobbing stars at When You Reach Me, I was braced for one of those profound, grandly composed exemplars of children's literature. But you know what? Instead, it's a perfect delight, written with an agile hand, a dose of intrigue, and a stealthy punch of emotion. As the official synopsis will tell you, things in Miranda's neighborhood start to unravel, and then get downright mysterious when a quartet of anonymous notes foretelling the future creep into her life. But that's nothing compared to how the loose pieces (and a few more besides) all work themselves back together in the end. And by the way, I FIGURED OUT THE TWIST. Me, all by myself. (Actually, I only figured out the big twist. There were a couple extra ones to keep me from getting too big for my britches.) Read a smidgeon here and try to resist.
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Hold Still
Devastating, hopeful, hopeless, playful...in words and illustrations, Ingrid left behind a painful farewell in her journal for Caitlin. Now Caitlin is left alone, by loss and by choice, struggling to find renewed hope in the wake of her best friend's suicide. The two best things about this book: 1. The pictures in Ingrid's journal actually look like pictures a real live teenager might have drawn -- good, yet not ultra-perfect. I'm sick and tired of characters who can draw like DaVinci. 2. The fact that Caitlin's new friend Dylan is a lesbian? It's not a big deal, but it's not run-of-the-mill, either. There's a twinge of awkwardness and titillation around school about her at first. That struck me as very realistic portrayal of a generation that's about 98% accepting, yet still working out the balance between being open and respecting privacy. (Available in October.)
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Nobody's Family is Going to Change
