reviews

Who says a beach read has to be trashy? No such thing, say I! I spent Sunday afternoon at Lake Michigan and, since the water was closed due to bad rip currents, lay on the beach reading Love & Lies: Marisol's Story, Ellen Wittlinger's latest.

If you've read Wittlinger's Printz Honor-winning Hard Love, you've met zine writer Marisol Guzman. If not, you're about to. Marisol is eighteen years old, smart, gutsy, and gay, and she doesn't care who knows it. She's taking a gap year in Cambridge, Mass, to (mostly) make her own way in the world while writing her first novel.

When she shows up for Day One of her novel-writing course, two surprises await her. First, old friend Gio/John, who had a horrible crush on her last year, is in the class. (Awkward...) Second, the teacher, Olivia Frost, is drop-dead gorgeous, overflows with writerly wisdom, and thinks Marisol is a real talent! And that crush Marisol has on her just might be requited...

Thrilled to be in her first real relationship, Marisol can't see what her friends—and the book's readers—do almost immediately: that Olivia is not the gem Marisol thinks she is. It's wrenching to see the usually confident (possibly a little conceited) Marisol crumble under Olivia's manipulative thumb, and more than one relationship will be destroyed before things look up. But Wittlinger's well-developed characters and realism delve neither into melodrama nor easy solutions. It's good, solid writing in a good, solid story.

If you've read other books by Ellen Wittlinger, you won't have escaped the references to various folk musicians (e.g., Dar Williams) her characters love. In Love & Lies, it's Girlyman that gets the nod on page 80, which tickled me to no end for reasons explained here.

Love & Lies was reviewed (more spoilerifically) at Big A little a and Worth the Trip. Wittlinger was also recently interviewed by the Class of 2K8 about her experience as a Printz Honor winner.

Now, to go back and reread Hard Love...

I've read quite a few very good books the past couple months, but I'd feel silly reviewing them here. These days, I choose the vast majority of my books based on blog recommendations—i.e., books that have probably been reviewed multiple times on various widely read blogs. I feel like I'd just be saying, "Ditto, ditto, ditto."

Well, here is a post to do just that. Some of my favorite reads from the past couple months. Links to other people's reviews. And me saying, "Yeah, uh huh, yeah."

Little Brother, by Cory Doctorow
"While the price of security and freedom is high, it is never too high." But what about when the price of security is freedom? In this frighteningly plausible tale of homeland security v. personal freedom, teenager Marcus, after being detained in a secret prison for suspected terrorism, starts a freedom-fighting movement among his fellow teens in San Francisco, taking advantage of the Internet's culture and (if you do it right) anonymity. But can a bunch of kids really take on the U.S. government and win? Words of wisdom: "Don't trust anyone over 25."

Reviewed by every blogger and her cousin, including...

• Confessions of a Bibliovore
• Jen Robinson's Book Page
• The Reading Zone

The Shape of Water, by Anne Spollen
Andrew Karre mentioned this one in the comments to my post about teen books dealing with depression, and then it snagged a starred review from Kirkus (no mean feat), officially putting it on my radar. That was all I knew going into it, so I wasn't sure what to expect. And even if I'd been told what to expect, I don't think it would have prepared me for what I found. To say that this book is about grief and moving beyond grief isn't sufficient. It took me by surprise with its strangeness and beauty and glimpses of humor amid the darkness.

Reviewed more coherently at:

• Confessions of a Bibliovore

Set in Stone, by Linda Newbery
Actually, having searched Google Reader, I'm not sure where I got the rec for this one, but this was another book that swept me away. Though a challenging read due to its formal early 1900s language, it manages to be quite the page-turner! Fresh university graduate Samuel Godwin arrives at the Four Winds to tutor the estate's two teenage girls in art, where he soon senses that all is not as it seems. Meanwhile, the girls' young governess, Charlotte Agnew, is reluctantly reaching similar conclusions. What lurid secret drove away the last art tutor and last governess in quick succession? Did it have anything to do with the girls' mother's tragic death? I know I said I'm something of a callous soul when it comes to crying over books, but the beauty and power of this book brought tears to my eyes in the closing pages.

Unfortunately, every review I've seen of Set in Stone contains spoilers I wish I'd missed, so as to better enjoy the mystery. But if you want to know what you're getting into, it was reviewed at:

• Big A little a

Twelve Long Months, by Brian Malloy
Unrequited love is a familiar theme in coming-of-age novels, but it never feels stale in this book. Molly has left small-town Minnesota for Columbia University; as it happens, Mark, the object of her affection, is headed the same way to work for his uncle's painting business. Mark, Molly learns before completely humiliating herself, is gay. If it only it were that easy to shut off her feelings for him! Malloy avoids stereotypes, cliches, and the Hollywood version of college, and the last lines are so perfect for the story I have to share them: "I guess you could call this a love story. Not the one I wanted or imagined, but a love story, all the same."

Falling into the recent discussion of class in YA lit, Molly comes from a family without much money, her parents did not go to college, she attends Columbia on a full scholarship, and she often has to let her more affluent friends pay for their nights out. In turn, Molly has more money than Mark, who supports himself working in a drugstore, and when she returns to Minnesota views the town's low to low-middle income circumstances with fresh eyes.

More extensively reviewed at:

• Worth the Trip
• YA New York

Black Rabbit Summer, by Kevin Brooks
I tore through this loosely (but never shlockily) written, somewhat psychedelic thriller at breakneck pace. Pete, his sensitive but socially-off friend Raymond, and several other old friends meet up for a drink and a night at the carnival. Cue the off-key carousel music and scary clowns! By the end of the night, Raymond has disappeared—and so has the town's pop starlet. When the police and media focus all the attention on saving her case, treating Raymond only as a suspect, Pete delves into an investigation of his own. The book reads like a cross between Donnie Darko and Brick would watch: dark, violent, weird, yet thoughtful.

Reviewed at:

Worth the Trip

Everything You Want, by Barbara Shoup
So often we see money as the great problem solver. But after Emma's family wins a lotto jackpot, Emma begins to wonder if it actually creates more problems than it solves. We all know the truisms "the best things in life aren't things" and "money can't buy me love", etc., but this book never becomes a morality play (or the Beverly Hillbillies). It's about each character searching out what they truly want in spite of—rather than because of—the new money in their lives. For Emma, a college freshman who's never dated (her closest experience hither-to resulted in her getting punched in the face), it's about groping her way into the future and, she hopes, finding love along the way—universal themes in spite of extraordinary circumstances. Also, did I mention that much of the dialogue is downright hilarious?

Reviewed at:

• Bookshelves of Doom

No Cream Puffs, by Karen Day
In the year 1980, Maddie will be the first girl to play baseball in her town's middle school league. Problem is, she doesn't want to be a celebrity or viewed as a trailblazer; she just wants to play ball (and hopefully attract the attention of cute teammate Tommy). This is a gently humorous upper-middle-grade novel dealing with typical family, friendship, and crush concerns in the context of sports. Its execution, with fine writing and well-rounded characters, is what makes it stand out.

My only quibble worth mentioning was the use of "feminist" as a dirty word. I understand that Maddie doesn't view herself as a feminist, but I wish a knowledgeable adult (Mom, maybe?) could have explained that yes, actually, she is—that feminism doesn't mean bra-burning or man-hating but, y'know, pursuing your dreams on the assumption that your gender shouldn't matter to the world at large. There's too many people in 2008 who still don't understand that. Can we please set the next generation straight?

Reviewed at:

• Jen Robinson's Book Page

This slim and pretty volume showed up on our new book cart this morning. It's pretty on the inside, too! John Frank opens the world's junk drawers—the seashore, the attic, the flea market—and presents a poetic ode on each treasure he finds. The verses, written in formal rhyme and meter, are as spare, simple, and lovely as the items he considers.

In "Low Tide", the volume's opening verse, "...shells like broken lockets / Lie scattered on the sandy shore / Where the ocean empties its pockets." An abalone shell is "a melted rainbow cupped in pearl."

I enjoyed "A Trunk of Clothes," in which a child pawing through the attic discovers, initially disdains, and eventually delights in fashions of a bygone era:

Did people actually wear this stuff?
I ask myself as I pull out
a two-tone shoe, a fur-trimmed muff,

a hat that's so old fashioned
you would not be caught dead dressed in it...
but then, I glance behind me,
and...I wonder if...it just might fit.

Each poem is accompanied by a photograph by Ken Robbins. Some of them are sharp and detailed, but others appear to have been blown up too far, then blurred in Photoshop.

Overall, it's a tidy collection, particularly refreshing in its notion that poetry for kids doesn't have to be all wacky, all the time.

Find this week's Poetry Friday round-up at A Year of Reading!

I’ve decided I like my poetry the way I like my movies. Imagery and abstractions are fine, but I need something concrete to grasp, too. Humor is great, but only if it’s clever and not the same joke over and over. I like to think, but I don’t want to leave wondering what the heck just happened.

These things all sound obvious when I read them over, but too often when I read poetry I find myself bored, confused, and/or generally wondering what the fuss is about. So it’s a great pleasure when I find poetry that speaks to me.

I initially picked up Black Stars in a White Night Sky, by JonArno Lawson, because I liked the cover. Sherwin Tija’s graphic novel-ish illustrations are sprinkled throughout, too. (However, I'm ambivalent on what, if anything, they add to the reading experience.)

Once I opened it, I was hooked from the very first poem, “An Adventure Begins.” It does for this collection what Shel Silverstein’s lovely “Invitation” does for Where the Sidewalk Ends. It thrillingly beckons the reader onward, deeper into the book.

…When the smooth surface pops up with circling fins,
when soft drums surrender to bold violins,
when the light of the moon starts to shine on our skins,

an adventure begins.

Lawson’s poems are rife with word play: distinctive rhymes, phrases that turn back on themselves, tongue twisters. They demand to be read aloud. Many of the poems seem to have been written for the express purpose of delighting the ear, but the ones I liked most had thoughtful, sometimes serious, undercurrents touching on identity and the trials of growing up.

There’s “Water Waltz,” about a moment of elation before a dive, self-consciousness forgotten, and “There’s a Worm,” about the insecurities that eat at us from the inside out. “In the Time That It Takes” muses how quickly and devastatingly life can change. I love “The Old Man’s Lie,” with its supposition that even the most outrageous story can light us inside with belief, perhaps inspiration, and “Deer,” about—well, I should stop saying what these poems are “about.” I like too many of them to list, and it’s best left to the reader to decide their meaning.

Lawson also just sticks in some plain old jokes. I felt about eight years old laughing over “Eat a Duck,” which needs only a catchy tune to make it the perfect commercial jingle for, well, eating ducks. (It’s still in my head.) “Handsome Prince” turns the trope of the handsome prince kissing the sleeping princess firmly, delightfully on its head. “Humpty Dumpty” imagines a far different fate for our old egg friend than the usual.

As a collection, Black Stars in a White Night Sky succeeds because of its variety. It doesn’t stick strictly to the word play or strictly to imagery, to humor or seriousness. Audience-wise, I’d suggest it for upper middle grade readers. Many of the silly poems will appeal to younger readers, and some will speak to adults, but over all the content and sophistication puts it around fifth grade and up, for readers who have “graduated” from Jack Prelutsky.

Catch this week's Poetry Friday round-up at Semicolon!

(What is Poetry Friday, you ask? Start your discovery here.)

Our last day in London, we went up in the London Eye, a/k/a Millennium Wheel. My first exposure to this gigantic observation wheel was in the 2005 come-back episode of Doctor Who, at which point I had no idea it was anything other than your run-of-the-mill Ferris wheel.

The original Ferris wheel, built for the 1893 Columbian Exposition in Chicago, had a 264-foot diameter wheel and 36 cars, each of which could carry a whopping 60 people. Today’s wheel at Navy Pier has a paltry 150-foot diameter. It practically looks like a miniature.

In contrast, the London Eye—built for the turn of the millennium, originally intended to stand five years, but so popular it will remain indefinitely—has a 443-foot diameter. It is freaking huge. Around the wheel are 32 sealed pods, transparent except for the floor, each of which accommodates 25 passengers. It rotates so slowly and smoothly—30 minutes per rotation—that from a distance it appears not to be moving at all. It’s right next to the Thames, across from Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, but you can see for miles in all directions.

This is all to say that when I returned to the library after my vacation and found The London Eye Mystery, by Siobhan Dowd, on our cart of new books, I was wicked excited.

Aunt Gloria and Cousin Salim are visiting Ted’s family in London for a few days before moving to America. Ted and his older sister, Kat, are expected to entertain Salim. Unfortunately, their very first activity is a bust. Salim gets into a London Eye capsule, and Ted and Kat watch it make its majestic way around. But half an hour later, when the capsule opens, Salim is nowhere in sight.

How could Salim have vanished from a sealed, transparent capsule with so many witnesses? And where has he gone? The police are on the case, but Ted and Kat have a few theories of their own. Will they find Salim before it’s too late?

My usual complaint about middle grade mysteries is that their solutions are either totally obvious from the beginning (at least, to an adult reader) or are completely obscure and fly in from out of nowhere. Where those mysteries fail, The London Eye succeeds, allowing readers to gradually pick up clues throughout the book and formulate reasonable hypotheses along with the characters. Even if readers don’t guess the solution before Ted reveals it, they’ll recognize the pieces were in place all along.

Dowd accomplishes this feat by keeping very close to Ted, driving the novel at least as much by character as by plot. Ted is quirky but likeable, a high-functioning Aspie with a “brain that runs on a different operating system from other people’s.” Like many people with autism spectrum conditions, he has a great eye for detail, a tendency to take everything literally, and difficulty reading people’s emotions. He’s also obsessed with the weather, well-meaning, and a sweet contrast to his prickly (but grudgingly likeable) sister Kat. Throughout the course of the story, Ted exchanges some of his innocence for worldliness, goes out of his comfort zone for Salim’s sake, and makes new friends.

One of my favorite, albeit serious, parts of the book is when Ted’s father goes to the morgue to see if a boy pulled from the river is Salim. Ted is waiting at home. “Something terrible happened in those fifty-four minutes. No amount of making up shipping forecasts could stop me from thinking about it. Death. I realized it was real.” Ted lapses into deep thoughts about his mortality, infinity, and God. I’ll bet you a dollar Frank and Joe Hardy never have.

The London Eye Mystery, being a British mystery with an autistic main character, invites obvious comparisons with Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. In spite of the surface similarities, it’s no rip-off but a solid work in its own right, with an upper middle grade/early YA rather than YA/adult audience. Recommended for boys and girls in middle school and up.