YA or STFU

Bloor, Edward (2007). Taken. NY: Alfred A. Knopf. 247 pages.

I don't think I'm alone in judging Bloor's Tangerine (1997) the best of his growing oeuvre; however, I do maintain that Crusader (1999) didn't get nearly enough acclaim. Taken, Bloor's fifth novel, probably ranks number three of his books, at least in my reckoning. This comparatively (to Crusader, at least) slim speculative fiction offering describes a future United States in which the wealthy and impoverished classes are clearly divided. A young teen in the year 2035, Charity Meyers is a member of Florida's upper class; she and her family--her alcoholic, ex-inventor father and her ex-stepmother, a reality video television host--live in a guarded community with two servants cum security guards. Charity attends school via classroom video screen where she is taught, along with the typical three "R's," how to react to a potential kidnapping. This kind of lesson is depressingly de rigeur in a world of extreme have's and have-not's in which kidnapping is a primary means of underclass advancement. When Charity is kidnapped, she slowly learns that the plans for her taking are a bit less conventional and she begins to reconsider the life of privilege to which she has grown accustomed.

No spoiled-girl-gets-kidnapped-and-learns-to-sympathize-with-the-poor narrative here; Bloor's novel is a bit more complex and includes a couple of surprising (to me, at least) twists. There is clear social commentary here, which sometimes threatens to overwhelm the book; however, the flashbacks that pepper the captivity narrative, in which Charity recalls Christmas with her family, are sharp satire. As most good speculative fiction does, Bloor's novel doesn't so much tell us about the new and future world imagined within the novel's pages; instead, the details of this class-divided society are slowly revealed to us in scenes illuminating the social dichotomy the author imagines. The story's emphasis on healthcare and equal access to it make the novel timely, and, though Bloor's comments are apt (in my opinion, at least), I wonder if this topical content won't date the novel. That is, while we expect speculative fiction to address contemporary issues, the fact that this novel does so with such specificity almost limits its application. That said, good speculative fiction requires a compelling narrative in order to really "work," and the kidnapping drama at the core of the story is nicely suspenseful.

Posted by Amy P. at 11:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Adlington, L.J. (2008). Cherry Heaven. NY: Greenwillow (HarperCollins). 458 pages.

It's been a long time since I really savored a young adult novel and this sequel to Adlington's The Diary of Pelly D. (2005) shook me out of the YA funk into which I've lately fallen. Told from the first person point of view of Luka, an imprisoned worker at a water company, and in a third person narrative sympathetic to Kat, a newcomer to the small "frontier" town in which Luka lives, Cherry Heaven slowly reveals the evil at the heart of a new community considered a model civilization. When Kat, her sister Tanka, and their foster parents travel from the war-damaged city to The New Frontier, a so-called "land of peace and prosperity" where both foster parents have found work, the sisters both anticipate and dread the relocation. Tanka, Kat's gorgeous, ditsy sister, is hoping to meet good-looking boys and, in service to this goal, quickly ingratiates herself with the small community's popular crowd. Kat is more thoughtful and less eager; however, when Tanka begins dating Aran, the son of a high-ranking community leader and business owner, she is curious about information he seems to be with-holding. Meanwhile, Luka, the imprisoned worker, has escaped the Factory and is lurking around Kat and Tanka's home, an estate called Cherry Heaven Luka's mother had designed.

Like The Diary of Pelly D., Cherry Heaven makes clear allusions to the Holocaust, particularly to the populations of Europeans living near concentration camps and ghettos who claimed ignorance of genocidal atrocities. The futuristic setting and its evocation obscure what could be an obvious allegory, however, and these details are part of what make the novel exquisite. Adlington ratchets up the suspense as Luka's plan to exact revenge on the leaders who imprisoned her in the Factory begins to play out, and as Kat uncovers details related to a ten-year-old murder on her family's new property. Admittedly, the end of the novel is a premier example of deus ex machina and the epilogue is clearly intended to satisfy Pelly D. readers; however, the novel--which could really act as a stand-alone and not a sequel--was so effective that I could almost excuse its denoument in favor of its climax.

Posted by Amy P. at 11:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Dole, Mayra Lazara (2008). Down to the Bone. NY: HarperTeen. 367 pages.

When seventeen-year-old Laura's mother discovers that Laura has been in a two-year relationship with a girl, she kicks her daughter out of her Miami home on the same day the girl's teachers expel Laura from her Catholic school. Fortunately, Laura's best friend Soli and her mother are only too happy to take the newly orphaned girl in, and, when Laura's girlfriend in sent to Cuba by her family, Soli and company become Laura's new family.

Set in Miami and equally devoted to describing Cuban youth and the Cuban gay scene, this first novel by Dole is way too long. In the course of the book's nearly 400 pages, Laura questions her sexuality, dates a guy, kisses a genderqueer dude, crushes on a girl, swears off love, tries to reunite with her mother, and navigates an unfamiliar gay scene. Meanwhile, practically every single day of the year this book spans is captured on the page--not diary style, that would be too easy--so that by the time Laura does end up with the hot chica she met in, like, the first 100 pages of the book, I found it hard to care.

You know me: I'm a champion for GLBTQ YA literature; however, I have to draw some literary lines because nobody else seems capable of doing so! This novel was too ambitious and suffered for it. While Dole could have crafted an intriguing story about being gay in a Cuban-American enclave with a distinct set of values--some progressive, and some not--this novel tried to tackle absolutely everything and failed. I know you're not supposed to write a review of the book you think the critiqued novel could have or should have been, but, in this case, it's nearly impossible to consider the long-ass and convoluted book for what it is.

Here's the thing: in Jenkins and Cart's The Heart Has its Reasons (a bibliography and history of GLBTQ young adult literature), the authors describe three "phases" of gay visibility in young adult literature. Each of these "phases" is characterized by a distinct way of handling the GLBTQ character and his or her situation. Older books are typically coming out stories meant to make gay characters visible, while newer books tend to situate the GLBTQ character within or at least near a queer or supportive community. Down to the Bone attempts to do it all: there's the coming out story (the first 100 pages), the assimilation piece (the second 100 pages) and the eventual recognition of community (the last 100 page). It's like Dole read Cart and Jenkins' book and thought it was an instruction manual, rather than a description of narrative flux. Dude, this was just too much to handle.

Posted by Amy P. at 06:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Hurley, Tonya (2008). Ghostgirl. NY: Little, Brown. 326 pages.

The tag lines for a story like this just write themselves (and, of course, are used to death in Hurley's Ghostgirl): Dying to be popular? Feeling invisible? What if you did die and could become invisible? High school nobody Charlotte Usher arrives on the first day of school with a plan to become popular and to attract her crush, the best-looking boy at school and known paramour of the most popular girl. When an accident involving a gummi bear causes Charlotte to depart the land of the living, she continues to occupy the Earthly plane and uses her ghostly advantages to get close to the boy she was denied in death.

The book started well and, really, could have gone two ways. The first chapter set-up led me to predict either a metaphoric death for Charlotte or a real one; in either case, the slightly snarky exegetic narration seemed like a good fit. When Charlotte really did die in the novel, it all went downhill for me. The character's sudden introduction to "ghost school," known as "Dead Ed.," the fact that ghost-Charlotte could be seen by the most popular girl at school's sister, the willingness of said sister to allow Charlotte to posses her body while the sister flew around the spiritual plane (what?), and the lack of consistent rules related to the physical and the ghost worlds really blew this whole thing out of the water for me. I'm all for a good, smart-alecky, horror spoof, but this one didn't even adhere to the rules of the genre it attempted to spoof.

Good design and brief nineteenth-century chapter prefaces were not enough to save this novel from itself. I think that, really, this book is intended to promote a movie of the same name and scope, itself written and possibly directed by the book's author. See Ghostgirl for more information.

Posted by Amy P. at 06:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Westerfeld, Scott (2007). Extras. NY: Simon Pulse. 417 pages.

Set nearly five years following the events described in Westerfeld's "Uglies" trilogy, Extras describes a world changed by Tally Youngblood and her Special friends and a futuristic city in which popularity is a commodity. Aya Fuse is the fifteen-year-old sister of one of her city's most popular "kickers" (bloggers-cum-reporters who send news and entertainment stories to the city's feeds in order to increase their own popularity ratings) and, though she is a kicker in her own right, cannot compete with her brother's popularity. When, as she is trying to produce an undercover expose of a group of tricksters known as the Sly Girls, Aya discovers what appears to be an underground missile launch, and the story she kicks to the feed leads to her instant notoriety. Unfortunately, the owners of the missile launch--creepy surgically altered humans with monkey-like hands and feet--are less than pleased, and, with Tally Youngblood in their heels, mysterious missile "freaks" decide to come after Aya and her friends.

Like the other books in Westerfeld's "Uglies" oeuvre, Extras moves quickly and features the made-up slang for which Westerfeld is famous ("truth-slanting," "sense-missing"). The market economy of fame is an especially intriguing conceit, and the addition of a locally famous character known for the foundation of a clique called "Radical Honesty," the members of which submit to brain surgery that prevents them from lying , earns the book cool points as well. Extras is also notable for its recognizable setting; unlike the "Uglies" books, which could be set in the U.S. or Australia, this novel is set in Japan. As the characters (and the citizens of the world around them) try to make sense of the differently stratified world (no more Ugly, Pretty, Crumbly hierarchies), they begin to adopt behaviors and customs from the "old world" in an attempt to create personal or national meaning. Thus, mentions of paper cranes, bowing, and manga become sort of incongruous touchstones in the futuristic fantasy setting. Like good science fiction is supposed to do, Extras forces us to turn our gazes from the made-up world to our own and, more so with this newest installment of the series than with previous books, the comparisons are both obvious and meaningful.

Posted by Amy P. at 05:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Alexie, Sherman (2007). The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. Boston: Little Brown. 240 pages.

So you know that I'm always a little wary of award-winners, especially when people keep recommending them to me. It's like I refuse to believe that if so many people exclaim and gush over a book, it could actually be that good. I'm extra suspicious of award-winning titles by known "adult" authors because I feel like they're colonizing the form. In the case of Sherman Alexie's Absolutely True Diary, I might just have to eat my hat. The book is that good. By now you probably know the story: fourteen-year-old Junior decides to transfer from the underfunded school on his Spokane Indian reservation to a better (and mostly white) small-town school about 20 miles away. His decision to go to the white school compels many of his rez friends to turn their backs while his new and "Oriental" status in the neighboring town leads to unexpected (albeit minor) popularity.

Alexie's book, told in the first person and illustrated by Ellen Forney, describes Junior's first year "abroad" as he finds his (almost daily) way to and from the reservation, and lives outside and beside the white world. Although some pretty crappy things happen to Junior--several people die, many of alcohol-related deaths--the novel maintains an upbeat and even perversely funny tone that is enhanced by Forney's drawings (meant to represent Junior's own comic artwork). As naively insightful as Charlie (from Chbosky's Perks of Being a Wallflower) but with an almost smart-alecky wit (a la Nick Twisp from C.D. Payne's Youth in Revolt), Alexie's Junior is one of those rare protagonists whose sageness doesn't get on your last nerve and whose voice manages to believably blend optimism and world-weariness. Even the moments when Junior is making these broad statements (that may as well be pre-highlighted for the benefit of folks assigned this book for English classes) about how we are all immigrants and outcasts don't feel forced, maybe because they also feel so true.

Posted by Amy P. at 04:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Gallagher, Liz (2008). The Opposite of Invisible. NY: Wendy Lamb Books. 160 pages.

This short novel, the first by Vermont College MFA Liz Gallagher, has a somewhat cheesy title and a lame cover image that belie the little jewel of a YA story within. Set in Seattle and narrated by sixteen-year-old Alice, The Opposite begins with Alice's wish (vocalized in a conversation with the girl depicted in a poster print of Picasso's "Face of Peace") to be noticed by boys. Not exactly a loner, Alice hangs out rather exclusively with her best friend Julien (known as Jewel) a talented artist in whose eyes Alice feels "the opposite of invisible." When a popular new boy notices Alice at an indie rock show and the two begin to date, Alice and Jewel's friendship begins to unravel. Though Alice enjoys hagning out with football star Simon, and even makes a new female friend of one of the cheerleaders, she can't help but compare Simon's admiration with Jewel's acceptance.

Although the I-just-realized-that-I-might-be-in-love-with-my-best-friend plot is a familiar one in YA lit, Gallagher's low key take on it hits just the right pitch. Alice seems like a genuine character with whom its easy to sympathize: there's never that moment where, as a reader, you want to hit the protagonist over the head with the wrongness of her romantic choices and the rightness of her best friend as romantic partner. Instead, we're allowed to see, through Alice's eyes, how a hookup with a popular kid might make anybody feel as special as Jewel's artistic excellence (he's a star artist at school) makes him feel and how living in the shadow of your best friend's status (as an artist, or whatever) might make anyone feel a little shaky.

The narrative moves quickly and without too much trendy Seattle-ness, in spite of the indie rock references. There was this one point where the characters refer to seeing Death Cab for Cutie "before they played stadium shows," when I was like, yak!, but that was the only outstanding annoyance.

Posted by Amy P. at 04:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Levithan, David (2008). How They Met, and other stories. NY: Knopf. 256 pages.

Oh, David Levithan, I find it so hard to stomach your writing. I think you might be too much of a romantic for cynical old me. Yes, I know, I devoted an entire scholarly essay to the discussion of the importance of your novel, Boy Meets Boy (coming soon, Spring, 2008, from Children's Literature Association Quarterly), and I agree that that novel was and is an important novel; however, I can't stand your cheesy prose. Take it down a notch, and we'll talk.

At any rate, fans of Levithan--and of BMB in particular--will welcome this collection of short stories, each of which is devoted to how various teen couples (boy/boy, girl/girl, boy/girl) met. The beginning of romance is always a hopeful topic and even I found my cold heart melting a bit with the first story, the tale of a six-year-old fix-up artist. I won't argue that the appearance of stories of this type--namely GLBTQ romance told without excuse or apology--are needed, though I'm still waiting for someone to pony up with some erotic content (I'm talking to you, Julie Anne Peters). The problem with this collection is really the cheesiness; the stories often read more like your average "advanced" high school student's literary magazine submission. You know what I'm talking about: occasional moments of naive insight hidden among pseudo-literary and awkwardly romantic musings. And yes, Levithan did include some of his own high school writings (unedited!) among the stories in this collection. I just can't get away from the feeling that this collection, along with a lot of Levithan's other writings, is just a little too self-indulgent. But, really, who am I to say? I'm blogging about young adult literature, for God's sake. You know you're going to read it anyway. Sigh.

Posted by Amy P. at 07:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Godbersen, Anna (2007). The Luxe. NY: HarperCollins. 448 pages.

I was wary of this Alloy Entertainment produced historical fiction novel, if only because the author info. on the jacket flap indicated that a sequel was in the makes. Imagine my surprise when the book actually turned out to be not only good, but almost compulsively readable. It is clear that Godbersen is intending The Luxe to function as a turn-of-the-century "Gossip Girl" and I'll be damned if it doesn't work. In fact, the novel plays into all of our contemporary romantic fantasies about life among the upper class in very late 19th century (1899, to be precise) Manhattan and might work even better as a "novel of manners" than the 21st century Gossip Girl series does.

The Luxe follows the Holland sisters--the blond and demure Elizabeth who is hiding a secret and scandalous love, and darkly beautiful Diana, the younger sister who aches for rebellion--the only children in an old-money family who discover their finances are not quite as solid as they thought. In an effort to secure the Hollands' place in society, Mrs. Holland brokers a marriage deal with the father of Henry Schoonmaker, the good-looking cad-about-town, to marry Liz and Henry, whether the betrothed desire each other or not. Of course, neither are pleased about this arrangement and neither are several other young society maidens, most notably Liz's frenemy Penelope, and her own sister, Diana, who is rapidly falling for young Hank.

Each chapter opens with either a fictionalized excerpt from the New York society pages, the contents of notes sent between characters, or quotes from nineteenth century books of manners and advice. These set the tone of the novel quite well, and provide both foreshadowing as well as glimpses into 19th century life. It would be nice if there were a bibliography of the books of manners (that is, if these are, indeed, legitimate publications and not fictionalized pieced like the newspaper clippings and notes), though the lack of a reference list doesn't ruin the novel.

Perhaps because this book was created by Alloy and because it does bear so many traces of "Gossip Girl," I found myself noting real similarities between the lives of the 19th and 21st century richies. Across centuries, the wealthy sneak smokes, drink expensive champagne, and relish secret and personal communiques. We Victorians, indeed (did anyone get that deliberate Foucault reference?).

Posted by Amy P. at 07:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Sitomer, Alan Lawrence (2007). Homeboyz. NY: Hyperion Jump at the Sun. 283 pages.

Alan Lawrence Sitomer concludes his trilogy of street lit inspired YA fiction with Homeboyz, the story of seventeen-year-old Teddy Anderson's search for the banger who killed his sister in a drive-by shooting. Teddy's sister's death was an RT, RP (wrong time, wrong place) incident, and both the media cited in the novel and the novel itself take pains to emphasize the girl's honors student and near angel status. When Teddy seriously injures some members of the gang he believes is responsible for his sister's death, he is sent to prison and released to serve in a rehabilitative mentorship program. Convinced the program will never work, Teddy nonetheless finds himself bonding with his young mentee and eventually finding a type of closure.

I've been reading a lot of urban lit lately (for adults as well as the attempts made by authors to represent the genre for YAs) and I have to say: never trust a piece of YA lit posing as urban fiction and published under the auspices of Disney. This whole production (and, I have to admit, I've only read this one volume in Sitomer's series) really reeks of the kind of smack Henry Giroux (my academic crush) was talking about when he wrote critically about the movie Dangerous Minds for the journals Cineaste and International Journal of Educational Reform. In the case of Sitomer's "Hip Hop High School" series (of which Homeboyz is the third), the author himself emerges as the Michelle Pfeiffer figure, subtly guiding the characters towards the right choices while trying to maintain a type of street cred.

Sitomer's in-text attempts to define what he presumes is outsider language, especially when he defines terms like "gangsta logic" (presented, I swear, in italics, when first introduced!), is especially alienating. By setting up a system of "logic," life, or belief as "outside," different, and observable in an almost anthropological sense, this book--which, as I said before, attempts the street lit style--effectively disrespects its main character. This, combined with the fact that we are never really allowed into the protagonist's head (the story is told in the 3rd person, with few interruptions for internal monologue) and that is more told rather than shown, increases this offensive distance. To make matters worse, Sitomer has linked teaching guides for the first two books in the series (I'm sure the one for Homeboyz is coming) to his website makes me wonder which came first: the novels or the 45 page "complete literary units" that accompany these.

Posted by Amy P. at 12:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Henderson, Lauren (2008). Kiss Me, Kill Me. NY: Delacorte. 272 pages.

Sixteen-year-old Scarlett has never been kissed. A competitive gymnast on her British private school's gymnastics team, Scarlett spends her afterschool hours practicing or hanging out with her two best friends and members of the team. When a member of her school's elite clique of girls invites her to attend one of the group's upcoming parties, Scarlett quickly accepts the invitation, even though it means dissing her friends. At the party, Scarlett flirts with Dan, the attractive and wealthy crush of the leader of the elite girls, and, when the two kiss, Dan appears to have an allergic reaction and dies. The resulting social repercussions are enough to convince Scarlett to switch schools--from her first exclusive prep school to a second exclusive institution owned by her grandmother--and, as she settles into this new environment, she vows to solve the mystery of Dan's death.

Kiss Me, Kill Me is Henderson's first young adult book; the author (website here) is known in Britain for her mysteries for adults. As a mystery novel, Kiss Me works pretty well: Dan's death is appropriately dramatic and mysterious and Scarlett's search for his killer, aided by an American student from her new school who wants to be a private investigator, follows all the rules of the genre. By the end of the novel the mystery has been solved; however, there appears to be to bits of unfinished business that may or may not be addressed in a sequal. First and most immediately, by the novel's conclusion, Scarlett seems to be planning to either exact revenge or expose the killer, and Henderson leaves enough hanging to suggest a second book. Second, and more pervasively, there are a number of allusions to Scarlett's past: the death of her parents is mentioned but never explained and her living arrangements--first with a friend of her grandmother's and then with an aunt--are mysterious, as neither guardian seems invested in the girl's welfare. This is not to say that Kiss Me is a book about child neglect, more to say that there appears to be something going on underneath the story that may or may not be fleshed out in a future book.

While Henderson's YA novel offers an intriguing and satisfying mystery, I am a little concerned and even confused about the other mysteries suggested in the book. If this novel were packaged like a series, I would expect this kind of cliff-hanging device; its presentation as a hardback originial, however, seems to preclude the use of these techniques. I wonder (cynically) if these devices are just manipulations of an author hoping for a multi-book deal based on teen reception and demand; if this is the case, I am not impressed. To be honest, I'd rather be convinced to become involved with a hardback series (or with books in series [vs. series fiction]) by a solid and complete first novel that, though it doesn't beg for a sequal, is so truly engrossing and unique that readers (and by readers, I mean me) can't help but hope for more and similar work.

Posted by Amy P. at 12:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)