Alice is fifteen years old and has been imprisoned and abused by Ray since he kidnapped her during a class trip when she was ten. Manipulated physically and mentally until she becomes Ray's willing little girl, Alice knows that her inevitable growth and maturity--even as Ray tries to halt it by keeping her to a strict diet and waxing routine--will lead to her death. Ray has told her that there was another before Alice; this girl had been murdered at age fifteen. When Ray suggests that Alice can save her own life by helping Ray find a new little girl and that the three of them can live together, Alice sees this as her only opportunity to escape, if not literally, then at least from her role in Ray's family as "his" girl.

Told in spare and near-poetic prose, Scott's novel has been described as harrowing and horrific. Alice suffers terribly from sexual abuse; however, scenes of this abuse are included, they are not pruriently descriptive. Most shocking is probably Alice's willingness to participate in Ray's plan to find and "train" a new girl because then "she will get his love and I will hold her down to take it all because then there will be none for me" (Scott, 2008, 73).

The most obvious progenitors of this novel are Ouida Sebestyn's The Girl in the Box (1988) and Catherine Atkins' When Jeff Comes Home (1999). All three challenge two major children's literary tropes: that bad things happen to bad people and that good people can retain their essential goodness even under the most extreme and damaging circumstances. As the novel drew closer to its end, I wondered how it could possibly conclude; however, Scott's conclusion (not resolution) is one that is inevitable given Scott's realistic (and I'm talking literary realism here, not necessarily mimesis, though this might be a characteristic of the novel as well) agenda.

In spite of the fact that the next clause will probably brand me a major freak, I have to say: I enjoyed this book. This is not to say that I took pleasure in reading about the difficult circumstances of the character; however, it is to say that the narrative tension and the unendingly bleak voice of the narrator were stirringly affective. There is a certain satisfaction that comes from reading a taut and tension-filled novel, just as there is--and here's the freaky part--a certain satisfaction that comes from reading about something that, as Chris Crutcher writes in the copy on the novel's back jacket, "none of [the book's] readers will have . . . experienc[ed]." Additionally, there's a certain masochistic impulse that comes with reading a novel that blames its readers, in a way, for watching victimization and judging the way the audiences of the talk shows Alice watches judges victims like Alice: "You Should Have Done Something," the audiences crow in Alice's story.

This is the third book in Tashijan's series of novels about "Larry," an eighteen-year-old named Josh who started a popular anti-consumerist blog and was "outed" as a kid (The Gospel According to Larry), who ran for president (Larry for President) and is now in something of a slump. Poised to attend Princeton and to begin his "real" life, Larry has returned to his Boston home and is living rather restlessly with his stepfather. His best friend Beth has already started school in Providence, RI, and Larry is feeling lonely and out of sorts. When he meets Gus, a guru who persuades him to "study" the meaning of life with a group of assorted hippies, Larry is eager to participate (even more so when he discovers his ex-girlfriend is part of the group of hippies); however, he soon begins to wonder if the whole group is a sham or a cover-up for more nefarious activity.

As with the other "Larry" books, this novel features a quick-thinking narrator and unobtrusive footnotes (it's really easy to overdo the things, and Tashijan uses them sparingly but appropriately). As the novel spirals into sort of a mystery, it becomes hard to tell what's "real" and what's not, especially since one of the goals of Larry's guru is to challenge his students' conceptions of reality. The ending comes as something of a surprise and is, in actuality, two endings. The first is a farce (and one totally appropriate to the book's greater theme) and the second is a surprise (or it was to me).

While I'm a big fan of the Larry books, I sometimes resent the character's preachiness and--even more--resent the critical and professional assumption that the character is a youth mouthpiece. It's a book of fiction, folks. Yes, a lot of what Larry talks about aligns with left-leaning ideology and that's cool and all, but the books are not instruction manuals and we can neither assume that young readers will interpret them as such nor evaluate them favorably based on this potential (e.g. This book is good because it makes kids . . . ). Geesh! I found this one to be the hardest to read because so much of its deliberate obfuscation was in service of its ending. In this way, the book was surprisingly and sophisticatedly meta. Knowing that makes me want to read it again.

I think I've finally got it figured out: Barry Lyga (as An Author) is a combination of Chris Crutcher, John Greene, and Hugh Hefner. Chris Crutcher because of he works the issue-slash-school-story trope; John Greene because, in spite of the whole Chris Crutcher thing, Lyga manages not to write like a fogey; and Hugh Hefner because, in spite of some explicit comments to the contrary in Hero-Type, there's still an uncomfortable (albeit pseudo-feminist) amount of female objectification in Lyga's novels.

Hero-Type is narrated by 16-year-old Kevin Ross, a zit-faced member of a group of school outcasts who call themselves the Fools, who becomes known in his town as a hero after he saves the life of a fellow classmate. Following the whole life-saving thing, Kevin (known as Kross to his friends) is given a key to his city, profiled in newspapers and on television, and newly acknowledged by his classmates. After he is given a car (at cost) by the town mayor and he is caught on camera throwing away the "Support our troops" magnets the mayor slapped on the car, Kross's school and town turn against him, declaring him unpatriotic and accusing him of "hating" America's freedom fighters. Kross defends himself publicly, a move that ultimately pits him against one of the school's most popular dudes in a public debate about the First Amendment (this is the Chris Crutcher part).

In spite of the cheesy First Amendment debate thing, I never felt like I was being manipulated into "believing" in school as a forum for free thought and schoolwork (or class readings) as ultimately relevant and important tasks the way I often feel after reading an issue book set in school and dealing with a social studies topic. In fact, the whole freedom of speech thing turned out to be a gear from which a number of character revelations spun, not all of which (or really, any of which) related to the First Amendment in an obvious or cosmetic way. Dude, other authors can really take a cue from Lyga's use of the issue-slash-school-story trope.

That said, the fault I found in this book is the feature of all the Lyga books I've read and that really sticks in my craw. Lyga's always using the insightful-and-sometimes-damaged-or-at-least-freaky-girl-exposes-male-narrator-to-his-flaws-and-opens-up-his-world device. In this book, its Kross's friend's girlfriend who becomes the narrator's sounding board. Although this novel does deal with issues of objectification and what one character identifies as Kross's real problem, that he doesn't see girls as "real people," at the meta level, the girls in this book still play a sort of symbolic role and, thus, cause the novel to sort of contradict itself.

That said (again!), I did like this book and spent much of my Columbus Day Sunday on the couch reading it. More so than Boy Toy (and definitely more so than Fan Boy), I think this novel doesn't deny its characters complexity, even if they are "only" teenagers, a detail that makes a good YA novel, in my estimation.

The only thing that sucks about this book is that, on its last page, it reveals itself to be "Book One" in a series of as yet unestablished length. This means that, while much of the plot of The Hunger Games is resolved, the central conflict--and the one that would seem to motivate the series--has just been established. A dystopian science fiction story (light on the sci-fi, heavy on the dystopia), Collins' novel is set in the country of Panem, a future United States divided into 13 districts (one of which has been destroyed) and ruled by a West Coast Capitol. As a means of exerting control over its citizens, the government has established "The Hunger Games," a Survivor-like elimination game involving 24 youths, chosen by lottery from each of the 12 districts, that pits citizens aged 12-18 against each other in a fight-to-the-death competition staged in a large, wild arena. When 16-year-old narrator Katniss's sister is picked to compete in the Hunger Games, Katniss offers herself as her district's female participant in her sister's stead.

The bulk of the novel follows Katniss as she is prepared for and participates in the Hunger Games against and sometimes alongside her district's other representative, a boy named Peeta. Katniss is well-equipped to participate in the games, as she has supported her family through illegal game hunting in the wilderness surrounding her district. Temporary alliances with other players and uneasy truces abound during the dangerous game and Katniss learns that she must play to the audience of Hunger Games viewers and sponsors to succeed.

I love me some dystopian fiction and it had been a while (since I read Cherry Heaven) since I had been so enthralled by a novel of this type. The juxtaposition of the "futuristic" and the archaic worked well here (and I recognize that this is not a "new" way of presenting the dystopian future) and Collins expressed this in the tension Katniss felt as she struggled with the unfamiliar (and often uncomfortable) luxury of The Capitol. Interestingly, although this novel is definitely dystopian sci-fi (or fantasy), there is a romantic feel to the whole thing, in both the generic and the Northrup Frye senses of the word. Throughout the novel, Katniss's partner intimates his affection for Katniss and Katniss learns to manipulate this affection to the pair's benefit in the Games. In the larger scheme, there is a certain reverence for Katniss's skill in the Games and what might be exhilaration in the competition. This exhilaration is downplayed, likely for the implied audience of YA readers (and the adult critics of the same). After all, what kind of YA book would this be if it allowed its teen character to glory in her deadly victories? And yes, I'm asking that question with deliberate irony.

Dead teenagers are coming back to life and trying to exist among the living. The undead or, as the politically correct would have it, "differently biotic," are not the most welcome new additions to the population. For one thing, they look dead--think pale skin and silver eyes--for another, not all of them returned to "normal." Many of the undead are shells of their former selves, speak slowly and haltingly and with a flat affect. One school, Oakvale High, has become something of a mecca for dead teens; as one of few schools with an undead mainstreaming program, it, and the town in which it is situated, has attracted a number of dead kids and their families. When (living) goth Phoebe Kendall develops a crush on one of the dead, a boy named Tommy, and Tommy decides to try out for the school football team, conflict ensues. With one of Phoebe's best friends, a jock named Adam, on Tommy's side on the team, threats made by some of his meathead teammates never get completely out of hand; however, most of the town (not to mention society) remains hostile towards the zombies.

It would be easy to read Generation Dead as something of an allegory for any kind of institutionalized or social bigotry; details of the zombie's lack of citizenship, the mandatory conscription requirements, and their random murders by townspeople are reminiscent of American racism and homophobia. That the party being discriminated against consists of the reanimated dead complicates the metaphor. Can we really draw a parallel between the undead and the (living) victims of hate? Would that parallel inevitably lead to questions about the validity or even "naturalness" of life on either side?

I'd like to have seen the book go a bit deeper into the experiences of the dead and begin to feel out questions of "biotics" and existence (at an existential level, of course, har har); however, the jabs at consumerism were enough of a beginning for me. Interestingly, the author has set up a "live" extension of the novel in the form of a blog, "My So Called Death," featuring the thoughts of Tommy who, coincidentally, maintains a blog of the same name in the book. Visit "Tommy's" blog here. I've visited once and found myself more interested in the readers' comments than in Tommy's musings. While many of the blog's readers have clearly read the novel, I wonder if all of them are completely in on the dissemblance.

I have to admit up front that this review will probably be a bit biased for two reasons: (one) I work with the author and (two) I'm not a huge fan of royal historical fiction. That said, I can honestly say that The King's Rose was better than most of the royal-themed fiction I've read and that my enjoyment in the novel comes from what I believe to be genuinely good writing and not from any concern that Alisa would kick my ass if I judged her second novel otherwise.

Stories about life in King Henry VIII's court are always interesting (the sex! the death! all those feasts!) and this one, which focuses on the life of his fifth wife, Catherine Howard, generally exceeds expectations. Unlike much historical fiction for young adults, this one weaves in just enough historical fact to make the larger story understandable without sounding like a boring old history lesson. Here's the story: when fifteen-year-old Catherine, cousin of doomed queen Anne Boleyn, catches the eye of the king, her family--her duchess aunt in particular--is eager for her to capture the crown. Following a short courtship and exchange of gifts, Catherine is married to the forty-nine-year-old Henry and the two go about trying to "make" an heir. In spite of their evenings of intimacy, Catherine is holding a secret: she was not a virgin when she married the king and, as the heir-making doesn't produce, she turns to an old flame for a second donation to the coffers.

Alisa does a good job of creating and sustaining a mood of tension in spite of the richness and revelry that become a regular part of Catherine's life. It's clear that in the royal world, the responsibility for bearing a male heir is not one that is taken lightly and, with her aunt and maids all on the lookout for Catherine's monthly bill and the royal subjects on perpetual "bump watch," the stress takes its toll. By the end of the novel, the mood has turned from tense to gothic, and Catherine is having visions of Anne Boleyn. This, of course, is the part I like best. A confirmed fan of the gothic, I enjoyed that element in Alisa's first novel (The Blood Companion) and I welcomed it here as well.

While this may not be technically a young adult novel, it does fit two criteria some consider when determining whether a literary work is an example of the form: first, A Down Chick belongs to a genre of fiction widely read by teens and second, the novel's author, Mallori McNeal, began writing this book at age 14 and completed it at age 16. At any rate, that this novel fit the above criteria (though I usually rely on the "created with an express audience of teen readers in mind" definition), and that Down is representative of urban fiction, an outsider literary genre revived in the mid-1990s, ultimately led to my decision to include McNeal's novel in this blog.

The first of a duet of novels (The Set Up is this novel's sequel), A Down Chick describes seventeen-year-old downtown Cincinnati girl Amina, who, for the first time, is offered an opportunity to meet her estranged father. When Amina meets her father, Damen, and his attractive son Azelle, she is entranced by her "other" family's posh life. Damen runs his own successful luxury car dealership and lives in a schmancy house while Azelle leads a shadowy life of "business" and owns his own well-decorated condo. After a fight with her mother, Amina decides to move in with Azelle and, as the two grow closer and Amina begins a romance with Kayne, one of Azelle's friends, Amina finds herself increasingly involved in what turns out to be Azelle's drug dealing business. After Azelle and then Kayne are arrested and Damen leaves town worried about the long arm of the law, Amina resorts to underworld business to stay afloat (and pay for all those lawyers!).

Soooo much happened in this novel; it's really surprising that it was only 200 pages long. Amina progresses from 17 to 18, gets pregnant, gets beaten up, visits friends and relatives in jail, evades police, issues a hit, and, ultimately, gets caught. The plot recycles much of what I've come to expect from garden-variety urban fiction: young girl falls in love (or meets an estranged relative), discovers that said lover (or relative) is involved in some shady business, and enjoys the spoils of the life until the law bites her on the ass. I can't really say that this book was fast-paced because many of the scenes seemed a bit over-long, however, McNeal's novel does move from plot point to plot point with little downtime. The novel ended on a rather unexpected note--I don't want to spoil it here, but it did leave me wondering how a sequel was even possible--and one that, compared with the rapid clip of events that comprise the novel, was surprisingly psychologically rich. One sort of odd postscript: I'm pretty sure this novel is called A Down Chick because that is how it is listed in the Triple Crown catalog and on the header of each page; however, the title as it appears on the novel's cover reads A Down Chic. Hmmm . . .

Pearson's book begins two weeks after its protagonist and narrator, the titular Jenna Fox, has woken from a one year coma. Following an accident about which she remembers nothing, Jenna is beginning her life anew, living with her mother and grandmother in California, far away from her home in Boston. Jenna must slowly put together the details of her former life and, as she idly watches the videos her parents have taken to document their daughter's youth, she struggles with the anxiety emanating from her mother and the disdain and suspicion she feels with every encounter with her grandmother. The central questions: who is Jenna and what has she (or someone else) done?

As a fan of Peter Dickinson's Eva, I was pretty sure I knew what was going on in Pearson's novel. Turns out I was half right; the novel does deal with the third-party control and sustenance of the body and the concomitant medical ethics attached to the same, but there are no monkeys in this one. Rather, the novel gradually reveals connections between characters and incidents in a surprising way (I hadn't predicted them, anyway), making the reading of the book a bit like the experience of the narrator: sudden "clicks" and discoveries.

The book moves quickly, not because it is breezily written, but because its premise and telling are so compelling. Brief poems meant to encapsulate Jenna's dreams, thoughts, and subconscious musings punctuate the book and I wasn't really a fan of those; however, when one of the twists is revealed near the end of the book, it made me wonder if it was really the voice of Jenna-the-narrator I was reading. If, indeed, I was reading the words of the character I suspect, the last poem kind of blows it out of the water. Then again, it's still kinda possible (and I hope I'm right).

P.S. I'm not normally a proponent of the book trailer, but there's a good one for this novel here: http://www.whoisjennafox.com/