YA or STFU

Lockhart, E., Sarah Mylnowski, and Lauren Myracle (2008). How to Be Bad. NY: Harper Teen. 321 pages.

Jesse and Vicks have been best friends for a long time; their differences--Vicks is brash while Jesse is shy and Vicks is agnostic while Jesse is Christian--likely contribute just as much to their occasional arguments as to their friendship. On the spur of the moment, the two girls decide to take Jesse's mother's car to Miami to visit Vicks' boyfriend, and are accompanied by a self-invited new girl who works at the Waffle House with Jesse and Vicks. Told in the alternating voices of all three girls--Jesse, Vicks and new-girl Mel--How to Be Bad reveals all each girl's rationale, escape, and occasional rule breaking.

This novel was OK and is likely to be enjoyed by fans of Lockhart's, Mylnowski's, and Myracle's. As one who is not a devotee of any of the authors (I think they're fine, but I'm not, like, stalking them or anything), I was less than bowled over by the book and thought that, if anything, How To suffered a bit for the number of cooks in the kitchen. When noted or popular authors team up to do the whole multiple voice corresponding narrative thing (e.g. Paula Danziger [R.I.P] and Ann M. Martin's P.S. Longer Letter Later and Snail Mail No More or Jane Yolen and Bruce Coville's Armageddon Summer), the whole situation can get kinda mixed up and turn into either an attempt to create a fictional persona that represents the real authors (a la Danziger and Martin) or it can result in truly correspondent voices. In the case of How To, it seemed like there was not enough distinction among narrative voices to really support the greater story. With the exception of new-girl Mel's use of "washroom" for "bathroom" (this character was supposed to be from Canada), I had to rely on the details of the narratives rather than the narrative voices to distinguish one character from the next.

Each character had a primary conflict to resolve (Jesse had just learned that her mother had breast cancer, Vicks was concerned that her long-distance boyfriend no longer loved her, and Mel was suffering from being a lonely new girl), and, by the end of the book, all were well on their way to potential solutions. The odd thing is, in spite of the book's titular claim that being a little bad might help out a bit, it wasn't really "badness" that inspired any of the girls. Sure, they took Jesse's mom's car without her knowledge and then the three girls meandered down the state of Florida (and hit a hurricane in the process) with no real plan, but it wasn't like they Learned Valuable Lessons while knocking over drugstores or anything. A little more The Legend of Billie Jean might have helped stir things up here.

Posted by Amy P. at 07:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Scott, Elizabeth (2008). Living Dead Girl. NY: Simon Pulse. 170 pages.

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.

Posted by Amy P. at 06:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Barnes, Derrick (2006). The Making of Dr. Truelove. NY: Simon Pulse. 240 pages.

This book starts off hott! In the first scene, sixteen-year-old Diego Montgomery is getting ready to have sex with his girlfriend Roxy. Both are stripped down to their undies and Diego's already busted one nut. Just as they're about to do the deed, Diego loses it in his pants and is humiliated. In spite of Roxy's assurances, Diego is embarrassed that he couldn't perform (or, AHEM, that he performed too soon), and stops taking her calls. When he finds out that Roxy is being pursued by a local high school basketball star headed for the NBA, Diego and his best friend J. concoct a plan to get Roxy back. Assuming the nom de plume "Dr. Truelove," Diego authors sex and love advice on an eponymous website. J.--a wealthy (and horny) pot-smoking hustler--promotes the site and soon the two boys are secret stars.

A number of plots kind of battle for attention in this novel: the first involves Diego and J.'s creation and promotion of the Dr. Truelove site, the second details Diego's struggle to win Roxy back. While both of these arcs are meant to play off of each other, more often than not they seemed like parallel stories. In the end, it's not really the Truelove site that works its magic on the would-be lovers, instead, it's like the fictional site becomes a sort of a comedic mouthpiece for the author and all the real action happens outside the web.

While some might argue that a popular novel with Black characters and some racy dialogue would automatically make it a piece of "urban" or "street" fiction, I think this novel (which meets all of the above criteria) is more of a sort of feminine romance than a piece of street writing. Folks who read the first chapter will definitely be mislead; the book doesn't get any sexier after that first incident. Which brings me to my primary critique: the novel starts off hot (and in a style reminiscent of street lit), but then it kind of turns into what School Library Journal called a Cyrano-like story with an emphasis on romance and relationship rather than physical intimacy. Oddly, the novel even seems to contradict itself when Diego hears that his romantic rival is planning on "hitting" Roxy and this news sends him into a moral tailspin. For all its promise of frankness (the intro. chapter, the promise of unedited Dr. Truelove advice), the novel ends up taking a kind of surprising platonic turn by its end.

Posted by Amy P. at 04:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Tashijan, Janet (2008). Larry and the Meaning of Life. NY: Henry Holt. 224 pages.

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.

Posted by Amy P. at 06:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Wallington, Aury (2006). Pop. NY: Razorbill. 288 pages.

I found this slightly older title when I was looking around for "sexy" YA fiction and prepping for an upcoming talk about the same topic. Though it was recommended as a sensual read in at least one professional (library science) article, I was disappointed that it didn't go farther with description. That said, it wasn't a bad book, and it moved quickly and in slightly unexpected directions.

High school senior Marit has had a number of boyfriends; however, when things start to get serious, she tends to freak and break up with the guys. Her best friends Caroline and Jamie suggest that Marit has a problem with intimacy and advise her to get over it by just having sex already. When Marit's sister suggests that what the virgin needs is a "friend with benefits" to "break her in," Marit decides that Jamie is the perfect choice. Although he is hesitant at first, Jamie finally agrees to have sex with Marit, and the two practice doing the deed. At first, the experience is not totally satisfying; Marit doesn't ever have an orgasm and Jamie has some staying trouble. Finally, after confessing her lack of satisfaction to Jamie, Marit finally comes. Meanwhile, Marit's starting to crush on a new guy at school and she begins to worry that Jamie is developing feelings for her.

As far as pro-sex feminism goes, this book has got it. Kind of. Sure, there's a knowing older sister who gives Marit tacit approval to masturbate (and even provides an instructional text) and supplies her younger sister with condoms and sexy music, plus, there's a pregnant girl at school who serves as a cautionary symbol. In all, the book grants its main character an uncommon (in most YA lit, anyway) agency as far as taking control of her sexual experience, safety, and pleasure go.

That said, Marit's excuse for seeking out sexual experience rings kind of false: her primary goals for her senior year involve getting a boyfriend and going to prom. Because getting over the whole fear of intimacy thing is part of making her wishes come true, the sex becomes sort of this burden to shed. And yes, I know that virginity is often perceived as a burden and, God knows, you got to get a lot of "practice" in before you're having the mind-blowing sex of the Cosmo variety. But, at the same time, it seems like the book's emphasis on intercourse is sort of at cross-purposes with its supposedly liberating message. You probably know what I'm going to say next: I wish the book had been more explicit and more varied in its definition of sexual practice. Where is the frottage? Whither oral sex?

Ok, I know that a YA book review is not supposed to be a polemic; however, when it comes to supposedly "sexy" YA fiction, I really feel like there's a huge discrepancy between its assessment, its content, and its presumed intent. I'll just stay here in my corner, waiting for the next Forever.

Posted by Amy P. at 06:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Lyga, Barry (2008). Hero-Type. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. 293 pages.

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.

Posted by Amy P. at 08:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Wittlinger, Ellen (2008). Love and Lies: Marisol's Story. NY: Simon and Schuster. 256 pages.

Written almost ten years after Hard Love, this latest novel by Wittlinger is a sequel to the 1999 title. Set during the summer following the fateful prom this novel's narrator, Marisol, attended with Hard Love's narrator, John, Love and Lies provides a more sympathetic portrayal of both characters.

Following her graduation from high school, seventeen-year-old Marisol Guzman decides to defer her admission to Stanford in favor of living on her own in Cambridge, Ma, where she plans to work and write a novel. Her dreams of a quiet garret in which to work are dashed when her roommate Birdie brings home a would-be boyfriend and invites him to move in with them. Birdie and Damon take over the apartment with their mess and constant bickering and Marisol finds solace in a weekend adult education writing class taught by a sexy young author named Olivia Frost. In spite of the fact that Marisol's old friend John is in the same class, Marisol falls quickly and obviously for Olivia, who readers will--as the other characters in the book do--suspect is something of a cad. In traditional romantic fashion, the character who would be Marisol's perfect girlfriend is sadly ignored, and thus, the romantic triangle is established.

I'm probably the only person in the YA world who didn't like Hard Love (What can I say? I thought the zine stuff was "poserish." Then again, I'm probably a poser for thinking so.) I did, however, enjoy Love and Lies. As I mentioned before, this novel seemed to offer a more sympathetic rendering of the characters I found somewhat one-dimensional in Hard Love. The latest novel paints Marisol--typed as the brash, over-confident, out-and-proud teen lesbian in HL--as both confident and naive; while her hubris definitely gets her into trouble with both her shoulda, coulda, woulda girlfriend, her naivete with regards to Olivia provides an appropriately tragic check. The secondary characters--including Marisol's roommate Birdie and his boyfriend Damon--are well-drawn and provide comic relief, though not in a "Will and Grace" kind of way, which is nice.

While you don't have to have read Hard Love to "get" what's going on in the sequel, it would probably help. I relied on my faulty memory and got through just fine.

Posted by Amy P. at 05:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Kasischke, Laura (2008). Feathered. NY: HarperTeen. 272 pages.

I enjoyed Laura Kasischke's first young adult novel, Boy Heaven (the author has also published collections of poetry and a couple of novels for adults), so much that I was psyched to see a new title by the author on the new book shelves at my library. While the back matter and brief plot summary on the jacket flap seemed to indicate that Feathered would mine similar topical territory as the urban-legend inspired Boy Heaven, it soon became clear that the newer novel would combine fantasy, legend, and real life in a dark and feminist way.

Alternating between the first person voice of Ann, an eighteen-year-old traveling to Mexico to spend spring break with her friends, and the third person account of the experiences of Michelle, Ann's best friend and fellow spring break traveler, the narrative is descriptive but not overwritten. Like Francesca Lia Block, who manages to squeeze in a sensory overload of descriptive information in relatively few pages (and with what would seem to be great ease), and, like Joyce Carol Oates, who infuses her narratives with a dark creepiness that is somehow uncanny, Kasischke has produced a mood piece cum mystery cum horror story that, in spite of the pervasive avian imagery, doesn't hit you over the head with literary device.

When Ann, Michelle and their friend Terri take a trip to Mexico for spring break, the three girls look forward to a few days of sun, swimming, drinking, and maybe a little hooking up. When they arrive at their hotel, it seems clear that Ann and Michelle aren't really the spring break type. Unlike Terri, who immediately dons a bikini and joins the suntan oiled, drunken crowd, Ann and Michelle sit awkwardly at the bar and strike up conversation with an older stranger. The older stranger offers to act as a tour guide for the pair and the two reluctantly (Ann) and eagerly (Michelle) accompany him on a trip to some Mayan ruins. The trip is a transformative experience for Michelle; however, Ann, wary of the stranger and his creepy interest in the ruins and the ritual sacrifices of the Mayans, encourages Michelle to part ways with the stranger and arranges for a separate ride back to their hotel. Tragedy strikes and Michelle is lost and what seems like a setup for a fictionalized account of Natalee Holloway takes a turn for the mystical and symbolic.

I loved this book and totally raced through it; however, my eagerness did not keep me from experiencing surprise at the twists in the novel, especially the central surprise that should have been a no-brainer. Kasischke's use of imagery as she subtly compares the "savage" Mayans and the drunken spring breakers is sharp but subtle (she's not hitting you over the head with moralism here) and the feminist critique of Ann and Michelle's situation is omnipresent as the narrative asks us to question some of those ingrained rules of female safety.

Posted by Amy P. at 10:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Ruby, Laura (2008). Play Me. NY: HarperTeen (Harper Collins). 320 pages.

Seventeen-year-old Eddy is known as something of a player, but he's too wrapped up in filmmaking with his guy pals to consider the consequences of his actions. See, Eddy and his two friends have entered a contest sponsored by MTV and, by making it past the first cut, now have to submit new installments of their dramatic series "Riot Grrl 16" to the channel's site every week to be voted upon by the viewing public. A semi-satire of the "Lonely Girl 15" phenom, "Riot Grrl" is pretty popular among voters until some anonymous commenter who seems to know Eddy starts flaming the voting boards with bitchy accusations and starts lowering the series' vote count with his/her lowball judgments. Meanwhile, Eddy is certain that "Riot Grrl" is the thing, even though the series "star" is an unpredictable former hookup of Eddy's who's still a little pissed about the diss she suffered at his hands. Eddy's moved on, however, and is cruising a hot tennis player who seems to like him back. Could this be the girl who turns him around?

While the description makes the novel sound like just another Alloy-esque dramatic romance, I assure you, Ruby's second book is richer than that. I didn't even mention Eddy's kind of fucked up family situation (his mom left them when he was young and acts on a CSI type show) and his hitch-your-wagon-to-a-star dreams of entering the film business right after high school. Then there's the meeting with MTV, which the adult in me recognizes as an homage to Tom Petty's "Into the Great Wide Open." Rebel without a clue, indeed.

Ruby writes Eddy, who also narrates the novel, with a compelling voice completely ignorant of what we, as readers, recognize as inevitable bravado. And that's what makes the book so hard to put down. Eddy's dreams are ones we want to believe in; but, as cynical realists, we recognize the fall that poetic justice demands.

My one complaint has to do more with the marketing and paratext of the novel than the writing, itself. The back matter reads like the book is going to be about a "playa" who gets "played" and, to a small degree, the novel engages with this concept. There's a lot more here than that--this book is no Played by Dana Davidson--and I feel like the promo material is selling the novel a bit short.

On other thing (and this is kind of a complaint, too): we never find out who the online flamer is! As in Ruby's first novel, Good Girls, which deflated a bit when the mystery that motivated the main action was revealed (I don't want to spoil the story, so I won't say much more), I wanted more of a conclusion to the very small mystery element that appeared in this book as well. That said, I'm a real mystery fan, and my reading of YA lit (and the world, if you can believe Jerome Bruner) is colored by that interpretive lens.

Posted by Amy P. at 08:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Cohn, Rachel (2008). You Know Where to Find Me. NY: Simon and Schuster. 208 pages.

When I saw on the book's jacket flap that Rachel Cohn's new novel promised to address a myriad of issues--including "alternative family configurations," "prescription drug abuse," and "depression," I wasn't sure if I was in for a real book or just the latest incarnation of problem fiction. Turns out, You Know Where to Find Me is not a problem novel, per se. Yes, it does include the issues mentioned on the book flap; however, it doesn't address them, list-style, and then "solve" them by page 208.

Miles (who narrates the story) and Laura are cousins and best friends who live on the same property; Miles and her mother live in the carriage house attached to Laura's father's D.C. digs. The two girls are the same age and have essentially grown up together and Miles, at least, considers them soul-mates. When Laura commits suicide, Miles is both intensely saddened and also jealous. Laura, the golden girl of the pair--blonde, slender, and popular--had everything to live for while Miles--hair dyed black, overweight, unpopular--considered herself the best candidate for elimination. Miles deals with Laura's death by indulging in the cousins' favorite pastime, taking prescription drugs, smoking cigarettes, and hanging out in the treehouse Laura's father had built for the girls.

When I think about the essential plot of this book, my summary goes something like this: Good girl dies; bad girl cries, takes drugs, and considers dropping out of high school, then decides to go back to school as the school newspaper's editor and campaign for DC statehood. What? Yeah, the DC statehood issue is one that runs more strongly throughout the book than those "social issues" featured on the book flap. While I can definitely see this inclusion of an uncommon (in YA lit, at least) social issue as a metaphor for Miles, herself, as she approaches her own independence with equal parts anxiety, cynicism and fear, I'm not sure it all works in this slender book. I get that including this type of content is an important part of setting the novel in DC, especially among some of DC's political actors; however, I don't think that the book was long enough or deep enough to handle as much statehood stuff as was included.

That said, I don't think the novel was all that bad. I like that it didn't make a big deal out of its drug content and call attention to Addiction in a contrived way. The scene where Miles goes to Laura's funeral stoned made the points that were necessary without preaching and, intriguingly, without vilifying the character. That said (again!), I though the drug use issue was resolved in a sort of deus ex machina way that didn't seem true to the book as a whole. I don't want to spoil the ending, so I'll just leave it at that.

So, yeah, this book was OK. Rachel Cohn's name will probably sell it to folks who dig her stuff (both alone and with David Levithan). I'll admit, I was curious about her new novel, and I'm not even a fan. That said, I'm still not moving Rachel Cohn to my personal list of best YA authors of all time. Why? Because (and this is a somewhat bitchy and personally readerly critique) almost every book I've read by Cohn is narrated by some character that gets on my nerves. I don't know why everyone likes Cyd Charisse (from Gingerbread, and others), nor do I get the whole David Levithan pair-up narratives. There's something (to me, anyway) alienating about Cohn's narratives and I think it comes from the attempts the characters seem to make to distinguish themselves as cool and edgy and over it. I've always said that if you're really cool, you've transcended all signs of coolness already, so I guess what I'm doing is calling out Cohn's supposedly authentic characters as posers. But, then again, what do I know? I'm no cool dude. But then again, maybe I'm just saying that because I've transcended coolness.

Posted by Amy P. at 03:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Plum-Ucci, Carol (2008). Streams of Babel. NY: Harcourt. 432 pages.

Carol Plum-Ucci's newest novel is not her strongest (The Body of Christopher Creed and What Happened to Lani Garver? tie for that honor in my book); however, Streams of Babel represents a slight departure from the thriller plots we've come to expect from her and extends the scope of the novel from the New Jersey Pine Barrens to Pakistan. Told from the multiple perspectives of the teens involved, Streams describes what some begin to suspect is an act of terror: after the deaths of two adults, four young people succumb to an illness similar to that which killed the grownups. This illness is mysterious, gruesome and, ultimately, deadly and the inability of the doctors to diagnose it leads many to believe that the town's water supply may have been corrupted. Meanwhile, in Pakistan, a sixteen-year-old "v-spy," a hacker who listens in on suspected terrorist chatter, thinks he has identified the source of the mystery illness.

Plum-Ucci's technique of providing us (the readers) with only the incomplete details known by the teen characters is a good one and certainly extends the suspense of the novel. I like that she doesn't attempt to capture the adult/expert perspective here, even though many adults are featured as strong secondary characters. The emphasis on the incomplete teen perspective (even though we readers are privy to a number of such perspectives) underscores the powerlessness and even ignorance we "average American citizens" feel in the face of worldwide terror. That said, I think that dividing the narrative among six voices was a bit ambitious, and I could have done without all of these P.O.V.s. The four narratives from each of the young people infected with the terrorist virus began to get a little repetitive and the voices of these characters didn't distinguish themselves enough for me. Sure, their circumstances were different and the details of their accounts informed us as to who was speaking; however, the tone of each of these accounts was similar enough that they all started to blend together a bit after awhile.

Plum-Ucci can definitely do suspense, and this novel has it in spades. First, there's the mystery surrounding the deaths and illnesses of the folks in the New Jersey town, then there's the race to discover what, exactly, is making folks ill, then there's the anxiety over whether or not any treatment would be effective. By the end of the novel, I was like, "Woof!" I don't usually go for the obvious post-9/11 terrorist threat narrative and, while Streams would seem to fall into such a category, it wasn't over the top. A visit to the 9/11 memorial in NYC in the closing pages of the novel was a little cheesy, but would probably placate those readers who desire that kind of narrative closure.

Posted by Amy P. at 11:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Wizner, Jake (2007). Spanking Shakespeare. NY: Random House. 304 pages.

Shakespeare Shapiro is a victim of circumstance. First, his name: who other than crazy parents names their kid Shakespeare (and his brother Ghandi)? In spite of the fact that he is older (and wiser) than his brother, Shakespeare is in Ghandi's social shadow. At the beginning of his senior year, Shakespeare's desires seem almost attainable: he will win his school's memoir contest and finally find a girl willing to have sex with him.

Before you dismiss this book out of hand (as I almost did) for being just another one of those "school-assignment-turns-into-a-novel" books, give this one a try. Yes, it does include the main character's "writings" (in Courier font, no less) and, yes, these first-person writings supplement the already first-person framing narrative; however, somehow, the trope works in this book. Because Shakespeare's school assignment is to write his memoir, the alternative writings provide background and characterization, while the primary narrative details the protagonist's senior year.

By placing self-effacing and sometimes even disgusting comedy at the forefront of both plot and characterization, Spanking takes the school assignment trope a little farther than usual. Shakespeare's best friends--a mean girl who likes to get drunk and a loser-ish guy who loves to talk about his own poo--are "flawed" but hysterical counterparts whose presence almost mitigates the seventeen-year-old-virgin-looking-to-get-laid plotline. A smart and sarcastic narrative raises the literary bar from potential Last American Virgin and Little Darlin's territory to something more along the lines of C.D. Payne's Youth In Revolt.

Posted by Amy P. at 12:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

MacCaughrean, Geraldine (2007). The White Darkness. NY: Harperteen. 384 pages.

By now you probably know how I feel about award-winning books. I'm usually pretty wary of the way in which a literary award confers a kind of value status on a young adult novel, particularly when the criteria for such an award is applied so differently from year to year. This 2008 Printz award winner, however, exceeded my expectations. The story of fourteen-year-old Symone's journey to Antarctica with her crazy uncle was suspenseful, harrowing, and altogether a compelling read.

After the death of her father, Symone and her mother invite his somewhat odd brother to live with the family. Uncle Victor, Symone's father's former business partner, is of genius intelligence (at least, that's what he keeps telling everyone) and of manic demeanor. After the family's plans to travel to Paris for a holiday change due to a missing passport, Symone finds herself accompanying her uncle on a trip to the Antarctic. There, she learns of her Uncle's plans to find Symme's Hole, a portal to the center of the earth. The trip to Antarctica fulfills a long held desire of both Uncle Victor and Symone, who has been raised on stories of the South Pole and has long admired Captain "Titus" Oates, a member of the doomed British exploration party. When Uncle Victor and Symone arrive with a group of travelers in Antarctica, Symone loses herself in daydreams of "Titus" as Victor's single-minded pursuit of Symme's Hole becomes destructive.

The detailed depiction of the brutal Antarctic wilderness, the characterization of a crazy and unpredictable uncle, and a narrative that shifts from the imaginary to the real are the hallmarks of MacCaughrean's novel. In fact, it is this blending of fact and fantasy that really make the book a deeper read. Symone, who is characterized as a shy and awkward adolescent, finds solace in her imaginings of "Titus," with whom she speaks and consults in extended private musings. When her uncle's quest to find Symme's Hole is revealed, in light of Symone's fully realized (albeit imaginary) relationship with "Titus," the possibility that such a place would exist and that a portal to a world in the Earth's interior would lead the two to a new and different civilization seems almost founded. Only as Uncle Victor's manipulations are revealed and his behavior becomes more erratic and even dangerous, do we begin to question (as Symone does) the quest. Unfortunately, as we question Victor's fantasy, we also have to question Symone's, and, while one takes place in the "real" world and the other in Symone's head, the two worlds begin to blend and shift in intriguing ways.

While a student of mine noted that, in her estimation, the book dragged a bit towards the middle, I found the pacing to move at a pretty decent clip. Part literal survival story and part coming-of-age novel, White Darkness is notable for the way it mirrors the British party's expedition. The "worst journey in the world," indeed.

Posted by Amy P. at 12:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Friedman, Aimee (2008). The Year My Sister Got Lucky. NY: Point. 370 pages.

Aimee Friedman's reputation precedes her: South Beach (2005), French Kiss (2006), A Novel Idea (2005), and scores of other paperback romance novels with her name on the cover made me think that this hardback original would just be another one of those. Don't get me wrong: Friedman's popular romance is good; but, with a title like The Year My Sister Got Lucky, a cover image featuring a girl plucking petals from a daisy, and the aforementioned history of popular romance, I wasn't expecting the Sarah Dessen-esque novel lurking between the covers.

Katie and Michaela are New York city girls and ballerinas to boot; however, it's always been Michaela--the older sister--who has been the star of stage and home. Younger, fourteen-year-old Katie is happy to live in Michaela's wake and imagines the sisters' friendship will continue even after Michaela graduates high school and begins attending Julliard. When their parents tell the sisters that the family will be moving to upstate New York, Katie is crushed but Michaela is actually excited. Katie can't figure it out: why would Michaela want to move to rural Fir Lake, New York, where there is no reputable dance school, no good ethnic takeout, and few--if any--cool clothing stores? Once the family arrives in Fir Lake, Michaela is immediately drawn into her grade's popular crowd: she snags the school's most eligible bachelor and is even voted Homecoming Queen. Katie, for the first time, is left on the sidelines and, with only a crappy little dance "school" to attend, soon finds herself at odds.

Friedman's novel is, as I mentioned, very reminiscent of Sarah Dessen. What could have been a boring fish-out-of-water tale is richer for Friedman's description of both the setting and the sisters' relationship. While singleton readers may find it hard to understand the girls' close relationship, I found Friedman's description of Katie and Michaela's changing sisterhood to be the most compelling part of the story. There's a hint of romance for Katie (fans of the genre will tag the darkhorse candidate for Katie's affections almost as soon as he is introduced), this is left open in a realistic way. Very nice and very surprising.

Posted by Amy P. at 05:27 PM | Permalink

Asher, Jay (2007). Thirteen Reasons Why. NY: Razorbill (Puffin). 304 pages.

I just don't get it: this is one of those books that I've been hearing about for a long time and, now that I've read it, I don't see what all the fuss is about. Yes, it has a intriguing premise (high school student Clay Jenkins receives a mysterious package of cassette tapes which turn out to contain the last words of a fellow student who committed suicide); yes, it deals with a high interest topic (suicide); and, yes, it makes some bold accusations (we are all connected in ways we may never begin to realize). However, it makes these points in a somewhat manipulative way and draws such clear lines between "victim," "hero" and "villain(s)," and embeds it all in an excruciating back-and-forth narrative that, while compelling, ultimately falls flat.

Here's the story: Clay Jenkins receives a package of cassette tapes that feature the accusing voice of a former classmate, Hannah Baker, who names thirteen people responsible for her decision to commit suicide. Her tapes catalog a litany of wrongs, from high school slights of friendship to sexual harassment and unconsensual sex. Each tape names one person who has wronged not only Heather, but, in many cases, has been recognized as one who makes a habit of cruel behavior. The alternating first person narrative's conceit: what could Clay have done that makes him as worthy of blame as the other assholes mentioned in Hannah's collection of tapes? Turns out, Clay is a good guy, and the only person mentioned who is not a jerk. As the novel races on, Clay blames himself for not being more attentive to Hannah, the girl he kissed at a party but otherwise only knew slightly. If only he had reached out! If only he had asked her out! Yaag. Sorry, but a well-timed date invitation does not count as salvation in my book.

Posted by Amy P. at 04:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

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)

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)

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)

Cassidy, Anne (2007). Looking for J.J. NY: Harcourt. 336 pages.

When seventeen-year-old Alice Tully spies a "missing girl" poster featuring a photograph of herself at age 10 and advertising a reward for information about a girl named Jennifer Jones, she fears that the past she has worked hard to keep hidden is about to resurface. Seven years earlier, Alice--AKA Jennifer, known as J.J.--was found guilty for murdering her best friend and neighbor. Now newly released from a juvenile facility and living under an assumed name, Alice wonders who is looking for her and why.

The story of J.J. is told in flashbacks appearing throughout and punctuating the Alice-centric narrative. As we learn about Alice's childhood shuttled between her grandmother's house and a series of foster homes, and in the dubious and intermittent care of her irresponsible mother, the "tragedy foretold" becomes if not excused then understandable. Like Werlin's The Rules of Survival (2006), Cassidy's novel is descriptive but not romanticized and depicts, in part, a rather harrowing existence.

The narrative shift from the past to the present ratchets the tension in this semi-mystery; unfortunately, the rather sudden conclusion neither resolves nor balances this. While I can see this ending as a stylistic device that is meant to underscore what would seem to be Alice's abrupt "disappearance," (I'm going to go ahead and tell you how it ends) as J.J./Alice is forced to assume a third identity so that she can live in peace, I found myself turning the last page looking for the real ending. This is not to say that the book failed; in fact, I found this one more satisfying than Gail Giles' similarly themed Right Behind You (2007). I sympathized with Alice a bit more than I could with Giles' narrator, in spite of Cassidy's third person narrative. Ironic, no?

Posted by Amy P. at 02:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Cheva, Cherry (2008). She's So Money. NY: Harper Teen. 290 pages.

High school senior Maya dreams of leaving her Michagan home and her job at her parents' restaurant to attend Stanford with her best friend and, until her parents go away for the weekend, it looks like her dream is not far from becoming reality. When her parents leave her in charge of the restaurant, a surprise visit from the health inspector leads to the issue of a large--$10,000--fine and Maya is certain that her "just this once" ignorance of all the closing cleaning duties are to blame. Certain that her family doesn't have the money to pay the fine and reluctant to confess to her parents, Maya and Camden, a popular boy she tutors, develop a rapidly expanding homework service and begin taking students' money in exchange for completed homework assignments. As business booms and Maya and Camden have to hire and manage a number of employees and clients, Maya discovers an unexpected fringe benefit: semi-popularity and status as Camden's sort of girlfriend.

I really wanted to like this book--I love popular fiction--but this Alloy-produced offering fell short. First-time young adult novelist Cheva draws a convincing picture of teen afterschool life--hanging out in the tutoring room, driving around aimlessly, chaging into your "work shirt" at the start of your part-time shift--and this contrasted with the plot, which became more and more fantastic. Maya's sudden acceptance into the popular crowd and her budding romance with Camden did not seem like logical outcomes to her predicament. Add in a peripheral student, a guy named Leonard who has a crush on Maya, and his attempt to blackmail Maya into dating him, and the whole thing gets even more outlandish. Then, there's the ending, which involves equal parts confession and two expressions of heartbreaking loyalty. Yak!

And another thing: what's up with the characterization of Maya? From the first sentence, we are told she is the first generation daughter of Thai-American restaurant owners; however, aside from the Thai nature of the food served at the family establishment and the looming threat of being, in Maya's words, sent back to Thailand for failing her parents, the Thai thing seems kind of stuck in there for no reason. I'm not saying that every book with an Asian or first generation character has to deal with The Problem, but it does seem like Maya's ethnicity is the elephant in the room. Coupled with the fact that the girl in the cover photograph looks more caucasian than Asian, I'm curious about this issue. I guess this is just one of those culturally neutral books the critics are talking about. Which leaves readers (or just me) to ponder the question: can a book ever be truly culturally neutral?

Posted by Amy P. at 01:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Powers, J.L. (2007). The Confessional. NY: Knopf. 304 pages.

After a brutal fight at a Jesuit boys' school pits its students of Mexican descent against its Anglo students, the politics of border-town living creep into the lives of a group of teens. Following the May 5 suicide bombing of a bridge linking Mexico and his town of El Paso, Catholic high school student Mac Malone writes a letter to the local newspaper suggesting that the town cancel its planned Cinco de Mayo celebration to honor the one-year anniversary of the bombing. Mac's letter generates controversy in both the town and his school and, after a bloody fistfight with a Latino classmate, Mac is found stabbed to death on his front lawn. Powers' novel, told from the points of view of Mac and his friends, explores this violence and its repercussions as each person looks for Mac's killer.

Powers' first young adult novel is a mostly successful look at the racial tension that seems to be heightened in this post-9/11 era of border security. Powers draws parallels between the Iraq war and the broad American "fear" of people who appear to be of Middle-Eastern decent and notes the racial profiling that continues to plague the open borders of Mexico and the United States. That said, it almost seemed like these issues were a bit too great for a multi-voiced narrative that really spun off of an argument-turned-racially-motivated-war at a Texas Catholic high school. I'd rather have seen the micro explored further without having our attention constantly drawn to the macro, if you know what I mean. While many of the narrators' stories were well described and distinctly voiced, by the middle of the novel I was needing the top-of-the-page tip-off to remember whose story I was reading. A lot of folks have been talking about the "frank" and "realistic" language, but, to be honest, I didn't think the story was told in terms that were that gritty. These criticisms aside, I was surprised at how quickly I moved through this book. The pacing really is superb and influenced not by short chapters (the bad writers' friend) but by truly suspenseful content.

Posted by Amy P. at 11:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Strasser, Todd (2007). Boot Camp. NY: Simon and Schuster. 256 pages.

Fifteen-year-old Garrett has been taken against his will. His parents have arranged for him to be transported to a juvenile "boot camp" facility following their discovery of Garrett's illicit relationship with his young math teacher, occasional pot-smoking, and theft of money from their purses and wallets. Their hope is that this facility, known as Harmony Lake, will provide him with the discipline they have been unable to instill. When Garrett arrives at Harmony, he is immediately led to isolation, where he is humiliated and threatened. Once released into the institution's "general population," Garrett discovers the brutal nature of the so-called rehabilitation program and resolves to fight the program's attempts at correction.

About five-eighths of this book is devoted to description of Harmony Lake: its dubious facilities, its sadistic leaders and their inmate lackeys, and its abusive methods. One-fourth of the book--the most compelling, suspenseful, and fast-moving, in my opinion--is dedicated to Garrett's attempt, with two other inmates--to escape Harmony Lake. Then (and this is a spoiler), the last one-eighth is finds Garrett back at Harmony Lake (the escape didn't work) and fully convinced of the power of the institution's discipline. What? With all the dramatic set-up, I found the abrupt turn the ending took to be completely unbelievable. No seeds were planted in the exposition to make Garrett's point-of-view shift ring true. While Strasser seems to be using this book as a way to expose some real and abusive practices, the lack of realistic follow-through was a real bust.

With its source notes and "afterward," Boot Camp is reminiscent of the problem novels of the eighties. The book's initial devotion to the brutality of camp life becomes more salacious when considered in concert with its abrupt ending. I'lll admit I got a somewhat voyeuristic thrill from reading these initial details; however, when it came down to proving how these camp corrective activities can eventually re-condition even the most individualistic and intelligent prisoner, the novel failed to convince me.

Posted by Amy P. at 02:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Bowers, Laura (2007). Beauty Shop for Rent . . . Fully Equipped, Inquire Within. NY: Harcourt. 336 pages.

Fifteen-year-old Abbey comes from a long line of troubled women: after her young mother attempted suicide, she deposited Abbey at her great-grandmother's place. Herself a young mother, "Granny Po" is haunted by a female family member of her own; her daughter--Abbey's grandmother--committed suicide at age 36. While this sounds like a pretty depressing setup for a book, Bowers' first young adult novel is actually quite charming. Abbey and her grandmother make a neat and unconventional family. The two live in a duplex next to the beauty shop in which Abbey and Granny Po both work. When a potential renter finally shows up with plans to renovate the shop, Granny Po and Abbey are a little concerned that the interloper will "fancy up" the shop where Granny Po and her friends--known as the "Gray Widows"--like to hang out and gossip. Gena, the young renter, slowly ingratiates herself and is soon part of the intergenerational clan.

The transformation of the beauty shop and the changes it brings for Granny Po and Abbey is just a small part of this story. As Abbey grows closer to Gena, she starts to compare this competent woman to her own rather troubled mother. When Abbey's mother does return to Abbey's world, the consequences are predictably tragic; however, with the help of Gena, Granny Po, and the Gray Widows, Abbey triumphs and emerges stronger.

The story is set in rural Maryland and Bowers does a pretty good job of evoking the setting. While the Southern atmosphere doesn't become as rich a part of the story as it does in Gigi Amateau's Claiming Georgia Tate (2005), it does sort of emerge as a character in the novel. A secondary plot involving Abbey's social-climbing friend and Abbey's reluctance to attend a popular boy's New Year's Eve party seemed like a bit of an add-on; however, the primary conflict--involving Abbey, Granny Po, Abbey's mom, and Gena--worked well.

Posted by Amy P. at 01:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Peters, Julie Ann (2007). Grl2Grl. Boston: Little, Brown. 160 pages.

Peters' short story collection features ten character sketches of young women, each of whom claim (or are beginning to claim) sexuality in distinct and (with the exception of the story entitled "Boi") womanist ways. While the quality of the collection is uneven, Peters refuses to let the brevity of the form compromise her address of some pretty serious issues including incest and abuse. The stories I enjoyed the most were the ones that implied a woman-identified audience and which didn't introduce the concept of young lesbian life and love as much as presume a sympathetic audience.

Many of the stories emphasized community and its importance--particularly "After Alex," in which a teen girl tries to get over the dissolution of her first serious relationship, and "TIAD," comprised primarily of chat logs in a lesbian affirmative chat room. Stories in which a lack of any queer affirmative community was notable--in the case of "Ouside/In," the obligatory should-I-or-shouldn't-I-join-the-Gay-Straight-Alliance story and "Boi," about a F to M trans teen--turned out to prove a need for queer community as well and suggested social action in a subtle way.

There were two things that disappointed me a bit. The first is typical (for me, anyway): I was really hoping for a more sensual collection, in part because I had read an interview with Peters in which she articulated a need for teen lesbian "erotica" and in part because of the sort of sexy cover. Don't get me wrong, my interest isn't entirely prurient. Instead, what I was interested in was a collection of relationship stories (love stories, if you will) that, in their entirety--which would include scenes of sensuality--took full advantage of the genre while casting "against type" in a way that would encourage us to think about generic expectations and how these expectations are, in part, culturally shaped. The second concern is something that a student of mine brought up: namely, why is the issue of masculinity not addressed in "Boi" (about the F to M teen) and how does the inclusion of such a story complicate or even contradict the "Grl" focus of the stories?

Posted by Amy P. at 10:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Cooney, Caroline B. (2007). Diamonds in the Shadow. NY: Delacorte. 240 pages.

The Face on the Milk Carton (1996) probably marked the last time Caroline B. Cooney really delved into character; however, in the case of Diamonds in the Shadow, Cooney's lack of really deep characterization works. Sixteen-year-old Jared is not pleased with his family's decision to house a family of African refugees; he doesn't want to share his room or the responsibility for introducing this family from Sierra Leone to the Western world. When the Amabos arrive, however, Jared's curiosity is piqued. Not because he suddenly realizes the opportunity to expand his understanding (and misunderstanding) of the world, but because he is certain that the refugee family of four is not who they claim to be. While his younger sister Martha--known as Mopsy--eagerly takes the Amabo daughter under her wing, Jared's association with the Amabo son leads to more questions. Why don't the Amabo parents act more concerned about their daughter, a beautiful fifteen-year-old who refuses to eat or speak? Why does the family appear to know so little about their own children? How did Mr. Amabo lose his hands?

This third-person limited omniscient story of two families--the Amabos and the Finches (Jared's family)--makes subtle comparisons between the "haves" and the "have nots" while slowly revealing details of the horror the Amabos witnessed in the refugee camp they fled. At the center of the story is Victor, a fifth refugee who arrived in the States with the Amabos and who is actively searching for the group of four (related?) people whisked away at the airport's immigration counter.

Cooney weaves details of African political unrest, conflict diamonds, and child soldiers into this story of suspense and, ultimately, forgiveness. While Diamonds in the Shadow could easily have turned into a polemic, dramatic climax aside, Cooney refuses to smooth the rough edges of each of the Amabo's stories and put into order what is truly a complex and multifaceted (I know, I know . . . ) issue.

Posted by Amy P. at 10:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Johnson, Kathryn Jeffrie (2007). Gone. New Milford, CT: Roaring Brook Press. 176 pages.

Almost eighteen and a new high school graduate, Connor is marking time until he has saved enough money to move out of his aunt's house and can begin living independently. Connor's father is in a nursing home following an accident that took what was left of his alcohol-soaked brain, and Connor's mother is an alcoholic with whom he maintains irregular contact. Feeling like a burden to the aunt who took him in, Connor just wants to be on his own, accountable only to himself. When his former history teacher, the young Ms. Timms, seems to return his admiration, the two begin an intimate but clandestine relationship.

Reading this novel on the heels of Barry Lyga's Boy Toy, I was expecting Johnson to address the May-December romance depicted in Gone in a similar fashion; however, Johnson's novel was less about the politics of sexual exploitation and more about two troubled (and differently aged) characters and the dysfunctional relationship that results when two rather dysfunctional people pair up. While it becomes clear (to the reader) that Connor's relationship with Ms. Timms is motivated by equal parts horniness and a need to resolve and move on from his past, Ms. Timms' motivations for relationship are less clear. Intimations of past drug use and abuse are part of Ms. Timms' sketchy past, but (and maybe this is the adult reader in me) I wanted a little bit more explanation on her side.

The Booklist review of this novel claimed that, with regards to the sex scenes that appear in the narrative, the author "doesn't shy away from specifics;" however, I didn't find these scenes nearly as explicit as, say, Judy Blume's Forever. Sure, there's a little heat, but, as always, I wanted a bit more. If anything, a graphic sex scene featuring Ms. Timms in the lead/aggressor role could have gone a long way in "explaining" her interest in Connor.

Posted by Amy P. at 01:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Erskine, Kathryn (2007). Quaking. NY: Philomel. 272 pages.

Since the death of her mother at the hand of her father, fourteen-year-old Matilda--AKA Matt--has been shuffled around from distant relative to distant relative. When her Aunt "Loopy" deposits Matt at the home of her second cousins, Matt is certain that this new living arrangement will be just as "successful" as her previous placements. Unlike her Evangelical Christian relatives, Matt's new family are Quaker and, as Matt learns that their advocacy for peace places them in sometimes violent conflict with the so-called patriots in their town, she begins to wonder if she shouldn't take a stand on the issue as well. Although she is initially ambivalent about the conflict in Iraq, Matt's encounters with her opinionated history teacher (whom she calls "Mr. Warhead") and his teacher's pet, a militaristic bully, lead to trouble both at school and in town.

Got issues much? This book had WAY too many of them. First, the narrator, Matt, is struggling with PTSD resulting from her years in an abusive family; then, she moves in with a culturally distinct (Quaker) family who are also caring for a developmentally disabled boy; then, she has to deal with a really opinionated and rather threatening history teacher (the only one in school, apparently, so she can't just switch classes); and THEN, there's the teacher's henchman, a bully who has it in for Matt. And, oh yeah, there's a war on.

Erskine attempts characterization by excluding contractions from Matt's narrative, as well as her dialogue. I think this is meant to distinguish and distance her from the other characters in the book, and to underscore her genius (we discover during her visit with the school guidance counselor that her IQ test results are impressive). Unfortunately, this technique, once noticed, overtakes the reading of the book and becomes more of a distraction than an effective device. Subtle, perhaps, but also very annoying.

The secondary characters are pretty extremely placed on the sides of Good and Evil. Matt's aunt and uncle (the aforementioned Quakers) are Good--her uncle, especially, is almost styled as a peace-savant--and "Mr. Warhead" and his bully student are Bad. While there are hints as to the motivations for each character's behavior--Uncle Sam's (har har--but that's really his name) father is MIA in Vietnam, "Mr. Warhead's" son was killed in Iraq, and the bully's father probably abuses him--each are drawn as such extremes that it's hard to understand them except as symbolic forces used to motivate the novel's central conflict.

Sorry, dudes, but this one gets a thumbs down.

Posted by Amy P. at 01:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Friend, Natasha (2007). Bounce. NY: Scholastic. 188 pages.

A surprisingly good novel (I was not a fan of Friend's weaker, earlier novels, Lush and Perfect) about a family's dramatic reorganization following a father's remarriage. When, at her thirteenth birthday dinner, Evyn's father drops the news that he intends to marry the Boston college professor he's been seeing and plans for Evyn and her brother to move to the city to live with them, the shit threatens to hit the fan. With a mother long gone (she died when Evyn was a baby), Evyn has no choice but to "bounce" and roll with the punches. Her new life with her father's wife's large family (6 kids!) in an unfamiliar city and at a snooty private school is not fun and Evyn has trouble adjusting. Her difficulty becomes even more awkward in the face of her father's transformation from hippie to yuppie and her brother's social success at his new school.

This is a short, quick and sympathetic novel that really works. Evyn's imaginary conversations with her dead mother (shades of Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret are some the most honest and effecting parts of the book and there are some funny and humiliating moments in the story (when Evyn catches her father and stepmother in the shower together--yikes!). Like Evolution, Me, and Other Freaks of Nature (by Robin Brande, blogged on YA or STFU), Bounce is a younger YA novel. It's characteristically graphic cover will draw the attention of established Friend fans and its charm will entice others.

Posted by Amy P. at 04:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Pow, Tom (2007). Captives. New Milford, CT: Roaring Brook Press. 185 pages.

Lame, lame, lame. I really expected more from this novel if only based on its premise: two families (one British and one American) are kidnapped while on vacation in the Caribbean and are held captive by a group of socialist terrorists bent on extracting an American mining company from its island. The novel's main character is Martin, the teenaged son of the British family, and a witness but not strong participant in the captivity narrative. After Martin's father's memoir of the family's experience is published (illustrated by drawings Martin's mother did while in captivity), Martin finally reads and questions his father's version of the events.

Pow is clearly trying to garner sympathy for the band of activists who kidnap the families; however, these characters emerge more as stereotypically principled, Latin savages than real characters. Their captivity ends in tragedy for the American family, and Martin's perspective of the narrative is taken up with mooning over the American family's nubile teen daughter. Told in two parts: Martin's father's "published" memoir and what is supposed to be Martin's own view of the experience, Martin's perspective is more American-daughter-centric and reads more like the fantasies of an overly romantic victim. I was initially intrigued by the idea of the twice-told story and the inconsistencies that would emerge between the father's and son's narratives; however, Martin's story read more like an elaboration of his father's rather than the rebuke and symbol of their relationship than it could have been.

Posted by Amy P. at 04:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)