Children’s Book Reviews: Week of 7/23/2007

Beetles come in a variety of shapes, sizes and colors, and Fleming (In the Small, Small Pond) gives an exuberant shout-out to a slew of them in this eye-catching catalogue of backyard nature. Befitting the book’s title, Fleming’s verse dances across the pages—“Brown beetles,/green beetles,/not-often-seen beetles”—accented by changing font, color, and even direction in the layout of text. But young readers will especially want to pore over her bursting-with-color, dyed-paper-pulp compositions. As they do, they will glean information about beetle behavior (crashing into porch lightbulbs, gnawing on leaves or bark) and the beetle’s place in the larger food chain (being lapped up by a salamander’s tongue or snatched in a bird’s beak). Part boisterous read-aloud, part field guide for entomology enthusiasts, this arresting volume has something for everybuggy. Ages 3-7. (Aug.)

Like a lot of girls (and girl foxes) in her peer set, Ruthie loves “tiny things—the tinier the better.... She had dinky dinosaurs, itty-bitty trains, ponies no bigger than your pinky, and teddy bears that were barely there.” So when Ruthie finds a tiny camera on the playground, she immediately claims it for her own. Her classmate Martin identifies it as his birthday present, but that doesn’t deter Ruthie: she lies to her teacher—“I got it for my birthday!” Rankin (Rabbit Ears) unfolds this highly effective version of a psychological drama with skill and sympathy, using crisp, reportorial pencil-and-acrylic pictures to underscore the emotional and moral stakes. She allows readers to make their own connections to Ruthie’s true-to-life feelings of guilt (“The bus ride home took forever.... Dinner was macaroni and cheese, Ruthie’s favorite, but she couldn’t eat.”) and even subtly instructs parents in how to handle a situation like this one. Ages 3-8. (July)

Dunbar’s (Flyaway Katie) winsome mixed media illustrations carry the day in a story that pulls a few punches on readers. From the striking white cover illustrations of Penguin with the title displayed in textured primary colors, to the blue Sendak-like lion that precipitates the denouement, the illustrations are child-centered, deceptively simple, and satisfying. No matter what Ben does, his new penguin won’t respond. The white background focuses attention on the characters, while Dunbar’s use of line is particularly effective in showing Ben’s mixed emotions. The abrupt resolution of Ben’s problem, however, while creative, could be problematic. When a passing Lion swallows the frustrated toddler for noisily shouting, “SAY SOMETHING!” Penguin bites Lion’s nose. Ben is instantly burped up, and finally, “Penguin [says] everything.” But Penguin’s way of “saying everything” is to use pictures; these are contained in a huge speech bubble. Because the book initially seems to present a real boy and his stuffed toy, Lion’s appearance seems surprising, as if a phoenix emerged in the middle of a pioneer diary. This change in the construction of the reality of the story may be baffling or intriguing depending on the reader, but nearly everyone will enjoy retracing and comparing the narrator’s story told in words with Penguin’s story told in pictures. Ages 4-7. (July)

Slapstick gags and droll sound effects drive this vaudevillian picture book, which stylishly updates a classic plot. “Phooey!” says a scowling boy as he kicks a tin can. “Nothing... ever... happens... around here!” Between each word of his sentence, readers observe the flight of the can, which bumps a napping cat from a branch and wakes a sleeping dog at the foot of the tree. The boy, too busy glaring at the sidewalk and complaining, doesn’t hear the pursued cat’s “yowlll,” nor does he notice the strolling cowboys (not even the pirate with a knife in his teeth who lurks under manhole covers and around corners). The boy stomps along while, in the background, the cat spooks an elephant, which gallops out of the zoo and, in true silent-movie fashion, knocks free a barrel of kippered herring. Page after page, Rosenthal’s (Dig!) unframed panels track the chain reaction. The rolling barrel hits a painter’s ladder (“sploosh”), a pie hits the pirate in the face (“ploink”). and so on—multi-size, hand-lettered onomatopoeia adds to the fun. Along the way, Mr. Negativity meets a girl who politely glances around but never contradicts him; aptly, the conclusion finds them in front of an optometrist’s shop. In his pliable line drawings, sunny watercolor palette and quaint town setting, Rosenthal salutes ’30s and ’40s comic strips and children’s classics. Admirers of the de Brunhoffs, the Reys and Ludwig Bemelmans ought to get a kick out of this escalating romp. Ages 4-8. (July)

The team that made stars of a group of Icelandic ladies in The Problem with Chickens returns for another winning round. It hardly matters what they’re up to—Gunnella’s flat, deadpan oil portraits of the ladies, their polka-dot aprons and their hapless chickens are inherently funny, and every page contains another visual poke in the ribs. This time, the wind troubles them, as the thick-legged ladies are being blown sideways by brisk gusts, and they have to hold onto fence posts so they don’t fly away. The ladies decide to plant trees to break the force of the gale, then discover that the sheep find young trees very appetizing (the distraught ladies line up like chess pieces and sing “Please, please don’t eat the trees!” to a herd of perplexed sheep). Next, a trio of moon-faced ladies exhorts an earnest cow, “Please herd the sheep away from the trees. Please lead them to the grass.” Their plan succeeds in the villages but fails out in the country, where the sheep just can’t be prevented from eating the trees. As it turns out, though, that’s just as well: “In the Icelandic countryside,” McMillan concludes, “you can still see forever.” Readers will be grateful that McMillan and Gunnella have resisted the urge to scout around for new subject matter; the ladies and their animal companions possess enough charm to fill several more books. Ages 4-8. (Sept.)

Third grade is going to be ugly,” moans the anonymous narrator of this caper, a sort of self-esteem parable souped up on comedy. “Cinnamon-Red-Hots-candy-sucking” Richard Newton, who has already twisted his arm, snags the seat behind him, and poodle-haired Mrs. Mousetrap starts right in with spelling and math tests. But at recess the mood begins to change when an exuberantly ducktailed impresario who goes by the moniker Ramon: World Yo-Yo Champion sparks a schoolwide yo-yo craze. Not only does he decide to become a “yo-yo go-go, with yo-yo know-how” (and, “for good measure,” a master speller who can “make mincemeat out of Mrs. Mousetrap”), but he also discovers that inside his bully is a big baby bawling to get out. Pinkwater knows in his bones how kids think and talk, while Davis’s sweetly grotesque cartooning conjures up a motley crowd of supporting players, most with their own loopy personalities. As in The Picture of Morty and Ray, these two wits can keep an audience agreeably suspended. Ages 4-8. (July)

Wilson (Bear Snores On) and Hillenbrand (Smash! Mash! Crash! There Goes the Trash!) cook up a sweet and jaunty picture book. Their protagonist, Granddad, falls in the bigger-is-better camp, at least when it comes to his wife’s birthday celebration. Despite her protestations (“Don’t make a fuss, you hear?”), Granddad has an itching to whip up one heck of a confection in her honor. With two canine sous chefs, Granddad gets to super-sizing a chocolate cake recipe that ends up baking in the pick-up truck bed rather than in the tiny conventional oven. Kids will delight in Wilson’s bouncy rhyming stanzas flavored with down-home vernacular and the slapdash slinging and flinging of eggs (86), flour (10 bags) and cocoa (24 cups) by Granddad and pups in playfully energetic mixed-media spreads. No one can argue with Granddad’s defense to his astonished birthday gal: “Your heart’s so big, you deserve a whopper cake!” A chocolate cake recipe (of realistic proportions), with directions in the couple’s dialect, is included. Ages 4-8. (July)

It looks like the nameless narrator will have to take a backseat to the other kids on Career Day; their parents are astronomers, NASCAR drivers and jewelers, while her dad changes lightbulbs. But as the girl launches into her spiel, a different sort of lightbulb goes off as it dawns on the class that her father’s job is pretty special after all: he’s in charge of the beacon atop the antenna of the Empire State Building. Kimmel’s (Lily B. on the Brink of Paris) speaks with authority because, as she explains, she actually accompanied Dad on his task the previous weekend. Kimmel has amassed a host of details, which she skillfully spins for her audience. The bulb is “about the size of our beagle’s head but 620 watts brighter” and Dad better not drop it, because when he’s at the very top, it’s “one thousand four hundred fifty-three feet and eight and nine-sixteenths inches to the sidewalk.” (The narrator brings a catcher’s glove to the hatch below the antennae, just in case.) Neubecker equally deftly builds the story’s visual momentum, alternating spot illustrations with full-page pictures (a vertiginous, bird’s-eye view shows Dad at work); in a vertical spread, the re-lit landmark virtually glows. As he proved in Wow! City!, Neubecker’s signature style can conjure up metropolitan magic; his ink outlines and punchy colors instantly convey why New York is a helluva town. Ages 4-up. (July)

Inspired by the true story of a “celebrated cow” that traveled with the Fifty-Ninth Regiment of Indiana Volunteers during the Civil War (a sprightly endnote supplies the details), Fletcher (Shadow Spinner) and Root (Don’t Forget Winona) weave first-class fiction. In their version, the cow belongs to a rank-and-file soldier who thinks he’s left the farm behind. But “that dadblamed cow” just can’t say goodbye. She follows him right onto the train and charms his captain (those big, sad cow eyes are mighty irresistible). And “When the bullets went whistlin’ past our ears, she got spooked and bolted—around a clump of cannon, through a bramble patch, over a hill, and right smack-dab into a pack of horse dragoons,” says the narrator. “ 'You’re a dadblamed dangerous cow,’ I said.” But if the soldier never stops calling her “dadblamed” he soon values her company: she offers warmth, milk and a reminder of home when the going gets rough. Root’s pencil and watercolor drawings vividly render the Civil War landscape, from the bedraggled encampments to the pitch of a battle. She doesn’t anthropomorphize her bovine heroine, and yet there’s something special about the unnamed cow—she seems as much called to help the soldiers as Clara Barton herself. A terrific read-aloud, and a marvelous approach to history. Ages 5-7. (July)

Keller’s (The Scrambled States of America) latest offers lessons in the social graces, featuring Mr. Rabbit and his whiskery new neighbors, the otters. “I don’t know anything about otters,” the pink-eyed, pink-nosed protagonist agonizes. “What if we don’t get along?” At this, a bookish owl pops in from the margin with an apt take on the Golden Rule: “Do unto otters as you would have otters do unto you.” Hmmm...,” muses Mr. Rabbit, “How would I like otters to treat me?” When he opines, “I’d like otters to be polite,” a gray otter in polka-dot shorts demonstrates how to say “please” in five languages (counting Pig Latin), then does the same for “thank you” and the indispensable “excuse me.” Later, the smiling otters “co-otter-ate” and help friends move a heavy log. Even disagreements can be managed. Keller loads her acrylic-on-paper images with comical asides and tangential conversations, and goggle eyes, rubbery smiles and rounded teeth suggest her cast’s goofball personalities; no mistaking them for Little Lord Fauntleroys. Without prescribing perfect etiquette, Keller serves up sound, friendly advice for maintaining a peaceable kingdom. Ages 5-8. (Sept.)

In both words and pictures, Lewin (I Was a Teenage Professional Wrestler) effectively evokes the sounds, smells and action of Gleason’s Gym, a celebrated boxing gym located “on the Brooklyn waterfront just a left hook away from the Brooklyn Bridge.” The author sets the scene in fittingly staccato prose: “Heavy bags swing wildly. Speed bags blur. Start of a round. Squeak of soles on canvas, the music of the gym.” World champions, including Muhammad Ali and Jake La Motta, have trained at this gym, which “builds bodies, confidence and courage.” This place is “a mass of men, women, and kids dancing, bobbing, weaving and jabbing,” among them nine-year old Sugar Boy, “the best little fighter around,” who is training for the state Silver Glove championships. Under the watchful eye of his father, a professional fighter, this dedicated young athlete spars with a middleweight pro, shadowboxes around the ring, punches focus pads and engages in a three-round training session. The author concludes this visit on a satisfying note, as a caption underneath a portrait of a triumphant Sugar Boy explains that he went on to become a 2006 National Silver Gloves Champion. Lewin portrays the gym’s goings-on in full-color paintings of varying clarity as well as in pencil sketches, a combination that gives the volume ample motion yet an inconsistent look. Still, aspiring fighters and youngsters with an interest in boxing will appreciate witnessing Sugar Boy’s tireless training from ringside seats. Ages 5-9. (Aug.)

Michelson (Too Young for Yiddish) and Caldecott Medalist Azarian (Snowflake Bentley) salute 12 generations of Tuttles from Dover, N.H., operators of the longest continuously running family farm in the country (tourists may know its Red Barn farm stand). Tuttles “didn’t mind hard work”—a phrase that serves as refrain—and family members found all kinds of ways to reap the land’s bounty: along with planting crops, they also made maple syrup (and sold a sample to Abraham Lincoln), harvested cranberries and grapes, and installed the town’s first cider mill. Each chapter focuses on the male Tuttle who inherits the farm, and that Tuttle, glimpsed in his youth, observes some history (fifth-generation William hears nine cannon salutes fired nine minutes apart on June 21, 1788, when his state becomes the ninth state to ratify the Constitution; two generations later, Joseph helps runaway slaves). Tuttle family lore, meanwhile, gets its own symbol via a pair of pewter candleholders brought from England by the first Tuttle. Michelson doesn’t sentimentalize: the Tuttles endure economic downturns as well as the siren calls of Harvard, Western Expansion and the Industrial Revolution (a friend who leaves his farm for the mills writes, “I only have to work 12 hours a day... and I get Sunday off every week!”). In Azarian’s tableau-like woodcuts, styles change while character endures. Her hand-crafted aesthetic enhances the story’s warmth and humanity, while the sophisticated tints and bold outlines intensify the unalloyed beauty, reassuring rhythms and beguiling fecundity of rural farm life. Ages 5-up. (Sept.)

This posthumously published novel from Alexander, who died this spring, is an exuberant and compassionate tale of adventure. Kicked out of his merchant uncle’s house, inveterate daydreamer Carlo leaves the island of Magenta (not far from Campania, the mythical setting of The Rope Trick) to head east on the Road of Golden Dreams. He travels through Sidya, Marakand and Keshavar (the evocative names are vintage Alexander, subtly blending cartography and legend), all the way to Cathai, where he expects to make his fortune, thanks to the treasure map he found tucked into a book of fantastic tales given him by a mysterious bookseller. Themes that call to mind Alexander’s landmark Prydain Chronicles reappear here, telescoped into a single potent volume: Starting as a callow youth, Carlo gains wisdom and the capacity to love deeply, thanks to his adventures on the road and what he learns from his fellow travelers. The buoyant fantasy is counterpointed by the war and destruction that lurk beyond nearly every bend in the road; the interplay between these elements will keep readers enthralled every step of Alexander’s final literary journey. Ages 10-up. (Aug.)

In suitably off-kilter fashion, this fourth installment in what had been previously called a trilogy finds the hyperactive hero reunited with Carter Pigza, his “no-good squinty-eyed bad dad.” Having won a small fortune in the lottery, Carter’s back to reclaim his role as family man. The hilarious “rewedding” vows—his “I forgive you for all the times you called me a lifelong loser” begets wife Fran’s “I forgive you for trying to run me over with your motorcycle”—establish the theme for this episode in Joey’s chaotic childhood: How do you forgive people for being who they are? Especially when who they are is an incredibly lousy parent? Carter, like Joey, is not a man of small gestures; in wiping the slate clean, he changes their names to Charles, Maria and Freddy Heinz, and moves the family to the country where he has bought a roadside diner to renovate and open as The Beehive. Naturally, things do not go according to plan. In one scene, Joey/Freddy plays in traffic in a bee costume to publicize the new restaurant and winds up in police custody. As in the other Joey Pigza books, the plot doesn’t move so much as careen from one over-the-top event to the next, the achievement being that every one of them feels entirely plausible. Gantos exercises complete command of his subject—so thoroughly inside the dented head of his character that readers easily suspend disbelief. Another wild ride–over serious terrain. Ages 10-up. (Aug.)

British charm radiates from every panel of this graphic novel. Teenage Charlotte is a beautiful rich kid who gets everything she wants, but a poor Photoshop job on a fake ID gets her busted when she tries to get into a nightclub. Her punishment is to spend the summer in the country with her grandparents at the country club they run (“It’s like a crummy idea for a reality show that might be funny if it weren’t actually starring me”). Geraldine, one of her grandfather’s employees, tells Charlotte that there is a dark secret at the heart of her family; a few days later, Geraldine is found dead in a water trap on the golf course. Due to ritualistic aspects of the murder, suspicion first falls on a pack of neighborhood “goth” teens, but Charlotte begins to suspect her grandfather may be guilty of a crime of passion. While Charlotte juggles a blossoming romance with the drudgery of running the country club’s pro shop, a bona fide mystery begins to emerge—and the payoff, which involves human sacrifice, a secret coven and odd astrological symbols, is both satisfying and humorous. While the target audience for the Minx imprint is girls, most boys will also find this fun. Ages 10-up. (July)

Lamba makes an impressive debut with this contemporary novel introducing Sangeet, a 15-year-old Indian American girl who at times feels like the whole world is against her. The trouble begins when Chachi, Sangeet’s widowed aunt from India, moves in with the family. When some items—food, money and some personal belongings—disappear from the house, it’s obvious to Sangeet that Chachi is the thief, but Sangeet’s parents blame their daughter. To make things worse, Sangeet’s best friend, Gina, is inexplicably angry with her. Then there’s the matter of Jason, Sangeet’s crush, who acts like he’s interested in her but stands her up after they plan to meet at the skating rink. The harder Sangeet works to prove her integrity and innocence, the less she is trusted. However frustrating her situation, misunderstandings do pave the way to some very funny moments. (At one point, Sangeet’s parents are mistakenly convinced that she has an eating disorder, because snacks are missing from the cabinet, and Sangeet is forced to visit a therapist—who happens to be the father of one of her close friends.) Given the book’s lighthearted tone, there will be little doubt that the wrongs Sangeet suffers will be righted, but dark undertones regarding the emotional instability of both Chachi and Gina could have been developed more fully. Ultimately, readers will find much to like in Lamba’s heroine, who ultimately survives a set of trials worthy of Job with grace and humor. Ages 10-up. (July)

Adult novelist Ryan (Send Me) makes his young adult debut with this honest perspective on coming to terms with one’s identity. The story centers around two ex-best friends—17-year-olds Sam and Charlie—supposedly in their high school prime. Sam’s father has moved out in order to “research his book” (but really to stay with his “friend” David abroad), and his mother’s fill-in boyfriend, Teddy, is blatantly homophobic. Sam is attracted to his new gay friend, Justin, but denies these feelings to himself and others. That his father is apparently gay only fuels Sam’s angst (“Can’t you just hear the talk? Sam Findley’s dad’s a homo, and he’s turned Sam into one, too”). Meanwhile, Charlie has his hands full caring for his father, an alcoholic widower, and he smokes pot as an escape. Charlie’s girlfriend dumps him after finding out about his drug habit, and he owes his increasingly threatening dealer $500—money that he doesn’t have. In a surprisingly believable reconciliation, the boys finally confide in each other, learn how wrong assumptions can be and slowly begin to rebuild their friendship. Teens will find both boys’ storylines (and narrative voices) thoroughly compelling right through to the end, which leaves many ends rightfully untied, underscoring the lingering effects of life’s messier moments. Ages 12-up. (July)

Duey (the Hoofbeats series) uses a challenging dual-narrative format to tell a complex story in this first book in the A Resurrection of Magic series. Sadima is born into a world where magic has all but disappeared and the only remaining magicians are charlatans and tricksters. But Sadima knows that magic is real, because of her ability to communicate with animals. When she turns 17, her father dies, and she departs to live with the intense young scholar Somiss and his servant Franklin, who both work feverishly to decode and transcribe bits of real magic that still exist. In order to help, Sadima learns to write and discovers treachery amidst her new companions. The second narrative takes place an unspecified number of years later, when more magic has returned to the world. Hahp, a boy whose wealthy father wants to get rid of him, sends him to a dark and vicious school, where the boys are told they will likely die in the process of learning the magic arts; Somiss is the school’s secretive headmaster, Franklin the teacher and extreme food deprivation a primary teaching method. Hahp’s tale is told in first-person while Sadima’s is in third-person; Duey’s world is complicated enough without the additional layer of obfuscation this structure provides. Ages 12-up. (July)

Written in the form of a memoir, this absorbing first novel traces the struggles of a disfigured girl growing up in Akron, Ohio, mostly during the ’70s. A blood vessel abnormality makes Nina Goldman look like she’s recently been punched in the eye. Bullies at school call her “Big Eye–Little Eye,” and although her aggressively optimistic salesman father assures her that “every crooked pot has a crooked cover,” Nina fears she will never be loved. As much as she hates her appearance, Nina also learns early on, “I could use my eye to get out of things, too, and make people do things for me.” Particularly memorable is Nina’s father, a frustrated musician who sells carpet for a living even though he’s color-blind. His efforts to find a cure for his daughter result in endless trips to medical experts and in treatments that turn out to be less than miraculous. As Rosen evokes her setting with a wealth of details, she runs into a trap: the same well-chosen references (to Peter Frampton, the Mary Tyler Moore Show, Beatles lyrics, etc.) that anchor the period and illuminate the characters may also distance teens. Those who remain will empathize with the narrator’s unique situation as a concentrated form of universal worries about finding acceptance, dealing with loss and leaving home. Ages 13-up. (July)

Music permeates the life of young singer Colleen Lutzak, whose search for acceptance catapults her from small-town Alberta to Swaziland in Grekul’s debut YA novel, which greatly benefits from the author’s own familiarity with the Ukrainian-Canadian community. Following the death of her beloved music teacher, Sister Maria (an Auschwitz survivor), and a less-than-stellar first year at university, Colleen leaps at the chance to spend a year at Swaziland’s United World College (“I didn’t feel like I belonged here. I thought that if I went away... I’d become a different person, and I’d finally fit in,” she muses). Throughout a lyric though occasionally solipsistic odyssey, Colleen contemplates the meaning of her Ukrainian-Canadian heritage, befriends a Swazi prince and witnesses a variety of triumphs (she’s in Swaziland when Nelson Mandela is freed from prison), prejudices and personal tragedies. After the death of her mentally disabled older cousin, Kalyna, Colleen returns to Canada to reconcile with her high school nemesis and her family. Though an abundance of references to Ukrainian traditions, foods and culture may overwhelm and distract some readers, teens struggling with questions of identity and belonging will empathize with Colleen’s uncertainties and admire the grounded heroine who emerges. Ages 15-up. (July)