Children's Book Reviews: Week of 3/3/2008

Minutka, a tiny spotted dog, dances about the gray pages of this small, black-and-white square book, chatting about herself in English and Spanish: “Look at me!” read the words at the top of the page; “¡Mirame!” read those along the bottom. “I'm a ballerina./ Soy bailarina.” “And a yoga master,” she adds on the next page, from a downward-facing dog pose. Minutka, so minute that she might disappear under a finger if she did not stay safely in the center of the page, does not formally teach. Her statements don't progress from simple to difficult, or fall into categories like “food” or “greetings.” She's just celebrating a life lived in two languages. Mycek-Wodecki (How Would It Feel?) draws Minutka playing in the sprinkler (el rociador), leaping after butterflies, sleeping, dreaming “in Spanish and in English” and waking (“Now, I am rested and ready to start another day... in my two languages”). Some bilingual books have literary ambitions or social messages; this one just has fun. Bilingual editions that pair English with French, Chinese, Italian, Polish and Turkish are also available. Ages up to 3. (Apr.)

Like the vibrant rooster on this oversize book's jacket, Meade's (Hush! A Thai Lullaby) colored woodcut prints are so bold they seem to crow at the reader. Leaves look bigger than life, and each chicken scratch in the barnyard dust leaves a strong, black line. Elliott's (And Here's to You!) short, simple poems often seem overwhelmed by the pictures, which feature animals that stare intently at the reader, as if their morning activities were being interrupted by someone with a camera. Taking a roster of the farm residents, the poems include the occasional striking image (the pig has a tail “as coy as a ringlet”), and more frequently comment on the animals' obvious characteristics (the cow “makes milk/ standing/ grazing./ Abra-/ cada-/ bra!/ She's/ utterly/ amazing!”). As brief as they are, often just a sentence or two, the poems talk to both adults and preschoolers. A comment about the turtle's “fossil head” will be of less interest to children than the idea that “in [the turtle's] house,/ it's always night.” While some illustrations are stiff and anthropomorphic, overall this old-fashioned farm stands in for an idyllic existence, a time and place where the bees “tell their story,/ sweet and old.” Ages 3-5. (Mar.)

A junior Walter Mitty actually looks forward to bedtime, when he embarks on fanciful adventures that only he is privy to. “On Monday night, when everyone else was asleep,” writes Whatley (illustrator of Diary of a Wombat) as his hero smiles slyly at the reader, “Clinton... on his own... all by himself... wrestled a dragon named Gordon!” On six subsequent nights, the puppylike Gordon is joined by an ever-growing cast of fantastic archetypes and creatures (a pair of giants, a tutu-wearing triceratops), nearly all of them corresponding to toys, books or objects seen in an early view of Clinton's room. Each night, too, the escapades grow in improbability (Sunday's fun culminates in everyone flying around the world on plates of spaghetti). While this concept has been seen before, Whatley executes it well. An intriguing illustrator who combines considerable painterly talents with a flair for goofy comedy, he is an ace at character studies: the giants have huge rubbery faces, while Clinton has a impish, slightly neurotic mug worthy of Nathan Lane. The action is contained by prosceniumlike staging and a white backdrop, so it never devolves into a frenetic free-for-all. Theatrical in the classic sense of the word, this book salutes the power of imagination and the pleasures of the very private joke. Ages 3-7. (Mar.)

Barnwell, a member of the Grammy-winning a cappella ensemble Sweet Honey in the Rock, writes a unity anthem that readers can experience as a dramatic reading, as a song and as a picture book. The first and second formats are stirring and melodious (there's also a short track on the CD where Barnwell explains why she's written the book). Barnwell's sonorous speaking voice savors phrases like “We are the breath of our ancestors” and turns individual words into clarion calls (her pronunciation of “nations” sends shivers up the spine). Sweet Honey in the Rock turns the text into a wonderful musical tapestry of harmonies and rhythms—the group's rich, passionate vocalizing should gratify old fans and win new ones. It's unfortunate, then, that the visual interpretation is the least satisfying of the three—a letdown that's not really mitigated when reading and listening are combined. Pinkney (Ella Fitzgerald) sets the action in a park, where a multigenerational, multicultural community gathers to enjoy a sunny day. The illustrator perhaps wants to show that ordinary acts (frolicking in a fountain, enjoying a picnic) are expressions of vitality, potential and commonality. But his soft-focus style, coyly proportioned big-eyed characters and his staging feel disconnected from Barnwell's rousing words. Watching girls roll down a hill and boys scootering along a path to the words “We are sisters of mercy, brothers of love” takes out a lot of the steam. Ages 3-7. (Mar.)

In a work more personal than Caldecott Medalist Shulevitz (The Fool of the World and the Flying Ship) has ever before offered, he summons boyhood memories of WWII and shows how he learned to defeat despair. Fleeing Warsaw shortly after the Germans invaded in 1939, the child Uri and his parents eke out a miserable existence in Kazakhstan. One day, Father comes home from the bazaar with a huge map of the world instead of food. Uri, only four or five, is “furious,” and as the couple sharing the one-room hut eats that night, the husband noisily chewing a crust “as if it were the most delicious morsel in the world,” Uri hides under his blanket to cover his envy and rage. But shortly after his father unrolls the map, the boy is swept away by exotic place-names (“Okazaki Miyazaki Pinsk,/ Pennsylvania Transylvania Minsk!”), picturing them remote from his hunger and suffering. As Uri taps into his artistic imagination and draws maps of his own, Shulevitz's illustrations shed their bleak, neorealist feel, and his beaten-down younger self becomes a Sendakian figure—sturdily compact, balletic, capable of ecstatic, audacious adventures. The story and its triumphant afterword demonstrate that Uri masters much more than geography; he realizes the importance of nurturing the soul. Ages 4-8. (Apr.)

Doctor Ted is guilty of major medical malpractice. He diagnoses his mother with measles (“Those are my freckles,” she insists, unamused) and recommends an operation. He detects gingivitis in his principal and prescribes a full-body cast (he later follows up with an offer to “do something about that foot odor”). It's unlikely, however, that readers will want to revoke Doctor Ted's license—he is, after all, an earnest bear cub, and his unwavering self-assurance in the face of adult certitude is too much fun. Beaty (When Giants Come to Play) and Lemaitre (Who's Got Game: Three Fables), working in much the same vein as Alexander Stadler (the Beverly Billingsly books), concoct a breezy story about pretend play that's laugh-out-loud funny. The prose is snappy but sympathetic to the outsize ambitions of its hero, while the pictures' chunky ink lines and almost neonlike digital colors give every page plenty of punch. Ages 4-8. (Apr.)

Preschooler Lulu, told to amuse herself, mopes about for a bit, then finds that her ladybug costume—red tutu, wings, red polka-dot boots and a headband with antennae—helps her morph into a bigger, braver character. “Is that rock in your way, ants?” she asks. “I can help you! I'm Ladybug Girl!” Similarly heroic deeds follow as Lulu makes the case that, contrary to her older brother's claim, she's not little—she feels “as big as the whole outdoors.” Husband-and-wife team Soman and Davis's first collaboration shows potential. Little girls whose confidence, ambition and dress-up collections outrun their actual ages will recognize themselves in Lulu, and parents may enjoy her, too. The characterization is believable and the visual pacing solid, and the family's basset hound, his movements echoing Lulu's, serves as a likable foil. The chatty text, however, often explains what's already shown, and the narrative perspective sometimes appears to waver between adult and child (“Lulu can't read yet, but she knows her letters. She finds a lot of L's”). Ages 4-up. (Mar.)

The creators of The Gruffalo invent an engaging story about a little monkey looking for his mother. When the monkey says, “She's big!... Bigger than me,” a helpful butterfly takes him to an elephant. When he says his mother has “a tail that coils around trees,” the butterfly takes him to a snake. As the little monkey's descriptions continue to confound the butterfly, Donaldson squeezes in some basic animal facts. The monkey's mother, unlike the spider, would rather “eat fruit than swallow a fly,” and she doesn't have “claws or feathery wings” like the parrot. Scheffler's teeming jungle illustrations present easy-to-recognize animals. Each spread features a fresh expression of perplexity on the little monkey's face as he narrows his search terms. The rhymed text sometimes stumbles, using language that sounds more appropriate to an adult narrator (the monkey's lines include, “Oh, dear, what a muddle!” and “None of these creatures look like me!”). In a twist on the expected ending, the butterfly looks for an animal that resembles the little monkey and takes him to his father. The simple story and cheery illustrations will appeal to preschoolers, who will relate to the hunt for just the right words. Ages 4-8. (Mar.)

Back in 1964—the same year that his Giving Tree was published—Silverstein's first poetry collection appeared; it was also his only children's book to contain full-color art. Reissued in a slightly larger trim size, this collection of 45 poems tours readers past imaginary creatures, beginning with a being that looks remarkably like a fedora but for the jaw subtly poking below one side of the brim and the four tiny feet beneath: “This is the Quick-Disguising Ginnit./ Didn't he have you fooled for a minute?” There's no question that the intensity of Silverstein's watercolor palette adds to the fun: the gradations in the hat, for example, distract from the “ginnit” details; more typically, they supply a punch that complements the puckish but simple shapes of Silverstein's silly beasts (“The Pointy-Peaked Pavarius,/ A creature most gregarious,/ Who's never taken serious,/ Poor thing”). “Silly” doesn't mean unsophisticated, by the way: most of the work was first published in Playboy. All ages. (Mar.)

A smart, modern design sets off the mischievous humor of this square-format book of 14 illustrated nonsense rhymes. Gerda Rovetch, an octogenarian who fled Germany in childhood and is publishing her poems for the first time, brings a recognizably European dark wit to her four-line entries: “There was a man who loved a rat./ He fed it ham till it got fat./ He kept it in his bed at night,/ and rather hoped it wouldn't bite.” Lissa Rovetch (the Hot Dog and Bob books) matches the exaggeration in her mother's work with her black ink cartoons: shown in profile, the rat lover's nose is half the width of his head. Meanwhile his lower lip seems to tremble as he gazes at the rat, whose carrot-shaped head attaches to a huge, turnip-like torso. Color and scale play leading roles: the illustrator accents one item in each drawing with a different solid color (the rat is orange, in a characteristically sophisticated shade). On every spread, poem and illustration face each other, each set in identically sized white circles that cover most of the square pages. Strategic use of complementary colors makes the contents pop (the circles for the rat lover are bordered in teal, on lemon background). Good and gleeful. Ages 4-up. (Mar.)

With a clever premise—poems about the world's greatest something or other—Lewis (A World of Wonders: Geographic Travels in Verse and Rhyme) and Graves (Frank Was a Monster Who Wanted to Dance) assemble a poetry volume sure to appeal to assiduous readers of Guinness World Record books. Regrettably, the poems themselves are not always as intriguing as the oddball records they describe. Sometimes Lewis's meter stumbles, or his grasp on a particular topic weakens, but the poems often contain a sly rhyme or an idea that will grab the target audience, as in these words about an articulate canary that begins to “mutter, sputter/ Whenever he ate pnnnut bttttr.” Each poem lists the record associated with it; for example, “The Tallest Roller Coaster” is prefaced with the name, location and height of the actual attraction, after which Lewis describes the sensation of riding it (“You hold your breath,/ You lose your nerve,/ You're scared to death/ At every curve”). Graves's illustrations, like the best caricatures, match the wacky tone of the poems, as in “The Kookiest Hat” (“ 'A fried-egg hat repels the rain,'/ Was what the man replied,/ 'Because, my dear, I always wear/ It on the sunny side' ”). Ages 5-9. (Apr.)

Familiar yet inventive, exuberant and silly, this consistently fresh assortment of light verse and expressive cartoons lives up to the haute goofiness of the best Prelutsky/Stevenson work (The New Kid on the Block). This collection of more than a hundred poems includes Prelutsky's distinctive mixture of real and fictitious animals, outlandish pets, wistfully subversive students and anti-establishment characters. There are enough verses about burping and homework to satisfy the usual suspects, but they'll also stick around to find their imaginations jump-started. Wordplay and nonsense include the alliterative items on Sandwich Sam's menu (“beetle beet banana blubber, chigger cheese chinchilla chalk”) and the incomparable pun in the poem “Today It's Pouring Pythons,” in which the ballgame is called “anaconda rain.” Humor and whimsy abound, and Stevenson's clever art extends the comedy, but never overshadows the text. He somehow makes elephants look “extremely graceful,/ light and limber on their feet” in “I'm Dancing with My Elephants,” and he can make eccentricity plausible, as when a father and son engage in their traditional July 4 buttering of their noses in “My Family's Unconventional.” Like the words in the poem “Some Chickens,” the pairings in this volume are “pure poultry in motion.” Ages 5-up. (Mar.)

It's reluctant poetry-readers Frank (The Tomb of the Boy King) seems most intent on reaching with this collection of friendly, sturdy verses. He celebrates the treasures many kids have in a box somewhere: arrowheads, old coins, comic books (“Good ol' Clark Kent,/ that mild-mannered reporter,/ on sale at a swap meet,/ a buck and a quarter”). Each poem deals with a single object—a fossil, a locket, a medal—and many are illustrated with Robbins's (Pumpkins) photos, crisp, brightly lit, intensely colored closeups of die-cast cars or smooth stones, looking almost real enough to pick up. Like his flea-market treasures or his beach finds, Frank's poems are unassuming, accessible, even rough around the edges. Some read flat-footedly (“For thousands of years,/ you've slowly grown,/ and stayed in bloom—/ a rose of stone”); a few standouts are super-charged (about a Willie Mays baseball card: “There was no fly he couldn't field,/ no base he couldn't snatch,/ no juicy pitch he couldn't clout/ no runner he could not throw out”). Humor informs Frank's writing, but the spark of his best work appears to be missing. Ages 7-up. (Apr.)

Although Prelutsky's (My Dog May Be a Genius, reviewed above) popularity and his role as the first children's poet laureate will excite hopes for this primer, his advice on writing poetry is limited and disorganized, albeit presented in his usual gleeful voice. He arranges his book in sections that each include an anecdote (“My Father's Underwear,” “An Awful, Awful Meal”) followed by the poem or poems inspired by the experience and a lengthy “Writing Tip.” However, he repeats much the same advice regardless of the ostensible topic. Prelutsky tells would-be poets to keep a notebook and/or to make lists in at least 10 sections; he counsels them to “exaggerate” in five. Sometimes the writing tip offers directions for a specific poem (“Write about your mother's rules and... why they drive you crazy”). A few of Prelutsky's assertions may raise some eyebrows (“A poem doesn't always have to be about something. You're allowed to write a poem about pretty much nothing at all,” he opines, going on to say that sound can be as important as meaning), and for the most part his tips, appropriately, apply only to humorous poems. While this is not a book for teachers seeking a comprehensive guide, readers looking for the story behind a particular Prelutsky verse will enjoy the book, as will kids who want to try on Prelutsky's style. Ages 7-10. (Mar.)

In a spare, eloquent novel in verse illustrated with her own bold block prints, Cheng (Marika) captures the moods of five inner-city third-graders as they prepare themselves for their school's impending demolition. A sense of loss prevails, but other emotions—jealousy, indignation, pride and love—percolate as the five narrators deal with personal issues at school and at home. Using very few words, the author conveys complicated back stories: Jonathan, for example, can't go home with his friend, and his friend “can't come to my house, either./ I used to have a house/ before my little brother Caleb/ set the mattress on fire/.... He wanted to dry out the sheets/ before anyone saw.” She also evokes the children's innocence and shared affection for their teacher, Miss D., who instills in them a strong sense of justice, especially after they are falsely accused of spitting from a theater balcony. Mixing sad and uplifting images occurring between the fall and spring of a school year, these poems pay tribute to hard-working educators and children learning to overcome obstacles and accept unwelcome changes. Ages 6-up. (Mar.)

Couloumbis's (Getting Near to Baby) winning, witty portrayal of a slightly neurotic American family encapsulates universal truths about family relationships. The narrator, 13-year-old Elvira, is horrified when her father leaves home after a quarrel, bound for an Elvis impersonation competition in Las Vegas even though Elvira's pregnant mother, Mel, wanted him to stay home. Elvira worries that he won't come back, but her concerns shift when, prompted by a dire phone call, Mel packs up Elvira and her younger sister, Kerrie, and drives everyone off to visit her long-estranged mother in Memphis. (Opening the door at six in the morning to a pregnant Mel arriving unannounced with the granddaughters she's never met, Mel's mother greets them flatly with, “He's left you.”) Elvira, getting to know “the grandmother” (as Elvira thinks of her) and Mel's sister, Clare (“pronounced Clare-ree,” advises Elvira, “same accent on both syllables”), has ample opportunity to reflect on families, her own attitudes about being an older sister and daughter, and the origins of family rifts. Tart characterizations, lively dialogue and Elvira's frank narration keep this perceptive novel both credible and buoyant. Ages 8-12. (Apr.)

Padian's debut novel introduces a quirky and refreshing character. Fourteen-year-old Brett McCarthy is an independent-thinking jock who cherishes the time she spends with her best friend, Diane, and her spunky grandmother, Nonna. Unlike many of her fictional peers, Brett is neither beautiful nor brilliant, but simply an above-average student with a robust vocabulary and a killer instinct on the soccer field. Her life is perfect, or close to it, until an ill-advised phone prank triggers a falling-out with Diane. Soon Brett finds her identity redefined—a recurrent theme—from an athlete with friends to a troublemaker who's been kicked off the team. And when Nonna is diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, Brett must redefine herself again, from self-involved child to mature young woman. Forceful and heartwarming, this coming-of-age story examines what happens when old friends are outgrown and loved ones are no longer there to lean on. At one point, Brett says, “I had shed and added more defining characteristics than I even knew existed.” And even though Padian embraces some well-worn stereotypes (the cheerleaders are pretty airheads and the jocks are blond Adonises), readers will relate to Brett's missteps and successes. Ages 12-up. (Mar.)

Vivian's first novel deftly probes the often confusing intricacies of friendship. When her long-lost father unexpectedly shows up at her 16th birthday party, Ruby flees the scene, shocked and frightened. After all, it's been six years since he drove away from Ruby and her mother in his pickup truck, and Ruby has never heard from him. Her best friend, Beth, has helped Ruby recover from his abandonment, and now that Ruby has been thrown back into turmoil, Beth is once again at Ruby's side, dishing advice. But when Ruby discovers that Beth is hiding a letter to Ruby from her father, she is no longer sure who deserves her trust. Vivian's tale begins slowly, but soon will captivate readers with the puzzle surrounding Ruby's father and what actually happened the day he left, as well as with the dilemma that gradually emerges: is it better to tell a comfortable lie or to share the wrenching truth? Readers will find themselves and their relationships reflected in Ruby's story—for better and worse. Ages 12-up. (Mar.)

Love (Semiprecious) takes a hard look at girl-on-girl bullying and offers counsel to the victims in this smoothly written but overly neat novel. Haley Patterson, proud to be the only freshman on the high school newspaper, has been temporarily writing the anonymous gossip column, In the Know. A reference to a party hosted by social arbiter Camilla Quinn, however, brings down Camilla's Olympian wrath—she begins a “Campaign to Destroy Haley,” successfully renames her Haley the Ho and even sends her a death threat. Not even Haley's best friends talk to her by the time Camilla is through. Love convincingly describes the school scene and its gradual, devastating toll on Haley, but solves her character's problems too conveniently—another girl presses charges against Camilla, and Haley can step forward on her behalf, using Camilla's e-mailed death threat as evidence. Subplots, too, have a deus-ex-machina quality. Readers hoping for help aren't likely to find much beyond sympathy and an endnote directing them to other resources. Ages 12-up. (Mar.)

Overweight Hayley is tired—of Southern California, “where there are more gym memberships than library cards,” of her mother's nagging about her diet and, especially, of being told she has a pretty face, a “veiled insult” if ever there was one. When her parents send her to spend the summer with friends in Italy, hoping to help her escape the pressure over body image, she is thrilled. Hayley does discover a healthier, happier way of life in Umbria; however, Hogan (Perfect Girl) casts a rose-colored lens on the experience (in addition to having her own beautiful cottage and easy-going chaperones, Hayley falls in love with a turquoise-eyed boy who says things like, “I can't look at you without knowing you will soon leave me”). Even so, Hayley commands a sharp wit and delivers smart insights. Like Hayley, readers will question an American culture that is both thin-obsessed and dependent on fast food and cars, but this novel is not so much issues-oriented as a conduit of vicarious pleasure. Ages 14-up. (Apr.)

Sometime in the near future, Jenna Fox, 17, awakens from an 18-month-long coma following a devastating accident, her memory nearly blank. She attempts reorientation by watching videos of her childhood, “recorded beyond reason” by worshipful parents, but mysteries proliferate. Jenna can recite passages from Thoreau yet can't remember having any friends. As memories return, however, Jenna starts picking at the explanation her parents have spun until it unravels. Pearson (A Room on Lorelei Street) uses each revelation to steadily build tension until the true horror comes into focus. Even then Pearson does not stop; she raises the ante in unexpected ways until the very last page. Clues are supplied by the supporting cast: Jenna's father, who made his fortune in biotechnology; a classmate whose loss of limbs has turned her into a crusader for medical ethics; Jenna's Catholic grandmother, who is hostile to her. A few lapses in logic— if Jenna's father is world-famous and the family in hiding, why does she enroll in school under her real name?—can be forgiven in favor of expert plotting and the complex questions raised about ethics and the nature of the soul. Ages 14-up. (Apr.)

Australian author McCarthy crafts a juicy family melodrama in her American debut. Set in her native country, McCarthy's novel unfolds from the point of view of Rose, a no-nonsense 19-year-old whose happy, orderly life is destroyed when her father leaves her mother for another woman. Coping with their own grief, Rose and her three older sisters struggle to keep their mom from falling apart. Alternating between a present-day road trip taken by Rose and her mom and flashbacks from a year earlier detailing the shocking events that precipitate their trip, the book hurtles its audience onto an emotional roller coaster. Right after Rose kisses a cute new boy and is about to fall in love, she comes home to find her mother in a ball on the floor, crying; this is how Rose learns of her father's plans. The changes in tone are jarring but also gripping, and readers won't know what's going to happen next. Occasionally all the flashbacks to varying times can be confusing, and Rose's older sisters seem like stereotypes. But there is an authenticity to the flawed and conflicted Rose that will draw readers into her world. Ages 14-up. (Mar.)

Laura Amores is a tortillera—slang for “lesbian” in Miami's Cuban-American social scene, and a term either of endearment or a slur, depending on who is using it. But once Laura's secret is out, a tortillera is all Laura seems to be—to her mother, the nuns at her Catholic school and even some friends. Laura is thrown out of school and even from her house: “I'm sorry, Laura, but I can't continue loving you if you stay gay,” Mami says as she literally pushes her daughter out the door. Luckily, Laura meets “bois” who introduce her to Miami's Cuban gay scene, and her best friend shares her home and family, unconditionally. Laura remains reluctant to accept her gay identity, however, and her exploration of possible relationships—with a boi, a “delicious” young woman and a boy she dates in hope of restoring herself to her mother's good graces—form the main arc of this honest, intense and at times moving romance. Using Spanish colloquialisms and slang, this debut author pulls off the tricky task of dialect in a manner that feels authentic. As Dole tackles a tough and important topic, her protagonist will win over a range of teen audiences, gay and straight. Ages 14-up. (Mar.)

Signature

Reviewed by Gennifer Choldenko

Like the work of Sid Fleischman and the late Paula Danziger, a Jerry Spinelli novel makes me wish I could carry a Spinelli voice around in my head for the truly awful moments of my life: a trip to the emergency room or a run-in with a rabid police officer. Spinelli's voice is artful, amusing and, above all else, reassuring. There's no doubt Spinelli is a consummate pro. The first page confirms this with spot-on character description: “He always had a jawbreaker in his mouth, and when he wasn't clacking it against his teeth he kept up a constant mutter about everything he did, as if he were a play-by-play announcer describing a game.”

The protagonist is the obsessive plan-making, star-gazing, chess-playing ninth-grader Will Tuppence, who has worked out a 12-point plan for himself clear through to the afterlife. Will is solidly characterized through voice, as in the epitaph he imagines on his tombstone—“Here lies Will Tuppence. He Could Wait”—and his wonderful descriptions of his own experience: “The storm inside me had passed. Just dry husks of thought left on the ground.” Even so, it's the girls who really shine in this loosely contemporary novel. Like Stargirl in Spinelli's winning novel of the same name, Will's love interest Mi-Su is completely and totally original, and Will's palpable longing for her is altogether real: “It came to me during biology lab today. She was at another table, leaning over her fetal pig, and I couldn't stop staring at her.” Mi-Su's baffling reactions to Will and to his best friend, BT, form the heart of this story, engaging the reader with a surprisingly fresh perspective on young love.

Comic relief is provided by Tabby, Will's five-year-old sister, and her persistent but unrequited suitor, the five-year-old, orange-plastic-fish-mobile-riding Korbet Finn. One of the funniest scenes in the book occurs when Will consults Korbet on questions of love and the pursuit of one's romantic interest. The climax pulls Tabby into the fray and, perhaps a little too conveniently, resolves the love triangle among Will and BT and Mi-Su. Still, what makes a Spinelli novel isn't plotting so much as character, dialogue, voice and humor. The Spinelli touch remains true in this funny and thoroughly enjoyable read.

Gennifer Choldenko won a Newbery Honor for Al Capone Does My Shirts, the first of a projected trilogy. Her second Alcatraz novel is due in 2009 from Harcourt, while her most recent novel is If a Tree Falls at Lunch Period (Harcourt, 2007).