Children's Book Reviews

Kicking off with “1 tiny baby starts to run” and ending with 10 sleeping babies tucked into their cribs, Katz (Princess Baby) once again puts her kewpie doll crew through their paces, this time enumerating all the fun things that babies do, from toe wriggling and noisemaking to eating with abandon. Giggles, smiles (both angelic and ever-so-slightly mischievous) and wide-eyed wonder abound as the babies frolic and accumulate additional compadres in nursery-hued settings. “4 noisy babies bang and shout!/ Along comes another... to sing right out!” The second half of every couplet is split by a page turn, providing a gentle tease that encourages readers to flip the page and complete the rhyme. Ideally suited for read-aloud in both cadence and content, the book is a solid addition to Katz's extensive oeuvre of adorableness. Ages 1–5. (Sept.)

“Even though there's four—count them!—four other people right here in this house,/ It's just as if there's nobody here but me.” So bemoans a boy who believes that he's being neglected by busy family members (Dad is answering e-mail, Mom is on the phone, and his older sister and a friend are “playing games for two, not three”). The boy's numerous ploys for attention include raising a false alarm (“Hurry, Mom, I think there's a snake in the shower”), acting out (turning the kitchen into a snack-strewn “catastrophe”) and taking to bed at 5 p.m. He's unable to bend others to his will, but finally gets his revenge by playing possum when the family finally checks in on him in bed. Davenier's (Has Anyone Seen My Emily Greene?) luminous watercolors capture the boy's complex emotions with cool lavenders and blues amplifying gloomier moments. (The inclusion of several clocks plays up the agony of waiting and gently suggests a touch of overreaction—the story takes place over the course of an hour.) Viorst (Just in Case), as always, respects her readers too much to preach to them; instead, she empathetically and accurately mirrors their feelings so they can savor the injustice while understanding that it, too, will pass. Ages 3–6. (Sept.)

Both clever and suspenseful, this surefire delight tells the story of a pencil who must deal with the consequences of his inventions. The pencil begins by drawing a boy (Banjo from Ahlberg and Ingman's The Runaway Dinner), a dog and a cat—and their world soon expands dramatically (and colorfully, thanks to Kitty, a paintbrush the pencil creates). Complaints start to surface (“ 'I shouldn't be smoking a pipe,' said a grandpa”), but the pencil's solution—an eraser—runs rampant and tries to rub out everything, including the pencil. Ingman exuberantly conveys the joy of both construction and destruction—in one scene, animals and people flee on foot, bicycle and skateboard as the eraser wipes away the spare, yellow background. The book's comical, unexpected plot and wry narrator keep the story fresh throughout—a running joke involves each of the pencil's creations insisting on a name; those the pencil provides are largely nonsensical (the endpapers are filled with additional items—a bike named Augusta, a cuckoo clock named William). Tranquility reigns by book's end, but young readers are sure to be absorbed in finding out what happens next as the pencil draws his way out of one predicament after another. Ages 4–8. (Aug.)

It's midnight and all the mischievous spirits that haunt the castle are in a partying mood: “Wizards wiggle!/ Ghostlings giggle!/ Demons do their thing!” As the party progresses, seven knights (whose names include Sir Loin and Sir Prize) find themselves unable to resist the siren call to get jiggy. Wheeler and Siegel (who previously collaborated on Seadogs) have created a entire population of lively characters, from “go-go goblins” to mummies and serpents that mambo and samba. In a pictorial subplot, two reader surrogates—a little prince who nervously spies on the action and a winsome ghost princess who emerges from a painting—find each other and become dance partners. Siegel's artistic versatility is equally impressive and fun: his drawings range from doodled portraits that seem ripped from a sketchpad to handsome chiaroscuro vignettes that slyly spoof the gothic aesthetic. A freewheeling rhyme scheme and judicious use of color amp up the party atmosphere, though the text and visual elements don't always come together cohesively and can compete to be a focal point. Still, this romp is a cut abovestandard Halloween fare. Ages 4–8. (Aug.)

A precocious tot with a carrot-orange cowlick turns into a reading superstar in this whimsical tale with a hammer-it-home message about reading. Young audiences should enjoy the silliness factor that increases with each turn of the page. After toddlerhood, Sam reads books about “good nutrition, grand ambition,/ playing fair,/ and bike repair” and goes on to win an adult cycling race. He later vanquishes the baby giant Grundaloon (a reference to Beowulf's Grendel?) by calming him down with a few stories and a bite to eat. “And while the giant ate his snack up,/ Sam discreetly called for backup.” Conventionally rhymed couplets—used in Sierra and Brown's previous collaboration, Wild AboutBooks—return here; the rich vocabulary gives the story a jaunty tempo, as do the appealing full-color gouache cartoon illustrations, filled with bouncy polka-dot motifs. Brown's fans will recognize his signature round, wide-eyed faces in this story's human cast. Numerous childhood favorites make appearances, e.g., Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, Pat the Bunny, even an Arthur book. Not leaving the moral up to supposition, Sierra spells it out more than once: “Readers win and/ winners read” and “Yes, readers can/ go anyplace!” Ages 4-8. (Aug.)

Smith, who slyly recast U.S. history in John, Paul, George and Ben, introduces a zealous, freckled girl with presidential aspirations. Refreshingly, Katy skips the hand-wringing and never questions whether a girl could become commander-in-chief—instead, she behaves as if she is president already, fulfilling official duties at home and in school. Attired in a dark pantsuit, she brashly inserts herself in a Boy Scout “photo op,” attends a pet frog's “state funeral” and treats an oral report as a press conference: “No comment. I'll get back to you on that.” In mixed-media sequences with emphatic type, Smith mingles earnest words with visual jokes, such as the trail of small American flags Katy leaves in her wake. He depicts the heroine wielding the veto (the cafeteria's tuna casserole gets a nay) and, in florid script, crafts unofficial “Hail to the Chief” lyrics praising “the most awesome one of all” and “her rad administration.” At one point, Katy crows in capital letters, “Why, the president is the most important person in the whole wide world!” (Tiny lowercase letters add, “And the most humble.”) Smith gazes into the national future and just as ably skewers the pitfalls of political office. Ages 4–8. (July)

Two West Coast Chicano artists (From the Bellybutton of the Moon and Other Summer Poems) celebrate Iguazú Falls, the immense rain forest waterfalls that lie between Argentina and Brazil. “These waterfalls/ are the big blue/ and green laughter/ of Mother Earth/ cascading down/ in loud peals,” declares Alarcón; Gonzalez assembles big, cheerful blocks of tropical color, invoking the falls with Matisse-like fronds of white and light blue. Short poems, often just 10 or 20 words long, adopt the voices of the animals that fill the rain forest around the falls: “From our perch/ we ants can spot/ many people... holding digital cameras/ taking lots of photos... ignoring the great/ and tiny wonders/ all around them.” Alarcón writes with a kind of bubbly reverence, avoiding the sententiousness that characterizes much save–the–rain forest literature. Each of the 26 poems appears in both English and Spanish, with many explanatory footnotes; together with the dense illustrations, the effect of the pages duplicates that of the rain forest, jam-packed with things to look at. Ages 6–up. (Aug.)

Catering to comics junkies, this vibrant and well-researched picture book biography introduces the youthful inventors of Superman, who this year celebrates his 70th anniversary. Writer Jerry Siegel and illustrator Joe Shuster are mild-mannered everymen whose reflective glasses conceal their eyes—and their potential. In a crowded high school hallway, Jerry wishes he could be with his “friends,” and a turn of the page reveals Tarzan, Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers. Joe, “lousy at sports and mousy around girls,” draws sci-fi heroes with a passion. In 1934, when both are 20, Jerry dreams up the Superman concept and Joe draws prototypes labeled “S” for “ 'super.' And for 'Siegel' and 'Shuster.' ” In June 1938, their creation launches in Action Comics. Nobleman details this achievement with a zest amplified by MacDonald's (Another Perfect Day) punchy illustrations, done in a classic litho palette of brassy gold, antique blue and fireplug red. MacDonald's Depression-era vignettes picture Siegel pondering his superhero's powers and the friends casting a single, caped shadow. A cautionary afterword chronicles their protracted financial struggles with DC Comics—when Siegel and Shuster sold their first Superman story, they also sold all rights to the character, for $130. Ages 10–up. (July)

McGhee's (Someday) utterly likable title character, nine-year-old Julia Gillian, is good at a number of things: making papier-mâché masks with her own special recipe for flour and water paste, and knowing what her aging St. Bernard, Bigfoot, is trying to say. She has also mastered “the Art of Knowing,” the ability to predict the daily routines of those around her. But during her summer break, her teacher parents are busy studying, and are unable to participate in the usual family visits to the water park or dinners at the Quang Restaurant. Ever resourceful, Julia Gillian walks around their Minneapolis neighborhood with Bigfoot, trying to add to her list of accomplishments as she interacts with neighbors and storekeepers. However, “it seemed to be getting harder to master the things she wanted to master. Was this, too, something that happened when you got older?'” And then there is the matter of “the green book” that her parents want her to finish reading. Her Art of Knowing has made Julia Gillian think that the book, about a dog just one year older than Bigfoot, might end unhappily, and the thought of finishing it scares her. Although at times her voice reads a little young, Julia Gillian's fears and their ultimate resolution are very relatable. The book is well paced, laced with line drawings that capture Julia Gillian's slightly whimsical personality, and overall as satisfying as the strawberry bubble tea served at the Quang Restaurant. Ages 9–12. (June)

Photographer Howe's first novel, based on his rescue of an abandoned dog in 1981, is a coming-of-age tale told from the canine perspective, with ample anthropomorphizing. Believing he has been separated from his owner, Waggit crisscrosses Central Park until he is befriended by Tazar, leader of a band of generally affable strays (“We are our own masters; we owe obedience to no one,” Tazar sternly tells Waggit). Waggit's new “brothers and sisters” teach him survival skills that may make vegetarians squirm, and he contributes by trapping “scurries” and “hoppers” when winter descends and food becomes scarce. A battle with a rival pack and the ever-present threat of park rangers who take dogs to the Great Unknown provide tension—Waggit gets captured, but ultimately gains a new home and owner. Dog lovers (especially New Yorkers) will enjoy the knee-high view of the park and Howe's take on canine vernacular—it's not Central Park West but “Goldenside,” and humans are “Uprights.” (A glossary and birds'-eye-view map marking both geography and plot points are provided.) Howe doesn't sugarcoat the lives of homeless dogs, and readers will find themselves drawn into the struggles and triumphs of Waggit's found family. Ages 10-up. (July)

Rewriting the myth of Perseus and Andromeda is a formidable task, but Halam (Dr. Franklin's Island) performs it with seeming ease and tongue-in-cheek humor. Demigod Perseus becomes smitten when Andromeda, a beautiful princess trying to escape her fate of being a human sacrifice, runs away to his island. But before romance can get off the ground, the evil king of Serifos dispatches Perseus to fetch the head of Medusa, the snake-haired monster who can turn men to stone. With some help from supernatural beings, Perseus hopes to accomplish more: save his people from tyranny and rescue Andromeda. Mythology buffs will appreciate the plethora of classical figures, while periodic references to contemporary culture (e.g., a band of rich, rowdy teens are dubbed “the Yacht Club kids”) and occasional slang drive the story home for the target audience without sacrificing its heroic dimensions. Ages 12–up. (June)

Trading demonic possession for vampirism, Jenkins (Repossessed) explores the existential crises of a clan of “hemovores,” or “hemes.” In her world, hemes feed on humans or “omnis” (short for omnivores), but do so with restraint—regular, controlled feedings prevent their animal “Thirst” from taking over. Cole and a bighearted heme, Sandor, embark on a road trip to train Gordon, a naïve, college-age “accident” who has recently joined their ranks, and help him adjust to his current state. Cole displays monk-like self-discipline and denial as he models the lonely, endless nightlife of the heme for Gordon. (“You're a parasite, not a predator,” scolds Cole when Gordon realizes he could take advantage of his victim's entranced state during a feeding. “Our lives are built on their backs, and we owe them civility at least.”) As they travel, the hemes debate their ability to die, whether they possess souls and the futility of dating; the appearance of a rogue heme provides dramatic tension. Save a few minor female hemes, Jenkins's world is male-dominated, which may turn off some readers (Cole describes subservient omni groupies as “young people who read too much Anne Rice”). But overall, Jenkins provides a page-turner and a fresh, intriguing view of the vampiric “life.” Ages 12–up. (June)

In her first YA novel, Baskin's (The Truth About My Bat Mitzvah) portrait of a teen questioning the meaning of love is as candid and alluring as her books for middle-grade readers. High-school sophomore Natalie Gordon embarks on a journey to find her mother, who abandoned her and her father more than four years ago. During her bus ride from Connecticut to Florida, Natalie recalls incidents from her childhood leading up to her mother's departure and mulls over her tumultuous relationship with an older boy, as well as her concern that she may be pregnant. Natalie meets a few people along the way—an elderly knitter, a mild-mannered hotel manager—and Baskin captures her protagonist's subtle progression from ignoring these people to opening up to some of them; vignettes about the strangers' lives drive home the universal need to be loved. These brief glimpses might leave some readers yearning to know more about these characters but, as Natalie realizes, even minor connections are what are important in life: “Even the temporary, even the transient, even the people who you are never going to see again but who exist because we need them to, because we are human.” Ages 14–up. (Aug.)

U.K. author Mills's U.S. debut about a kidnapping gone haywire ventures into Edward Bloor/Ouida Sebestyen territory, but lacks the tension and shrewd psychological calculation to pull off its sensationalist plot. Jeremiah, an obviously sociopathic high-school student, has founded the Religion of the Hebetheus and persuaded a handful of his damaged peers to join his cult. Convincing his followers that he has overheard a beautiful, supposedly Muslim classmate named Padma (she's Hindu) tell a friend that she has plans to plant a bomb in her locker, he masterminds her kidnapping. The “brethren” hold her hostage for days in a cottage whose tenant, an old lady, lies in her bed, newly dead. Jon, the book's confused narrator, predictably falls for Padma and has a change of heart, as do other disciples; as none of them are any too bright, readers will find it hard to stay interested in their thinking. The fiery Waco-like showdown at the end feels not only obvious but overdue. Ages 14–up. (June)