Children's Book Reviews: Week of 7/7/2008

Seeger (First the Egg) crafts another nifty peek-a-boo book, counting to 10 and identifying new words by exposing or covering letters with die-cuts. A square die-cut on the cover frames the head of the title character, who is quickly introduced: as readers turn to the first spread, Seeger offers a numeral one and “one boy” on the verso page, with the boy framed in a rectangle on the right. A turn of the page shifts the opening to the left side and the words “all alone” appear, with “alone” incorporating “one.” The boy now is visible without the frame, seated among empty chairs, a knapsack and paintbrushes by his side. This pattern repeats with “two seals/ at the sea,” the “sea” derived from “seals.” “Three apes,” behind die-cut bars of a cage, make a “big escape.” Aside from “four monkeys” who “[hold] the key” to the apes' cage, the images do not form a continuous narrative. Instead, the “one boy” reappears, and with the words “all done,” he walks away from the book's 10 images, his paintbrushes dripping. Seeger uses pared-down digital art and flat saturated colors, trading in her characteristic handmade appeal for a slick look. But she's innovative as ever, improving a standard-issue concept with a game of words inside words. Ages 2–6. (Sept.)

A wiry girl outwits a kidnapping ogre in this visually enticing story from the Netherlands. The twist is that the balance of power is really never in question: the girl is thrilled to be spirited away (it's a slow vacation day), and more than a little miffed when the pouting ogre reveals that all he wants to do is eat her (“He wasn't a nice villain at all! I'd been looking forward to many adventures, only to end up with an ordinary old child cruncher!”). She escapes, narrating her acts of derring-do with a wry disingenuousness (“You're all red in the face,” she tells the ogre as he is shown entangled in a well-placed net. “You'd better take it easy now. Do sit down”). Van Hout (paired with Stein for Brave Ben), working in what seem to be primarily pastels, conjures up a series of magical environments—a not-quite-spooky forest bathed in the blue light of a giant moon, a lair rendered in murky, mottled lavender and a verdant backyard tricked out in the style of the Swiss Family Robinson. Full of fun. Ages 2–6. (Aug.)

In time for autumn, Henkes (Kitten's First Full Moon) masterfully tells of a hibernating bear who “dreamed that spring had come and he was a cub again.” Henkes's surefooted art guides readers through time: a terracotta dust jacket and acorn-brown frontpapers inked with dark brown leaves set the season. The tawny bear, pictured in full-page or four-to-a-page images, curls in his den, his eyes closed and his paws relaxed. Full-bleed spreads depict his dreams, first of being small among enormous flowers (“He took a nap in a giant pink crocus”), then of wandering on lush green summer hillsides (“The sky clouded over, and it rained blueberries”). His hibernation vision of fall includes rust-colored birds and orange fish, and his imaginary winter is a cool blue expanse under stars “of all colors.” When the bear's eyes open on a real spring day, he feels refreshed, if larger and older than his dream self. Lyrically describing the young-at-heart, Henkes plays an artist's game of hot and cold watercolor hues. Lilac endpapers crowded with flowers and butterflies and a back cover image of the bear in springtime balance the cover's imagery and gently and calmly acknowledge the annual cycle. Ages 2–7. (Sept.)

Just as children have dreams, say Archbishop Tutu and Abrams (previously paired with Tutu for God Has a Dream: A Vision of Hope for Our Time), so does God: “God dreams that every one of us will see that we are all brothers and sisters—yes, even you and me—even if we have different mommies and daddies or live in different faraway lands.” The authors understand that direct prose can often be the most reassuring; they tell readers, “God does not force us to be friends or to love one another.... But when we say we're sorry and forgive one another, we wipe away our tears and God's tears, too.” Pham (Big Sister, Little Sister) forgoes much of the impishness that enlivens her best titles, but even though she's working with familiar brotherhood-of-man tropes (a global cast of children, some wearing non-Western clothes, gather in a single, idyllic location to play and worship), she nimbly sidesteps triteness through her velvety, saturated palette and the unassuming sweetness of her characterizations. This is not a book to win converts, but a wide range of believers, including children at the younger end of the target audience, should respond to its heartfelt appeals, Ages 2–8. (Sept.)

It seems entirely fitting that a book about a girl invited to take tea with the queen carry the Duchess of York's byline. The author shares her etiquette rules for such a scenario via unruly Ruby, whose excitement renders her boisterous and ineloquent. As she repeatedly proclaims, “I've been invited to have tea with the Queen!,” other characters admonish her to mind her various manners: “I hope you won't talk with your mouth full”; “I hope you won't interrupt”; “I hope you'll remember to sit up straight.” Ruby barrels through the bustling pages like a little tornado, hair tumbling, shoelaces undone; it's easy to understand everybody's trepidation. Interspersed with pictures of Ruby's chaotic life are her imaginings of an elegant existence at the palace, depicted in golden line drawings, against which she and the other characters are regally clothed in 18th-century–style garments. The thin plot may disappoint princess-loving readers, especially when the identity of “the Queen” is finally revealed, but Glasser's exuberant illustrations, rendered in her unmistakable Fancy Nancy style, sustain the book's spirit. Ages 4–8. (Sept.)

A new moon is in the sky, and Yasmeen, identified on the jacket as a seven-year-old Pakistani-American, knows that it is time for the holidays of Ramadan and Eid. As Khan (How to Say What You Mean, Mean What You Say, and Get What You Want) and Paschkis (Glass Slip per, Gold Sandal) follow Yasmeen through all the festivities (a family backyard barbecue, a visit to a mosque, a henna hand-painting), they portray Muslims as another vibrant thread in the great American tapestry, emphasizing the bonds of family, community and spirituality rather than details of a particular belief system (for example, Yasmeen's mother explains that the customary fasting “helps me remember to be grateful for the food I have and to be more patient”). Paschkis, borrowing from the arabesque motifs and jeweled colors of Islamic art, portrays the Muslim community as warm, welcoming and multi-ethnic (for non-Muslim youngsters, the idea that Islam is practiced by many different kinds of people may be revelatory). Sweet and visually striking, this is a good choice both for children who celebrate these holidays and for others seeking a bridge to their culture. Ages 4–8. (Sept.)

Alvin Ho, a Chinese-American second-grader with “so-so performance anxiety disorder,” is afraid of just about everything: elevators, tunnels, kimchi, wasabi. But one thing is especially frightening: “I have never spoken a word in school,” Alvin says, and he's mystified, “since I come from a long line of farmer-warriors who haven't had a scaredy bone in their bodies since 714 AD.” By the end of the story, his fears are pretty much intact—but he's found a friend, made progress on his “How to Be a Gentleman” list and learned that joining a “gang” is for the birds. Look's (the Ruby Lu series) intuitive grasp of children's emotions is rivaled only by her flair for comic exaggeration, as in Alvin's description of his elderly piano teacher: “She bent like a question mark... and looked exactly like her pictures in The Complete Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales, Deluxe Edition.” It's perfection that Alvin's friend turns out to be his once-despised desk buddy, Flea, a one-eyed girl with one leg longer than the other, “like a peg leg”; she prides herself on her understanding of him, and he enthusiastically thinks her eyepatch and legs make her look like a pirate. Ahoy! Ages 6–10. (July)

Take a bedraggled, evil sorceress with a dire need for gold and a dimwitted troll for a sidekick, an impish prince with a goody-two-shoes twin brother, a noble-hearted yet naïve young maiden and her conniving stepsister with a chip on her perfectly slim shoulder, throw them into a screwball fairytale, and the result approximates French's (the Tiara Club series) latest. Intersecting plotlines map each of the four major characters' individual journeys over the brambly hill and through the enchanted woods until their fortunes collide for better or for worse at—what else?—a ball. What follows is as wacky as it is entertaining: as princes galore are zapped into frogs, quirky elements like mazes that change direction and talking bats move the story along. As any fairytale fan knows, there's always a happy ending to look forward to, and this one doesn't disappoint. The elaborate b&w sketches, on the safe side of macabre, add to the fun. Ages 7–9. (July)

Mystery lovers will get a kick out of this rollicking whodunit featuring swashbuckling soothsayers, outlandish séances, magic tricks and more. Set in the Roaring 20s, the fact-based narrative follows Scooter King, a sharp-witted 13-year-old who finds a dead body in Harry Houdini's Burmese Torture Tank and vows to unmask the murderer before he or she strikes again. Meanwhile, Scooter's mother is grasping at fame as a spiritual medium—albeit by counting on Scooter to manipulate various instruments and gadgets behind the scenes—and fighting off Houdini's attempts to expose fortunetelling frauds. The storytelling is pure fun, as the author uses flavorful period details (Scooter's mother says that even a “Bolshevik” could make himself rich: “All you have to do now is sit long enough on a flagpole, or dance the Charleston until you nearly drop dead”), and Scooter, the narrator, gets his perspective across with plenty of slang (“a lot of applesauce”; “the eel's hips”). As if staging a magic show of his own, Lawrence (The Wreckers) builds suspense and adds plot twists right up until the climactic conclusion. Ages 8–12. (July)

This smartly conceived, action-packed and at times downright silly tale offers further proof of Gutman's (The Million Dollar Shot) skill at entertaining tween boys. Trip Dinkleman, an unabashed book-hater, gets roped into helping set up some book fair displays on his way to lacrosse tryouts. When a stack of books conks him on the head, he is catapulted through a number of popular genres, starring as the main character in each sample. First he meets Professor Psycho, who wants to open a chain of human parts stores; he then moves from horror to sports fiction as he finds himself a member of the Philadelphia Eagles, playing in the Super Bowl. In one especially nutty adventure, Trip winds up in a field with a cornball superhero named Captain Obvious (he gleefully accosts his foes by shouting, “You have two eyes!” and “You are a bad man!”) who gives Trip the name The Alliterator and insists that he speak alliteratively. Each new chapter introduces similarly outré characters who help define (and send up) each genre; readers can happily consume this book section by section. Ages 8–12. (July)

Using free verse as her vehicle, Hopkins (Crank, Glass) takes readers on a harrowing ride into the psyches of 16-year-old identical twins Kaeleigh and Raeanne, both of whom are racing toward self-destruction. The girls' family appears picture-perfect. Their father is a prominent judge, their mother is running for Congress, and both girls do well in school. But ever since an accident, “Mom doesn't love anyone./ She is marble. Beautiful./ Frigid. Easily stained/ by her family. What's left/ of us, anyway. We are corpses.” Raeanne seeks escape in sex and drugs; Kaileigh binges and cuts herself. Brief, gutsy confessions reveal a history of sexual abuse and emotional neglect, and it's not clear that both girls will survive it. Hopkins's verse is not only lean and sinuous, it also demonstrates a mastery of technique. Strategically placed concrete verse includes a poem about revenge shaped like a double-edged sword; in another, about jealousy, the lines form one heart reflecting another, until a rupture breaks the symmetry at the bottom. Often, the twins' entries mirror each other, on facing pages: although used differently in the two poems, the same key words are set off in corresponding stanzas (“think./ How/ different/ life./ could be” reads one set of key words). Those for whom Uncle Vampire means something will anticipate the still-breathless climax; all others, including most of the target audience, will be shocked. Ages 14–up. (Aug.)

Harris (Mail Harry to the Moon!, Reviews, Apr. 28) and Bang (When Sophie Gets Angry—Really, Really Angry) are so simpatico that it's almost surprising that no one thought of bringing them together sooner. Their hero is sulking after some serial misbehaving—evoked via vibrant collages of photos and cut paper—when Mommy's disciplining finally pushes him to an act of provocative communication. Bang portrays Leo as almost demonic, his flushed face ballooning above his tiny body as the titular words blast out of his mouth. Instantly mortified—his too-large head suddenly makes him seem awkward and vulnerable—he now has a new problem: Could the words he spoke in anger negate Mommy's love for him? Harris is not (and never has been) interested in portraying Stepford families. When Leo weakly points out that, after all, Mommy expressed a hatred of broccoli at dinner the night before, she loses it. “BROCCOLI?”—Bang punctuates the already expressive typography with photos of the vegetable—“I am NOT broccoli! You are NOT broccoli!” But this breach is not, of course, irreparable, and the way Mommy brings it off is so humane, sensible and, yes, replicable, that booksellers might actually want to consider filing copies of this book in the parenting section. Ages 3–6. (Sept.)