Children's Book Reviews

Amandina Goldeneyes, a shy, lonely, long-eared dog, is a talented performer, “but nobody knew that, because nobody knew Amandina.” Amandina decides to rent the rundown Teatro Ventura “in the old town” and spruce it up. She designs costumes, sets and props for her solo debut, which will involve performing music, acrobatics and the role of Beauty opposite a hinge-jointed puppet Beast. But despite her publicity and promo blitz, despite a marvelous dream the night before, the curtain rises to an empty house. Ruzzier (The Little Giant) creates a haunting intimacy with his watercolors of a centuries-old Italian town (the theater is a tiny Umbrian jewel) and its strangely human-eyed animal citizens, as well as his unvarnished language (“Nobody had come. Sometimes these things happen, and nobody can say why”). Showing a magical insight into the imagination of small children, he allows Amandina an intense sweep of feeling before granting her no less—but no more—than her wish. The mood he casts will resonate, particularly with introspective readers. Ages 2–6. (Sept.)

In this latest Adventures of Max and Pinky installment, the Charlie Brown look-alike and his pig best friend work all day to paint their barn, only to discover that someone has repainted it overnight. What's more, the culprit marches to a very different drummer: one morning the barn is pink, the next plaid. With help from a Rube Goldberg–like alarm system (rendered in a very funny blueprint spread), the miscreant is finally revealed as... Pinky himself. Is this the end of a beautiful friendship? Peppering his story with deadpan asides (“This is getting weird,” says the horse) and visual jokes (Pinky subjects a squirrel to an interrogation under a naked light bulb), Eaton (The Best Buds) once again elevates goofiness to fine art. He gets considerable comic mileage out of his simply drawn characters and their dialogue balloon remarks. Even more to his credit, he makes an admirable statement about the nature of friendship without ever turning preachy. Ages 3–6. (Oct.)

Interactive pages colored with ink, paint and photo collage invite readers to revel in what felines already know: that the mere existence of cats is cause for festivity. Schwarz (The Adventures of a Nose) sets a jokester mood from the get-go, from the partial jacket, which lets cats peep out at readers, to text that begins on endpapers (“The cats aren't on this page”). Flaps, the first of them multi-layered and cat-shaped, and die-cut pages capture the essence of play. The “very friendly” Tiny, Moonpie and André, each a different primary color, entice the audience with dialogue balloons: “Hello. Who are you?... Are you nice?... You look nice.” The felines plunge with wild abandon into a tableau of sumptuous yarn and later demand release from exotically decorated lift-the-flap boxes. Elsewhere, flaps unveil a pillow fight in progress, as well as a sutured stuffed dog named Biff, and a mishap results in a “tidal wave” of rogue fish, bewildered foils to their cat counterparts. The whirlwind of pure kinetic energy ensures that readers are wholly part of the impenitent kitty world and will be reluctant to say goodbye. Ages 3–up. (Nov.)

Peruvian children in colorful native garb make their way to a winter solstice celebration in this glowingly illustrated book. Krebs's (We All Went on Safari) rhyming couplets build anticipation as each of six young travelers uses different means of transport (bus, pack animal, etc.) to arrive at the ancient Incan festival of Inti Raymi, honoring the Sun God. The verses set a predictable cadence, although place names won't trip easily off American tongues, e.g., “On Arequippa's crowded train,/ Consuela finds a seat,/ A sack of multicolored corn/ Is tucked between her feet.” Fronty's (One City, Two Brothers) paintings, in a warm, vibrant palette, are contemporary in their compositions but recall folk art in their flat planes and use of patterns. Tile roofs, costumes and the sun's rays incorporate repeated geometric motifs. Meaty endnotes highlight Peru's history, geography and people. Ages 4–10. (Oct.)

Widely known for her picture book classic Millions of Cats, Gág (1893–1946) is the inspiring subject of Ray's well-conceived biography. Focusing on Gág's upbringing in a German-speaking community in Minnesota, Ray (To Go Singing Through the World) deftly interweaves her narrative with passages from Gág's childhood diaries, vividly conjuring the passionate artist and her hunger for drawing (“I can't help it that I've got to draw and paint forever; I cannot stop, I cannot, cannot, CANNOT,” writes Gág). Illustrations loosely recall folk art in their use of frontal compositions and bold color as they depict the various settings—the old-world Bohemian atmosphere of Gág's early life and, later, the art world of New York City—with fine naturalistic and period detail. Readers will relate to the elements Ray highlights: Gág's love for fairy tales, the bustling activities of her grandparents' tiny village and the example of her artist father, whose dying words to his 15-year-old daughter drove her for the rest of her life—“What Papa couldn't do, Wanda will have to finish.” An exemplary integration of primary research in a compelling, visually exciting book. Ages 6–8. (Oct.)

In time to mark the 60th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in December, this attractive volume taps roughly 30 illustrators for visual interpretations of that document; the text is a simplified, child-friendly version from Amnesty International. Luminaries include Peter Sís, whose art is on the cover; John Burningham, who envisions Articles 1 and 2 (“We are all born free and equal.... These rights belong to everybody, whatever our differences”) as a multiracial crew of smiling children bouncing on a trampoline, balloons floating into the distance; Jane Ray, who responds to Article 5, against torture, with a painting of a seemingly scarred rag doll, well patched but burned and spattered in red paint; and Chris Riddell, who injects a rare note of humor via a dragon that accidentally destroys the “proper order” called for in Article 28. The structure is cumbersome, as readers have to flip to back matter to learn who illustrated what, and the art tends to be literal-minded (children dancing around a statue of Nelson Mandela). Even so, the concepts emerge clearly, and adults searching for a way to introduce children to the complicated subject of human rights need look no further. Ages 6–up. (Oct.)

Forget low expectations from celebrity authors—this series opener is warm, funny and tender. Alexandrea Petrakova Johnson's mother has been foisting her own ballet fantasies on her daughter ever since she was born, and now that the two of them have moved from Georgia to Harlem, Alexandrea has been enrolled in the Nutcracker School of Ballet (“When I was growing up, I dreamed of taking ballet [there],” says Mama). A would-be costume designer, Mama gives her wild outfits names, like her Iceberg Suit (“white with shades of shimmery blue” with a triangular cap over each shoulder), and makes outrageous hats. Goldberg stops short of caricature, finding something believable to respect in Alexandrea's struggles in her dance class and in Mama's perseverance. She also gets friendships right, from the science-minded girl who, supposedly inspired by Leonardo da Vinci, speaks backward, to great comic effect; to a snobbish trio. Teachers behave reasonably, as does Alexandrea, and when she unsurprisingly finds success, it's credible and cause for readers' happiness, too. Ages 6–10. (Oct.)

In a bittersweet tale, Williams (The True Colors of Caitlynne Jackson) describes a friendship between two sixth-graders that is touching even though it follows a predictable course. When new girl Alane shows up at school, outsider Beauty McElwrath forgets her family motto: “Pretty is as pretty diz”—even though the class has been warned that Alane has progeria, “an affliction that makes her age faster,” as the teacher puts it. Beauty is horrified to see that she looks “all wrinkled... like a dried-up apple.” At first Beauty hopes that Alane might replace her as the class “freakoid,” then realizes, lengthily, that “being mean to someone else would [not] make those kids like me.” Ashamed, prodded by both her mother and her teacher (who happens to be dating her mother) to befriend Alane, Beauty decides to change her ways; her efforts are rewarded as she discovers Alane's adventurous, fun-loving side. The validity of Beauty's feelings compensates for sometimes cloying first-person narration (“A big ol' glob of sadness made tears come to my eyes”); the circumstances created by Alane's progeria, rare as it is, will be recognizable to readers as their own social conflicts writ large. Ages 8–12. (Oct.)

Mirroring themes found in An Na's recent Fold but geared for a younger audience, this timely novel also revolves around a Korean-American heroine who considers plastic surgery in an effort to look more American. Tired of being called “Slant,” 13-year-old Lauren—the adopted daughter of white parents—dreams of having surgery that will make her eyes appear rounder. But after scheduling the operation, Lauren has second thoughts. Using first-person narrative, Williams (Behind the Bedroom Wall) pointedly conveys how Lauren's observations are linked to her changing attitude. First Lauren begins to notice that all her classmates —even the popular kids—have flaws (“Even cheerleader Sandy has thick ankles,” Lauren notes after Sandy points out that one of Lauren's tormentors has a “big Jew nose”). Later, she comes to realize that outer beauty does not ensure happiness, an idea melodramatically illustrated in a scene in which Lauren discovers that her mother, dead for three years, died of suicide and not in an accident. Although the moral is transparent and the outcome predictable, readers will relate to the vulnerable heroine and her struggle. Ages 8–13. (Oct.)

A lavish middle-grade novel, Gaiman's first since Coraline, this gothic fantasy almost lives up to its extravagant advance billing. The opening is enthralling: “There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife.” Evading the murderer who kills the rest of his family, a child roughly 18 months old climbs out of his crib, bumps his bottom down a steep stairway, walks out the open door and crosses the street into the cemetery opposite, where ghosts take him in. What mystery/horror/suspense reader could stop here, especially with Gaiman's talent for storytelling? The author riffs on the Jungle Book, folklore, nursery rhymes and history; he tosses in werewolves and hints at vampires—and he makes these figures seem like metaphors for transitions in childhood and youth. As the boy, called Nobody or Bod, grows up, the killer still stalking him, there are slack moments and some repetition—not enough to spoil a reader's pleasure, but noticeable all the same. When the chilling moments do come, they are as genuinely frightening as only Gaiman can make them, and redeem any shortcomings. Ages 10–up. (Oct.)

Inspired by Asian culture, Goodman (Singing the Dogstar Blues) weaves a fantasy with contemporary themes about gender identity and female power. Because women are forbidden to study Dragon magic, 16-year-old Eona disguises herself as Eon, a 12-year-old boy, to compete to be an apprentice Dragoneye, a communicant with one of 12 energy dragons. Crippled years earlier, she is least likely to be chosen. But then the Mirror Dragon, mysteriously absent for 500 years, appears at the competition and selects Eona. Unable to share her secret even with her new friends, the soldier eunuch Ryko and Lady Dela, a “Contraire,” or transgender courtier, Eona must confront the corrupt Lord Ido and save the empire from his schemes—and discover how to invoke the power of the Mirror Dragon. Goodman's characters hold built-in appeal for fans of Tamora Pierce (particularly of her Song of the Lioness Quartet), but they go further than Pierce's in staking out their sexuality; the author's plotting is elaborate, smart and capable of taking the audience by surprise. Enthralled readers will be hard-pressed to wait for the story's second half, Eona: The Last Dragoneye, scheduled for 2010. Ages 12–up. (Dec.)

Blundell, author of Star Wars novelizations, turns out a taut, noirish mystery/coming-of-age story set in 1947; it's easy to picture it as a film starring Lana Turner, who is mentioned in these pages. When first met, 15-year-old Evie and her best friend are buying chocolate cigarettes to practice smoking. Evie sheds that innocence on a trip to Florida, where her stepfather, Joe, back from the war in Europe, abruptly takes her and her beautiful mother, Beverly, and where Evie falls in love with glamorous Peter, an army buddy whom Joe is none too happy to see. But after a boating accident results in a suspicious death and an inquest, Evie is forced to revisit her romance with Peter and her relationships with Joe and her mother, and to consider that her assumptions about all three may have been wrong from the beginning. Blundell throws Evie's inexperience into high relief with slangy, retro dialogue: Peter calls Evie “pussycat”; Beverly says her first husband “kicked through love like it was dust and he kept on walking.” Readers can taste Evie's alienation and her yearning; it's a stylish, addictive brew. Ages 12–up. (Nov.)

In precise, often excruciating detail, Phillips (Chloe Doe) describes the downward spiral of an outcast at a school that is like a war zone. Cameron Grady is a sorely bullied freshman, the target of the football team, aka the “Red Coats”; he has become “a guy who's too afraid to bend over and tie his shoe, afraid he'll be a like a duck with his head underwater, afraid a Red Coat will pluck him out of the pond and pick apart his insides.” Cameron escapes by running, and by playing with fire, literally—burning matches, his skin and a large portion of the woods near his home. Like a fire, Cameron's anger is searing, and it grows out of control. Finally, he does the unthinkable, turning on the Red Coats' other target, a classmate with even fewer defenses than Cameron, and the consequences are fatal. Writing about redemption, the author challenges readers to consider who is a criminal and who is a victim, and how far a victim is allowed to go to stand up for himself. In an age of school violence, this thought-provoking, incisive story will have staying power. Ages 12–up. (Nov.)

Beccia (Who Put the B in the Ballyhoo?) lures tweens to examine history by exploding well-enshrined myths about European royals: Marie Antoinette never said, “Let them eat cake,” and Napoleon was in fact taller than the average northern European of his day. Her stylish mélange of witty illustrations—silhouettes with speech bubbles, dramatic tableaux, caricatures—and interactive text demands reader participation: rather than provide a historical narrative, the author presents statements as true-or-false quizzes, then theorizes why a rumor might have come to exist. Beccia's language achieves that fine line between appealing to kids and condescending to them: on the subject of bear-baiting, she writes, “Parents think today's video games are violent, but they should have seen what the Elizabethan kids did for fun.” The book runs heavy on Henry VIII, his wives and daughters, with fully 28 pages devoted to them; while this emphasis seems lopsided, it also allows Beccia to demonstrate a closer interpretation of specific events and to show how subjective history can be. Ages 9-12. (Sept.)

In her first YA book, picture book artist Delacre (Arroz con leche) seizes upon an intimate subject: the death of her 16-year-old daughter, Alicia, in a car crash. Writing of herself as Mamá, she views Alicia through the eyes of friends, classmates and other girls on the Poms dance squad, all of whom Delacre interviewed. Invariably they describe a exuberant and congenial teen, a girl whose worst flaw is a tendency to trick her way out of eating her spinach. Delacre says she hopes to bring comfort to teens struggling with their own sudden losses, but it may be difficult for teens to identify with these idealized relationships. On the other hand, Alicia's friends express their grief realistically and without platitudes: one pretends that she and Alicia have simply lost touch; another finds that talking about Alicia makes it worse. Bereaved readers will be encouraged that whatever their approaches, all of the individuals (including the driver responsible for the crash) eventually begin to feel better without forgetting their friend. Ages 12–up. (Sept.)