Children's Book Reviews: Week of 3/9/2009

The collaborators behind I Heard It from Alice Zucchini offer a warmhearted story about a family with big plans for a little newborn. Davenier's luminous watercolors and vivid characterizations are the main draw; she portrays a large, loving and highly expressive family that can't help projecting their identities onto their newest member. Among those cooing and making goo-goo eyes at the bassinette are Uncle Tony, who thinks baby Ellen is certain to be a pilot (“soaring, coasting, loop-de-looping, like me”), and Aunt Rachel, an academic, who declares that Ellen will “master Sanskrit and Javascript, Greek and Chinese, ponder scrolls and Web sites, just like me.” Ellen, who isn't revealed until the final page, finally asserts herself with “an earth-shaking howl, a cloud-ruffling yowl, a listen-to-me-I'm a-baby squall.” Although this book won't help ease nascent sibling rivalry—what kid wants to be reminded that everyone's attention is focused on the new arrival?—the gentle joke at the expense of the silly relatives should go over well. Ages 6 mos.–3 yrs. (Apr.)

Maybelle is a young rabbit who lives in Homer, Alaska (and no, she can't see Russia from her house). Rather, debut author Patterson offers his serenely confident heroine as a guide to the seasons in a landscape where “the winter days are short and cold.... but the summer days are long and sunny.” With snow-covered mountains as her constant backdrop, Maybelle makes the most out of her environs: she sleds, sloshes through puddles, jauntily greets grownups around town (“Hiya”), wanders through fields of lavender fireweed in search of a moose (who keeps a safe distance) and snuggles with her dad as the cold gathers. Patterson's unassuming watercolor vignettes manage to be both winsome and reportorial, which gives them an intriguing staying power—this is one of those books capable of quietly working its way into a child's imagination and staying there. One quibble: Patterson can't seem to decide how old Maybelle is. On most of the pages, she's a self-reliant preschooler, while in others, she's still a baby who rides in a carriage and bathes in the sink. Ages 3–5. (Apr.)

Kellogg's lighthearted take on this classic tale centers on Peterkin, a kind elf who receives a magic pipe from a miserable witch named Elbavol. He discovers that the pipe plays letters rather than notes and conjures up animals, such as a deer, by playing their names (“He was so excited that he flipped over backward. The pipe responded by reversing the letters and singing R-E-E-D. The deer was instantly transformed into a reed”). Peterkin travels to a gloomy, rat-infested town, where he accepts the Grand Duke's challenge to rid the place of rodents. He uses the pipe to turn each of them into a star, overthrows the tyrannical duke, then revisits Elbavol to work some magic on her unhappy disposition. Kellogg depicts the magic-making in bright, buoyant mixed media spreads that show streams of colorful text and corresponding animals pouring from the mouth of the pipe (even the rats seem pretty amenable to being transformed into stars). Far sunnier than the original, this slightly educational adaptation (thanks to the built-in spelling lessons within) should please parents and kids alike. Ages 3–5. (Apr.)

Walking with his mother in the park, young Henry finds a wide-brimmed red hat on a bench and immediately wants to take ownership. After all, Hat (as Henry thinks of it) isn't just good for warding off the sun and rain: it could be turned into a sailing ship, save his life when facing a crocodile or make him a star of stage. Hoppe's (Metal Man) inked cartoons, punctuated by rose, teal and green spot colors, give Henry's Walter Mittyesque musings an indomitable, ebullient innocence reminiscent of kids' books from the early 1960s. Seeing the discovery of Hat as a teachable moment about ownership and empathy, Mom reminds Henry that the hat's owner might need it, and Henry's fanciful visions are traced in reverse—an explorer in a croc's belly, a lifeguard with a serious sunburn. But kids may find the wrapup something of a letdown. Henry leaves Hat where he found it, and readers may well contend, rightfully, that none of the people Mom cites are around to claim Hat, and that Hat looks rather lonely left all by itself. Ages 3–6. (Apr.)

McPhail (When Sheep Sleep) returns to themes of friendship and cooperation in this serene picture book, which is divided into four vignettes. Budgie, an overalls-clad bear, and Boo, a bunny in a vest and pants, share a cozy cottage and are able gardeners (“Boo's vegetables were the tastiest, and nobody grew flowers as beautiful as Budgie's”) and “the best of friends.” A leak that surfaces in the “Morning” section is fixed during “Afternoon,” and the pair takes a moonlight stroll in the final segment. In the story's funniest sequence, a well-intentioned Budgie brings Boo—who is attempting to fix the leaky roof—a rake, shovel and hoe before Boo exclaims, “This is a roof, not a garden! What I need is a hammer and some nails.” Pastel hues dominate McPhail's pen and ink and watercolors, which reveal obvious mutual affection between the friends; bucolic spreads open each section. Though the text is somewhat pedestrian and the pacing occasionally jarring, the placid setting and characters' tender interactions make for a tranquil bedtime read. Ages 3–6. (Apr.)

A hopelessly perplexed student sends her school and community into chaos when she's stumped by a simple multiplication question. Asked “what's seven times ten?” her brain “just exploded,” causing numerals to spew from the top of her head. “Everywhere, numbers were tumbling down—/ On the school yard and houses and streets of the town./ They halted the traffic; horns started blaring./ Dogs began barking and townsfolk stood staring.” The “girl-befuddled-by-math” stereotype is in full play, though it may be overlooked given Brooker's (Someday When My Cat Can Talk) engaging mixed media collage (photographs of stocked shelves and fresh produce fill a scene in which renegade numbers wreak havoc in the supermarket). Horton's (Halloween Hoots and Howls) narrative bounces along in fairly predictable rhymes until the girl's gray matter kicks in (“That's when I heard it—a strange whirring sound/ As gears in my head started spinning around”). Just when it looks like she's back on track, a new math problem stumps her all over again. Not an encouraging read for those intimidated by the subject, but the high-energy artwork will entertain. Ages 5–9. (Mar.)

Waking up on her eighth birthday, Ava tears up thinking about her parents, who died in a car accident (“Being an orphan is the saddest thing in my whole life so far, and probably forever”). She now lives with her 22-year-old brother, Jack, and the siblings sense that their father and mother are still taking care of them. Struggling to clean her pet rabbit's litter box, Ava wishes it “would use the toilet like a person” and when it suddenly does, Ava and Jack wonder if it could be a birthday gift from their mother, who had been a magician. Ava's “wishing power” seems to continue, though some of her wishes—that her parents weren't dead—go unanswered (“My other wishes came true right away,” thinks Ava. “...Maybe it is too big a wish”). Betancourt (the Pony Pals series) balances the fanciful and the real throughout—the thrill of Ava's wishes coming true versus her pangs of longing for her parents. Though some particulars unrelated to the wishes strain credibility, kids will embrace this bighearted novel and its thoughtful, resilient narrator. Ages 6–9. (Apr.)

Horrid Henry, star of the enormously popular British series, is finally crossing over to the U.S., and kids who appreciate a mischievous streak will welcome his arrival. In this first book, Henry discovers that being good—like his brown-nosing, vegetable-loving brother, Perfect Peter—can be its own brand of mischief; Henry also disrupts his dance class and fights with his neighbor Moody Margaret (“When he put a spider on her arm, Margaret laughed. When he pulled her hair, Margaret pulled his harder”). In the fourth story, the family goes on vacation, where (as is often the case) Henry's antics work in his favor: on the rainy camping trip, he uses the tent pegs for a campfire, causing the tent to collapse and flood, and forcing his family to comfier accommodations. Henry's over-the-top behavior, the characters' snappy dialogue and Ross's hyperbolic line art will engage even the most reluctant readers—there's little reason to suspect the series won't conquer these shores as well. Pubs simultaneously with Horrid Henry's Stinkbomb, Horrid Henry and the Mega-Mean Time Machine and Horrid Henry Tricks the Tooth Fairy; two additional volumes are due in June. Ages 7–10. (Apr.)

Green (Football Genius) wades into John Feinstein territory with this fast-paced story about two middle-schoolers who put themselves in peril to probe steroid use on a youth baseball team. Josh LeBlanc's father is a pitcher who never made it to the big leagues. After he's cut from the farm team for the Toronto Blue Jays, he projects his unfulfilled dream on Josh, yanking him from the school baseball squad to play for the Titans, a travel team run by Rocky Valentine, a winning-is-everything caricature who supplements his income by selling milk additives that will reputedly help players bulk up. When Josh is also slipped some “gym candy,” he talks over his suspicions with school reporter Jaden, and together they investigate with exciting, if predictable, results. A subplot about a bully who thinks Josh is moving in on his girlfriend adds nothing, and Josh's mother is basically relegated to serving meals. But most kids will not notice, focused instead on the action-heavy, high-testosterone plot that has Josh in near-constant motion. Ages 8–12. (Apr.)

The premise will snag readers immediately: except for his great-grandmother and father, every member of 14-year-old Newton Starker's family has been killed by lightning. The family keeps a set of rules—“Beware of cumulonimbus clouds,” “Check the weather. Recheck the weather. Check it again”—but even they couldn't save Newton's mother, killed two years earlier. (The teen's father, not part of the bloodline, is not a lightning magnet.) Now, Newton has enrolled at the Jerry Potts Academy for Survival in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, and hopes to avoid a similar fate. Stubborn and obsessed with all things culinary (especially truffles), Newton gains a new friend, an enemy/love interest and a pig with a talent for finding hidden objects in short order. But finding answers about the Starker “curse” isn't as easy. In brisk chapters, Slade (Megiddo's Shadow) offers readers plenty of humor (often at Newton's expense), as well as asides that include e-mails, character background and recipes. Slade's portrayal of Newton's sweep of emotions as he deals with his perceived fate—fear, fury, dogged determination—is especially convincing. Ages 11–14. (Mar.)

Chaltas's novel of poems marks an intensely powerful debut. Anke and her older siblings, Darren and Yaicha, may appear typical teenagers in public, but their home life is dominated by their father. Though he is verbally, physically and sexually abusive to her brother and sister, Anke seems beyond his notice (“with a sick/ acidic/ burbling/ bile/ i want what they have/ as horrible/ curdling/ vile/ as it is/ darren and yaicha/ get more/ than/ me”). The distance between the family members—separated by their silence—is palpable, as is Anke's growing sense of strength, partly due to her participation in volleyball at school (“My lungs are claiming expanding territory./ This is my voice./ This is MY BALL”). Though the pace is quick, tension builds slowly, almost agonizingly, as acts of abuse collect (a large bruise glimpsed on Darren's torso, muffled sounds from Yaicha's room that can't be tuned out). Readers will recognize the inevitability of an explosive confrontation, but the particulars will still shock. Incendiary, devastating, yet—in total—offering empowerment and hope, Chaltas's poems leave an indelible mark. Ages 12–up. (Apr.)

In Black's impressive debut, first in the Book of Tormod series, the Knights Templar weren't merely a crusading religious order—they possessed powers ranging from precognition to mind control and used them to fight the excesses of King Philippe of France. Tormod, a Scottish teenager, occasionally has prophetic visions, but has learned to keep this information to himself. After a chance encounter with the knight Alexander, he is drawn into an adventure that eventually takes him to mainland Europe. Along the way, Alexander trains Tormod in combat, his special powers and the history of the Knights Templar. The action is frequent and often brutal, but never feels out of place. Black gives Tormod a strong and clearly Scottish voice that readers will quickly comprehend. There are moments that seem dubious, but they never impede the fast-paced plot. A captivating mix of history, fantasy and religion, the novel is a solid adventure that makes good use of its historical setting. Ages 12–up. (Feb.)

Playing with the notion of just how immersive a book can be, illustrator Chin (The Day the World Exploded) makes his authorial debut with a clever exploration of coast redwoods. The framing story opens with a boy finding a copy of Red woods on a subway station bench (he's even on the cover). He delves in, and facts about the ancient trees spring to life around him: as he reads in a subway car that “there are trees alive today that first sprouted during the Roman Empire,” he is flanked by two figures from that era, driving home the point. Emerging from the station to find himself in the middle of a redwood forest, his adventures mirror what he's learning—standing in a redwood-made rain shower and glimpsing the Statue of Liberty in the midst of the forest (the tallest redwood is six stories taller). The straightforward narrative is given enormous energy by the inventive format and realistic watercolor illustrations—their soft edges and muted hues suit the mist-shrouded giants. Chin adeptly captures the singular and spectacular nature of redwoods in this smartly layered book. Ages 4–8. (Mar.)

Though both their titles invoke the weather, these poetry collections have atmospheres all their own.

“If you think poems are stupid/ and poetry's a bore,/ ... / and if you're sure this book's the same/ as all you've read before.../ I dare ya, yes, I dare ya: Turn the page.” Early on, Wilson (Bear Snores On) throws down the gauntlet in her wide-ranging book of humorous, often edgy poetry, Silversteinian in its format and sensibility. Coupled with ink-drawn caricatures by Blitt (The 39 Apartments of Ludwig Van Beethoven), the poems range from modern parables (“I'm telling you now that I'd rather eat cow/ than that goo that my aunt calls tofu./ Ew”) to more experimental verse. On one spread, a list of “lovely” words (“moonlight,/ butterfly,/ chamomile”) faces another with “ugly” words (“traitor,/ homicide,/ moron”). Blitt's artwork adeptly magnifies the tones that the poems strike: in “Golden Eggs,” a goose wearing a crown and “Bling” pendant stares at an empty cradle. “[She'd] rather have/ one fluffy chick/ than a million golden eggs.” The darker poems will not appeal to all, but from the silly to the unsavory, there's plenty to provoke and entertain. Ages 6–10. (Mar.)

Teenagers pine for, revel in and recover from early loves and relationships in Soto's (Mercy on These Teenage Chimps) collection of nearly 80 poems, divided into two sections: “A Girl's Tears, Her Songs” and “A Boy's Body, His Words.” From those in love, there are moments of joy—“Love, I like how your hair is shaggy,/ That your sweater, when wet, smells of dog./ And that you itch when I'm around” as well as poignant humor: “I checked my e-mail and my cell phone/ A hundred times a day./ You were a fake. I was the one who helped/ You in math. You didn't learn anything!” says a girl in “For the Love of Dogs.” Certain poems take a more despairing tone, as in “An Act of Kindness,” in which a boy muses, “The world is cruel. People have knives,/ And even their teeth look like knives.” Ultimately, the effect is akin to experiencing all the seasons in one day, as the simplicity of the unrhymed verse thinly veils the undercurrent of complex emotions at play. Ages 12–up. (Feb.)