126. How To Find What You're Not Looking For

How To Find What You're Not Looking For. Veera Hiranandani. 2021. [September] 384 pages. [Source: Library] 

First sentence: How to be the lazy one. It's harder than you think. First, lie on your messy bed wearing your Wonder Woman pajamas that are too small because you’ve had them since you were nine. Then, watch your older sister, Leah, pin up her hair for dance class. She sits in her black leotard at the small white vanity, her back straight as a board, a magazine cutout of Paul Newman taped to the corner of her mirror. She uses at least fifteen bobby pins for her bun. Count in your head while she sticks the pins in. One, two, three. She’s rushing because she has to be on the #4 bus by 9:00 a.m. for pointe class at Madame Duchon’s Dance Academy. She dances there every day except Sunday. You’re not even sure how she spends so much time at dance and still does well in school. Leah seems to do well at everything. Not you. You’re the lazy one. You’re just trying to keep up, but along with all the other things Leah does, she helps you keep up.

Premise/plot: Ariel Goldberg stars in Veera Hiranandani's How To Find What You're Not Looking For. The theme of 'how-to' continues beyond the title. Each chapter begins with a 'how-to' title. The first chapter being titled, "How to Be the Lazy One." The book is written in second person present tense, to "you." Ariel and Leah are sisters, and perhaps surprisingly close considering the seven years age difference. But when Leah falls in love with an Indian boy--as opposed to a JEWISH boy--bonds of all sorts are tested.

The novel is set circa 1967/68. It focuses on home and school, and all the DRAMA that occurs.

My thoughts: I really loved, loved, loved this one. Despite the second person present tense! I thought the characterization was great--very lovely. I thought the details were good. It was well-paced; it kept me reading. I love the writing. Very quotable. I also love the fact that writing poetry helps Ariel make sense of life. 

One of Ariel's poems:

The Ways of the World

The world has many ways

of spinning.

Many I don’t understand.

But love

is not that hard

to understand.

Doesn’t it just spin one way,

one person toward another,

without stopping?

Quotes:

Keeping a secret is not your favorite thing to do. Secrets make your stomach hurt. You can count on one hand the secrets you’ve kept. You once took a report card out of the mailbox and hid it in your schoolbag for a week. But you got caught. Sometimes when you hang out with your friend Jane, you make it seem like you have other friends. But you don’t. Occasionally you steal cookies from Gertie’s and keep them in a coffee can in your room. You’ve never had to keep a really big secret before, and certainly not forever.

Leah’s cheeks get blotchy, and her eyes start to fill again with tears. “Oh please,” she says. “I have to tell someone, and I need it to be you.” Leah saying she needs you—is there anything more special than that? Maybe if you know her secret, some of her specialness will spill over onto you. She bites her lip and grabs your hand.

You read the title on the album: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. You wonder what it means. Were the Beatles changing their name? Your hands feel sticky with ice cream. You press your thumb and forefinger together, and they stay stuck that way.

“I’m just so happy. I don’t want anything to ruin it. I feel guilty about being so happy.”

“Why would you feel guilty about being happy?” you ask.

“Because there’s so much wrong with the world,” she says and starts walking again.

There is, according to the newspapers. But you look around your town. You see someone driving by in a blue Chevy convertible. You see people walking down the block in sunglasses, sipping soda pop, riding their bikes, happy to be out on such a nice Saturday. This world seems okay.

“Do you know what happened at Rocky’s last week? A guy came in and heard Raj talking. Then he asked John, the manager, why he had foreigners working there and not Americans. He asked Raj if he was here legally. Raj said he was a US citizen, and the fellow demanded to see proof and wouldn’t leave! John had to threaten to call the cops until he finally left.”

“Gosh, that’s terrible,” you say. Now she’s walking so quickly, you can barely keep up.

“But our love is stronger than the racist establishment.”

“ ‘The racist establishment,’ ” you say, trying out her words.

How’s my muffin?” he asks.

“I’m all right,” you say and stuff the rest of the bread in your mouth. “Same as always.”

Daddy nods. “Me too, Muffin,” he says. “Same old, same old.”

This is what you and Daddy always say to each other after school. And every day, you know that you are not the same and neither is he. When you and Ma get back to the apartment, you go into your bedroom and take a sniff of the Chanel No. 5 perfume on the dresser, a sixteenth birthday gift that Ma gave Leah. The apartment used to smell of it when Leah was still here, along with her Breck shampoo, but you didn’t notice until she was gone and the smell faded away.

A little part of you still hopes you’ll find her sitting on her yellow-and-white bedspread, playing the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. Or maybe even the Doors real quiet because Ma hates the Doors.

 

Ma does get headaches a lot. She calls them migraines and says she even sees flashes of color before they start. That sounds sort of magical to you rather than painful, but Ma sure does seem like she’s in a lot of pain when she gets them. Since Leah left, it’s been happening more often.

“Sorry, I mean your mom,” you say.

“It’s all right,” she says and is quiet for another few seconds. “He left my mom when he found out she was pregnant. They weren’t even married. And he never came back. My mom always tells people he’s dead.”

Now it’s your turn to be quiet.

“I was always afraid to ask. I didn’t mean to make you sad,” you say after a moment.

Jane shakes her head. “It’s okay. I don’t think about it that much. I never knew him, but I also don’t think my mom would care if I married someone Jewish. I guess most people aren’t like Peggy, though.”

Suddenly you feel the shape of your friendship with Jane changing, in a good way, like chocolate chips melting into a cookie as it bakes.

“The words I wrote might mean something different to you.”

Miss Field sits back in her chair and crosses her arms.

“They might,” she says.

“I don’t want them to. I want them to mean to you exactly what they mean to me.”

“That makes sense,” she says and pauses for a moment. “But that’s art, Ariel. It’s your gift to the world. People will see what they need to see. Sometimes it will mean to them exactly what it meant to you. Those people are your soul mates.”

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

125. Barefoot Dreams of Petra Luna

Barefoot Dreams of Petra Luna. Alda P. Dobbs. 2021. [September] 288 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: The smoking star lit the night sky as women wept, holding their babies close. Men kept quiet while the old and the weak prayed for mercy. It was on that night that all of us huddled under the giant crucifix, the night when everyone—everyone but me—awaited the end of the world. Everything was a sign to us mestizos, from eclipses to new moons to burned tamales in a pot. I learned early on that all signs were bad. When sparks flew out of a fire, it meant an unwelcome visitor would show up. A sneeze meant someone was talking bad about you. If a metate—a grinding stone—broke, it meant death to its owner or a family member. But the biggest sign of all was citlalin popoca, the smoking star. Papá’s big boss at the mine called it a comet.

Premise/plot: Barefoot Dreams of Petra Luna is set in Mexico in 1913. Petra Luna, our heroine, has made a promise to her father to keep the family together and safe. But some promises are hard to keep--no matter how big the heart. With the Revolution in progress, there is so much uncertainty from day to day to day. The family--Petra, her grandmother, her younger sister, her baby brother--is forced to flee their village with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Everything is gone; there is no assurance for tomorrow. Still, Petra dreams big dreams. She dreams of learning to read and write...of a better future. Most of all she dreams of the day when her father will find them again.

My thoughts: Absolutely beautiful and compelling. The writing is gorgeous. Truly a poetic work of art. I absolutely loved every bittersweet moment of this one. There's depth and substance. The characters are oh-so-human.

Quotes:

Promise. The word churned inside my head day and night. Six months ago, I had made the biggest promise ever when Papá was given the choice to join the Federales or be placed in front of a firing squad. On that day I had run across town looking for Papá, and when I found him, I knew he had chosen not to join. Papá stood against a wall blindfolded, his hands tied behind his back. He faced a line of soldiers with rifles aimed at him. All I heard next were my bare feet running across the line of fire toward Papá and my screams, begging to be shot along with him. I held on to Papá as two soldiers came to pull me away. I kicked with all my strength, and over my screams I heard Papá shouting for them to let me go, but the soldiers didn’t stop until Papá said he’d join their war. Before Papá was dragged away, I promised to take care of Amelia, Luisito, and our grandmother, Abuelita. He then swore to return.

The Federales were the army of the government, of our current president, Victoriano Huerta, whom Papá had called a tyrant. This was the second time they’d charged into our village. The first time, they’d shot men as old as sixty and boys as young as eight for not joining them. They’d dragged Papá away and had also shot one woman who’d protested against her sons’ forced conscription. They were monsters

I rushed into the burning hut, dropped to my hands and knees, and crawled across the long room. The smoke burned my eyes, and the flood of tears blinded me, but I pressed on. I felt my way around the floor, across the broken crates and pots, until my hand found it—my black rock. It was the only thing I had left from Papá.

I don’t want to grow any thorns,” said Amelia. “Thorns are ugly.”

“M’ija”—Abuelita wiped the corners of her mouth with her fingers—“your first breath was in the desert. The cord that connected you to your mamá was buried under a mesquite tree so that you’d always be part of this land. You already have thorns, and thorns are beautiful—they make you strong.” Abuelita spat out the chewed mesquite seeds. “Always be grateful for what you have. The day you take things for granted, your heart will swell with poison.”

Amelia looked down at her elbow and rubbed it. “You’re right, Abuelita. The other day I felt something prickly here, and I think—”

“Abuelita meant thorns in your heart, Amelia,” I said.

Abuelita nodded. “En tu corazón y en tu espírito.” She patted her chest, pointing to her heart and spirit inside her.

Are you scared, Petra?” Amelia whispered.

“Scared of what?”

“Of the Federales or of never seeing Papá again.”

“We’ll see Papá again,” I said. “And right now, I’m much too tired to worry about the Federales.”

“How about un apapácho?” said Amelia. “Are you too tired for that?”

Unlike me at her age, Amelia never asked for a story or a song before going to sleep. Instead, she’d ask for an apapácho. If I had to guess, I’d say apapácho was Amelia’s favorite word. It meant cuddling or embracing someone with your soul.

“Come here,” I said and stretched my arms around her. I squeezed her tight and used one hand to pat her back. And like Mamá, I ended the apapácho with a head rub and a kiss on the forehead.

I lay restless for most of the night. My feet, my back, and everything in between throbbed. I wanted to stretch out the pain, but my muscles cramped with every attempt. My mind stirred too. I thought about my promise to Papá and how it’d been a constant struggle to keep in Esperanzas. I was now in the middle of the desert with a little girl and a baby in tow and an old woman with rickety knees. How would I ever fulfill it? And my dreams of learning to read and write—those drew further away each day. By now they were as distant and unreachable as the stars above.

You’ve come to the right place,” said the priest. “You’ll be safe here.”

Abuelita kissed the priest’s hand. “Dios lo bendiga, Padre. God bless you.”

Suddenly, the sweet smell of pan pobre, poor bread, hit my nose. The scent awakened my stomach and tugged strongly at my heart. I looked around, sniffing the air, wondering where the smell came from. It was a scent that had always brought feelings of comfort and safety. I didn’t believe in signs, but if I did, I’d bet we were safe here.

I lay down and pulled out my black rock from the hem of my skirt. I brought it close to me. It was a piece of coal Papá had given me for my birthday two years ago. It was more than a black rock, though. It was a baby diamond.

“That’s how diamonds are born,” Papá had often explained. “When a piece of coal gets squeezed very hard for a very long time, it becomes a diamond.”

My name is Adeline. What’s yours?”

“Petra,” I said.

“My mamá says Spanish names always mean something. What does yours mean?”

“It means rock,” I said.

“Like the one you’re holding?”

I looked down at my black rock and put it back in its safe place.

“My name doesn’t mean anything,” said Adeline. “But my last name, Wilson, is the same as the American president’s. His name is Woodrow Wilson, but my papá says we’re not related.”

“Why didn’t you leave with your papá?”

“My papá worked at a silver mine,” said Adeline. “He was an engineer there, and when the bad guys came to his work, he had to leave fast before anyone saw him. Later, a man came to our house and gave us a letter from Papá telling us to leave and meet him in Texas. We took a coach and got here two days ago.”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” I asked.

“No.” Adeline frowned. “It’s just me.”

Adeline continued to talk, and she talked a lot, but she also listened to everything I said. She shared her dreams of being an animal doctor, and I told her mine of learning to read and write. She told me stories she’d read about an orphan girl who lived with two evil sisters and another about a princess who’d been poisoned with an apple

Adeline handed me the slate before covering our legs with the ivory blanket. “My mamá told me that when good, hardworking people have dreams, it’s always nice to help make them come true.”

The slate had letters written on it already.

“What does this say?” I asked.

“That’s your name.”

I took a second look at the slate. The white, chalky letters looked strong and beautiful.

First, we’re going to learn to write your name,” said Adeline. “This is how you hold the chalk. Here, you try it.”

Adeline wrapped my finger around the white, blocky stick. My hand trembled as Adeline guided me to outline P-E-T-R-A across the slate. I sounded out each letter along with her as I traced it over and over. I struggled to hold the chalk straight at first, but by my fiftieth time, I was able to write my name all on my own, without tracing it.

“So?” Adeline asked as I erased my name. “What happens now?” Her tone was sad.

“I write my name all over again and keep practicing,” I said, steadying the chalk over the slate, pretending to have misunderstood Adeline. I was sure she meant what would happen after the church, but I didn’t want to think about it. Not right now. I wanted to keep chatting, to keep learning. I wanted to, for a moment, forget all my pain and anguish. My day with Adeline had been like a sweet siesta, and I refused to be awoken.

“No, I mean where will you go from here

After Adeline notated the champurrado recipe, she threw her arms around me. “Gracias, Petra.”

I didn’t tell Adeline, but recipes were also family secrets for us, and if Abuelita knew I’d just given two away, she’d probably have a patatús. I understood all about not sharing recipes, but after a long day with Adeline, she felt like a sister to me.

Suddenly, a tall, blond woman with striking blue eyes approached us.

“Petra,” said Adeline, standing up, “this is my mamá.”

I shot up and stood straight.

Adeline’s mamá smiled and brushed my hair back with her long, slender fingers. She said something in English, and I quickly turned to Adeline to learn what she’d said.

Abuelita pushed air through her nose. “Barefoot dreams,” she muttered and turned to her side, facing away from us.

“I’ll ask Adeline tomorrow,” I said to Amelia. “I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

I turned back to Abuelita. She had always scorned my talk of letters, teachers, or learning to read. Her words had never bothered me, but now that Mamá and Papá were gone, they stung.

“Why did you say ‘barefoot dreams’?” I asked.

Abuelita remained silent and still.

Amelia and I exchanged glances before she gently patted Abuelita’s back. “Abuelita, Petra wants to—”

Abuelita gave an exasperated sigh and turned to us.

“Wanting to learn to read is a big dream, and big dreams are dangerous,” said Abuelita. “You’ll do better when you accept things as they are, when you accept your lot in life.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. Those words—lot in life—always turned my insides; they made me feel sick.

“Petra, I know you mean well,” said Abuelita. Her tone had softened. “But dreams like yours are barefoot dreams. They’re like us barefoot peasants and indios—they’re not meant to go far. Be content with what you have.”

I thought back to my village, to Esperanzas. No one there knew how to read or write except for the well-to-do. That bothered me, but what angered me the most were people like Abuelita who simply accepted it.

Why hadn’t I been smarter? Why hadn’t I asked Adeline to teach me to write something more useful like train or station?

A heavy, invisible force pressed down on my shoulders. The force pushed through me, reaching my soul and sapping away my last shred of strength. I fell on my haunches and hung my head. I wanted to cry but had no tears. I wanted to scream but had no strength. Instead, I cracked open my mouth, and a small squeak escaped my lips. I’d been defeated. I would never fulfill my promise to Papá or shine like the diamond I longed to be. I’d remain a lump of coal for the rest of my life.

So, what now?” she asked. “Where do you go from here?”

“We’re going north, to el otro lado,” I said. “The other side.”

Marietta looked shocked. “The United States? Why?”

“It’s too dangerous here,” I said. “I was told we’d be safe across el Río Bravo.”

Marietta turned her gaze to the fire. She pressed her lips together and gave a subtle nod.

“Besides,” I said, “I want to learn to read and write, and there aren’t any schools here.”

“You know who Pancho Villa is?” asked Marietta.

I nodded. Papá had told me about him. Pancho Villa led the rebels in northern Mexico. Many folk songs called corridos were sung about him, his bravery, and his love for the poor. Even children’s riddles mentioned him. He was loved by many, feared by many, and was known to have a weak spot for children, especially poor ones.

Villa’s opening schools everywhere,” said Marietta. “He wants all kids to learn to read and write. Maybe you can go to one of his schools.”

I glanced over at Luisito, who slept on Abuelita’s lap, and then at Amelia, who yawned but still clapped. She swayed her bandaged feet from side to side. My family looked so peaceful and content, but how long would it last?

“How did you become a soldier?” I asked Marietta.

“It’s a long story,” she said.

I shrugged my shoulders, smiling.

“Where to start?” said Marietta. Her eyes locked on the campfire in front of us.

“It’d always been my papá and me,” she said. “My mother died giving birth, and I had no siblings. Since my papá never remarried, he focused solely on me and taught me everything he knew.” Marietta lifted her chin and her face lit up as she continued. “Papá was great. He was the best vaquero, cowboy, in the region. Everyone always brought horses for him to tame, and he trained them so well, you barely had to touch the reins to let the horse know what to do.”

Marietta sighed, and the glow in her eyes faded. “Almost three years ago, two Federales stopped at our home. I was preparing dinner when I heard a scuffle outside.

Marietta nodded. “After winning five battles as a captain, I unpinned my braids and let them loose. No one could believe it. But since I’d proven myself many times, they let me be. I went from Mario back to Marietta and still kept everyone’s respect.”

I was speechless. I wanted to be like Marietta. I wanted to learn things, to teach things. I wanted people’s respect.

“Why do you fight?” I asked. “To avenge your father’s death?”

“I did at first. I was outraged, but as time passed, I remembered talks I had with my father about the injustices in our lives. We both wanted a better Mexico. A Mexico that belonged to everyone, not just the rich, and especially not the foreigners.”

Marietta picked up a handful of desert dust and held it in a clenched fist in front of her. She released a thin, almost invisible trickle of sand through the bottom of her fist.

You probably won’t believe this,” said Marietta. “But a hundred years from now, Mexico will be unrecognizable. It’ll be such a rich, beautiful country that the gringos up north will be the ones crossing the river into Mexico for a better life.”

Marietta chuckled at her own words, and I smiled, hoping there was some truth to them. She remained quiet, staring at the campfire, then at me. “Petra, what do you want in life? Deep down inside your heart, what is it you want most?”

I looked up at the sky and thought about my answer. “I want peace,” I said. “I want peace for me and my family, and I want my papá back in our lives. I also want land, not much, just a small piece to live on. I want to go to school and for my sister and brother to go to school too.

Join us,” said Marietta.

“Join who, the rebels?”

Marietta nodded, “Yes. This army needs good, smart fighters like—”

“But I want peace,” I said, raising my voice. I quickly lowered my eyes, realizing I’d been disrespectful.

“I know.” Marietta nodded repeatedly. “Every soul in this camp wants peace. We’re all tired of fighting, but in order to achieve peace and attain the land and freedom we want, we need to fight.”

Someway, somehow, I hoped Papá could find us. I knew I would never see Esperanzas again, at least not the town I’d known since birth. Despite these harsh truths, I was hopeful to one day see Mexico flourish into a country full of peace and prosperity for the people who’d fought and given up so much for her. For now, I was eager to explore this new land, eager to meet its people and welcome new opportunities. Every struggle and challenge I’d grapple with and every failure and victory that lay ahead would dig deep into me and help chisel out my true character.

And I knew then, with all my heart, that one day I would burst with light and shine like the baby diamond I have always longed to be.

Author’s Note

The Inspiration for Barefoot Dreams of Petra Luna

I am blessed to have grown up listening to stories of my ancestors, especially stories of my grandmother, Güela Pepa, and my great-grandmother, Güelita Juanita. Both women grew up surrounded by harsh poverty and prejudice, but always faced adversity with bold spirits and resilience.

My great-grandmother, Juanita Martínez, inspired the core of Barefoot Dreams of Petra Luna. She, along with her family, escaped her burning village in 1913 during the Mexican Revolution. Unlike Petra, my great-grandmother was nine years old when she, her father, two younger siblings, and two cousins crossed the scorching desert by foot and reached the border town of Piedras Negras, Coahuila. At the border, their entry into the United States was denied along with hundreds of other refugees

I found an article that described my great-grandmother’s story. The event occurred in the early afternoon of October 6, 1913, and it wasn’t hundreds of people who’d tried to flee across like she’d stated, it was thousands. Over six thousand, to be exact. Everything else—the desperation, the pleading, and the rage of the Federales—was exactly as she’d recounted it.

Working on this book has fulfilled me in many ways, and despite my grandmother and great-grandmother no longer living, I feel closer to them than ever. Thanks to them and my mother, I learned stories that I would have never learned from books or school. Unfortunately, many stories like my great-grandmother’s or like Petra’s remain in the shadows. How do we fix this? I believe we fix it with curiosity. We need to be curious. We need to look to our ancestors and ask questions. We need to listen to their stories, write them down, on paper or on our hearts, and pass them on. By doing this, we bring stories of bravery, of humanity, and of great compassion to the light and, in turn, we learn more about ourselves and keep the bold spirits of our ancestors alive.

 

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

124. Walls

Walls. L.M. Elliott. 2021. [July] 352 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: Standing in the doorway, Drew hesitated, his freckles burning crimson like a thousand flares of anxiety.

Premise/plot: Drew, our protagonist, is an army brat. His father has been stationed in West Berlin; the year is 1960. Drew and his siblings--Joyce (older sister) and Linda (little sister) have some trouble adjusting to life in Germany. Their mother is German and has family living in East Berlin. She would love nothing more than for her children to become good, good friends with their cousins. Matthias is their closest cousin in age. But the cousins seem to be worlds apart...

Each chapter is preceded by a graphic portion. Black and white photographs with some explanatory captions. Each chapter represents one month. The novel opens in August 1960 and closes in August 1961. What can happen in one year??? A lot!

My thoughts: Each chapter is almost a vignette--a moment in time captured. The chapters rarely cover more than a few hours of time. So readers get a few snippets here and there. We do not get a continual, immersive experience in Drew's life. We get moments. I personally--and again this is all subjective--had a hard time connecting with the story. I felt almost a disconnect from the characters. I was interested in the story, the time period, the setting. But I didn't feel I really truly got to know any of the characters in a deep and meaningful way. This might be a timing issue on my part--perhaps I wasn't in the right mood to experience this one?

This historical fiction novel for middle grade (???) is about the building of the Berlin Wall.

 

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

123. Ground Zero

Ground Zero. Alan Gratz. 2021. [February] 336 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: Brandon Chavez was in trouble.*

Premise/plot: Ground Zero has two protagonists and two time periods. Brandon Chavez, one of our protagonists, is nine years old. He's accompanying his dad to work; his dad works at Windows on the World, a restaurant located on the 107th floor in the North Tower of the World Trade Center. The day is September 11, 2001. Reshmina, our other protagonist, is living in Afghanistan with her family in the present day.** Her twin brother, Pasoon, is wanting to join the Taliban. She is angst-y. She doesn't want him involved in the war...at all. She doesn't seem to think the Taliban or the Americans are the "good guys." There are no "good guys." When the fighting hits really close to him--literally--and brings her into contact with an injured American soldier (named Taz), Reshmina has some tough decisions to make. What she decides may decide the fate of her village and her family.

My thoughts: I spent most of the book wanting to curl up into a ball and moan. Reading it felt like I was continually getting punched in the gut again and again and again. With an occasional stab in the heart. If you are not mentally and emotionally bruised after reading this....tell me how you did that...I'm curious.

Both stories are incredibly intense. There's a definite sense of urgency both within and without (if that makes sense.) There is an urgency in the fictional story. In particular with Brandon's story. Readers most likely will know that it is literally a race against the clock once the first plane hits. Brandon, of course, like all the other characters doesn't realize this. His initial urgency is to get back to his dad--even if his dad is a dozen floors above him when the plane hits. There is urgency in the present day story as well as a battle unfolds and civilians are caught up in it. But there is also an urgency that the reader experiences. At least this reader experienced. Almost the equivalent of ripping a band-aid off. I couldn't allow a slower pace--I just couldn't handle it. The only hope for surviving the utter and complete heartbreak was to keep a steady pace. Page after page, keep turning, keep looking ahead. I couldn't imagine just reading this one chapter a day for weeks. (I read this in two days).

Both stories have substance and depth. Both unfold at a compelling pace. There is some emotional reward for investing in both stories. But for sensitive readers this might be too much to handle.

*The text literally says Brandon Chavez wn trouble. I did my best guess as a reader and interpreted that to mean Brandon Chavez was IN trouble. I suppose it could be "won" "win." But neither made sense in context.

**Before the withdrawal of American troops in Afghanistan. So before the summer of 2021.

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

119. Pride and Premeditation

Pride and Premeditation. (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1) Tirzah Price. 2021. [April] 368 pages. [Source: Review copy]

First sentence: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a brilliant idea, conceived and executed by a clever young woman, must be claimed by a man. Elizabeth Bennet stood in the offices of the optimistically named law firm of Longbourn & Sons and fixed her father's junior partner, Mr. Collins, with her fiercest glare.

Premise/plot: Tirzah Price's spin on Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice is a delight from start to finish. It is set in the Regency--like the original--but it intentionally plays around with history. Taking something that would be absolutely impossible--a young woman working in a law firm and pursuing a career in law--and makes it instead something rare, unique, out of the ordinary....but not impossible. 

Elizabeth Bennet, our heroine, has ambitions to follow in her father's footsteps. This has her investigating a potential case for Longbourn & Sons. Mr. Bingley has been arrested and charged with murdering his brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst. Elizabeth would like to use this case to prove her abilities. She is determined to investigate the case, follow the clues, and find the real murderer. This has her at odds with Mr. Darcy a lawyer (solicitor) at Pemberley and Associates. If the real murderer is to be found--and Mr. Bingley's innocence proven--it might just take both of them working together despite their personal feelings.

My thoughts: I love, love, love, love, love this adaptation. It is so delightful. It has all the characters from the original novel. (Well, most of them. I can think of a few that are missing.) Some of the original dialogue--all the best bits--reworked to fit this new situation. And it works surprisingly well. Mrs. Bennet is still very active in trying to get her daughters married off. She is still a nervous woman. Mr. Bennet is still favoring Elizabeth. Elizabeth is still super close with Jane who is a calming influence on her.

I would absolutely LOVE to see a film version of Pride and Premeditation. There's even a scene that could easily accommodate a wet shirt scene with Mr. Darcy.

 

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

118. Eyes of the Forest

Eyes of the Forest. April Henry. 2021. [April] 272 pages. [Source: Review copy]

First sentence: The gun looked real. No orange tip, no obvious seams where molded plastic pieces had been glued together.

Premise/plot: BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK FOR. Bestselling author, R.M. Haldon has writer's block. He has a long, long list of excuses for why he hasn't written the last book in the Swords and Shadows series titled, Eyes of the Forest. One quip being is that he's so blocked that he won't be able to write it unless he's kidnapped and held at gunpoint. One fan takes this literally as an invitation...

Bridget, our heroine, is Haldon's biggest fan--well, one of them. She's been working with him on an official capacity helping him with research. A LOT of details go into world-building, character development, and plotting--Bridget pulls it all together.

Bridget, of course, is not Haldon's only fan. She's one of many... but she may be his only chance at getting rescued...

My thoughts: I'm not happy with how the jacket copy reads. And I'm not satisfied with my summary attempt either. Really I feel this is one of those books where it's best if you know as little as possible. It offers a little of everything for readers--a glimpse at the fandom of fantasy, a mystery, a thriller, a tiny bit of romance. (Bridget is introducing a classmate to Haldon's series by reading them aloud to him at lunch. The two have grown close. Bridget knows she likes-like him, but does he like-like her? Readers are never really sure that he's equally interested in her in that way.) 

There are multiple narrators. It can be a bit dark, bleak, and creepy.

Eyes of the Forest is best at being a fast-paced thriller. I was so swept up into the suspense/thriller aspects of it that I didn't really slow down enough to notice any flaws and weaknesses. 

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

116. The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas

The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas. Kimberly Willis Holt. 2021. 320 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: My grandmother told me she once watched an abandoned house fold inside itself. The roof had caved in, leaving a hollow shell. “A house needs people, Rylee,” she claimed, “or it will die.” Every time I passed Miss Myrtie Mae’s home, I watched for signs of the roof giving way or the walls collapsing. But even though ivory paint flakes covered the ground like snow and the roof had shed a few shingles, the old house looked as if it were holding its breath, waiting for someone to claim it.

Premise/plot: The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas is set thirty years after the events of When Zachary Beaver Came To Town. It opens in late summer of 2001. Rylee Wilson, Toby's daughter, is the main character. Her best friend, Twig, may or may not be still her best friend. The two just don't seem to be on the same track anymore. No matter how much Rylee still wants things to be the same. A new family will soon be heading to Nowhere...and life for Rylee may never be the same...

When Zachary Beaver Came To Town opens with Miss Myrtie Mae taking pictures, pictures, and more pictures. The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas opens with her estate being settled. (She's recently died.) Who inherits her house--and will they stay and settle down in Antler, Texas??? or will they sell the house??? who will buy it if they do???--makes up a bit of the story. But mainly the focus is on FRIENDSHIP.

My thoughts: I am super thankful that this book exists. The publication of this sequel/companion book motivated me to read When Zachary Beaver Came To Town. I wasn't expecting to love it as much as I did. But I did LOVE it. Primarily because it was so character-driven and the world-building was great. It gave a real sense of time and place. I fell in love with a whole town. Though you may hear that this one can be read as a standalone, I disagree. I mean technically, yes, it could be I suppose. But you'd be missing out on so many squeal-worthy moments of pure glee. (Like when you find out WHO Toby married!!!) Because what we get are snippets here and there that update you on EVERYONE.

The books I love the most seem to be the ones I struggle with the most in the writing of the review. (Even that sentence was a bit awkward). I want to gush enough that you want to read the book--or both books--but I don't want to spoil either book!

Quotes:

“Looking forward to seventh grade?” “Well, I wish Twig was going to be there.” “Rylee, Twig may not be here every day of your life. People come and go even when we don’t want them to.” I wondered who he was talking about, because he’d seen his best friend practically every day of his life. “Seventh grade is going to be great,” he said. “Because you are.” I only wished everyone saw me the same way my dad did.

 

Saying “sorry” was easy for me even if something wasn’t my fault. If someone dropped a pencil or spilled juice, I apologized as if I’d done it myself. Twig would catch me every time, and ask, “Why are you sorry?” One day she said, “Don’t say sorry, say squim.” Twig rarely, if ever, used squim, but it was the first of three words she’d invented.

 

That’s what we’d been since September—tumbleweeds—Joe, Twig, and me. Thinking we were so strong and independent, but we’d learned that we were fragile, too. Maybe we weren’t made of sticks and debris, powered by the wind, but like tumbleweeds, we couldn’t make it alone. We needed each other. Twig was moving at a leisurely pace. She hadn’t even made it halfway down the street. Joe looked over at me, and it was as if we could read each other’s thoughts. He hurried toward his porch and went after his bike while I hopped on mine. We pedaled fast, trying to catch up. Twig didn’t seem to know we were behind her, until I yelled, “Wait up!” She slowed to a stop and glanced over her shoulder. The forced smile from a moment before was missing. In its place was the big one I knew by heart.

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

113. Last Witnesses

Last Witnesses (Adapted for Young Adults) Svetlana Alexievich. 2021. 288 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: Last Witnesses is a collection of true stories told firsthand by people who grew up in the Soviet Union (present-day Russia and Eastern Europe) and lived through World War II as children. Their accounts of survival range from gruesome and tragic to extraordinarily lucky to—in some cases—even hopeful. All the stories are alarming, as they took place against a backdrop of fearsome war and violence. It is crucial to understand both the geography and the history of the Soviet Union to fully feel the impact of each shocking testimony. On June 22, 1941, the German army invaded the Soviet Union. A titanic battle unfolded. It would last for four years, setting in opposition two countries with a long history of rivalry and antagonism. The battle also brought two ruthless dictators head to head: Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin.

This is how the book opens:

INSTEAD OF A PREFACE

…ONE QUOTATION

In the course of the Great Patriotic War (1941–1945) millions of Soviet children died: Russians, Belorussians, Ukrainians, Jews, Tatars, Latvians, Gypsies, Kazakhs, Uzbeks, Armenians, Tadjiks…

People’s Friendship magazine, 1985, No. 5

…AND ONE QUESTION BY A RUSSIAN CLASSIC

Fyodor Dostoevsky once posed a question: can we justify our world, our happiness, and even eternal harmony, if in its name, to strengthen its foundation, at least one little tear of an innocent child will be spilled? And he himself answered: this tear will not justify any progress, any revolution. Any war. It will always outweigh them.

Just one little tear…

Premise/plot: Essentially it is a collection of short vignettes by survivors sharing their memories. Most--if not all--were young children (a few younger, some older). These memories are unique yet seen together as a whole paint a horrific picture of the war.  Most entries are short--a few are longer. I believe the last entry is the longest. 

My thoughts: This was a powerful read. It certainly isn't for everyone. It is a heavy, heavy book in terms of emotional weight and burden. Yet their voices mattered then and now. Their stories need to be heard; heard and not forgotten.

This book has been adapted for young readers. But I think 'young' is a matter of perspective. Young adult would be a good fit even if most of the stories are about younger children. As I mentioned, it's a heavy book.

Quote:

The war ended…I waited for a day, for two days. No one came to get me. Mama didn’t come for me, and papa, I knew, was in the army. I waited for two weeks like that, and couldn’t wait any longer. I got under a seat on a train and rode…Where? I didn’t know. I thought (this was still my child’s mind) that all trains went to Minsk. And in Minsk mama was waiting! Then papa would come…A hero! With orders, with medals.

They had perished somewhere under the bombs. The neighbors told me later—they had both gone looking for me. They had rushed to the train station.

I’m already fifty-one years old. I have children of my own. But I still want my mama.

Zina Kosiak

EIGHT YEARS OLD. NOW A HAIRDRESSER.

 

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

112. The Shape of Thunder

The Shape of Thunder. Jasmine Warga. 2021. [May] 288 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: I like learning things. Especially about math and science, because they help explain why the world is the way it is. A famous mathematician once said, “Mathematics is the music of reason.” I’ve always believed that. The best thing about math is that it makes sense. The actual best thing about math is that everything adds up, all neat and in order.

Premise/plot: Cora and Quinn were best, best friends. But they haven't spoken to each other in months--almost a year. Quinn is at a loss for words knowing that there simply aren't any that would suffice. And Cora? Well, Cora doesn't want to hear anything Quinn has to say. How could she? Something is keeping these two apart--and time alone will tell if these two can find a way back in each other's lives.

Quinn becomes fixated with the idea of time travel. If she could just go back in time and STOP the events of that one fateful day then maybe life would be "fixed" again and everyone could move forward. But if she's going to invent a way to time travel, well, she'll need help. And who better than Cora? She's smart and motivated. Cora may want to time travel just as much as she does.

But how do two girls forever-united, forever-separated invent a way to go back in time????

My thoughts: The Shape of Thunder traces the after-effects of a school shooting. Quinn's brother, Parker, was the shooter. Cora's sister, Mabel, one of his victims. Both are gone now. Yet Cora and Quinn still live next door to each other...forever reminded of how things used to be and how things can never be again.

It is told in alternating chapters. I will say that I thought Cora's family was way more developed than Quinn's family. The characterization is excellent but a bit uneven. I really loved, loved, loved Cora's family--her father and grandmother. Quinn's family isn't that developed--bare bones and more stereotypical than not. I felt that Quinn was very isolated--and not by choice. In a way, this makes Quinn more sympathetic than she might otherwise be. It is easy to pity her because things have been wrong for years in that household.

It is an emotional read, certainly not for everyone. But definitely one that is well written.

Quotes:

“The shape of thunder,” I repeat. I reach for my notebook, and I scribble the quote. I put asterisks around it, which is what I do whenever I’m taking notes in class and my teacher emphasizes a fact so much that it’s obvious it will be on the next quiz.

There’s a faint ringing in my ears. Thunder. Perhaps this is the thing I’ve been missing.

The shape of thunder. What a strange phrase. It doesn’t quite make sense....

It’s more than contradictory; it’s impossible. A thing that doesn’t actually exist, but possibly could. An impossible thing that could actually be possible.

Like finding a wormhole. Like time travel.

Dad points at my notebook. “You like that, huh?”

My heart is racing, but I’m trying to act cool. “It’s a neat quote.”

Dad gives me a knowing look. “I think so, too.”

I clutch my notebook and the book of poems to my chest. “Dad?”

He startles from whatever thought he was having. “Hm?”

“Thank you for the book,” I say. “And for the . . . story.”

Dad grins wide enough that I can see his front two teeth that are crooked. Mabel used to love to tease him about them, but I’ve always liked the way they are. It’s like I wouldn’t have even known they weren’t straight if it hadn’t been pointed out.

And that’s how I feel about Mom leaving. I want to tell Dad that, but I don’t know how without sounding really strange.

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

111. Katie the Catsitter

Katie the Catsitter #1 Colleen A.F. Venable. Illustrated by Stephanie Yue. 2021. [January] 229 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: Come on. Come on. Perfect.

Premise/plot: Katie, our heroine, is desperate to save enough money so she can afford to go to the same camp as one of her best, best friends. But money is hard to come by--no matter how willing, no matter how desperate. But after several failed attempts (turns out that she kills houseplants!) at earning money, she's offered a job by her upstairs neighbor, Ms. Madeline Lang. The job???? Catsitting. How many cats can one lady in New York City (living in an apartment building) have???? Turns out quite a lot! Katie finds herself taking care of "just" 217 cats!!!

The job pays well--very well! But it isn't without its moments. Turns out these cats are, well, special. As is Ms. Lang herself. This graphic novel for middle graders is set in a world (in New York City to be precise) where superheroes and villains are just as real as you and me. And there's always spottings of both heroes and villains...both on the news...and in person.

Could Ms. Lang have a couple of secrets she's keeping from Katie...and the world?

My thoughts: I liked this one. I did. I really liked it. I LOVED the 217 cats. The world building is fun. This appears to be the first in a series. I like that even though so many things are fantastical about it--superheroes, villains, sidekicks, etc--it is grounded in the real world. Turns out that you can have trouble with friendships no matter what. And Katie is struggling with maintaining her old friendships. It seems her friends may be moving on and moving up...

This was my favorite part of the book:

Bethany,
If you ever wonder how much I value your friendship, please measure it in cats. 217 cats. That's how much I care about you. Can't wait to tell you more about this job, but GOOD NEWS!!!! At this rat I should have the money by nocturnal week!!! You know, if I don't get murdered by lasers or evil cats first.

 

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

110. This Is Not the Jess Show

This is Not the Jess Show. Anna Carey. 2021. [February] 304 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: Three things happened the week I found out. Titanic won a bunch of Oscars, and my sister and I stayed up late to watch because we'd never miss a chance to see Leo in a tux. Meanwhile every news anchor was talking about the president, and everywhere I went people repeated that phrase, how he "didn't have sexual relations with that woman." I probably should have cared (president, impeachment, important stuff) but another, more pressing matter, had consumed me: I'd fallen in love with my best friend. Tyler.

Premise/plot: What if your whole life was a lie?!?!?! Jessica Flynn begins to question--to doubt--EVERYTHING as her life begins to unwind slowly but surely. It starts small--hearing voices yelling, chanting. Catching a glimpse of something that seems off/odd. But it isn't until HER dog is seemingly replaced with a look alike that she is like SOMETHING is wrong and NO ONE will tell me the truth. Just enough is "off" with her reality to make her start questioning everything. And once the questions start, there's no going back...

My thoughts: Part of me wishes that This is Not the Jess Show had been set in JUNE 1998--or should that be "June 1998"--so that Jess could go see THE TRUMAN SHOW with her friends. Though probably the powers that be--Life-Like Productions? Like-Life Productions?--would have banned that film from their universe. Still it would have been great.

The Truman Show is one of my favorite, favorite, favorite movies. I don't think it gets enough love. Perhaps the intended audience of this YA novel--tweens and teens--haven't seen it or heard of The Truman Show. For better or worse? On the one hand, This Is Not The Jess Show is a total and complete copycat of The Truman Show. On the other hand, it is a total and complete copycat of The Truman Show. Except instead of the "star" of the show being an adult--she's a teen girl--a minor.

Still, I loved so many things about it. It reminded me of The Truman Show, The Twilight Zone, and Margaret Peterson Haddix's awesome book, Running Out of Time. I did enjoy all the 90s references.

One of her conversations with Ty.

I wanted to go back into the bathroom and reapply my lip gloss and pinch color into my cheeks.

“Who knew Jen Klein was obsessed with Chumbawamba?” His finger rested on some CD spines in the middle of the stack. “I didn’t even realize they had other bad songs.”

“I actually wouldn’t mind that stupid song if it wasn’t so lazy,” I said, stepping toward him. “Have you ever listened to the lyrics? It’s the same two verses over and over again. He says the same line three dozen times.”

“But also, what is the guy in the song even doing?” Ty was still smiling as he said it. “He drinks four drinks in a row, all different. Like, I’m no bartender dude, but I’m pretty sure mixing a whiskey drink and a vodka drink and a lager drink, then chasing it down with hard cider, is not going to be good.”

Did I love him? Was it possible to love someone you’d never even kissed?

“You hiding out in there?” Ty asked, glancing over my shoulder into the bathroom. He had on this green flannel that he was obsessed with and a vintage Tears for Fears tee shirt underneath, the fabric faded from so many wears.

“Maybe. Don’t tell anyone.”

“You kept my secret about that weird cat statue.”

“The statue! I forgot about that.” I laughed.

“That’s how good you are at keeping secrets.”

When I was younger, my mom bought this abstract cat statue and displayed it on a pedestal in our den. Ty and I were rolling around inside a refrigerator box, pretending it was a carnival ride, when we slammed right into it, knocking it to the floor. I put the head back on with Crazy Glue. You could only tell it was broken if you held it an inch from your face.

“What is that?” he asked, peering at the pink stuff in my cup.

“Some weird lemonade  drink. Wanna try?”

“With that rave review?”

One of her conversations with "Patrick" (aka Kipps)

I guess it’s kind of obvious we’re not in the ’90s, huh?”

“Who else was going to say it? You think we’re going to run into some therapist who’s going to sit me down and, like, gently break the news to me?” I asked.

Kipps pressed his lips into a straight line.

“So, Bill Clinton? He’s not the president?”

“No, he’s dead,” Kipps said.

“Alanis Morissette? Puff Daddy?”

Kipps cringed. “I don’t know? I think they might be alive still? People don’t really listen to Alanis Morissette anymore, no offense. Not when Izzy Pike is making music.”

“That means…” I tried to do the math in my head. “Ew. How old is Scott Wolf? Like…70?”

I couldn’t shake the visual. Scott Wolf, my Scott Wolf. Old. Wrinkled. GRAY.

“Who is Scott Wolf?” Kipps said.

“Bailey from Party of Five?”

It was useless. I kept imagining him with saggy jowls and stooped shoulders. Scott Wolf with a grandpa pancake butt and white hair. “Gross. That is truly repulsive.”

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

108. The Boy Who Failed Show and Tell

The Boy Who Failed Show and Tell. Jordan Sonnenblick. 2021. [February] 224 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: The luckiest boy in my class is this kid Kenneth. Last March, when we were in third grade, there was a massive fire in his apartment building. He had to jump from his bedroom window on the seventh floor onto one of those fire-department trampoline things. He almost died! When he came back to school, he had the best Show and Tell in history. Now he is a legend.

Premise/plot: The Boy Who Failed Show and Tell is a memoir by author Jordan Sonnenblick. It focuses on his fourth grade year, I believe. The book is packed with adventures and misadventures at home and school. On the one hand, life is GREAT because he's got a SNAKE and he's taking drum lessons. On the other hand, life is AWFUL because his teacher hates him and is always picking on him.

My thoughts: I really enjoyed this one so much. The narrative voice is everything. The narrative is just right. I found it super relatable--even though I don't love snakes or play the drum.

Favorite quotes:

I wanted to say hi to the drummer, and maybe ask him how he had started playing. But I was too shy. So I just kind of faded away from the edge of the bandstand until I got back to the tables.
Anyway, I don’t know how I can learn to be that guy from a few lessons. I am only a shrimpy, nervous fourth grader. It seems to me that becoming a drummer isn’t just learning a set of skills. Becoming that guy would be more like a transformation: caterpillar me would have to somehow turn into … not a butterfly, exactly. Something cooler and stronger. Something heroic. Like a lion. Or Robert Falcone, but with drumsticks.
That’s what I want from drum lessons. To become a legend in just thirty minutes a week.

Maybe Mr. Fred Stoll is like Batman or Superman. People in the upstairs world think of him as a mild-mannered, cat-owning husband. But once you are allowed into his DRUM CAVE, you see the truth behind the disguise.
He sits down at a stool next to the drum set and gestures for me to pass him and sit on the stool that is actually set up directly in front of the drums—the stool a real drummer would sit on to play this set!
When I sit down, I am kind of excited and also kind of terrified. I want so badly to be able to sit right here and make amazing, thunderous noise, but I don’t even know how to hold a drumstick. Fortunately, that is the first lesson. Mr. Stoll lays two sticks down on the shallow, wide drum between my legs and says, “Lesson one: Pick those up.” I want to ask him how I am supposed to pick them up, but I feel like this is some kind of test.
Mr. Stoll is Obi-Wan Kenobi, I am Luke Skywalker, and I am supposed to use the Force to lift the sticks.

It’s only the second week of school, and Mrs. Fisher has already noticed that my handwriting is not neat. By not neat, I mean it looks like a dying chicken dragged a pencil across the page because it was stapled to his leg.
And that’s when I print. You should see my cursive.
It doesn’t matter that she’s right. What matters is that she compares me to William Feranek in front of the whole class.
“JORR-dan! This spelling paper is sloppy! I will not accept messy work!” I try to tell her that I spelled every word right, but she doesn’t care. “Nobody cares,” she purrs, “if you’ve spelled the words right if nobody can read them.

The song is called “Drive My Car.” The band is the Beatles.
There is a short guitar introduction. Then Mr. Stoll plays a roll on two of the tom-toms before starting to play an amazing beat. I don’t know how he does it all! One hand is on the snare drum, the other is playing a pair of cymbals called the hi-hats, which open and close if you push your left foot down on a pedal, and his right foot is working the pedal that hits the bass drum. Every time the bass drum thumps, it is like a bright blue shock in the center of my chest. There is also a clanking noise on every beat of the song that lights up the inside of my mind in dark red pulses. I have no idea what that sound is, but it makes me feel wild, like I am about to jump up out of my chair and yell.

Mr. Stoll says, “Now I am going to play the song again, but you are going to keep time.” He hands me a weird blocky metal thing that looks like one of the bells you might see around a cow’s neck in a cartoon, and tells me I am going to hold it in one hand and use my other hand to hit it with a drumstick.
“What is this thing called?” I ask.
“A cowbell,” Mr. Stoll replies. Well, that makes sense. “Did you hear the clanking sound on every beat of the song?”
I nod.
“All you have to do is hit the cowbell along with the clanks, and together you and I will be a percussion section.”
I smile. A percussion section sounds like something a professional musician would be in.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, and he puts the needle down onto the beginning of the song again.
“I’ll tell you when,” he says.
I try to hit the cowbell in time with the song, but that is much harder than it sounds. I could hear the cowbell on the record perfectly the first time the song played, but as soon as I start making noise, I drown the recorded cowbell out. When my time starts to drift, Mr. Stoll looks over at me and counts out the rhythm: “One! Two! Three! Four!”
This happens a few times, but Mr. Stoll only smiles and keeps counting.
The third time through the record, Mr. Stoll doesn’t play. He just watches me and counts. I think I am starting to feel the rhythm on my own. It feels like lightning flashing in my brain.
I like it.

We work on my double stroke roll for a while after we are finished with the Beatles, and then comes a moment I know I will remember for the rest of my life. Mr. Stoll carefully takes the album, Yesterday and Today, off the player and carefully puts it into its protective paper sleeve, then slides the sleeve inside the cardboard album cover and hands the whole thing to me.

“The Beatles,” he says. “So good. John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Ringo is the drummer. You can learn a lot from these guys. Take this for the week, and practice hitting your dictionary in time with the different songs. You have a record player at home, right?”
I nod. Really, I don’t exactly have a record player, but Lissa does.
“Just promise me you’ll take care of the album. You know how to hold it by its edges, right?”
I nod again, very enthusiastically. I will treat this album like a precious jewel. I will treat this album like gold. I will treat this album like I treat Hectoria. I won’t even think about hurling it across Lissa’s room like a Frisbee, the way I threw her Saturday Night Fever soundtrack record when she wouldn’t stop calling me names that one time.
“Great,” he says. “I trust you.”
My drum teacher trusts me.
I walk out of there feeling so excited I might explode. I am holding “Drive My Car” in my own two hands. And there are ten more Beatles songs on the record, just waiting for me to discover them.

 

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

106. Hollow Chest

Hollow Chest. Brita Sandstrom. 2021. 352 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: The scream of the air raid siren cut off abruptly when Charlie opened his eyes, like a hand had come down to strangle it.

Premise/plot: The war is almost but the war wolves are still hungry. Charlie, our protagonist, is one of the few who has never been to war himself yet can see plainly and clearly the war wolves. His brother, Theo, has newly returned home. But Charlie feels that he has a hollow chest (hence the title). His talking with the war wolves confirms this--his heart was eaten by a hungry war wolf and there is nothing Charlie can do with it. No good intentions, no amount of bravery, no dashing dares--once eaten a heart is gone forever. Yet that won't stop Charlie from trying--along with his cat Biscuits--to "save" his brother, Theo, and heal the family.

My thoughts: I personally wanted more realism and less fantasy. I guess when I started this one I wasn't really aware that it actually was a fantasy novel set in in the actual world at the end of the second world war. For readers who enjoy fantasy novels--with strong story elements--with just a touch of the real world, this may be a great match.

I thought the characters were well done. I especially loved Charlie and his family. I loved that Charlie needed stories like he needs air to breathe. I loved hearing all the different stories his family told him. I did like Charlie visiting another soldier, Reggie. I thought that relationship was well done. In some ways, I almost think there was more of a bond between Reggie and Charlie--two strangers before the start of the book--then Theo and Charlie.

The book is DEPRESSING. You know how some books paint a picture of an almost impossible journey with huge risks and little chance of any for success. But there's courage and bravery and resilience and the writing is super amazing. And more often than not, the character beats the odds--no matter how impossible--so that even if there is sacrifice and hardship and pain and suffering there is redemption and a modified happily ever after???? This isn't that kind of book. The book is DEPRESSING and BLEAK.

 

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

102. Thrive

Thrive (The Overthrow #3) Kenneth Oppel. 2021. [May] 416 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: High overhead, the winged cryptogen circled tightly, its golden wing glingtin in the sunlight that shafted through the clouds.

Premise/plot: Thrive is the third book Kenneth Oppel's Overthrow series. In the first book, Anaya, Seth, and Petra learned that they were the immune to the deadly dangerous alien plants that rained down as seeds. This being in part due to the fact that they were half-alien. It was quite a shock. In the second book, they faced dangers from within and without. Various governments of the world locked away these hybrids--including Seth, Petra, and Anaya--for experimental tests. (Also because the powers that be didn't trust them to be on the human side of the coming battle). In the third book, the battle is upon us. The aliens have arrived. And our protagonists can communicate telepathically with them.... There's a good chance that the aliens in contact with them are rebels within the invading army. But even joining forces these alien rebels and the humans may face quite an opponent....

My thoughts: I did find Thrive more action-packed and interesting than the second book in the series. (The second book was so boring.) I got hooked on the story in the first book and was hoping that the third story would end on a high enough note that I had an overall positive experience. I think it managed that fine.

I do think things were perhaps a little too easy and somewhat convenient. Not that I was cheering for the aliens to win, mind you, it's just that it was very tied up in a bow. By the end of the book, the world was ready to resume without any notable lingering effects of near-destruction. It was like the action of the past few months meant very little. And I just don't know how realistic that is.

I think what annoyed me most was Petra's being so clinging to Seth. I guess she developed a super crush on him in book one (that was not reciprocated) and it has just lingered on in books two and three. But by book three, I was so OVER it. He is not into you. He doesn't care about you like that. He barely cares about you at all. Like at all. Seth annoyed me the most. I wanted to yell and scream at him most of the time. (As opposed to yelling at Petra only half the time). HE was so stupid and lacking in common sense. The fact that two out of three of the protagonists were making clumsy decisions that could have had serious impacts on the fate of Earth and HUMANITY...and we still managed to "win" without too much trouble did make it seem a little unrealistic. 

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

101. The Many Meanings of Meilan

The Many Meanings of Meilan. Andrea Wang. 2021. [August] 368 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: I thought I knew all of my grandmother’s stories, but I was wrong. Somehow, I forgot to ask Nǎinai about the most important one of all.Now Tiffi is demanding to hear it. I’m good at inventing bedtime stories, but it feels wrong to make up the story of how our family bakery got its name. There is meaning behind every name. But with Nǎinai gone and the rest of my family too broken to talk about her, I’m left to fill in the gaps on my own.I take a deep breath and gather my thoughts. “Long ago,” I start, “there was a fènghuáng who lived in a tall—”

Premise/plot: Meilan, our heroine, moves with her family from Boston, Massachusetts, to Redbud, Ohio, in Andrea Wang's The Many Meanings of Meilan. The move isn't by her choice, though Meilan certainly feels partially responsible. Wasn't it *her* bedtime story that set off her Third Aunt's mad frenzy of demands and accusations?! If she'd just read a picture book aloud to her cousin, would the family have imploded??? Now the family is fractured and the edges are sharp and painful. Making the move are Meilan, Bàba, Māma, and Gōnggong. (Her parents and grandfather). Meilan decides that it is her job to piece the family back together again, to "fix" what she has broken.

But really that's only a fraction of the weight Meilan is bearing. She faces prejudice, discrimination, and some bullying in her new school. It starts with the principal himself who insists that Meilan change her "exotic" name to something "more American" and "normal." Meilan becomes "Melanie" at school, but, it isn't a good fit....not really. And it doesn't make the others welcome and accept her.

The novel is about Meilan exploring the many meanings of her name...and how she wears a different name in different places and around different people.

My thoughts: The Many Meanings of Meilan is a Problem Novel. It is also a coming of age novel. But mainly it's a coming of age novel packed with many Problems. And one of the Problems is racism and race relations. It is a heavy book. Not just because of Race. No, it's also heavy because she bears the guilt--deserved or not--of causing the family's problems. As an adult, I want to tell her it is not her fault, her responsibility. The tensions in the family must have already been there and just beneath the surface before Third Aunt overheard her making up a story--a story that Third Aunt claims is a vision. But Meilan feels like she *has* to take care of everybody and everything.

It was a heavy novel though well written. I can't say I "enjoyed" it, but I certainly read it in one sitting and followed Meilan's story from beginning to end.

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

97. Dark Waters

Dark Waters (Small Spaces #3) Katherine Arden. 2021. [August] 198 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: Spring is East Evansburg, and the rain poured down like someone had turned on a hose in the sky.

Premise/plot: Brian, Olivia, and Coco are friends who face DANGERS together--for better or worse. In this their third adventure, they are MAROONED on a haunted island in the middle of a lake facing off against a sea monster. Well, a monster that can hunt on sea or on land. The danger is real and the monster isn't the only threat...Olivia's dad was bitten by a snake during this sailing adventure, and they were never able to contact help before their boat...well...let's just say that the monster took a big bite out of their boat...

My thoughts: I mostly enjoyed spending more time with our heroes: Brian Battersby, Olivia Adler, and Coco Zintner. The three are joined by a classmate, Phil Dimmonds. Turns out these three aren't the only one who remember the terrifying adventures in the first book (like they originally thought).

I personally don't understand why these three children agreed to go on a sailing adventure together. Seriously. After the events of the first and second books, you would think they'd be aware of the dangers of such an adventure.

The book packs plenty of thrills and action sequences...and the ending is quite the cliffhanger.

 

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

96. The House of Serendipity

The House of Serendipity. Lucy Ivison. 2021. 224 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: I stopped and set my sewing machine down for the hundredth time.

Premise/plot: Myrtle Mathers (a young maid) and Sylvia Cartwright (a young lady) team up on the sly to be fashion designers in 1920s London. This one has alternating narrators--Myrtle and Sylvia. Myrtle, our seamstress, is a newly hired maid. Her mother is sick with consumption and has returned to Ireland; her father has died. She's hoping to support her mother with her wages while dreaming of brighter days. Sylvia has a vivid imagination and a sketchpad. Her older sister, Delphine, is a debutante this season. These two strangers (Sylvia and Myrtle) team up when Delphine's dress is HIDEOUS and FRIGHTFUL. The two hope they can make something out of the mess that is worth wearing for her big party/ball. After a successful (secret) project, the two team up a second time to help out another debutante, Agapantha Portland-Prince, who literally wants to run far, far away from this society nonsense...

But when secrets are outed, can Myrtle keep her job and reputation?

My thoughts: IF I was giving out stars based on the cover alone, I'd give this one five stars. I love everything about this cover. I'd go back in time and hand myself a copy of this book.

But I don't give out stars based on the cover...alone. I think for younger audiences (aka NOT adults) this one will prove an enjoyable and appealing dalliance with historical fiction.

For older readers (aka adults and maybe some young adults) it may be an almost book. Sylvia and Myrtle are from two distinct social classes. And there are things that Sylvia can get away with--especially at her young age--that Myrtle can't. It's not fair exactly. I'm not saying it is. But the book doesn't really go far enough, deep enough here. It's very neat and tidy. But Myrtle's choices while wonderful for fiction could have proved disastrous.

The ending. I don't know if this book could have a bigger bow ending. I have a hard time believing that Hollywood is anxious for two teens from Britain to come be costume designers. And I have a hard time believing that this is what is best for them...both. The truth is that both are what would be considered minors today. And for the two to dream of Hollywood fame...and to want to head out on their own...without adult supervision, guidance, wisdom. It seems like a HUGE mistake waiting to happen. Granted, London life may not be any safer in regards to possible exploitation. But at least Sylvia is living with her family. Would I have been bothered by this literal Hollywood ending as a kid? as a teen? probably not.

 

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

91. In the Wild Light

In the Wild Light. Jeff Zentner. 2021. [August] 432 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: The human eye can discern more shades of green than of any other color. My friend Delaney told me that. She said it’s an adaptation from when ancient humans lived in forests. Our eyes evolved that way as a survival mechanism to spot predators hiding in the vegetation. There are as many tinges of understanding as there are hues of green in a forest. Some things are easy to understand. There’s a natural logic, a clear cause and effect. Like how an engine works.

Premise/plot: Cash Pruitt is offered a once in a lifetime opportunity: a scholarship to an elite boarding school where his best, best friend, Delaney Doyle, is attending. But it will mean leaving everything--and everyone--he loves behind for a few years. It will mean moving from Tennessee to Connecticut. Just at a time when he wants to be with his Papaw the most. But...ONCE in a lifetime. And everyone is telling him that he'd be a complete fool to pass this up...

In the Wild Light is a coming of age novel that chronicle's Cash's (first) year away at school. It is a GROWING time but also a grieving time.

My thoughts: The characters are oh-so-human. It is an emotional roller coaster of a book. It's tough in some places because the emotions are so genuinely raw. I dare anyone--who's lost a grandparent--to not *feel* that chapter. Not that every page of this one is about punching you in the heart. The strength of this one is in the writing--the narrative--and the characters. BOTH are so well done.

Quotes:

She’s tried to explain how her mind functions, without success. How do you tell someone what salt tastes like? Sometimes you just know the things you know. It’s not her fault we don’t get it. People still treat her like she’s to blame.

Some aren’t okay with not understanding everything. But I’m not afraid of a world filled with mystery. It’s why I can be best friends with Delaney Doyle.

A ray catches a crack in the windshield and illuminates it, a tiny comet. I’ve always loved when the light finds the broken spots in the world and makes them beautiful.

“I got an offer to go to a boarding school up north.”

My heart plummets. With all the press she’s been getting, I knew this day would come.

I swallow, then nod for her to continue. “Oh wow.” The unease in my voice is obvious to my own ears even as the words leave my lips.

“Middleford Academy. In New Canaan, Connecticut.”

“Sounds fancy.” My head swims.

“It’s one of the top five prep schools in America. This lady from Alabama named Adriana Vu, who made hundreds of millions in biotech, went to Middleford. She donated a shitload of money to the school to fund this amazing lab and STEM program. She contacted me and said she’d talked to Middleford and she’d pay for me to go there.”

Ever since I first became aware that the world contains mysteries and incomprehensible wonders, I’ve tried to live as a witness to them. As we came to know each other, I began to see something in Delaney that I’d never seen in another person. I can’t name that thing. Maybe it has no name, the way fire has no shape. It was something ferocious and consuming, like fire.

And I wanted to be close to it, the way people want to stand near a fire.

Where’s my Tess at? No Longmire tonight?” Tess is short for Tesla, which is what he started calling Delaney after she told him that Nikola Tesla was her favorite scientist. Before that, he called her Einstein.

“Tending her half brothers.”

“Y’all are like to have ruint my Saturday night.

Life has given me little reason to feel large, but I see no need to make myself feel smaller.

“Death’s all around us. We live our whole lives in its shadow. It’ll do what it will. So we need to do what we will while we can.”

With that, our conversation dwindles.

I rock and feel on my face the caress of the cool evening air, scented by the damp green of broken vines and cut grass. Beside me, Mamaw and Papaw hold hands but don’t speak.

Above us is an immaculate chaos of white stars and drifting moonlit-silver clouds. I remember how I would sit under the sanctuary of the night sky, into the late hours, waiting for my mama to get home. Or to escape her dopesick moaning and thrashing. Or to avoid the red-rimmed, whiskey-fogged glare of a new boyfriend. Or because I needed to feel like there was something beautiful in this world that could never be taken from me.

Papaw coughs and coughs. Eventually, he collects himself.

I listen to his shallow, uneven respiration. Ask me to number the breaths I wish for you. One more. Ask me a thousand times. The answer will always be one more

I thought the predawn tranquility would help me find some peace. But the quiet is just another clamor in my head, calling me in every direction I can’t choose between.

This must be what it’s like to die. You look around you and see how much of what you love you leave behind.

Delaney nestles herself into my side and asks me, “If you could know everyone who’s ever loved you, would you want to know?”

I think about my answer for a few moments. Would I? Would it be better to know that someone you never thought loved you did love you? Or would it be worse to know that someone you always thought loved you didn’t?

It’s not a question you can answer, like so many she poses, and I go to tell her so. By the time I do, though, she’s sound asleep—soon twitching and jerking as her slumber deepens. Careful not to rouse her, I pull a hoodie out of my backpack and drape it over her. I sit with my ghostly reflection in the finger-smudged window for company, as the new and sprawling American countryside blurs past us in the darkness.

We try to put new students with other new students.” Yolanda scans a paper. “So…Cash. You’ll be rooming with Patrick McGrath III—he goes by Tripp. He’s from Phoenix, Arizona. His father was actually just elected to the US House of Representatives.”

My newly full stomach roils. Hope you’re a good guy, Tripp. Sounds like you’re a rich and powerful one.

“Now for you, Delaney.” Yolanda leafs through her papers. “Here we go. Viviani Xavier. I think I’m saying that right? The X is a sh sound. She comes to us from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.”

“You better brush up on your Spanish,” I tell Delaney.

“They speak Portuguese in Brazil,” Delaney says. “It’s the language most spoken in South America.”

“Viviani speaks excellent English,” Yolanda says. “You’ll have no trouble communicating.”

“I think of poetry lovers as people who love beautiful things.” He stops to catch his breath. “You love the beauty in this world. Ain’t a reason I can think of you don’t belong in a poetry class.

I’d thought about how funny it would be if when you got to heaven, God could give you a printout with all of your life’s vital statistics. How much hair you produced. How many colds you defeated. How many times you skinned your knees. How many nightmares you endured. How many pancakes you ate.

Every brave thing you did.

Every heartbreak you overcame.

Everyone you mourned.

Everyone you ever loved.

Everyone who ever loved you.

Before I left, Papaw told me that if I’m ever hanging out with a group, I should be the one to suggest getting ice cream, because it’ll always be a good time and it’ll be my doing. So before it’s time to leave, I do exactly that, and he’s right.

But we don’t choose our dreams; they choose us. So instead I dream of doors sealed by death and wake up sweating in the mute darkness, my roommate sleeping in blissful oblivion a few feet away and a world apart.

Memory is a tether. Sometimes you get some slack in the line and you can play it out for a while. You forget and think you’re free. But you’ll always get to the end and realize it’s still there, binding you, reminding you of itself, reminding you that you belong to each other.

Poetry is one of the highest artistic achievements of humankind.

“I told you that there are many things that poetry won’t do. But there are many things poetry will do. Poetry makes arguments. It presents cases for better ways of living and seeing the world and those around us. It heals wounds. It opens our eyes to wonder and ugliness and beauty and brutality. Poetry can be the one light that lasts the night. The warmth that survives the winter. The harvest that survives the long drought. The love that survives death. The things poetry can do are far more important than the things it can’t.”

Life often won’t freely give you moments of joy. Sometimes you have to wrench them away and cup them in your hands, to protect them from the wind and rain. Art is a pair of cupped hands. Poetry is a pair of cupped hands.”

Poets use language in ways I’ve never considered, to describe things I thought defied description.

Dr. Adkins picked poets who write about the world. About rivers and fireflies and formations of geese and deer and rain and wind. Things I love.

By the time I’m done reading at least one poem out of each book (usually more), I’m experiencing a deep calm, like I feel after being on a river, under the sun, in the wind, feeling the spray off my paddle. For those brief moments strolling through the forest of words, everything had disappeared. Papaw wasn’t dying while I was far from him at a place where I didn’t belong, always on the precipice of disappointing him. I had stolen moments of joy from a hungry world that devours them and protected them for a while in cupped hands.

I sit with the feeling for as long as I can before it fades and loses definition, like a cloud formation.

Then I remember the second part of my assignment. To write a poem. This part makes me more apprehensive.

Vi gets to the end of her twig.

“You deserve to do what you love in life.” I pick up another twig and hand it to her.

She gives me a melancholy smile and accepts my offering. “I love my parents, but I think they don’t always know who I am very well.”

“There anything I can do?”

She snaps off a piece of the twig, reaches over, and gently sets it upright in my hair. “Let me grow apple trees on your head so every time we hang out I can have free apples.”

My entire body hums at her closeness and touch. The crackle I felt last night at the game is still present. I sit stone-still. “Anything you want.” I’ve never meant something more.

Sometimes you don’t even realize you are ravenous until you start eating. Dr. Adkins’s story has identified that feeling I get when I read and write poetry: satiety. I didn’t know to call it a hunger until now. I think about my mama. Maybe the Oxys and fentanyl were her attempted cure for a nagging craving she was never able to identify. All she knew was what killed it for a while.

While we talk, the room fills even more with the sumptuous smell of cooking. Alex’s kimchi fried rice adds to the aromatic symphony. We hear Desiree and Alex laughing and talking cheerily in the kitchen. Periodically, one will say something like Nice touch! or Never thought to do that!

Words make me feel strong. They make me feel powerful and alive.

They make me feel like I can open doors.

If only heartbreak were truly what it claims to be, it might not be so bad. But here’s the thing—your heart never gets broken quite enough to stop wanting who broke it.

When he recovers, he says, “Tell you what, Mickey Mouse. You find that right someone, and ever’ minute you spend with them is like a Hawaiian vacation. She’s out there. You’ll figure it out.”

He’s never been to Hawaii.

It feels like he’s bequeathing me an inheritance of the only wealth he possesses—his memories, his quiet joys.

Dignity dies as the body does.

He pulls off his oxygen mask, and it makes a rushing sound, like the advance of wind before a storm. “Tell you a story,” Papaw says in his pale whisper, barely audible above the noise of his mask, as he visibly summons himself from the gloaming. “You was just born. Your mama’s trailer weren’t fit for a baby, so we brought you both home from the hospital. Your mama slept in her old room. Your room.” He pauses to muster his strength and continues. “Your mamaw was wore out too. It was springtime, so I took you out on the porch and sat, just you and me, in the rocker. Had you wrapped up so tight you weren’t but a head poking out of a blanket.” He stops and gathers himself. “Watched you feel the breeze on your face for the first time. Watched you open your little gray eyes and squint out at the trees swaying in the wind. And I says to you, ‘That wind you feel on your face is called wind. Them trees you see are called trees.’ Holiest thing I ever witnessed—you feeling the wind for the first time. Seeing a tree for the first time. Speaking their names to you. Saw the face of God in you that day. Ever’ time you tell a story, it becomes a little more ordinary. So I swore I’d only tell this one the once.” He pauses once more, and with what remains of himself, says, “There was a last time I held you in my arms, and I didn’t even know it.”

He finishes, spent by this effort. He murmurs something else, but I can’t make it out. Something Mickey Mouse.

I wriggle closer to him and pull his arm over me. Let this be the last time you hold me in your arms.

I slip his oxygen mask back on him. He drifts off, and I hold his hand until it goes limp and heavy.

“I love you. I’ll always love you,” I whisper again and again to his unconscious ear, hoping he absorbs it somehow.

Hoping he takes it with him to whatever unmapped land he’s journeying to.

Hoping he returns.

If only once more.

I cried until I was empty—not of feeling but of tears.

I wish our love was enough to keep whole the people we love.

Some people can lift your heart up to the light, reading the truth of you written on it.

I was afraid that being a man meant waging war on what’s beautiful.

I wanted to love the world without taking anything from it.

He knew all this. This is what you remember of the people you love when they’re gone—the ways they knew you that no one else did—even you. In that way, their passing is a death of a piece of yourself.

I don’t know how I’ll do this. I barely managed when I was only cracked. Now I’m broken wide open.

We ordinarily encourage sharing of rooms, to teach students compromise and conflict resolution and to forge lifelong friendships. But you have certainly earned the right to a solo room.”

That sounds pretty great. “What’s the other option?”

“One of your fellow students, who currently resides in a single room, has come forward and asked to be placed as your roommate if you so choose. I believe you know him. Alex Pak. An exceptional young man, from what I gather.”

An ecstatic bloom spreads through me. “Yeah, I know Alex. He is pretty exceptional. Let’s go with that.”

I’ll tell you the truest thing I know: You are not a creature of grief. You are not a congregation of wounds. You are not the sum of your losses. Your skin is not your scars. Your life is yours, and it can be new and wondrous. Remember that.”

“Always.”

“Goodbye for now, Cash.”

“Goodbye for now, Dr. Adkins.”

“My friends call me Bree.”

“Bree?”

She looks at me.

“You said something at Thanksgiving I keep thinking about: that you didn’t inherit your mamaw’s gift for healing. But you did,” I say.

I remember first seeing her across the room at that Narateen meeting. Now we’re gazing at the lights of New York City together.

I wonder where I’d be at this moment, the smaller life I would have led if we’d never spoken.

You can feel when your mind’s building a palace for a memory. A place it lives, glowing and dancing in marble halls. A place you can visit when you need to feel less of the world’s gravity.

I feel my mind building such a palace for Delaney and me.

Sometimes I imagine the two of us at an all-night diner, drawing faces on pancakes with ketchup, drunk on each other, and laughing like nothing beautiful ever dies.

I’ll always love her.

Every wound, every hurt that brought us together—I regret none of it.

I once thought of memory as a tether. I still do, in a way. But now I also see memory as the roots from which you grow toward the sun.

The dreams of closed doors still come, but less now.

I sit with my notebook and pen in the wild light of the day’s end.

In the place where I learned the names of trees and wind, I write.

 

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews