Review: The Accident by Ismail Kadare

The problem with The Accident is that it feels too surreal for me to invest any sort of emotional or intellectual connection with the story or characters. Ismail Kadare seems to be commenting upon a political situation related to Albania and Serbia and a host of other countries, a situation I am too unaware of for this to resonate with me. But at the same time, the book also seems to be about a rocky and destructive human relationship. But it is also about the myriads of interpretations people might give for an event that they begin to delve into the ridiculous. This is a story that probably could have been told as a short story, for the conclusion is pretty apparent by the opening chapters, and what happens in between is dragged on and on, repeated tirelessly until the final pages.

The novel begins intriguingly enough, with a taxi that gets into an accident, flinging out a couple in the back seat but leaving the driver unharmed. What seems to be a simple accident - distracted driver, doors somehow flung open, two dead - becomes mired in investigation as people wonder whether the man in fact murdered the woman, and pretty soon their every correspondence is under scrutiny as researchers try to figure out what really happened. Occam's Razor tells us that the simplest explanation is the best explanation, but it's not always the most satisfying. I can see hints of what Kadare is trying to do here. News reports endlessly and tirelessly interpret and cover events in a myriad of ways from all kinds of different perspectives. At first I thought that Kadare's purpose was satire. By the end, I'm not entirely sure his purpose.

Kadare seems to open this work to its own sort of endless interpretation. The two main characters - Besfort and Rovena - could each represent a nation or region, and one could read into their relationship the relationship between these two areas. But if this novel serves as an allegory, that strips away the emotional resonance. On the other hand, it is difficult to read this as a novel providing insight into human relations because so often the dialogue and happenings do not feel real. People say bizarre things to each other and respond in bizarre ways. Kadare clearly has something in mind as he makes the choices he does in this novel, but I think for most readers these choices will be alienating and make this a less compelling read, as they did for me.

Review: Big Nate In a Class By Himself, by Lincoln Peirce

Further proof of Jeff Kinney's influence on modern YA novels, Big Nate is another in a line of books that combine prose with graphics. Lincoln Peirce's style is more in line with James Patterson's Middle School books (or vice versa, as Big Nate is first), but it is also aimed at a much younger audience. Big Nate is not quite as good as the other big name graphic novel series (Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Middle School, Dork Diaries), but it does provide plenty of laughs. It is interesting that these books seek to attract young male readers by using young male protagonists who hate school, cause trouble at school, and do poorly in their classes. I can see parents worrying about what morals these books teach, but in most cases, those who don't enjoy school don't learn that behavior from a book. If reading about a character like Nate, whose hobby is getting detention slips from teachers, gets kids to start reading, that at least opens up the door for further reading.

Nate is much meaner than his counterparts, Greg Heffley or Rafe or Charlie Joe Jackson. He says nasty things about his teachers and other students, the kinds of things that boys do really say. Perhaps Nate does go a bit far, and you don't want a book to be pedantic, but you also don't want to normalize cruel behavior. Nate gets in as much trouble as Rafe, but Rafe is a kinder soul. The story in Big Nate is rather predictable. Nate gets a fortune saying he is going to surpass all others by the end of the day, and while it becomes clear to the reader just how he will surpass all others, Nate plots ways that he can accomplish that fortune. Most of the time his antics are mildly amusing, the kind of thing a much younger audience might find hilarious, but that comes off as pretty vanilla for a more experienced audience. Big Nate's at its funniest when Nate unintentionally gets himself in trouble. I found myself laughing out loud when Nate accidentally put on the substitute gym teacher's shorts, and when his ink pen began leaking in his teacher's shirt pocket. These moments were absurd, but there was good build up to them, and Nate did not cause them purposely.

As a teacher I cringe at the depictions of teachers in books like these as dull, unsentimental beings whose only emotion is anger or irritation. Are teachers really like that? Where I work most teachers are passionate and do their best to make a positive connection with students (even when those students do get on our nerves, ahem). It saddens me to see fictional schools filled with curmudgeon teachers. Then again, from the perspective of a egocentric pre-teen or teenager, perhaps that's just what adults look like in general, as creatures who serve to get in the way of your freedom. Big Nate represents rebellion against this system, unsuccessful as this rebellion is. He serves vicariously as a stand-in for the kinds of things readers of these books would like to do themselves, had they only the guts. Big Nate's behavior also shows the consequence of such behavior, allowing readers to live through that vicariously as well, without having the face such consequences in their reality. So I say, let the boys read the books.

Review: A Man Called Ove, by Frederick Backman

Frederik Backman writes A Man Called Ove as if similes were an endangered species. Backman's repetition of similes, adding "as if" to almost every description, is much more noticeable while listening to the book, and as the "as ifs" pile up the listening grows more tiring. Of course, this isn't the only problem, but the book has its fair share of entertaining moments, and even some of these similes are amusing. The book is a comedy, first and foremost, dangerously close to a romantic one, despite Backman's attempts to add some drama through back story. It's a comedy because the characters are largely one-dimensional. Despite some modest (and predictable) change at the end, Ove is a curmudgeon constantly surrounded by people who for some reason seem to really like him even though he is clearly annoyed by their presence. His constant attempts to take his own life are thwarted again and again by nosy neighbors or some other divine intervention. Ove is an amusing curmudgeon, one in the vein of Clint "Get off my Lawn" Eastwood, and Backman's perseverance in making this character so grumpy is the book's main redeeming factor.

You know you're in for a treat when the book opens with a cranky old man asking the sales clerk at a computer store for an "ePad," and then later accuses the man of trying to rip him off because he's too prideful to admit he doesn't know a thing about computers or tablets. Ove is a manly man, the kind who displays no visible emotion except any related to anger. Backman also seems to make it clear that he's the only competent person peopling this novel, with the exception of Ove's deceased wife, Sonia, and his new Iranian neighbor, Parvana. Everyone else is a doofus or some other form of incompetent, not just in the eyes of Ove, it seems, but also the author. Parvana's husband, Patrick, can't back an RV out of his driveway without smashing Ove's mailbox, or climb a ladder without breaking his leg. Ove's contempt for Patrick is met by Backman's, and even Parvana seems to barely tolerate the man.

While Ove makes for a believable curmudgeon, the rest of the character's are much less believable in their one-dimensionality, except Parvana. Sonia is angelic and forgiving, as any woman marrying a man like Ove must be. Patrick is obliviously kind, always wearing a smile, and seemingly unaware of the fact that people are always laughing at him. Jimmy is overweight, so he always has some kind of food in his mouth, and if he doesn't, he asks to be directed to the nearest snack, because that's all that overweight people think about. The men in white uniforms, representing the government, are heartless and condescending. Perhaps the least believable is the reporter woman who wants to interview Ove about him rescuing a man who had collapsed onto some train tracks. She seems oblivious to the fact that Ove does not want to interview him, and doesn't seem at all perturbed when he locks her in his garage. Many of these people don't feel real so much as pre-programmed automatons.

When I call this a borderline romantic comedy it's because the relationship between Ove and Parvana. It begins cold and then gradually grows warmer. It's nothing romantic that develops between the two, but an understanding that, in a way, they are soul mates. Ove grows to respect her for her own brand of stubbornness, and Parvana grows to love him, perhaps in a paternal way. Though this sounds much more like a drama, it is Ove's unflinching crankiness that makes this a comedy. Time and again, Ove is put in situations that he does not like, and there are very few that he does like, and for the most part it is amusing to see how Ove responds to these situations. The inevitability of the conclusion, and the seeming misanthropy, do take away from the emotional impact of the story, as do some of the over-the-top reactions characters have to certain events. But for those looking for an amusing cranky old man story, this hits the spot.

Review: Middle School: The Worst Years of My Life, by James Patterson and Chris Tebbetts

James Patterson's and Chris Tebbetts' Middle School: The Worst Years of My Life is a lot like Jeff Kinney's Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Both rely heavily on drawings to enhance the story, though the drawings by Laura Park are much more detailed and sometimes require more attention from the reader. Both are written in the first person point of view, but where Greg Heffley writes in a diary, Rafe Khatchadorian does not. Rafe also has a lot more personality. Jeff Kinney uses a much more objective narrative point of view, but Patterson and Tebbetts give their narrator much more energy and zeal. Both stories are humorous, at times laugh out loud funny, but, oddly, while reading Rafe's story, I felt a tinge of sorrow for the main character. Patterson and Tebbetts are able to bring out the energetic personality of a middle school boy while showing how alienating it can be to learn how to conform to the rules of an institution, especially while you have other things bothering you.

The general premise of the story is simple - Rafe is starting middle school and to make things interesting he decides to challenge himself to break every single rule in the school's code of conduct. This is something young readers will cheer as brilliant while their parents and school officials will likely cringe. But young readers should be able to distinguish fantasy from reality. They may dream of pulling the fire alarm, for example, like Rafe does, but that doesn't mean they will follow his example and actually do it. Rafe does not like school, something many students probably agree with. Not all students dislike school, of course. There are those like Jeanne, who fit right in. But many are just like Rafe. This is a difficult time for youngsters still figuring themselves and the world out. And here adults are often setting rigid rules, those of the zero tolerance variety, that make a person like Rafe feel like he could never fit in emotionally.

It doesn't help that Rafe has some family troubles. His mother is divorced and she's currently engaged to a lazy man who Rafe calls Bear. I've seen reviews that criticize this choice of arrangement in the story, but stories often reflect reality. While Rafe's mother probably shouldn't be with a man like Bear, especially since she has a son and daughter to care for and his presence is more burden than help, in reality people are human and often make poor decisions for emotional reasons, even adults. Bear is sometimes portrayed stereotypically, sometimes more realistically. There's also Leo, Rafe's best friend, who has a couple of surprises up his sleeve. I didn't foresee the revelations with Leo, but a more discerning reader may be less surprised than I was. They do add immensely to the emotional impact of the story.

This is an energetic, sometimes manic, often inventive story that never grows dull, thanks to Rafe's high energy narration. There is a lot of humor. Rafe is the kind of kid who a teacher might simultaneously feel annoyed with and amused by, such as when he writes his own parts for Paris while reading lines for Romeo and Juliet. Fellow students, however, love a class clown like Rafe. People often appreciate a person who dares to do what they would not. The drawings are excellent as well. The attention to detail is surprising, and you'll find some things to laugh at if you pay attention to the small details. The drawing where Rafe is shown sneaking into the teacher lounge and taking a bite out of each donut had me cracking up, even if I would be enraged to find a student had done that in my own teacher lounge.

If anything, Middle School is an exercise in hyperbole. The story is loaded with it. The title should clue you into that - The Worst Years of My Life. The drawings add a lot to this hyperbole, especially the hilarious portrayals of classrooms. In one drawing, the Spanish teacher is shown spearing students with arrows for not following rules. This hyperbole often turns to metaphor. We see this with the portrayal of one teacher, Ms. Donatello, as a dragon. But this metaphor grows more challenging in a few chapters when Rafe narrates a detention or meeting with the principal as an epic battle between Rafe the knight and a monster. This is much more revealing of Rafe, who copes with his troubles by turning them into fantasy.

While Rafe's rule breaking is rewarded with laughs, it is not rewarded with an easy school experience for him. So while some may criticize the book for giving students ideas and making it seem like breaking rules and complaining about school as boring are appropriate reactions, Patterson and Tebbetts just know how to pander to their target audience. Young readers may rejoice in knowing there isn't a large lesson for those like Rafe, such as that breaking rules is wrong. His behavior does make his schooling experience more difficult, to be sure, but Patterson and Tebbetts are merely tapping into the effects that unbending, rigid rules have on young human beings. Zero tolerance rules have become a problem when enforced on well-meaning kids who incidentally break a rule. This is made most clear when Jeanne is punished for breaking a rule that she broke not out of meanness, but to help another person.

What really surprised me about the book, and maybe my reaction isn't shared by everyone, is the underlying tone of melancholy I felt. Except for Leo, Rafe is a loner. Nobody really understands him, and nobody makes any real attempt to connect with him. His mom comes the closest to showing understanding, but her feelings sometimes come out as an alienating sort of pity. Then there's Jeanne, who starts to be nice to Rafe, perhaps oblivious to the fact he has a crush on her. The scene when he asks her if she wants to have pizza with him, after he goes out of his way to please her, made me feel sad. She nicely tells him that he misunderstood, that she doesn't feel that way about him. But the fact that she was just being nice to him makes him feel used. Again and again through the story, as Rafe makes us laugh with his inventive ways to break rules, there's also a sadness lingering there. That's what elevates this book and makes it much more complicated than it seems. I was surprised to find how powerful the stronger moments of this book were, and how funny the rest of it was.

Review: Roscoe Riley Rules #1 Never Glue Your Friends to Chairs

This is an amusing, sometimes hilarious book aimed at young kids. The book series is aimed at a younger audience than Katherine Applegate's The One and Only Ivan, a book that had appeal to a wide age range, from kids to adults. But if you are a parent searching for a book to read with your child, you might find yourself amused by this one.

This book is all about trying to follow rules, but sometimes as a young kid it can be hard. Especially when you don't know all of the rules. I mean, nobody tells you that you can't glue your friends to chairs, and Roscoe's story shows that he wasn't malicious - he just lacked foresight for the consequences of his actions.

The book is written at breakneck speed with single sentence paragraphs, one after the other. This not only helps keep kids interested, but established Roscoe's character as a bit of a spastic kid. He's nice and kind, the kind of kid that you find adorable as a teacher when he's not causing you to rip your hair out (as Roscoe's teacher, Ms. Diz does when telling a kid to take Play-Doh out of his ear). The way he builds up to why he glued his friends to their chairs is logical and amusing. I laughed out loud a few times, especially when his sister Hazel sings the alphabet song:

"...h, i, j, k, Ellen Emmo peed."

And then she wants to know who Ellen Emmo is, to which Roscoe replies that they explain all that in kindergarten.

Roscoe's classroom doesn't quite reflect reality, but it does reflect diversity. It seems there is at least one kid of each race in the world in his first grade classroom.

What's interesting is Applegate's portrayal of teachers. I find many popular children's books portray teachers as cranky, mean curmudgeons (especially the Captain Underpants books). But Applegate shows a lot of sympathy for teachers, in particular how difficult the job is, and anyone who is a teacher who reads these books can appreciate that. Ms. Diz is a first year teacher, and everyone from the students to the parents to the principal is aware of and supportive of that. There's even mention of the kindergarten teacher quitting for a boring office job. As much as Roscoe likes Ms. Diz, who is still working on her classroom management techniques, he can't help but cause her a source of headache by goodnaturedly breaking some rule or another.

I like that Applegate doesn't continue to hoist disrespect upon teachers and understands the difficult job they do. But outside of that, this is a book that you can feel comfortable with your child reading, knowing it will be entertaining and teach some good lessons without being preachy.

Review: Wintergirls, by Laurie Halse Anderson

Wintergirls is a poem in novel form, filled with metaphor, one that successfully navigates the troubled mind of a teenage girl obsessed with being the skinniest. It's also a semi-monster book, using the idea of a Wintergirl as a being that is half alive, half dead - or vice versa. That's how Laurie Halse Anderson paints girls who suffer eating disorders, as people close to death. But those who have died from an eating disorder are also Wintergirls, haunting those still alive. This is a powerful, daring novel that will challenge adults as well as the younger audience it is aimed at.

The novel is told from the point of view of Lia, whose best friend, Cassie, has recently been found dead in a motel. Her death haunts Lia in part because she feels guilty for it. The two tried to be the skinniest together, competed to do so, so that even when Lia was institutionalized she merely saw those trying to help her as obstacles to her goal. Only she knew what was best for her. So meticulous, so cunning, had Lia become that she learned how to trick her parents and stepmom, though of course they have their nagging doubts.

Lia is a complicated narrator, a risky sort for girls in her position to read, because some readers may not understand that she is an unreliable narrator. But putting the reader in this position is also an effective way to peer into the mindset of somebody suffering an eating disorder, which is really more a mental disorder. Lia is obsessive about her weight. She eyeballs food and makes mental calculations about the calorie count. She devises ways to make people believe she is eating healthy by eating regular dinners but skipping breakfast and lunch. She sees food and desires to eat it, but repeats in her head mantras - "stupid/ugly/fat" - to help her stay her course. She's egotistical and hypercritical of others, though the criticism is more thought than spoken. Very few people come out positively in her mind - Emma, her younger stepsister, being probably the only one she has nothing bad to say or think about. Of course, this might describe many teenagers, still so stuck in their own heads to realize that others are just like them.

Anderson describes her writing as quirky, and she does use some unusual flair, but it's purposeful and not overly dense. At times, Lia's narration is entirely made up of metaphor, such as when describing other people. This is a nice bit of poetry, to be sure, but it also describes Lia's state of detachment. There are plenty of times when phrases and sentences are crossed out, as though Lia is editing her mind, usually correcting any cravings. These help show her subconscious, her thoughts that accidentally leak through, and the obsessive way she keeps on her self-destructive track. Anderson's repetition of the phrase, right-aligned and in a smaller font, "...body found in a motel room, alone..." reveals how haunted Lia feels about the death of her friend, a thought in the back of her mind, hence the smaller text. Lastly, Anderson sets off flashbacks with paragraphs beginning in italics, but not entirely written in italics. These all help the novel flow while showing the complexities of Lia's disturbed mind.

Plot is not necessarily the point, but the story itself is excellent. Anderson sidesteps many tropes of young adult books, and this doesn't read like typical YA. Lia's family show more complexities than your typical YA family. While Lia's father borders on being negligent, her two moms - her biological mother and her stepmom - seem more concerned for her condition. Her stepmom weighs her and does regular check ups, and her mom criticizes her father for not doing enough to make sure Lia doesn't slide into dangerous territory, as if he has any say over her mental state. Anderson does show moments where he cares, and he seems more like a person who wants to deny something is wrong, and that can be an effective defense when things are out of your control.

One thing Anderson avoids doing is placing any blame for Lia's eating disorder. That she wants to be skinny is a desire of hers from a young age, and not borne from sights of thin models on TV and magazines. This is interesting because this is where popular culture places blame for a woman's lack of confidence in her own body. Perhaps it's not so simple. Yes, the sight of an attractive woman on a magazine cover no doubt stirs feelings of envy, just as the sight of a muscular, attractive man temporarily gives myself thoughts of hitting the gym and cutting back on those sweets. But for many this is a passing thought. Not all woman decide to become anorexic or bulimic at the sight of a model, just as those who suffer obsessive-compulsive disorder don't have a trigger. While it's easy to place the blame on something that one can tangibly see (and I'm not saying those photos of women are blameless), it may not be a particularly helpful way to identify the problem. Sometimes these things are more complex than it appears. As Lia shows, there may not be any origin to the mental state that leads to an eating disorder, but one can't overcome it alone.

Review: The Eagle, by Rosemary Sutcliff

The Eagle is at its best as a historical adventure novel, and for the most part, that's what it is. As vast as we often think humanity's knowledge is, there are far more unknowns than knowns, especially when it comes to history. In the case of The Eagle, one unknown is what happened to the Roman Ninth Legion, in the year AD 117, that caused it to disappear in northern Britain, and why its standard, called a Roman Eagle, was found far away from its last known position. Sutcliff writes a convincing portrayal of what may have been, fascinating in her use of realistic details and characterizations - characterizations that are different from how we might behave today, but not all that different as to be unrecognizable. While sometimes slow-paced when Sutcliff fills in background information, The Eagle is contemplative, engaging, and contains enough action to keep things exciting until the very end.

This is the story about the son of a Roman who was part of that Ninth Legion. Marcus Aquila is a centurion when we first meet him, stationed at a fort in Britain, hoping that someday he would be able to discover answers to his father's disappearance. After the requisite background information, the book settles into interesting action sequences as the fort is under attack by tribesmen from Britain. Marcus proves his mettle as a leader of his troops, but things do not happen predictably. A plot point early on was different than I expected, but it turns out to be important not just in changing Marcus's life, but in solving the mystery of the missing Ninth Legion.

Where the book slows down is after these initial action sequences, in which it becomes for a period episodic. We meet key characters, such as Esca, a British slave whose scenes with Marcus almost turn the way of a romance - and not a very well written one at that. Several chapters go the way of mushy sentimentalism, the kind evoked by Charles Dickens at his treacly-sweetest. This is when we meet Cub, the wolf cub who Esca captures and gifts to Marcus, as well as Cottia, the thirteen-year-old girl who lives next door to Marcus's uncle's home, and who is also an object of Marcus's affections. Sutcliff does not quite take any daring routes with either of the relationships, particularly with Esca, but perhaps Brokeback Mountain in the British wilds was not her intention. Fortunately Sutcliff leaves behind her sentimentality, which nearly derails the novel, when she jumps into the heart of her story.

It is in the adventurous aspects where The Eagle shines. These are men up against insurmountable odds - resourceful, cunning men. What happens is believable and because of that the story is at times tense and exciting. Sutcliff's use of details brings this time and place to life. I also enjoyed her imagining of Marcus's philosophy in what he has to do. There are many moral dilemmas he comes across, and Marcus makes compelling cases for the choices he makes. This is important in humanizing the tribes that he and Esca are up against, rather than making them faceless enemies. All in all, the novel's conclusion is made all the more satisfying by the journey taken to get there.

Review: The Zippity Zinger, by Henry Winkler and Lin Oliver

Hank Zipzer is a boy who struggles to do what others find easily, especially read and write. Since boys sometimes struggle academically in their early years, Hank's problems are something that anyone can relate to and feel good about knowing they're not alone. Hank's academic struggles are secondary to the main plot in this story, which is about his struggles in throwing a good pitch for his school's upcoming baseball game. Upper elementary level kids may find it amusing that Hank's good luck charm ends up being his sister's pink monkey socks, and that's more important than whether adults find it amusing. Some jokes are mildly amusing for adults, but no doubt younger kids will find something to laugh at in every page.

Hank's dilemmas and family feel real and believable, but they do have their quirks. Particularly the sister's pet iguana and the dachshund named Cheerio. The sequence when Hank's friends dress up as Hopi Indians is bizarre, but since Hank is studying for his history test about the Hopi, it makes at least some sense. The characters themselves aren't particularly colorful (I mean in terms of personality - they are a diverse bunch in terms of race and gender, though), but that's probably not going to matter to the target age group of these books. If you have a son who you are struggling to find a book for, this might be something he enjoys. The series has been a big hit in my classroom of ESL learners.

Review: Dork Diaries Tales From a Not-So-Fabulous Life, by Rachel Renee Russell

Dork Diaries is the girls' answer to Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and it's probably about as good as it could get. Rachel Renee Russell writes with energy and zeal and her comedy never grows tiring. Her drawings, while not as charismatic as Jeff Kinney's, have a distinct personality. In the vein of Diary of a Wimpy Kid, this does not have a straightforward plot, per se, but it's plot structure is much more traditional than Wimpy Kid's. There's the new school, the crush, the rivalry, and an art competition that make up the bulk of the story. None of this is particularly new, but the way Russell tells it makes it feel fresh.

Nikki, like Greg Heffley, has been given a diary from her mother. Only, where Greg wants to make sure readers don't call his a diary, Nikki vows to never write in it. But once she breaks that vow, she can't stop. Nikki is a middle school student who has just moved into a new school. Like many young girls, she wants to be popular. So it's infuriating that her mom won't purchase a cell phone like all the popular kids at school have. Even more infuriating is that Mackenzie, one of the most popular girls in the school, has a locker right next to hers. Thus begins a rivalry.

Often we are oblivious to the effect we have on others, or how others view us, and this is especially true in those egotistical teenage years. Russell does a nice job of portraying this through Nikki. Nikki does not think much of herself, and yet when it appears that Mackenzie has begun to take notice of her, the reader sees how others find something to envy about her. Not that Nikki ever notices this, but in order for a rivalry to form, this means both parties must sense some form of superiority in the other that must be overcome. Realizing the positive ways others see you is a powerful way to boost confidence and self-esteem, and I hope girls reading this (I can't imagine too many boys reading it) could apply this lesson to themselves.

Where Diary of a Wimpy Kid appeals to both boys and girls, Dork Diaries appeals only to girls. This is largely because girls will read almost any kind of book, but boys are much more picky. And Dork Diaries is clearly written to appeal to girls. The rivalry is one element aimed at girls. Diary of a Wimpy Kid has moments of bullying, but not truly a rivalry. There's also the romance - the typical sort of thing where the girl has a crush on this cute guy but doesn't believe he even notices her, even though clues that are obvious to the reader show that he has the same feelings. Some of the humor also relates to Nikki's insecurities with her own appearance. Multiple times Nikki makes fun of her own inadequacy to look good in an outfit the popular girls wear, and there are also the jokes about things on Nikki's face, such as one moment when she develops a rash on her ear. Russell taps into this insecurity over appearance as something girls might relate to, and one could criticize the book for perpetuating rather than combating this obsession, but sometimes a work of art is meant to reflect, not correct.

Popular as this series is, Russell has obviously tapped into something, and I admit that I enjoyed it as well, much more than I expected.

Review: The Night She Disappeared, by April Henry

This fast-paced young adult thriller is much more interested in the human emotion than shocks and scares. It's also more mature than your typical, but in the end it does fall into the usual traps of a YA novel. But everything feels real and genuine. April Henry doesn't obviously try to tug on our heart strings. Her characters have thoughts and feelings that anybody might go through in their situation, and that's what makes this worth reading.

The pretty, popular girl at high school, Kayla, was out delivering a pizza and never returned. Police later found her car and the scene of what looked like a struggle. Kayla's missing, assumed dead. Drew was also working at the pizza place the night she disappeared, and he feels guilty because he was the one who took the man's order. The man asked if the girl who drove the Mini-Cooper would be delivering. That would be Gabie, a more vulnerable sort of girl than Kayla. She also feels guilty because Kayla asked to change shifts with her. Kayla was not supposed to work that night - Gabie was. And in their mutual feelings of guilt, Drew and Gabie understandably begin to develop a bond.

In my own classroom, April Henry's books have become a hit. I've collected several due to popular demand, and I understand why. Though many of my students struggle with books that use multiple perspectives, April Henry makes it easy. And she uses many, many perspectives. At least four are from the first person point of view, and there's another one or two from the third person, as well as the many police reports, 911 transcripts, and other miscellaneous writings. But what April Henry does is stick to a chronological timeline. When the book switches from Drew to Gabie back to Drew again, it follows chronological order. Drew and Gabie might have different viewpoints on something happening, but we don't see that event happen again from their point of view.

Drew and Gabie also happen to be likeably vulnerable. Drew comes from a single mom household, and his mom is a drug addict, while Gabie comes from a much wealthier household, but the fact that both of her parents are surgeons only means she's often left home alone. Both characters are lonely, but not sulky. Their vulnerabilities also cause moments of miscommunication. Of course, an attraction forms between them, but their lack of experience in romance leaves them unaware of the other's feelings. This sounds typical of a romance, especially YA romance, but somehow Henry handles it with more wisdom and realism than other authors do.

You can probably predict how the story ends, it's true, but you might just enjoy how it gets there. This is a story you can probably finish in an afternoon or less, but in that brief time you read it you will find it thoughtful and surprisingly well-researched. In the interview at the end, April Henry says she hopes her readers will learn something from it. I did. I learned a lot about what it's like to dive for bodies in rivers. That chapter may not have contributed much to the plot, but it does add to the realism and plausibility of the story. And it is a very good story, it turns out.

Review: The Hidden Oracle, by Rick Riordan

Oftentimes it's the hero who's the least interesting character of an adventure story, especially in many young adult stories. Generally the hero is a bland person who either has no personality or just blandly sticks to principle. Rick Riordan has created a very different sort of fantasy-adventure hero in his god-turned-mortal, Apollo. Humorously egotistical and witty, Apollo alone would be worth the read, but the story is also entertaining.

Cast into a heap of garbage as a mortal, acne-ridden teenage boy, Apollo reflects on his accomplishments and what reasons his father, Zeus, would have to punish him. Except, he doesn't have much time because a couple of thugs approach with every intention to cause harm. That's when Apollo realizes he's lost all of his powers. Fortunately, help comes from a girl named Meg who has strange powers that include causing the garbage to fling itself at Apollo's attackers. It turns out Meg is a demigod and Apollo confides to her that he believes he needs to overcome some sort of trial before Zeus makes him a god again. So Meg commands him to be her servant, which means he must obey her every command, and accompanies him to places and people familiar to those who have read Riordan's other works.


What I didn't expect was Riordan's humor and wit. Apollo has some wickedly funny things to say. Riordan writes from Apollo's perspective with energy and freshness, though this diminishes slightly near the end of the book. Riordan makes hilarious use of cultural references from all sorts of time periods, anywhere from ancient Greece to modern day America. Teenage readers might not catch many of these, particularly if they are not caught up on their Greek and Roman gods (which I can't say I'm that knowledgeable about myself). But there are also references to the Beatles, Babe Ruth, and Britney Spears (who might be losing her cultural currency amongst today's teenagers - "...Baby One More Time" was a huge hit before Riordan's target audience was even born). But those up on their pop culture references will find Apollo's comments amusing.

The story itself is also engaging. Too many stories today feature main characters who are mostly spectators to the conflict and action happening around them. Apollo, weak and mortal as he is, is no slouch. Much as he complains about it, he pulls his weight, though others may do more of the heavy lifting. The conflict also does not resolve itself easily. Apollo and Meg find themselves in dire situation after dire situation. Yet, a story about gods is sure to have its fair share of deus ex machina moments. This is understandable, sure, but it's also a convenient and dull plot device. You may not be very surprised by the twists and turns, but you're bound to be entertained by Apollo's ego and wit.

Review: Home Fire by Kamila Shamsie

Home Fire presents two extreme views of Muslims: the jihadist who seeks to destroy non-Muslims and the politician who seeks to isolate himself from his Muslim roots. These are the only two types of Muslims able to ascend to power, in their own way, though their methods end up isolating the majority in the middle. Home Fire portrays the meeting of two Pakistani families that live in England, one with a jihadist father and one with a politician father. Kamila Shamsie shows readers the perspective of a handful of these family members to provide us insight into the misunderstanding between them. This is a novel that is at times slow, at times exciting, and at times heartbreaking, and the ending is sure to leave many readers divided.

One of these families is the Pasha family. Isma is the oldest sister, who is forced to take care of her two twins, Aneeka and Parvaiz (a girl and a boy) when her mother and grandmother pass away. Their father, Adil Pasha, had passed away years before, a jihadist dead en route to Guantanamo. The other family is the Lone family, with father Karamat serving as home secretary in England and his son Eamonn (a creative spelling of Aymen to appear less Arabic), who has a lot of money but zero ambition.

These two families know of each other from years past, but it is not until Isma's meeting with Eamonn in Massachusetts that events are set in motion. The early section comes from Isma's point of view, and being a dull character, her part is a slow read. There are some necessary background details in these first 50 pages, but they read like a flavorless literary novel. It's not until 70 pages in that the novel really comes to life, and that's because Aneeka radiates with energy that her sister, and the other characters, lack. Parvaiz is also crucial, showing the allure for a young Muslim man to join a radical organization - it provides for him much-needed masculinity and the promise of knowing his father, somebody his sisters and mother avoided talking about. It proves a dangerous allure, one that Parvaiz quickly regrets being seduced by. The middle sections of the book crackle with energy before slowing down for Karamat Lone, who is a sharp departure from the others in how unlikable he is.

The novel's end is abrupt and shocking. I'm still not sure what to think about it. In some regards it seems the perfect ending, but it almost feels too sudden, unsatisfactory. It lingers however, and I wonder if better knowledge of the source material, Sophocles' Antigone, would deepen my understanding of Shamsie's choices. It's not just the novel's ending that will linger with me, but the novel as a whole - it's that good.

Review: Mr. Mercedes, by Stephen King

Stephen King's Mr. Mercedes features perhaps some of the most interesting, most complex characters he has written to date. King often succeeds in writing interesting heroes, but he usually falls short in writing more complex villains - generally they are of the one-dimensional, pure evil variety. Brady Hartsfield, otherwise known as Mr. Mercedes, is not one-dimensional, though he is quite evil. He is a disgusting person, but at times King is able to elicit pity for him and show his humanity. The hero, Bill Hodges, is also human, in that while he is a competent detective, perhaps one of the best, he is not a perfect individual. Not to say he is unlikeable, but that King has succeeded in creating characters that allow the reader to see parts of themselves in, people to empathize with rather than idolize or envy. On top of that, the story is quite good - tense, thoughtful, reflective, humorous, and terrifying.

Mr. Mercedes is one of those cases Bill Hodges didn't solve. A man wearing a clown mask plowed over and killed 8 people waiting in line for a job fair. The cops found the vehicle and the owner of the vehicle, but they never discovered who was behind the wheel at the time of the murders. Now that Hodges is retired, his life is meaningless. He watches TV shows he can't stand, such as Jerry Springer and Judge Judy and Dr. Phil. Hodges also has been playing with his father's old revolver. This is the way many retired police officers and detectives go - suicide.

The Mercedes killer knows this. He sends Hodges a taunting letter. Thinking he's smarter than those he's eluded, Brady little realizes he has provided some helpful hints to Hodges. His letter also has the opposite of its intended effect - it motivates Hodges to act rather than to end his life. And so begins a cat-and-mouse game between retired police detective and psychopathic serial killer, one that grows increasingly dangerous not just for the two main actors, but for the many side characters who show up, as well as potentially many others.

Bill Hodges is a likeable hero, smart and thoughtful. We see his flawed side, such as his realization that the judgmental attitude of him and his partner may have caused them to wrong the woman who owned the Mercedes: Olivia Trelawney. And although Hodges begins to see how he wronged her, he continues to misjudge people - something we all do. King is sympathetic to those who appear "different," the so-called outsiders, even if it is that older woman who is self-righteous and nitpicks everyone else's faults. Another story, particularly an NCIS-type story, would have the reader laughing along with the main character at someone like Olivia Trelawney. But King sees the worth in a person like her. Olivia's parents, who show that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, may not get as nice a treatment, but King's sympathy is still there. Hodges, as a sort of regular every man, reveals our own flaws, that we sometimes can't get past our own prejudices and initial impressions to see the deeper side of people. Or we can, but it takes some practice.

Brady is a villain of the worst variety, but King treads surprisingly delicate with him. The story often follows Brady, in the third person limited (just as it does Hodges), and he proves himself to be cuttingly funny, especially as he charmingly says the right thing while thinking awful thoughts. He's also pitiful. King wisely avoids the origin story, but we see his home life, and it's pretty messed up. There are moments when Brady shows his humanity, especially as it involves his feelings with family, but even that grows complicated by his frustrated sexual feelings for his mom. Frustrated not in that they are not reciprocated, but that it feels wrong to feel them. Some of my complaints about King's previous work, such as Under the Dome and 11/22/63, were his thinly developed villains. It's interesting that the TV shows based on those books feature more complex versions of those villains, something especially true of Lee Harvey Oswald, whose television portrayal was much more complex and nuanced than King's portrayal. But King corrects many of his old errors in Mr. Mercedes and makes this a much more compelling read.

King's use of pop culture references and dialogue serve to make the story feel believable and realistic and very much a part of the time it was written - our time. One scene in which characters discuss two of King's well-known characters - the car from Christine and the clown from It - without naming either story goes to show just how deeply-entrenched King's own works have become in pop culture. But King does suffer from bloat, just a little. At times his dialogue goes on longer than it should, or his use of detail is a bit too much. That said, I prefer the life these details give. King could go the route of many other authors of thrillers in providing sparse, get-to-the-point details that make for a fast-paced novel but one that's but a skeleton: no flesh, no filling.

Some criticisms about the plot and character choices that readers might make come down to the fact that these characters don't make the best decisions, and that's only human. That Hodges, a retired detective, would go after a serial killer on his own is the stuff of movies, but Hodges knows it carries serious consequences and just can't help himself. There might also be consequences in him making the right decision. It's encouraging to see that as King gets older, his characters grow more complex and his stories remain just as fascinating and suspenseful and humorous to read.