The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender, by Leslye Walton

Largely devoted to tracing several generations of the Roux-Lavender family and the people who crossed paths with them, Strange and Beautiful Sorrows is an extraordinary fable.   It begins by telling us how Ava was born an otherwise normal girl except for the wings on her back, while her twin brother Henry was born mute, and then the story goes back three generations.  Starting with the family's departure from the Old Country, Walton weaves in glorious detail the near entire back story to Ava and Henry's existence.

Ostensibly a story about the "price" of love, I never really felt that the novel made whatever point it wanted to make.  But I also didn't care. The writing is clearly from the school of "magical realism" and was reminiscent of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's classic One Hundred Years of Solitude.  Like that novel, Walton has created a richly detailed cultural landscape that is a joy to dive into.  The complicated web of relationships between the dozens of vivid and memorable characters and the events that occur to them makes this a pleasure to read.

The Bridge from Me to You, by Lisa Schroeder

When Lauren's mother throws her out of her home, Lauren doesn't have a lot of choice about where to go.  Only her aunt and uncle are willing to take her in.  And so she arrives at their house in the small town of Willow OR, with a handful of secrets about why she had to leave and why her mother doesn't want her around.

Colby is a talented player on Willow's football team.  That fact alone should disqualify him as a potential romantic interest since Lauren can't stand the game, but they hit it off nearly immediately and have great chemistry.  Part of the reason for this is that he harbors a secret of his own:  he doesn't actually like the game.  Rather than play, he'd rather study bridges.  But a football scholarship might still be best way for him to get to study civil engineering in college.

The romance that develops between the two of them is pretty smooth sailing and doesn't really drive the drama of the story.  Instead, Schroeder throws in some health scares with their families to keep the narrative going.

It's charming and, while the plot is hardly original, Schroeder utilizes an interesting structural device:  Colby's story is told in chapters of prose, while Lauren's are told in verse.  This makes her seem even more angsty than normal for a teen and also carries a serious drawback -- she gets largely shortchanged in character development.  The density of Colby's chapters mean that we end up knowing a lot more about Colby than Lauren.  I'm not sure I'd recommend this particular literary approach.


[Note:  I received a free copy of this book in return for my consideration and review.  While an inattentive flight attendant managed to spill water on the book, I'm hoping it will still be of use to my local public library to where I will donate it now that I have finished with it.]

The Summer Prince, by Alaya Dawn Johnson

Many years in the future, in the land that was once the eastern Brazilian state of Bahia, the city of Palmares Tres now stands.  Built as a pyramid, it is a strictly hierarchical city-state, ruled on its top tenth tier by a queen and her assembly of "aunties." It is mostly a matriarchy, but the queen is chosen (and periodically reaffirmed) by the "Summer King" -- a young man who is elected, ritually sacrificed, and makes his selection of queen as he bleeds to death.

June Costa is a young artist with a penchant for guerrilla art.  She sneaks into forbidden spaces and erects installations to shock and surprise people.  When the new Summer King Enki is chosen, she discovers that he too is an artist.  They meet and together they create the most impressive art of her career.  But there is much more to the relationship and June regrets her growing closeness to Enki when she is reminded that he must soon die.

Set in a culture that imagines what Brazil will be like many centuries in the future, where race and ethnicity are fluid, and sexual relations even more so (the book features the most interesting love triangle between June, Enki, and Enki's boyfriend Gil - who is also June's best friend), this is a complex piece of science fiction.  There's dystopia, nanotechnology, body modification, and romance, all of which is set to a samba beat and that strange melancholy of saudade.  In sum, a brilliant piece of storytelling and one of the more original sci-fi works to come out lately.  I'm a sucker for unusual settings for science fiction and love any chance to move beyond the USA-as-the-model-of-the-future approach of the mainstream.  Johnson's book captures the true potential of a view of the future based on a dynamic alternative.

Heartbeat, by Elizabeth Scott

Emma had always liked her stepfather and was looking forward to being an older sister to the baby that her mother was carrying.  But that changed on the day that her mother died and Emma's stepfather unilaterally made the decision to keep her alive on life support until the fetus could be delivered.  In Emma's mind, it is unbelievably selfish that he would keep Mom going as some sort of baby factory.  And while he tries to explain his decision, Emma refuses to accept it.

Caleb is a troubled rich kid.  First, he had a drug problem and then several brushes with the law involving damage to his family's property.  Emma, as a clean-cut valedictorian, should not want to have anything to do with him.  But, as it turns out, he's struggling with loss as well (the death of his younger sister, for which his parents hold him accountable).  And, as they share something in common, they are drawn to each other.

It's a bit slow going.  Emma's standoff with her stepdad is well-established early on.  After that, there really isn't any place to take that storyline.  So, we get little tiffs and skirmishes repeated ad nauseum with little gained in the process (yes, they are not communicating -- I get it, now move on).  As for "bad boy" Caleb, it just seemed a bit too convenient and easy (why is Emma the only one to notice that he's actually a kind and sensitive kid?).  The ending was good, but the story leading up to it seemed predictable and routine.

Reality Boy, by A. S. King

Gerald Faust has an anger management problem.  It's understandable if you knew the years of abuse he suffered from his older sister.  Never mind that whole experience with his family being featured on a reality TV show when he was five (he was the kid who kept defecating in public places).  Now 17 years old, Gerald can't shake his nickname (the "crapper") or the baggage of that TV experience.  His family's continued denial of the abuse that occurred doesn't help either.  However, he's trying to change and, with some inspiration from a similarly messed-up young woman, Gerald's going to find a way to face reality for a change.

A complex, rather depressing, and ultimately addictive story of bad breaks and breaking with the past.  There is a lot of unresolved stuff in this story and not a lot of happy ending, but the baggage that Gerald is carrying is significant and it isn't a story where a truly happy ending would have felt plausible.  Gerald is a tough guy and a tough character to like, but he's remarkably level-headed and charismatic.

King has a lot to say about the reality entertainment phenomenon and she says it well.  However, this is ultimately not a social critique, but really a domestic tragedy.  King's point that the television cameras oversimplified (and ultimately missed) the real story is her way of condemning the faux search for authenticity that the genre lives on.

September Girls, by Bennett Madison

After six months of caring for his depressed father (after his Mom walked out on them) Sam has pretty much had it.  So, when Dad suggests that they just leave (even though school isn't quite over) and go to the beach, Sam is ready for a new adventure.  But he isn't quite prepared for what he finds.

The little beach town to which they come to stay is inhabited by two types of young women -- the normal type (girls) who show no particular interest in Sam (and don't particularly interest Sam either) and the Girls.  The Girls are fashionably dressed, all look like super-models, smoke French Gaulois cigarettes, and are mostly named after perfumes or cosmetics.  They are exotic and otherworldly and, in some sort of satire of male fantasy, profoundly interested in having sex with Sam and his older brother.  But there's a lot more to these young women's mystery.

Now, as it happens, I read this book during a bad travel day (late and cancelled flights, running through airports, etc.) so that probably affected my impression of the book, but it simply failed to engage me.  I get the way that Madison was using the otherworldly Girls of the island as a way to express adolescent male mystification about females.  I even think it is rather clever.  However, the story is so abstract and so unwilling to lock itself down (random events keep popping up to disrupt the storyline) that it is a very hard read.  I found myself reading and re-reading pages over in order to capture some obscure but very important plot point.  It was simply too hard to read to be enjoyable.

And We Stay, by Jenny Hubbard

After witnessing her boyfriend shooting himself in their school library, Emily Beam is sent to a private boarding school in Amherst.  There, she wallows in the poetry of local native Emily Dickinson and tries to cope with her feelings of guilt and loss.  The story, told through third-person narration and Emily's own verse, attempts to meld together the process of grief and the psyche of Dickinson's writings.

An ambitious, but ultimately impersonal look at grief.  It is all beautifully written, but the exercise is largely heartless as we never are allowed in to Emily's heart and mind.  That she is sad and writes moody navel-gazing poetry we have no doubt, but she is otherwise a very closed book.  And the other characters, from the equally repressed roommate KT to the kleptomaniac Amber, don't really add much to our understanding or to the story.  It's a pretty work, but distant and non-illuminating.  And very much like her earlier work Paper Covers Rock (see my 11/27/2011 review).

Lights On the Nile, by Donna Jo Napoli

Kepi is a young girl living in Ancient Egypt.  One day, while exploring along the banks of the Nile, her pet baboon is stolen from her.  Pursuing the thieves takes her far from home and, before she even realizes what is happening, she finds herself kidnapped and sent down the Nile towards the capital city of Ineb Hedj.  This in itself is not an unhappy happenstance as Kepi has long wanted to go there and petition the pharaoh on behalf of her crippled father.  The story is interspersed with frequent references to the pantheon of Egyptian gods and Kepi provides an excellent portrait of religious reverence.

In her books, Napoli combines decent historical detail with a quirky irreverence for standard plotting.  I'm not a fan of the strange way she ended this book, but I mostly enjoyed the story up to that point.  It's a colorful tale with a gentle informational approach.  Grownups might worry about the terribly dangerous situations that Kepi lands herself in, but children probably enjoy the adventure.  It isn't Napoli's best book (I prefer her book about Mona Lisa The Smile to this day), but this one is good.

Over You, by Amy Reed

After a big screw up at home in Seattle, Sadie gets shipped out by her father to live with her mom on a commune in the middle of Nebraska.  Her best friend Max tags along because that's what Max always does.  Since they were little, Max takes care of Sadie and keeps her out of trouble.  But in this summer on the farm, Max begins to realize that she has choices of her own to make and that her future may involve breaking free of her best friend.

A deceptively simple book full of big literary experiments.  Some of these are quite successful (Reed skillfully explores the logistics of a dependent friendship), others are less so (frequent interludes riffing on Greek mythology stick out like a pretentious sore thumb and only in a few cases add value to the plot).  The most striking literary device though is Reed's decision to write the first half of the book in second person. This, as any writer can tell you, is one of the most challenging voices to master.  It's very immediate and even a bit exhausting as the text risks becoming accusatory.  In this case, it works very well and pulls us into the story from the start.  It also very nicely conveys the obsessive nature of the two girls' friendship.  That said, her decision to switch later on to first person narration is a welcome relief.  The storyline is modest, but the writing is truly stand out.

The Impossible Knife of Memory, by Laurie Halse Anderson

The injuries that Hayley's father received in the war are only partly physical.  Rather, it is the psychic traumas, the ones that can't be easily seen, that hit him the deepest.  And while Hayley desperately wants her father to get better, she wants him to stay even more.  He may have trouble holding down a job, making ends meet, or even keeping his sanity, but as long as she has him, it is enough.  Or, rather, it has to be.

It comes at a terrible cost.  After five years of caring for her PTSD-suffering father, Hayley's own life is coming loose at the seams.  While intelligent, she barely functional in school, alienated from her peers, and struggling to maintain any social connections.

Anderson wrote one of my all-time favorite YA books (Speak) and a number of less-notable other novels since then.  This one nearly breaks the recent streak.  I found the story deep and insightful.  It sensitively explored what combat does, not only to soldiers, but also to their families.  In fact, it nearly stands out as being in the same caliber of Speak, except for one (in my mind) fatal decision: a very weak story.

On its face, this book shares a lot in common with Speak.  Both books are about people who have suffered terrible traumas and their attempts to heal.  The difference is that while Melinda was the central character in Speak, Hayley's father is simply the instigator of the drama of this story.  And, while Melinda's search to regain self-worth drove that earlier novel's story forward, here, Hayley's father's problems serve mostly to drag Hayley down.  The Impossible Knife of Memory is about pain and suffering, but more than anything it is about co-dependency.  Drama is what drives any storyline, but when the drama is based on character stubbornness and refusal to accept help, my patience with the story and the characters frays.  I get that the dad is proud and I get that this arrogance rubs off on his daughter, but at some point I care less and less what happens to them.  There is tragedy here, but it is so easily resolved (in the last ten pages when the characters just suddenly start accepting help after 380 pages of refusing to do what they are told) that one wonders what the point was.

The Time of the Fireflies, by Kimberley Griffiths Little

One evening, in her home above her parent's antique shop in a small bayou town in Louisiana, Larissa answers a phone call on one of the antique phones from the shop - a phone which isn't hooked up.  A mysterious voice tells her frantically that she must "trust the fireflies" and that it's "a matter of life or death." The message and the medium make little sense to Larissa but soon she is embroiled in a mystery involving ancient curses and betrayals, time travel, and family tragedies.

This wonderful and complex story plays well as a decent supernatural mystery novel, and includes some nice gentle (and subtle) lessons about forgiveness and familial reconciliation that are appropriate for a middle reader.  There are a few rough spots in the narration (and the resolution is a bit from out in left field), but overall this is a satisfying story and engrossing read.  Little avoids the types of good ol' boy Southern stereotypes that plague stories place in the bayou, and instead uses the setting and local color to prettify the story.  I also appreciated the fact (which I only realized in conclusion) that all of the important characters in the story are female -- proving that one can write a story that is empowering without having to make a big point in doing so.  People who are squeamish about creepy possessed dolls, however, should probably give this one a pass.


[Disclosure:  I solicited and received an advance copy of this book from the publisher in return for an honest review.  The book is planned for release at the end of July.]

Pawn, by Aimée Carter

At the age of seventeen, in this version of America's dystopian future, every one has to take a test which determines their future.  Kitty never had big ambitions - just perhaps the chance to get into a decent job.  But when she fails the test because of her dyslexia, she gives up and decides to throw herself into prostitution instead.  That plan too goes awry and she finds herself offered the opportunity, instead, to enter the inner sanctum of the Hart family who rule the country. 

But what in fact is she signing up for?  Once ensconced, she finds that the rulers may live a life of amazing luxury, but it is also a world of depravity and bloodlust.  Family members plot and counterplot to hold on to power -- a cycle of violence that Kitty finds herself drawn in to as a helpless pawn.

So, what is there to say about this new addition to the vast family of dystopian trilogies?  Not much. The setting isn't terribly plausible and, aside from an obvious dig at aptitude tests, there isn't much useful social commentary.  Instead, we have to look for interesting characters and a strong story.  Unfortunately the characters aren't terribly deep.  Aside from a constant barrage of empty threats to kill to protect each other, there aren't really any signs of passion.  There are at least two separate romances, but neither one feels real or elicits much interest.

Roomies, by Sara Zarr & Tara Altebrando

At the start of the summer after graduating from high school, Elizabeth receives a notice from Berkeley about her room arrangements for the fall, including contact information for her roommate.  Coming all the way from New Jersey, she figures it would be good to coordinate who's bringing what, so she reaches out to Lauren, who lives in San Francisco.  This starts up a correspondence that runs through the summer, full of plenty of adventures, anxieties, fall-outs, and reconciliations -- all without ever meeting in person.

It's not a book of surprises (girl meets girl, girl develops strong friendship with girl, girl hates girl after misunderstanding, girl makes up with girl -- plus the usual boyfriends, sex, younger siblings, and parents thrown in), but it is a charming read.  I would describe it as "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants" without the sisterhood ... and without the pants.  The book is helped by the fact that Zarr and Altebrando are both decent writers and this team effort is good for showing their particular talents.  Presumably, they each took care of one of the characters, which allows for strong distinct personalities.  But being good team players, the characters interact well with each other.

The Living, by Matt de la Peña

Shy comes from a town on the border just south of San Diego and his job on a luxury cruise liner opens his eyes to the immense wealth that some people enjoy.  He's hoping to make some money and get his mind off of the recent death of his grandmother to a new virulent disease called Romero.  But on his first trip out, an upset older man commits suicide right in front of Shy.  Soon, Shy finds that all sort of figures are interested in what Shy saw before the man died -- Shy is being followed, his cabin broken into, and a man in a black suit makes vague threats against him.  Meanwhile, Shy has other issues closer to home.  He's grown close with a fellow crew member Carmen (who is engaged but seems interested in Shy).  And, from back home, Shy learns that his nephew has now contracted Romero's.

The story, however, takes a sudden left turn when a huge earthquake levels California, sending a massive tsunami out into the ocean and threatening the ship.  By the time that threat passes, Shy finds himself on a wrecked lifeboat, in the company of a spoiled young woman named Addie.  Larger dangers await!

Sometimes, even I need to take a break from the "pink" books, but at the end of the day the mindless violence, nonsensical plots, and sheer brutality of action stories doesn't really do that much for me.  I kind of liked the dynamic between Shy and his crew mate Carmen (and even Shy's budding attachment to Addie), but the romance never really develops very far and character development is not a major focus here.  I think I'll go back to my usual stuff again.

The White Bicycle, by Beverley Brenna

Taylor, a nineteen year-old woman with Asperger's Syndrome, spends the summer in the south of France with her mother and the family of her mother's boyfriend.  During the summer, Taylor comes to discover her own independence through the friendship of an older woman -- it is a change to which Taylor's mother has trouble adjusting.  Told entirely through Taylor's voice, the reader is provided a unique perspective on how the world appears when you have Asperger's.

A quiet and gentle book, but still challenging because of the unreliable narrator of the story.  People have tried to write books like this before, but I think Brenna succeeds largely because the story is modest and this allows us to patiently explore Taylor's mind.  That mind can certainly be frustrating, and there are times when you want to just throw up our hands and give up (the way, apparently, Taylor's father did in her youth) but by the end we're cheering along with her.  Nice!

Now I'll Tell You Everything, by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

Alice McKinley has grown up.  She's left home and started school at the University of Maryland.  But unlike the other books in the series (that tackle 4-6 months of Alice's life at most), this book covers the next forty-two years of her life -- including marriage, children, and grandchildren.  It's a longer book, but still a whirlwind of activity.  The details, of course, are all spoilers, but suffice it to say that Naylor covers pretty much all of the key moments of Alice's life (although not quite to the funeral).

I really had not intended to read this book.  As the twenty-eighth (and final) book in the series, however, I felt obligated to finish what I had started.  Keep in mind that I absolutely despise series books so the simple fact that I read the entire series -- over the past fifteen years -- is an impressive endorsement.  The series has always impressed me for its realism and painstaking detail, but my love is tempered by my frustrations.  The books covering Alice's younger years work well as middle readers, but as Alice hits adolescence and gets older, the chaste style of Naylor's writing grates.  It's not that the books lack sex (far from it, Naylor packs the later books with plenty of good sexual information in a Judy Blume tradition), it's the moralistic and preachy quality that never feels quite right.  The later books also lack much cohesion -- being, instead, anecdotal and disjointed.  A few individual books (Reluctantly Alice, Alice In Between, and Dangerously Alice) stood out by being thematic and more plot-driven, but for the most part, Naylor has preferred unrelated events that are age-appropriate for the given book, delivered by the often too-perfect Alice. 

In the breezy survey of the bulk of Alice's life that the current tome covers, these issues are even more pronounced.  The chapters read a bit like Christmas letters and the speed at which events go by leaves us with very little story to grasp on to.  And because the events speed up as the years go by (200 pages on four years in college, leaving 300 pages to cover 38 years of life), the sense of disconnect simply grows as you read the book.  There are plenty of sad, joyous, and poignant moments, but nothing sticks for long.

Flowers In the Attic, by V. C. Andrews

So, if I'm reading YA literature in my late 40s, what was I reading when I was actually in the demographic?  Mostly science-fiction and fantasy.  However, if I had been reading YA in the early 80s, I probably would have cracked this book.

The story is infamous enough:  Recently widowed and desperate mother returns to her parents' home to live with her sadistic parents.  Because her father would not approve of the fact that she had offspring with her late husband, she hides her four children in the attic of their grandparents' huge mansion.  For several years the children live in these cramped corners and endure all sorts of mental and physical tortures.  And the two oldest children develop a strong bond that eventually spills over into incest.  Several sex scenes - while tame and fairly oblique by modern standards - were probably mandatory reading by teen-aged readers at the time.

It's a classic and spawned a major literary phenomenon (five books in the series and two film adaptations -- the most recent just a few months ago).  It is a book that will not die.  Yet, it doesn't really have that much objective literary merit.  It's depressing and rather plodding:  the kids suffer and then they suffer some more.  After a while, there is more suffering (you get the idea!).  The prose is turgid -- intended to emulate Dickens, but without much of the wit.  And the naughty bits, as previously mentioned, are pretty tame by modern standards.

Things I Know About Love, by Kate Le Vann

Seventeen year-old Olivia comes to visit her brother in Princeton for a month in the summer.  Away from her home in England, she lets down her guard and falls in love with (an ironically) English boy named Adam.  But before all of that, she recounts for us all the previous experiences she has had with boys.  It's the usual heartbreaking and awkward encounters of adolescence and calculated to pull our heartstrings and make us feel sympathetic to the character.  And, if you left the story about ten pages before the ending, you would feel pretty good about the sweetness of Olivia and the wonderfulness of her love with Adam.  Unfortunately, the book takes a nasty sharp turn at the end and the whole thing goes up in smoke.

I started out really liking this book.  Olivia was wonderful and her recounting of her first boyfriends was poignant and realistic -- the sheer authenticity of the feelings and actions of the boys and her reaction to them were enchanting.  And when she meets Adam, the romance really grew organically and felt right.  Olivia is such a self-effacing and modest girl that it is hard for the reader not to embrace her.  All of which makes Le Vann's decision on how to end the story particularly brutal and cruel (and largely unnecessary!).  I don't reveal endings as a policy, so I can't tell you much more than that, but the ending basically ruined the story.

The Theory of Everything, by Kari Luna

String theory and giant panda bear shamans, oh my!

Sophie, like her father, is obsessed with late 80s alternative rock.  She considered it one of the few ties she has to the man, since he walked out on her and her mother four years ago.  But there are apparently other similarities.  She’s been having “episodes” where she leaves reality for a few minutes at a time (sometimes to a place where rock videos come to life, sometimes to a world with giant pandas, and sometimes to a land where inanimate objects  come to life).  These experiences, she learns, are similar to what her father went through when trying to explain his theory about the universe.  With that realization and a desire to prove to her mother that she’s not losing her mind, Sophie and her friend Finney go to New York to search for her Dad.

It’s hard to succinctly summarize this quirky and original novel.  The late 80s rock thing is old and tired but Luna gives it the most original twist she can.  The rest of the book is just way out there and loads of fun.  What can you say about a giant panda named Walt?  Or hallucinations about jamming with The Cure?  Or just the funky weird way that even the normal people are in this story?  Or about how seriously the characters are  about love’s relationship with theoretical physics?  It’s weird, lively, and worth a read as one of the more unusual YA books of the year!

Lily and Taylor, by Elise Moser

Over the years, Taylor has watched her older sister being brutalized by her boyfriend, and she has copied her sibling and acquired an abusive boyfriend of her own.  But when Taylor's sister is murdered, Taylor has to relocate to her grandmother's home and the physical distance provides her a break from her own boyfriend (not that that stops him from jealously tracking her in regular phone calls!).  Just before Christmas, he shows up at her new home and abducts her and her friend Lily, and takes them to an isolated cabin in the woods.

It's a brutish story that starts off with an autopsy and ends in terrible violence.  This is not a story for the squeamish.  No doubt, these two young women have horrendous lives, but the book itself feels exploitative and not very informative.

Moser does a great job of showing the brutality and depicting Taylor's inability to break out of the cycle, but she does a less successful job of explain how Taylor got in that place.  There's no story of how the boyfriend charmed her, of how he only slowly revealed his ugly side, and only oblique intimations of how Taylor had been basically bred to accept extreme physical abuse as a normal part of life.  All of that has to be inferred.

The job of telling Taylor's story is clouded up by Moser's desire to also tell Lily's story (of neglect and falling between the cracks of the system). Towards the end of the book, Moser does a much better job of belatedly explaining how Lily got to where she is.  It is ironic that Taylor's story is not similarly explained.