Gayle Forman
Speak, 2009, 234 pp., $8.99
ISBN: 978-0-14-241543-6
I was vaguely familiar with If I Stay, a novel by Gayle Forman, having spotted its eye-catching cover on bookstore displays. It wasn't until the owner of a local shop that specializes in literature for children and teenagers recommended it to me, however, that I decided to read it. Even then I was skeptical, a feeling the cover endorsement, which suggests the book will appeal to Twilight fans, did little to assuage. In retrospect, it seems the comparison was made at the expense of If I Stay, for while it might sell books, the latter is a much stronger novel from a literary standpoint.
When the story opens, Mia, a senior in high school, recalls a blustery winter morning spent at a breakfast table drinking coffee and chatting amiably with her family about a snowstorm that kept them home from work and school. An exceptional cellist with the opportunity to attend Julliard on a scholarship, Mia is in many ways an atypical young adult protagonist. She enjoys spending time with her mother and father, adores her much younger brother, Teddy, and has a boyfriend whose band has experienced an upswing in popularity. Set against this backdrop, readers are unprepared for a subsequent scene in which a truck traveling at sixty-miles-per-hour broadsides the car in which Mia and her family are traveling, claiming the lives of her parents and irrevocably shattering her own. When she regains consciousness, Mia views the aftermath of the accident from outside her body. She watches as paramedics work frantically to keep her alive, and grows anxious when she is unable to locate her brother and determine whether he survived the wreck. Hours later, having undergone a surgery, and hooked up to a life-support system in a critical care unit, Mia faces a crucial decision--whether to live and confront the pain that must inevitably accompany her loss, or embrace the solace death offers her. As Mia wrestles with her decision, the narrative shifts between the past and present, first situating readers in the hospital as devastated friends and family members gather to await word of her fate, and then revealing happier moments in the character's past through a series of carefully orchestrated flashbacks.
If the novel has a shortcoming, it's that scenes are occasionally overplayed. Episodes in which Mia recounts the early stages of her romance with Matthew, for example, sometimes run long and, in certain instances, border on melodrama. That said, smartly written and emotionally raw scenes such as those that show Mia wrestling with the fallout of the accident, and the choice she faces between life and death, offset these otherwise minor flaws. That the characters are thoroughly developed, complex figures heightens the story's impact on readers, as we come to care about them. Indeed, it is a credit to Forman that the characters, rather than the subject matter, drive the story.
John Boyne
David Fickling Books, 2006, 216 pp., $8.99
ISBN: 978-0-385-75153-7
In The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, a novel by John Boyne, a young German boy named Bruno learns that his father, an officer in the military, has been promoted by the Fury, which means that he and his family must leave their home in Berlin and move to a far off place. For Bruno, the news is devastating, as it means leaving his friends behind. He consequently arrives at his new home, which he mistakenly believes is pronounced "Off-With", with feelings of deep regret.
Though German soldiers, including a particularly cold young lieutenant, visit Off-With on a regular basis, Bruno is disappointed to discover that he has no playmates. One afternoon, while looking out his bedroom window, he spies a fence in the distance, on the other side of which people of all ages huddle together in small groups wearing what Bruno assumes are striped pajamas. Unable to make sense of this strange scene, he turns to his older sister for clarification, but though he presses her for an explanation, she is unable to provide one other than to tell him that the people are Jews. Though his parents expressly forbid him to leave the yard, Bruno can't resist the urge to do a bit of exploring, and, while walking along the fence one afternoon, he happens to meet one of the strangers behind the fence: a boy named Shmuel. When the two discover that they are the same age, and share the same birthday, they become fast friends, and over the course of the next several weeks they secretly meet at the fence to talk. Shmuel grasps the complexity of their situation in a way that the more innocent Bruno does not, and he gently rebuffs his friend when he naively offers to climb under a weak point in the fence and play on the other side. Yet when Shmuel's father fails to return from a work detail one afternoon, he accepts Bruno's invitation to help search for him, setting in motion a series of events that build to a heartbreaking conclusion.
According to the title page, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas is a "fable", the result of which offers a clue as to how Boyne intended it to be read. Like most fables, it is told from the third-person viewpoint, the result of which creates an immediate sense of distance between the characters and the reader. This is further exacerbated by the fact that Bruno's innocence compromises his reliability as a focalizer: we realize that he confuses "Fuhrer" for "Fury", "Auschwitz" for "Off-With", and prison uniforms for striped pajamas. Recognizing that he can't be trusted to adequately interpret the situation he faces, we take it upon ourselves to do so for him. Indeed, much of the horror we experience as we read the novel is a result of the knowledge we bring to it, both of the Holocaust and of the atrocities the Nazis perpetrated during World War II. To his credit, Boyne is a savvy enough writer to know that he doesn't have to depict unspeakable acts of violence or cruelty, a problem that inevitably confronts those who write about a subject as inconceivable as the Holocaust. Rather, he holds readers accountable for bridging gaps that he intentionally leaves in the narrative. As a result, the narrator does not have to tell us what Bruno sees when he observes a Nazi officer assaulting an ailing elderly man. Instead, Boyne challenges us to construct the scene for ourselves, the result of which heightens the novel's emotional impact.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Little, Brown and Company, 2010, 200 pp., $17.99
ISBN: 978-0316044776
It wasn't until I finished reading The Prince of Mist, a novel by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, that I began to sense just how underrepresented the mystery genre is in young adult literature. Granted, I am not accustomed to reading mysteries, so it's possible that the genre is actually alive and thriving. Still, I suspect that's not the case, which is unfortunate given the pleasure that awaits readers of well-wrought mysteries such as this one.
Set in 1943, The Prince of Mist is essentially a ghost story. When the narrative opens, thirteen-year-old Max Carver's father announces that he has elected to relocate the family from the city, which has grown too dangerous in the face of an encroaching war, to a house in a sleepy seaside community. In route to their new home Max's father explains that he acquired the house for a low price, a result of its having sat vacant after its previous owners, a wealthy doctor and his wife, abandoned it following the death of their son, Jacob, who drowned in the sea. Shortly after settling into the new house, Max discovers an overgrown enclosure on the property that contains a number of strange statues. Later, after his father comes across a collection of old home movies in a shed behind the house, Max deduces that Jacob made them, and he begins to suspect that they may hold clues about his death. Accompanied by his older sister, Alicia, and their friend Roland, he sets out to learn more about the history of the house and the tragic circumstances that surround the boy's demise. In the process of doing so, he learns of a mysterious figure named Cain who purportedly arranged to make others' dreams come true in exchange for their souls. Convinced that a link exists between Cain and Jacob’s death, Max embarks on a journey to resolve a mystery that threatens to engulf him and his family.
When I’ve read mysteries for adolescents in the past, I've generally been disappointed with their endings, as they often seem contrived. By way of analogy, I'd liken the experience to watching Scooby Doo as a child, only to hear the villain exclaim at the conclusion of each episode, "And I'd have gotten away with it too if it wasn't for you meddling kids." I enjoyed reading The Prince of Mist, however, precisely because its author acknowledges that some mysteries are best left unresolved. Though my initial expectations led me to assume that Max and his compatriots would expose the legend of Cain as a hoax, that wasn’t the case. Curious to know how Zafon would resolve the story, I immersed myself in the novel, which I finished reading in more or less a day, and which sent more than a few chills running up my spine. A fast-paced narrative with the power to entertain, The Prince of Mist takes a number of unexpected twists, and promises to hold younger audiences in suspense.
John Green and David Levithan
Dutton, 2010, 310 pp., $17.99ISBN: 978-0-525-42158-0
John Green (Looking for Alaska) and David Levithan (Boy Meets Boy) co-wrote Will Grayson, Will Grayson, an uproariously funny novel that problematizes traditionally received notions of friendship and love. In alternating chapters, Green and Levithan relate the narrative from the viewpoint of two teenage boys, both of whom are named Will Grayson, and both of whom are reluctant to invest themselves in the business of living for fear of getting hurt. When a series of unexpected events involving, amongst other things, a fake I.D., a porn shop, and an Internet romance gone bad conspire to bring the two Wills together, their lives--and the lives of those around them--intersect in ways no one could have anticipated.
Green's Will Grayson lives according to two rules: 1) don't care, and 2) shut up. Afraid of being hurt, he is reluctant to engage in relationships with others, and remains hidden in the shadow of his flamboyantly gay friend, Tiny Cooper. Tiny's nickname is, of course, ironic. A star on the high school's football team, and an over-sized personality, he is anything but small. He is also the antithesis of Will in so far as he pursues life with a reckless abandon and leaps enthusiastically into one relationship after another. Though Green admittedly has a distinctive voice, readers who are familiar with his work will likely find Will and Tiny reminiscent of characters who have come before them--think Miles and Chip in Looking for Alaska, or Colin and Hassan in An Abundance of Katherines.
In contrast, Levithan's Will suffers from chronic depression, and does his best to keep those who would befriend him at a distance. Unable to recognize any good in himself, and unsure how to tell others he is gay, the character exists in a state of self-imposed isolation, sabotaging those who would befriend him. It is not until he meets the other Will Grayson, and, through him, Tiny, that he is given the impetus he needs to question his self-destructive tendencies.
Like Green, Levithan respects the intellect of his audience, and in this novel both authors challenge readers to think critically about complex issues, something that can't always be said of those who write for adolescents. As funny as the novel is, it is also thought provoking, and it treats sensitive issues with considerable respect. Will Grayson, Will Grayson will appeal to a number of teenagers, though the inclusion of strong language and sexual references make it a book for mature readers.
Lucy Christopher
Chicken House, 2010, 299 pp., $17.99
ISBN: 978-0-545-17093-2
Although I recognize that generalizations are problematic, I get the distinct impression that Australia is, at the present moment, a virtual hotbed for young adult literature. The young adult novels I've read by Australian writers in the past few years have made an indelible impression on me, and I find that authors such as John Marsden (Letters From the Inside), Markus Zusak (The Book Thief), and Sonya Harnett (Surrender)--to name but a few--write with a commitment to realism that is unflinching in its honesty. So, too, does Lucy Christopher, an exciting new talent who was born in Wales, but grew up in Melbourne. Stolen, which Christopher wrote as part of a doctoral program, shines a light on the dark corners of the human heart, and is at once lyrical and haunting.
While traveling abroad with her parents, high school student Gemma Toombs is abducted and taken to a remote part of the Australian wilderness where she is held captive by Ty, a young man with steely blue eyes. Although she vaguely recognizes her captor, Gemma is unable to recall the context in which she originally met him. Though she attempts to flee on several occasions, she is unable to navigate the desert, let alone survive its harsh climate. As such, she must concede the impossibility of her escaping. With time, Gemma learns that Ty stalked her for years prior to abducting her, in part because she reminded him of his mother, who abandoned him at birth, and who succumbed to the degradations of city life upon leaving the Australian Outback (and Ty's father) at the insistence of her family. To "save" Gemma from a similar fate, Ty takes it upon himself to create a new life for her in the virgin wilderness, which he is convinced holds the key to their spiritual salvation. At first, Gemma feels only contempt for Ty. As time passes, however, she discovers that, like the desert itself, he is capable of great beauty, as well as cold indifference. She is especially confused upon discovering that, much to her dismay, she has developed feelings of compassion for the man who effectively stole her life from her.
If the storyline sounds contrived, it is anything but. Gemma and Ty are believable, multilayered characters, and Christopher is a savvy writer who resists the urge to offer easy answers to complex questions. Having spent time in the deserts of Arizona and southern Utah, I was impressed with her ability to capture the subtle nuances of a landscape that is at once awe-inspiring and terrifying. Likewise, while the rational part of me was repulsed by Ty's actions, I was surprised to discover that I not only sympathized with the character as the novel neared its conclusion, but that I hoped things would end well for him, as well as for Gemma. As was previously noted, however, Christopher refuses to treat complex issues simplistically, and the novel's haunting conclusion left me to ponder the questions it raised long after I finished reading it.
Given its treatment of dark subject matter, Stolen is a novel for mature readers. It is also a novel that I suspect will appeal to adult audiences. Given its obvious craftsmanship, I will be surprised if Stolen isn't nominated for several literary awards in what remains of 2010.
Evan H. Rhodes
Coward, McCann & Geoghegan, 1975
ISBN: 698-10643-1
Growing up in the late 1970s, I came across a made-for-TV movie entitled The Prince of Central Park. It was not something I consciously set out to watch. Rather, in retrospect, I suspect that I saw it only because my parents happened to have the television on at the time it aired. Years later, I am only able to recall bits and pieces of the movie (I did not, for example, realize that Brooke Shields had a role in it). Nevertheless, the movie had a profound effect on me, and, upon discovering that it was based on a novel, I visited the public library the following morning to check out a copy. More than thirty years have passed since I first read Evan H. Rhodes novel, and yet I have never forgotten it. Indeed, I count my experience reading it among the milestones of my youth. To the best of my knowledge, the book is no longer in print. Thus, when I came across a copy while browsing in a used bookstore, I knew I had to buy it and reread it.
I did not do so without some degree of trepidation. Revisiting an aspect of your childhood, particularly one about which you have fond memories, is a risky proposition, as doing so often leads to the realization that, as the novelist Thomas Wolfe put it, you can’t go home again. Still, given my interest in reader response theory, the prospect of reading a novel that influenced me so strongly as a child through the eyes of my older self proved too tempting. Happily, I can report that I was not disappointed. I found Rhodes’s writing highly engaging, and was once again moved by the story, albeit for different reasons.
The Prince of Central Park is best characterized as a Bildungsroman. Neglected by the foster mother who took him in so that she would have an extra-pair of hands to help around the apartment, and disenchanted with the drugs, crime, and prostitution that riddle his New York City neighborhood, eleven-year-old Jay-jay runs away from home. With nowhere to go, he seeks refuge in a remote part of Central Park, where he takes up residency in a magnificent old oak tree. Initially, Jay-jay, the self-proclaimed “Prince of Central Park”, is delighted with his newfound freedom. Released from his negative relationships with others, he spends his days happily exploring the various corners of his new domain. As time passes, however, and as he is forced to fend for himself, Jay-jay comes to appreciate the challenges involved in making one’s way in a world that, if not cold, is at least indifferent to the plight of the individual. Likewise, he learns that there are things to be gained from entering into relationships with others. Pursued by a menacing figure from his past, and caught between two worlds—one natural, the other man-made--Jay-jay must decide in which he wishes to reside.
Evan Rhodes, who passed away earlier this year after suffering a stroke at the age of 81, was a talented writer, and the world he constructs in The Prince of Central Park is richly detailed. While the degree of introspection Jay-jay exhibits occasionally makes it difficult to accept him as an eleven-year-old boy, Rhodes imbues the character with a voice and spirit that call to mind the wonder with which adolescents often view the world. Cut in the mold of Huckleberry Finn, Jay-jay is a character readers care about. Though the novel was written thirty-five years ago, it does not fall victim to outdated language or expressions, a problem that often plagues young adult literature, particularly that which strives to be current. If anything, the book remains quite relevant.
Though I did not expect it to be the case, the themes and issues Rhodes explores in The Prince of Central Park resonated with me much as they did when I first read the book. If, after reading the novel as a child, I longed to exchange the strictures that governed my life at home and in school for the freedom that I assumed awaited me in the larger world, this was no less true of my experience reading the book as an adult. The difference, I suppose, has to do with the degree of credence I place in my ability to do so. In that sense, the book lost some of the magic it once held for me, not through any fault of the author, mind you, but rather as a result of the experiences I've acquired over the course of a lifetime. As an adult, I recognize that unimpeded freedom is an illusion, and that struggle is inevitable. On some level, I suspect that much of the pleasure I find in reading young adult literature has to do with the fact that I am able to walk alongside characters that exhibit a sense of idealism I would like to embrace as a world-weary adult.
E. Lockhart
Hyperion Books, 2008, $8.99
ISBN: 978-0786838196
For whatever reason, quite a bit of time passed before I finally got around to reading The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks. I was vaguely familiar with the novel, having first become aware of it when it was nominated for the Michael L. Printz Award in 2009. In fact, there were several occasions when I visited my local independent bookstore and contemplated buying a copy, though I never did. Why I’m not sure. I actually have an affinity for stories that take place at boarding schools, a result, I suppose, of my experiences reading Robert Cormier’s The Chocolate War and John Knowles’ A Separate Peace as an adolescent who wrestled with his own version of teenage angst. Whatever the case, I ended up reading E. Lockhart’s novel over the weekend, and found that I enjoyed it immensely. Smartly written, funny, and intelligent, the novel took me by surprise, and proved to be one of the most enjoyable young adult novels I’ve read in quite some time.
With the exception of being unusually intelligent, Frankie Landau-Banks, the book’s heroine, is in many ways a typical high school student. Upon beginning her sophomore year at a private boarding school, however, she discovers that the physical development she experienced over the summer break has earned her the attention of her male classmates, one of whom is Matthew Livingston, a figure on whom Frankie has long had a crush. Initially, Frankie is thrilled to be dating Matthew, so much so that she is able to look past behaviors that she otherwise finds irritating. Yet as time passes, she grows increasingly frustrated with Matthew’s tendency to “shelter” her and disregard her intelligence. In Matthew’s eyes, Frankie is an object to be admired, much like a doll. Thus, when she discovers that Matthew belongs to the Basset Hounds, a secretive, all-male society that she longs to infiltrate, she takes action. Recognizing that the group lacks the leadership needed to accomplish anything other than hosting keg parties on the school’s golf course, she seizes the opportunity to assert herself. Cloaked in the anonymity afforded her by email, Frankie impersonates Matthew’s best friend, Alessandro Tesorieri, the unofficial president of the Basset Hounds, and a figure affectionately referred to by its members as Alpha. Having donned a “male identity”, Frankie assumes control of the Basset Hounds and charges the group with carrying out the pranks she conceives, many of which comment on the oppressive nature of the school’s patriarchal (and elitist) structure. A personal favorite, known as the “Library Lady,” involves placing a giant canvas “bra” atop the dome of the school library, the result of which makes it look like a gigantic breast.
At its core, The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks begs to be read from a feminist perspective. Throughout the novel Frankie references the panopticon, a subject Foucault addressed in his writing, and which he regarded as a metaphor for the idea that the individual is driven to conform to social norms and mores as a result of her desire to avoid falling under the gaze of society, which functions as an unseen, though omnipresent, watchdog. By no means, however, does Lockhart treat the notion of individualism simplistically. Frankie is all too aware that a decision to reject the role she is expected to play as a female will condemn her to exist alone on the margins of her society. It is this tension that gives the novel its impetus, and leads Frankie to understand why those who are unwilling to comply with social expectations inevitably succumb to madness:
She might, in fact, go crazy, as has happened to a lot of people who break rules. Not the people who play at rebellion but really only solidify their already dominant positions in society—as did Matthew and most of the other Bassets—but those who take some larger action that disrupts the social order. Who try to push through doors that are usually closed to them. They do sometimes go crazy, these people, because the world is telling them not to want the things they want. It can seem saner to give up—but then one goes insane from giving up. (p. 337)
Laura Resau
Delacorte Press, 2009, 275 pp., $8.99
ISBN: 978-0-440-24025-9
Sophie, her mother, and her stepfather, a Mexican immigrant, are summoned by the border patrol to a Tucson hospital late one evening where they are introduced to Pablo, a five-year-old boy whose parents died of dehydration while attempting to cross the border. One year later, after Pablo unexpectedly reveals that he has extended family in Mexico, Sophie accompanies her aunt, her aunt's boyfriend, and his teenage son on a journey to reunite the boy with his family, and allow him to decide where he will live.
Laura Resau, who studied cultural anthropology in college, has crafted an incredibly rich portrait of life in Mexico. She tackles complex issues, all the while treating her subject matter with considerable care. In addition to examining issues that surround the current debate over immigration, Red Glass explores the challenges that confront victims of trauma, and celebrates the resiliency of the human spirit. Although the inclusion of a romantic thread occasionally blunts the novel's force, its sophisticated treatment of sensitive (and timely) issues makes it a worthwhile read.
Gayle Forman
