Magoon, Kekla. Camo Girl. Aladdin, 2011. 218 pages. ISBN 13: 978-1-4169-7804-6. This book is for grades 4 and up, or ages 9 and up, depending on reading level (3 stars out of 4).

I recently read in People that Jennifer Lopez was named the World’s Most Beautiful Person. I would not dare to argue J. Lo’s bootyliciousness, but that title is not only one of the most arbitrary pronouncements ever, it is also one of the most damaging. Beauty and its perception cause far too much anguish, stress and suicide. Feeling pretty is a tall order these days, despite the countless aids and accessories available. Several entire industries exist because of our desire to be more attractive, and as their advertisements suggest, we need them to feel good about ourselves. Camo Girl by Kekla Magoon lyrically explores the natural insecurities tweeners (ages 9-12) feel about beauty, acceptance, and loss. The beauty conflict is provided by the protagonist, Ella, who has “camouflage” skin tone with different shades and splotches of brown on her face. Ella is an imperfect narrator who sometimes sounds too mature and experienced for her age and life, but she mostly captures the pain of looking different and feeling ugly with intimacy and verisimilitude.

Ella and Z have been friends forever even though Z has changed over the past few years after Ella’s father died of illness and Z’s gambling father abandoned his family. Z and his mother live clandestinely at the local Wal-Mart (where she works) outside of Las Vegas. Z lives in a quixotic, fantasy world of dragons, knights, and quests in which the limits of reality are blurred: “See, it’s not that Z doesn’t know what’s going on. It’s not that he doesn’t know what’s real and what’s not. It’s just that he can’t stop pretending that the world is a better place than it actually is. If that makes him sick, then I wanna get me some of that flu” (13). Ella is accustomed to being picked on by jerk Jonathan Hoffman, and she has learned to accept her ostracism from any popular group, even her former BFF Millie’s crowd. But when new kid Bailey comes to school and he is not only the only other African-American at her school, he is cute too, Ella feels torn. Could Bailey find her “camo face” attractive? Would he accept Z as he is and not care that he is the butt of the school’s jokes? Could he actually understand the loss and fear that Ella and Z share? Ella must decide if Bailey is interested in popularity or real, in-your-face friendship.

There are too many books about beauty queens, beautiful people, and supermodels and not enough books that celebrate and exalt the ordinary. We are not all born with the potential to look like J. Lo or Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge. Many of us are overweight, have bad skin and are bald (like me) and will never be one of the beautiful people. I like Camo Face by Kekla Magoon not only because it is beautifully written (reminiscent of the lyrical prose of Cynthia Kadohata), but also because the message is powerful: a book does not require a beautiful cover to be a beautiful piece of art.

Barnes, Derrick. We Could Be Brothers. Scholastic Press, 2010. 164 pages. ISBN 13: 978-0-545-13573-3. This book is for grades 6 to 8, or ages 12 to 14, depending on reading level. This is an excellent high-low selection, rated 4.4 reading level (3 1/2 stars out of 4).

I have frequently lamented our lack of good high-low fiction, especially for boys and especially for people of color, but last month’s The Cruisers by Walter Dean Myers and this month’s We Could Be Brothers by Kansas City’s Derrick Barnes have given me hope. However, I had an intriguing problem while reading Mr. Barnes’ engaging short novel: I did not know all of the slang. I was suddenly back in college English class, reading the first page of James Joyce’s Ulysses and trying to figure out what “Chrysostomos” is. When the two main characters in We Could Be Brothers talk about giving each other “dap,” I have no idea what they mean. I assume my students know what they mean, but it bothers and intrigues me that I do not. I could probably infer the meaning of it, but I found myself caught off-guard; Mr. Barnes either has his laptop firmly on the pulse of the youth of America, or he is using last year’s “in” words and comes across as corny. I like the experience of treading on new linguistic ground, and I will ask some of my middle schoolers if “dap” means what I think it means. I applaud Mr. Barnes for giving his characters authentic voices; at least, they sound authentic to me. Although their actions are sometimes too pat and pleasing to the continuity and message of the storyline, at least they do not sound like me trying to sound like I am an urban 13-year-old.

Robeson Battlefield wonders if he will ever see Kansas City’s Alain Locke Middle School again after his bad fortune: Robeson has been assigned to dreaded Post-School Suspension for three days. He must travel down the Bermuda Hallway to a dusty, dingy room in which he must sort papers for the unpleasant and insensitive Mr. Patt. However, it turns out that one of PSS’s mainstays, tough-guy-type Pacino Clapton, may not be as street as he seems. And Rosilyn, who shares her Literature class, is fine, in the most attractive sense of the word. When the three middle schoolers start to know each other, they discover that one thing separating them is language. For example, Robeson refuses to be called the N word and substituting “brotha” seems plastic to Pacino; however, he agrees: “Pacino looked at me like he couldn’t care less. ‘Whatever, brotha. That just ain’t the way I get down. But if you want me to call you brotha, I will. Nobody will believe we’re really brothas anyway’” (59-60). Difficult at first, and coming from “different sides of the tracks” the boys nevertheless begin to form an unlikely friendship, partially because of a mutual enemy, the troubled and dangerous Tariq Molten, bad news even to the street-wise Pacino: “‘Tariq’s mama’s an alcoholic. He’s had about ten stepdaddies, and I hear that almost all of them whupped his butt on the daily . . . Every now and then, his grandma will come get him, I hear. But then he’ll do something stupid again and end up right back in trouble. I think even his granny has given up on him’” (65). Although neither young man will admit his fear, both of them know that tangling with Tariq is not in anyone’s best interest, and both of them know the confrontation will eventually occur. However, Robeson may have a surprise or two up his sleeve, rendering him less helpless than he appears, and Pacino may not be as tough and fearsome as the image he portrays to the world.

Mr. Barnes’ new effort is a solid read, drawing readers into the characters’ very different worlds seamlessly. Character development is a bit slow, but the action is fast-paced and exciting. The themes of empowerment, personal and neighborhood responsibility, and staying true to oneself are modeled well, and refreshingly, with the exception of Tariq’s family and the PSS teacher, the adults act like adults you would want to hang out at the barber shop and kibbitz with. They form an action group to assist in the community and are respected by most folks in town. They are parents to emulate, not fear or abhor. Although I feel that the story wraps up a little too nicely and the once imperfect parts by the end seem a little too new and improved, We Could Be Brothers by Derrick Barnes presents an excellent model for an exemplary way to live and lead: take care of yourself and take care of your brothers, and remember that everyone is your brother.

Grisham, John. Theodore Boone, Kid Lawyer. Dutton Children’s Books, 2010. 263 pages. ISBN 13: 978-0-525-42384-3. This book is for grades 4 and up, or ages 9 and up, depending on reading level (3 stars out of 4).

I am always happy to see adult authors cross over into YA literature. Although success is not automatic any time an author chooses a new venue or genre, more established authors like Francine Prose, Carl Hiassen, and in this case, John Grisham, risk less than others because their name recognition helps to sell books. I admit that the main reason I picked up Theodore Boone, Kid Lawyer is because John Grisham is the author. Mr. Grisham is the king of the American legal thriller, and although I do not read much popular fiction due to time constraints, I confess to being up until 3:45 am on a school night many years ago reading The Firm until my eyes blurred, dying to know how it ends. Not since the Dan Brown phenomenon have I felt that kind of excitement about a bestseller. Although his first foray into YA is not perfect, Mr. Grisham does a capable job of making the intricacies and intimacies of the legal world refreshingly understandable and sensible.

Theo Boone is only 13, but he already feels he is at the top of his game. His only desire in life is to become a trial attorney, and he knows every lawyer, judge, and police officer in town. Theo also dispenses legal advice like Encyclopedia Brown, and he is a good resource to have if your sister or dad get into a little trouble. However, when the biggest murder case in 50 years engulfs the town, Theo inadvertently gets involved when a friend, the relative of an illegal immigrant, reveals that he may have previously unknown information relevant to the case. Theo may be in over his head when he is sworn to secrecy but desperately feels the need to see justice served: “How could it be that he, Theodore Boone, knew the truth about the Duffy murder . . . The town’s biggest crime since something bad happened back in the 1950s, and he, Theo, was suddenly in the middle of it” (119). Theo must seek help from normally unreliable sources, most specifically his estranged and mysteriously disgraced Uncle Ike, and he is desperate to find a way to keep his word and ensure that a guilty man does not walk free. However, the menacing Omar Cheepe, working for the defense, seems to be lurking around every corner, spying on Theo and everyone else.

John Grisham has a way of making the law come alive. In his nimble hands, the legal system is an orderly, logical, time-honored system that usually dispenses justice. I admire and appreciate Mr. Grisham for bringing that gift to YA literature; I am confident that legal hounds of all ages will appreciate the style in which Mr. Grisham personalizes and simplifies the law. I love that element of this novel, almost certainly the first in a series. However, there is a down side to the protagonist. Theo Boone is a great kid. He’s the judge’s favorite, he’s the teacher’s favorite, he’s the secretary’s favorite, and since he is an only child, he is his parents’ favorite. Although it’s great to be a great kid, the bar seems to be set a bit high in Theodore Boone, Kid Lawyer (all puns intended!). Perfect heroes who always feel the pressure of their futures bearing down on them place too much pressure on students just learning how to perform well. I regret that Theo Boone has to overachieve so much, has to work so hard at being liked, has to try so hard to be accepted, all so that he does not lose himself. His parents are successful attorneys, so his desire to pursue that profession is unsurprising. But Theo is driven by other desires and motivations, and I would feel better if Mr. Grisham took more time in this first novel to fill in his protagonist a little more. What, I wondered throughout the novel, is the side of Theo he does not show to his family, friends, and mentors? However, despite Theo’s imperfections, I enjoyed Theodore Boone, Kid Lawyer. It moves quickly enough, the action is satisfying, and the characters are likable. With healthy and clear explanations of basic law and courtroom protocol and concepts, it will bring the legal system to life for many young people, and our students deserve the right to understand the basics of the law; we all need it sooner or later.

Myers, Walter Dean. The Cruisers. Scholastic, 2010 (3 1/2 stars out of 4).

My students love the Bluford High series as much as they enjoy A Child Called It by Dave Pelzer; the aforementioned selections are always the most requested at the beginning of the year by my middle schoolers. Although I admire his ability to survive deplorable circumstances, I cannot say that I enjoy Mr. Pelzer’s bizarre and disturbing tale; however, I love the Bluford books and I am always looking for comparable series. I originally bought Orca Currents and Soundings and reviewed several selections in this column a year or two ago. My students like the Orca books, but I seldom see in their eyes the excitement generated by the Bluford High (and occasionally Sharon Draper’s Hazelwood High) series. Therefore, I am thrilled that local legend Walter Dean Myers has decided to write The Cruisers, the first in a series of short, very readable novels about a group of smart slackers at a Harlem magnet school. I am gratified to see prominent authors step up and fill this important void in YA literature; it’s about time.

Most of the students attending Harlem’s DaVinci Academy for the Gifted and Talented compete and jockey for academic standing. However, Zander Scott and his friends LaShonda, Bobbi, and Kambui form the core the Cruisers, a group of unabashed underachievers who always seem on the verge of both success and failure simultaneously. The group prints and distributes an alternative newspaper that presents uncensored op-ed material without the harsh filter of the stereotypically mean and vindictive Assistant Principal Culpepper. The Cruisers’ patience, wisdom, and raison d’etre are challenged most strenuously when DaVinci Academy holds a mock Civil War and the Cruisers are charged with the monumental task of keeping the peace between the North and South. Mr. Culpepper is almost happy to see the group get such an improbable task: “‘She [Principal Maxwell] sees it as a final opportunity to prove you belong here. I see it as enough rope. If you get my drift’” (3). The project begins innocuously enough, but after bully Alvin McCraney forms the Sons of the Conspiracy and starts acting and speaking like a slaveowner (with the tacit approval of Mr. Culpepper), the Cruisers learn a powerful lesson from history: that slaveowners hid behind issues of property and free speech instead of openly addressing the immorality of slavery. By failing to include a moral element, Alvin and the Sons of the Confederacy could win the battle but lose their souls, almost like a drug addict selfishly satisfies the moment but does not want to be identified with his actions: “Maybe race was more like drugs than people thought. When they could use race it was good, but nobody wanted to own it when they got caught using it” (64). The Cruisers will have to learn history’s lessons well to successfully combat DaVinci’s widening racial divide without starting a huge fight and threatening their ability to attend the academy.

Young adult literature needs more 120-page, high-low books with urban backdrops, and Mr. Myers has the experience and skill to create effective stories regardless of length. The Cruisers is short but effective, and a series is promised and eagerly anticipated; the first few pages of the next installment appear at the end of this work. I enjoyed the chapter breaks, during which warring newspaper articles, journal entries, and poems cleverly highlight or illuminate the characters’ struggles and conflicts. The language feels real, and social networking is frequently employed for positive change, negative gossip, and both; it doesn’t get any more real than that. Each of the four main characters has an engaging backstory, and I believe my students will follow them with the same fervor they apply to authors like Paul Langan, Anne Schraaf, and Sharon Draper. Kudos to New Jersey native Walter Dean Myers for The Cruisers. Townsend Press, as supportive and generous as it is, had better watch its back.

Feldman, Jody. The Seventh Level. Greenwillow Books, 2010 (3 stars out of 4).

I have long been disturbed by the idea of secret societies. From powerful ones like the neocon-based Federalist Society, to secret ones like the Masons and Dan Brown’s DaVinci Code-inspired Illuminati, to potentially fictional (but real-sounding) ones like Thomas Pynchon’s Tristero from the modern classic The Crying of Lot 49, I am disturbed by people’s need to publicly meet secretly. After all, I meet with my friends for board games every Thursday, but we don’t wear robes and perform time-honored rituals, unless mocking each other’s bald heads and lack of elegant, jet-setting lives can be considered ritualistic and not just corny, middle-aged attempts at humor. When Jody Feldman, author of The Seventh Level, introduced The Legend, a secret society at the protagonist’s middle school, I got nervous. However, Ms. Feldman makes it clear that she intends only good works and feelings to emanate from her quest to belong to the most secret (and cool!) society a middle school would ever want or need.

Travis Raines is used to trouble. He is not a bad kid but problems seem to follow him like a bad penny. After being blamed for a prank he did not do, one of his two best friends Matti explains to him why he always seems to be under suspicion: “’You know why,’ she says. ‘You draw attention to yourself, so you’re a perfect target. And you never get into big trouble, so people don’t feel guilty about aiming at you’” (105). So when this pre-growth-spurt 7^th grader at St. Louis’s Lauer Middle School (he’s still 4’6” while the rest of the world seems to be growing faster) gets a note from what looks the super-secret organization The Legend, he is both excited and suspicious. The Legend mysteriously sponsors and organizes the coolest activities ever conducted at a middle school, like cash grabs in glass booths, appearances by rock stars, and most importantly, fun but necessary food drives for those in need. The Legend seems to be sending him math and critical thinking puzzles to solve and offering him a road to membership, but unfortunately, when he makes progress on these challenges, Randall the school bully makes things tough on Travis, and every time Travis tries to follow the Legend’s directions, he seems to land in Mrs. Pinchon the disciplinarian’s office. However, as Travis gets more involved in his application for the Legend, he starts wondering if this “application” is actually the school bullies setting Travis up to get punked and in some real trouble he cannot cleverly talk his way out of, despite Mrs. Pinchon’s warnings that things are not always as they appear.

I like Travis Raines, and I know several shining examples of Travis at both of my schools. He is likable because his heart is pure despite his actions being somewhat less pristine, and he is charming in both his defeats and his victories. The plot’s pace picks up well as the story continues, and I am confident that my middle schoolers will appreciate the way Travis both solves the critical thinking problems (after, I hope, my students solve them on their own) and gradually discerns the truth about his future path. Also, there are enough twists and turns in the storyline to keep interested middle schoolers reasonably occupied as Travis contemplates whether he is capable of and worthy of the honor that seems to be bestowed upon him. However, do not look for creativity and originality in this work: Travis’s story is not unique, and his charm and charisma do not completely lift this pedestrian plot out of its mediocre design and execution. Like The Princess Plot by Kirsten Boie, The Seventh Level by Jody Feldman is fun and occasionally exciting, but seldom original or challenging.

Draper, Sharon M. Out of My Mind. This book is appropriate for grades 4 and up, or ages 9 and up, depending on reading level. This is also an excellent high-low book (4 out of 4!).

I try to tailor my library instruction to suit the needs of every student, and I attempt to differentiate instruction when it is indicated. However, because of my time constraints as a librarian in two large buildings, I know that I fall short on the edges: gifted and special needs. In order to make library lessons relevant for patrons who may not be able to even read a spine label because of visual challenges, patrons who may be at a 2^nd grade reading level but at an 8^th grade interest level (or 8^th graders reading at an 11^th grade level), or patrons who I just do not understand because of their inability to express their needs to me, I have to make time-consuming accommodations to my lessons, and I confess that I do not always spend enough time on modifications. Sharon M. Draper seems to understand these types of constraints; if she is not a teacher, she sure knows how to sound like one. Ms. Draper’s new novel Out of My Mind, about a brilliant girl with cerebral palsy who cannot tell the world what she knows, has the authentic voice of someone who understands this issue firsthand; her daughter has cerebral palsy as well. Unsurprisingly, the protagonist’s mother in the novel is a strong advocate for her daughter’s rights, but she only gets in the faces of the bad people; she’s not a raving parent. I am glad that Ms. Draper wrote this obviously personal novel, because more people should reexamine their treatment of people with special needs; sometimes, as in Melody’s case, people can possess unexpected or unknown qualities that shine more brightly because of a disability.

Melody Brooks is almost eleven and she has never spoken a word. Although she is quite brilliant, with a photographic memory and synesthetic sensations that enable her to see colors when listening to music, cerebral palsy excludes her from many activities, including speech. Only in her dreams is Melody a “normal” 5^th grader: “I get picked first on the playground for games. I can run so fast . . . I call my friends on the phone, and we talk for hours. I whisper secrets . . . When I wake up in the morning, it’s always sort of a letdown as reality hits me” (51). Melody is bored to tears in her self-contained classroom, but she cannot tell her teachers what she wants and needs, and most of them assume she is incapable of understanding, not simply incapable of communicating. When Melody ponders why her goldfish Ollie suddenly decides to jump out of his bowl, she is actually pondering her own condition: “Maybe he was sick and tired of that bowl . . . Maybe he just couldn’t take it anymore. I feel like that sometimes” (64). When Melody starts inclusion classes, she feels like an object of derision and mockery by her fellow, cold-hearted students. One student, Rose, befriends Melody, but they both learn the challenges and complications of friendship with Melody because of her requirements for intimate assistance in activities most folks take for granted, like eating and using the bathroom, severely curtailing their potential friendship. When Melody investigates ways to allow her to speak à la her hero Stephen Hawking, a whole new world may open up to her. But that world contains problems far more dangerous than the boredom or occasional prejudice she faces currently.

Sharon M. Draper has crafted a superior novel out of the trials of a young woman without a voice to liberate her. Like much of her other fiction focusing on African-American youth, often burdened with the same yoke as Melody— but caused by society, not genetics—Ms. Draper bestows an authentic and engaging voice upon the voiceless, forcing the rest of America to listen to what was previously unheard and potentially distasteful. Ms. Draper’s use of imagery to paint the scene; i.e. when Melody hilariously/tragically describes her self-contained classroom, brings even more life to characters already bubbling under the surface with energy, tension, frustration, and confusion. Out of My Mind by Sharon M. Draper transcends issues like target age or audience, so I will recommend this morality play to just about everyone I see. It taught me to reexamine my approach to my special education students, and I think it has something to teach to everyone about the way they treat and think about other people with significant differences.

Dionne, Erin. The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet. This book is appropriate for grades 5 to 8, or ages 10 to 14, depending on reading level (3 stars out of 4).

I don’t know how often in past columns I have addressed the issue of “girl” books and “boy” books and if ever the twain can meet, but reading Erin Dionne’s new novel made me ponder the topic. My 5^th through 7^th grade female students liked Ms. Dionne’s last novel, Models Don’t Eat Chocolate Cookies, so I was eager to read the new one, The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet. Reading Hamlet prompted some confusion on my part because of an obvious shortcoming about which I can do nothing: I am a guy. Although I am able to overlook my gender through almost all of the books I read and review, there are certain books that just don’t cross the girl-boy barrier well. Twilight is a perfect example. Through most of the novel, I said to myself, “Please, Bella, will you just stop whining for a minute?!” However, when I expressed this sentiment to some of my female colleagues, they looked at me in astonishment. I was told that I simply didn’t understand, that it’s a girl thing. If that is true, that certain books cannot be understood easily by guys, then I predict overwhelmingly female support for Ms. Dionne’s new novel featuring a girl who feels that she has a lot to whine about.

Hamlet Kennedy has survived until 8^th grade by staying under the radar. It’s her sister Desdemona, the seven-year-old child prodigy super-genius, and her kooky parents, the Shakespearean scholars who dress up in Elizabethan tights and velvet cloaks, who enjoy and savor the limelight. Despite her unusual name, Hamlet wants nothing more than to survive her last year of middle school without embarrassing herself to death. However, her life takes a drastic turn when Dezzie (Desdemona’s nickname) starts taking art and music classes at Howard Hoffer Middle School. Drama increases for Hamlet when the mean girls Saber and Mauri befriend Desdemona so they can extract text and project information from her, and Hamlet cannot seem to prevent her sister from being used. Two more complications raise Hamlet’s tension level. First of all, her best friend Ty may like “like” her, which is a bit gross to Hamlet. Secondly, and more significantly, she discovers that she has an ironic and disturbing talent for reading and acting Shakespeare that may shine a very unwanted and unwelcome spotlight on her: “I hated Shakespeare. He was responsible for ruining my life. And as far as I was concerned, being able to read his words was no gift. It was just another thing that made me different—what I wanted to avoid at all costs” (94). Hamlet must find a way to address the rising waters in her life that want to drown her in a torrent that feels more complicated and hopeless than the Bard’s play that bears her name.

As a former 12^th-grade British Lit teacher who taught Hamlet for years, there are several elements of The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet by Erin Dionne that I like. I enjoy how occasionally Hamlet will set the scene for the reader in her mind, a clever device that sheds light onto her thinking process and forwards the narrative. Also, my English teacher side cannot fail to appreciate Ms. Dionne’s numerous Shakespearean quotes and references, especially now that I am old enough to “get” them. However, there are times during this novel when the action slows down too much because of Hamlet’s insecurities and fears and it gets a little boring. Clearly, when it comes to primal girl angst, it’s just like ballet to me: I can watch it, I can understand what it is, I can appreciate its process, but I just don’t get it. Ms. Dionne’s book is not poorly written, but I feel a little excluded from its secrets. I surmise and hope readers will respond to Hamlet much like they respond to Twilight’s Bella, with empathy and understanding, not scorn and annoyance. I think it’s a safe guess that I will not get many male readers for The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet by Erin Dionne, but I have been wrong about that type of thing before, and I do have quite a few male readers of Stephenie Meyer. My greatest wish for this novel is that it normalizes Shakespeare for future readers with a little comedy and a little tragedy.

Johnson, Louanne. Muchacho. Alfred A. Knopf, 2009. 197 pages. ISBN 13: 978-0-375-86117-8. This book is appropriate for grades 8 and up, or ages 13 and up, depending on reading level. This novel contains potentially offensive language, but it is a good high-low selection for high school
(3 1/2 stars out of 4).

I am always looking for good books with Hispanic protagonists and voices, because they not only serve our Hispanic population in Pennsauken (over 35%), they also inform the rest of us about the challenges and issues of other folks. When I began Muchacho by Louanne Johnson, I could not help thinking about her previous book, My Posse Don’t Do Homework, adapted into the popular Michelle Pfeiffer film Dangerous Minds. I had some problems with stereotypes and portrayals in the movie, and I did not take it that seriously. I know that should not impact my reading of Ms. Johnson’s new novel, but I am not always as objective as I think I am. Therefore, I was greatly relieved that the students of Bright Horizons alternative school had the young, idealistic, wispy, white teacher fired by the end of October. This was not going to be another amazingly improbable saga of a smart and progressive white educator who enters the ghetto and changes the world. Instead, Muchacho is a sensitive and powerful portrait of one Hispanic-American teen and his efforts to discover his creative potential himself, not through a teacher’s lens.

Eddie Corazon feels trapped in his small life. Eddie is a secret reader, because high schoolers in his New Mexico, especially those at Rosablanca’s Bright Horizons alternative school, get attacked for being too smart, too tough, too weak, too much of anything T. J. Ritchie or the bullies think is outside of normal. Eddie is tough enough to survive, and he has his family to protect him and not leave him alone so the drug dealers can enlist him. However, Eddie knows that he is not achieving his potential in the alt school, and total failure is not an option; one year when Eddie forgets Mamí’s birthday he makes her a certificate that guarantees he will graduate from high school. Eddie is an honorable teen who understands what a man’s word means: “I thought about hiding it or tearing it up, but it wouldn’t get me out of the deal . . . It’s probably a good thing I wrote it down, though, because otherwise I might have dropped out of school one of those days when I felt like breaking all the windows just to make something interesting happen instead of all those dumb assignments and tests” (43). With an occasionally abusive father, cousins and friends always tempting Eddie with “easy money,” and low expectations at alt school, Eddie feels he is going nowhere fast until he takes a ballroom dancing class and meets Lupe. Lupe is not only beautiful, smart, and strong-willed, she is able to awaken Eddie’s secret desire: to be Eduardo, an intellectual who is able to unlock and unfetter his neighborhood’s shackles. However, stumbling blocks are numerous on Eddie’s road to becoming Eduardo, and he may not even get the opportunity to make the changes he so desperately seeks.

Eddie Corazon is an Everyman who I like from page one. He speaks in slang and colloquialism at the beginning of the novel, but by the end, his grammar and usage improves, a nice subtle touch by the author. Eddie is acutely aware of his circumstances and he is impossible to stereotype. Lupe sees Eddie for who he actually is, not the front he shows to the rest of the world, and as Eddie’s heart opens, mine does as well. Eddie’s journey to self-improvement is not all that different from most people’s journey. He wants what is best and he is willing to work for it. The moment Eddie is understood on his level, and not on some Anglo’s assessment of what his level looks like, he responds like any intelligent, eloquent young person should, with respect and curiosity. The reader is left with the definite impression that when the Anglos in Eddie’s world finally view him as a peer and not as an outsider looking in, he will be every bit as successful as them, if not more so because of his experience. Muchacho by Louanne Johnson is excellent realistic fiction and a fine example of a modern character study. Readers will like and relate to Eddie (and Lupe), regardless of their station in life.

Yee, Lisa. Absolutely Maybe (3 1/2 stars out of 4)
A pattern in current YA literature growing in frequency and scope is the functional child caring for, responding to, rebelling against, and/or rejecting the dysfunctional parent. Well-regarded books like Carl Hiassen’s Flush, Linda Urban’s A Crooked Kind of Perfect, and Kirkpatrick Hill’s Do Not Pass Go, to name a few, feature perfectly normal kids who are burdened by their parents’ inadequacies. Sometimes, like in Urban’s very funny novel, the dysfunction is not the fault of the parent (dad suffers from autism or another similar social disorder), and the child feels compassion for the parent’s plight. Other times, however, as in Hiassen’s and Hill’s novels, parents make avoidable mistakes that place their children in perilous situations, whether the danger is real, like Dusty Muleman’s gangsters in Flush, or perceived, like the shame Deet feels in Do Not Pass Go when his father is arrested for drug possession. Lisa Yee’s Absolutely Maybe features another teenager trying to be normal in the shadow of a dysfunctional parent, but it is not derivative; it is a fresh and fun ride that features just enough discomfort to keep the story tense and dynamic.
Maybelline “Maybe” Chestnut is a failure in the eyes of her mother, Chessy, who runs a charm school in Kissimmee, FL, that caters to girls like the Fantastic Five, the meanest, prettiest girls in school. Since Maybe prefers Goth-lite makeup and brightly-dyed hair to beauty pageant chic, she becomes the butt of the Five’s jokes: “As I brush past the Fantastic Five one of them says, ‘Look, it’s the beast!’ Someone else adds, ‘Her hair is green today. She’s not a beast, she’s a troll’ . . . As usual, my mother pretends not to hear them, even though their laughter echoes in the building” (20). Chessy is addicted to alcohol and marriage, and she is about to make her seventh mistake with creepy Jake Himmler, assistant manager at the local Piggly Wiggly: “Ýou’ve heard of serial murderers? My mother’s a serial marryer. It’s a disease” (13). Maybe survives her negative home environment with the help of her two best friends, Ted, at whose house she stays when Chessy is too drunk to care for her, and Hollywood, so named because he films everything and has been accepted to USC film school. The resourceful Maybe finds a way to survive at home until fiancé seven tries to rape her; when Maybe screams and Chessy interrupts the scene, she accuses Maybe of impropriety as Jake drunkenly tries to blame it on Maybe. One thing Maybe is sure of is that she cannot live with a rapist: “‘It was already torture before Jake showed up. Now it would be impossible to stay’” (38). When Maybe explains her troubles to Ted, she comes to a necessary decision: she must leave and find her biological father in California (the one man Chessy never married). Along with Hollywood, the three of them embark on an adventure that holds surprises for everyone.
Maybe Chestnut is a winning character, a girl I hope my students admire. She is far from perfect, but her spunk, spirit, and resourcefulness lift the story to a level that feels very comfortable for young people seeking greater empowerment in their lives. When she needs to leave a dangerous situation, she leaves. When she needs to eat other people’s food to survive, she eats other people’s food, as distasteful as it is (sorry for the pun). However, when she needs to succeed, Maybe has an energy and humility that are both refreshing and exhilarating. Maybe builds relationships surprisingly well given her poor parental model, and she is an unpretentious survivor in a world of wannabes. Ms. Yee handles the rape scene very well: it is disturbing and shocking but not graphic; the content is not inappropriate for middlers. Absolutely Maybe is not the most realistic fiction I have ever read, and the characters’ luck factor does seem to be unusually high, but I was able to overlook those shortcomings because Ms. Yee’s novel is a quick-moving, well-written tale of a likable young woman’s quest to find her heritage and forge her future.