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Before reading To Walk the Sky: How Iroquois Steelworkers Helped Build Towering Cities, readers may not know about the first Mohawk skywalkers: Native American and Canadian First Nations steelworkers whose skill and fearlessness built many engineering landmarks that stand today, such as the Empire State Building and the Golden Gate Bridge. To Walk the Sky is a beautiful peek at the history and ongoing story of these brave and determined men.

Written by Patricia Morris Buckley, herself the descendant of a Quebec Bridge Mohawk skywalker, To Walk the Sky is full of history and information, recounting events such as the 1907 collapse of the Quebec Bridge, which killed 75 workers. While Buckley’s language is significantly more sophisticated than that of many picture books, she narrates like a storyteller and not a textbook. Buckley doesn’t shy away from the struggles, risk and devastation the skywalkers faced throughout the decades, but neither does she dwell on sadness. Matter-of-fact and serious, but with moments of poetry, Buckley’s writing rings with pride and hope for the legacy of these courageous workers. Closing out with the author’s own family history and glossary as well as material on the Quebec Bridge and the Mohawk people, To Walk the Sky provides not only an engaging story, but also a tribute and an education all in one.

Each thoughtful, evocative image from illustrator E.B. Lewis rings with pride and respect. Lewis’ soft watercolor images capture historical moments and current events with equal skill. Watercolor is the perfect medium for this topic, giving plenty of detail, but with a slightly blurred and timeless aura. Similarly, most of Lewis’ characters have vague features, reminding us how often these workers go unrecognized, fading into history. Lewis uses various perspectives to bring readers into this world. We look up at a blue sky crisscrossed by steel beams, and stand behind grieving widows in the aftermath of the Quebec Bridge disaster. We sit across from skywalkers, in imitation of the famous “Lunch atop a Skyscraper” photograph of workers eating as they sit on top of a steel beam during the construction of 30 Rockefeller Plaza in Manhattan. And we find ourselves in a haze of yellow, among the ruins of 9/11, an image that is both familiar and visceral.

To Walk the Sky is marketed for young audiences, though it is a little lengthier than your traditional children’s storytime book. However, this book will find a home in nearly every age group and setting, from families of steelworkers and proud descendants of the brave skywalkers, to middle grade students learning about Native American history. Above all, one hopes To Walk the Sky will find those imaginative little ones with their own big dreams of building something incredible.

To Walk the Sky will find a receptive audience in nearly every age group and setting, from families of steelworkers and proud descendants of the brave skywalkers, to middle grade students learning about Native American history.

Everyone loves a housewife; housewife here meaning not the barefoot and pregnant archetype, but a girlboss with hair extensions, implants and a whole lot of attitude who’s always willing to tussle with her “friends” for an audience of millions. But what happens when a reluctant housewife ends up dead—and she’s only the first casualty of the new season? Astrid Dahl’s The Really Dead Wives of New Jersey effectively straddles the line between dark humor and suspense, following multiple characters in front of and behind the camera as they reckon with a murderer in their spray-tanned, Botoxed midst.

Garden State Goddesses is Huzzah Network’s third most popular reality show, but, as always, the real drama is behind the scenes. Showrunner Eden has her sights on greener pastures so she can finally move out of Hoboken, New Jersey: It only takes a little finagling to bring her naive cousin Hope out of a fundamentalist California commune and into the on-camera fold to boost ratings. Meanwhile, newlywed (and newly wealthy) Hope is a fish out of water among her over-the-top costars: bisexual single mom Renee, nail salon maven and self-proclaimed “Italian supremacist” Carmela, and Carmela’s bonehead of a best friend Valerie, who’s also Hope’s sister-in-law. But when a lethal cocktail leaves one of the housewives dead—and the bodies keep dropping—Eden and the Goddesses cast and crew must crack the case, or risk cancellation of the show . . . and their lives.

Astrid Dahl is the creation of author Anna Dorn: According to Dahl’s cheeky bio, she’s the “star” of Dorn’s Perfume and Pain, a novel that’s also dark, hilarious and campy. Dahl/Dorn has crafted an exceedingly colorful cast of characters, especially Goddesses regular Birdie, a dowager of indeterminate age and bottomless wealth who just can’t seem to stay sober (much to viewers’ delight), and Birdie’s adult son and assistant, Pierre, who loves horses as much as he loathes housewives. The Really Dead Wives of New Jersey shines bright in its love for soap opera-style reality TV, where manicured nails are sharp and verbal barbs over Prosecco-fueled lunch dates even sharper. Pour a healthy glass of white wine—who cares if it’s only 2 p.m.?—don your finest faux fur and get ready for a bumpy but fabulous ride through New Jersey’s toniest, deadliest suburb.

Astrid Dahl’s The Really Dead Wives of New Jersey, a murder mystery set on a Housewives-style reality show, effectively straddles the line between dark humor and genuine suspense.

Detective Inspector Georgina “George” Lennox is still on the mend eight months after nearly dying in an on-the-job accident in Glasgow, Scotland. And as Laura McCluskey’s eerie, gothic-tinged debut mystery, The Wolf Tree, opens, the impetuous, recently promoted 28-year-old is eager to ditch desk duty and get back out in the field with her partner, veteran DI Richie Stewart.

Their superintendent is open to the idea, but wants George to start with an open-and-shut case: Confirm the manner of death for 18-year-old Alan Ferguson, presumed to have died by suicide on Eilean Eadar, a remote island in the North Atlantic Ocean. “[N]othing happens out there,” the superintendent says. “Those islands are medieval time capsules with a population of relics.”

Postmistress Kathy McKinnon effusively welcomes the detectives to Eilean Eadar for their five-day stay, but the other 206 residents aren’t so friendly. Hostile stares and whispers abound, as do evasive answers to straightforward questions, which sets George’s instincts pinging. If everyone’s as close-knit as they claim, united by enduring the challenges of life on a barren island forgotten by the mainland, why not help the DIs put Alan to rest?

George is also intrigued by the island’s dark history: In 1919, three lighthouse keepers went missing and the case was never resolved—a state of affairs about which the islanders seem strangely sanguine. And while a few locals eventually soften toward the detectives, George’s unease remains, exacerbated by the darkness that blankets the island every afternoon, making excursions creepy and treacherous. Her persistent insomnia and migraines aren’t helping either, especially since it’s getting harder to hide them (and the pills she’s taking) from a concerned Richie. 

And then there are the howling sounds she hears at night, her growing conviction there’s much more to Alan’s sad story and a massive approaching storm that boosts The Wolf Tree’s escalating tension to even greater heights. Thanks to McCluskey’s expert melding of modern crime procedural and ancient folklore, suspenseful slow burns and intense high-stakes action, fans of stories set in closed communities with something to hide will revel in this assured and absorbing debut.

Laura McCluskey expertly melds modern crime procedural and ancient folklore in her eerie debut mystery, The Wolf Tree.
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Sarah, nicknamed Sally, is everything British society expects her to be: a polite, respectable, beautiful lady. An Egbado princess whom Queen Victoria claimed as a goddaughter, at 19 years old, Sally has learned to play the game of propriety and appearances. But it’s all in an effort to achieve her real goal: revenge against everyone who was involved with her violent removal from her homeland.

The Queen’s Spade blends fact and fiction to expand upon the heart-pounding history of Sarah Forbes Bonetta, a real historical figure. In 1862 England, amidst fraught discussions between the aristocracy about colonialism and abolition, Sally carefully makes her moves against a society that both adores and others her—one that traps everyone in webs of lies and betrayal, even those at the very top.

Intelligent and intuitive, Sally knows how to use status to her advantage. Other characters admire or envy her privileges, which include favor from the Queen, familiarity with the royal family, and financial and social support. But readers are granted a glimpse into Sally’s mind, where she feels the trauma and terror of having been ripped from her home and forced to adopt an entirely different culture, while her history as a member of the Yoruba tribe is belittled and erased.

As Sally navigates a cultural, social and economic landscape full of contradictions and double standards, The Queen’s Spade becomes an intense battle of wits. How can Sally use her environment to her advantage? What role will others play in her plan? From Rui, the mysterious leader of an underground network, to Harriet, a high-born courtier who anxiously lives in the shadow of her heritage, to Bertie, the cheeky and foolish prince, Sally is surrounded by people around whom she must maneuver to achieve her revenge. What are everyone’s motives, and who can she really trust? And, perhaps, most importantly: What is she willing to pay to achieve her revenge?

The Queen’s Spade introduces readers to an incredible true story and broadens it into a powerful tale that readers seeking historical fiction and high-stakes mystery are sure to enjoy.

The Queen’s Spade introduces readers to the incredible story of Sarah Forbes Bonetta and broadens it into a powerful tale that readers seeking historical fiction and high-stakes mystery are sure to enjoy.
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Anne Frank’s account of the 761 days she and her family and others spent in hiding during World War II is one of the bestselling nonfiction works ever and the best-known work of Holocaust literature. In her richly rewarding and meticulously researched The Many Lives of Anne Frank, Ruth Franklin thoughtfully probes not only the life and writings of the young author but also details the complex history of publication and dramatization of Frank’s seminal work, The Diary of a Young Girl, and its global influence (it’s available in 70 languages). “Anne Frank,” writes Franklin, “has become not just a person . . . but a symbol: a secret door that opens into a kaleidoscope of meanings, most of which her legions of fans understand incompletely, if at all.”

The author of A Thousand Darknesses: Lies and Truth in Holocaust Fiction and a biography of Shirley Jackson, for which she received the National Book Critics Circle Award, Franklin is well suited to excavate Frank’s life and legacy. “The most important misconception about Anne, with the longest lasting repercussions, has to do with the diary itself,” writes Franklin. It was not discovered after Frank’s death. In fact, it existed in three versions: The first is Anne’s rough draft; the second, the draft she hoped to publish (in response to a request from the Netherlands government); and the third, the first published version that is now taught in schools across the world. Franklin examines in detail how the three differ from one another. Anne’s father, the only one of the family who survived the concentration camps, edited that third draft after Frank’s miserable death from typhus at Bergen-Belsen. He insisted that any editing he did was what Anne would have wanted.

Some critics claim that The Diary of a Young Girl—and its adaptations to stage (in 1955) and screen (in 1959, which was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Picture)—does not emphasize Anne’s Jewishness enough, and instead creates a more humanist portrait, thus negating the unique and catastrophic experiences of Jews during the Holocaust. Still others attempt to ban the book from school and public libraries, deny the legitimacy of the diary and question whether the Holocaust happened altogether. Novelist Cynthia Ozick has written that Anne’s story has been “Americanized, homogenized, sentimentalized” and “falsified.” Some blame Otto Frank’s editing for softening the text and failing to confront the “brutal reality” of the Holocaust. For his part, Franklin writes, Otto “believed in the Diary as a beacon to promote international tolerance and peace.”

“It is precisely this chameleon-like quality that has made Anne’s story uniquely enduring,” writes Franklin. Indeed, The Many Lives of Anne Frank explores how Frank has been “understood and misunderstood, both as a person and as an idea.” This assiduously researched yet accessible text is an excellent companion to the work of Anne Frank that illuminates the young girl and her undeniable impact on the world’s understanding of this tragic time in history.

Correction: The original version of this review included incorrect information about the 1959 film. It was nominated for a Best Picture award.

Ruth Franklin’s thoughtfully probing The Many Lives of Anne Frank illuminates the “kaleidoscope of meanings” ascribed to the titular author and her foundational work.
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It’s a toss up whether our culture has become more or less sex positive. Shows like Sex Education might make you think more, while the increasing popularity of the 4B movement, which uses celibacy as activism, might make you think less. Regardless, Edmund White has been writing beautifully about sex for 50 years, and his writing is very, very sex positive. Sex does not appear only in his fiction, where it plays an important role in the coming of age novel A Boy’s Own Story and the psychosexual romp A Saint From Texas, but also in his nonfiction, which ranges from accounts of his time in Paris, biographies of Jean Genet and Rimbaud (both sex symbols to literary-minded folks) and the homosexual sex guide The Joy of Gay Sex. All these books celebrate and investigate sex, showing it lucidly (and, at times, lingering on it pruriently). In The Loves of My Life: A Sex Memoir, White collects all his sex memories into one book, and the result is a brilliant, envelope-pushing memoir that explores how we have sex and why. The answer? It’s fun and feels good!

White tackles hot-button issues surrounding sex deftly and frankly. In one chapter, White writes about the men he has paid for sex. He notes that paying gets you a more attractive partner and sets very clear boundaries: I pay, you give and when we’re done, we’re done. But White also describes the complicated power dynamic at play in these relationships: The patron has the power in the bedroom or back seat, but outside, the sex worker may enjoy more attention and social capital because of their youth and attractiveness. The candid tone of this chapter carries throughout the book, as, later, White writes about the age gaps he has had with several partners. While others may frown on this kind of relationship, White embraces it: His current husband, Michael Carroll, is 25 years younger than him. To White, age gaps allow for rich cross-generational interchange and the possibility of exploring exciting power dynamics.

To any White superfan (which this reviewer is), The Loves of My Life is a must-read. To those not inducted, this rousing memoir still provides intriguing, fresh ideas about how we connect. Ultimately, pleasure reigns supreme.

Pleasure reigns supreme in Edmund White’s brilliant, envelope-pushing, sex-positive memoir, The Loves of My Life.
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Every daughter contains a part of her mother. An imprint buries deep down, binding the two together, indelible. For Margot, the young protagonist of Lucy Rose’s dreamlike, visceral horror novel The Lamb, the connection with Mama is bloodsoaked, painful and unrelenting. Can a child ever sever herself from her mother?

Mama and Margot have lived in the woods ever since Margot can remember. Apart from the occasional lost soul looking for shelter, they are alone. Mama calls the lost people “strays,” with a certain amount of affection. She eagerly settles them in the house, feeds them and serves them wine. It’s not until it’s too late that the hemlock in the drink takes deadly effect. Then, Mama and Margot can feed. Sometimes they have a lot to eat, and sometimes they go hungry. When times are bad, Mama is inconsolable, violent and harsh. Margot covers the bruises with her coat as she rides the bus to school. However, when a new stray named Eden comes to the woods, an entranced Mama welcomes her into the family. Margot feels a change come over the house with Eden’s presence, something she’s not sure if she likes. She must decide what sort of future she wants, but will it mean leaving Mama, Eden and the gruesome truth of their lives far behind? It may be the only chance she’s got for something new.

Rose’s use of Margot’s first-person perspective in The Lamb allows for full authorial control over the shifting tones and feelings within the cabin. Much of the story happens in only a handful of locations, imbuing the plot with a sense of claustrophobia. Margot can’t escape the horrors of the house, how strays are harvested and eaten as the cycle continues. These happenings are at once terrifying and perfectly ordinary, the only thing she’s ever known. This is the genius of Rose’s folktale: She blurs the lines between hunger and gluttony, human and animal, love and revulsion. It’s hypnotic, grotesque and beautiful all at once.

Rose’s writing confidently carries the reader through some seriously disturbing moments, with blood and more staining nearly every chapter. Coming-of-age shouldn’t be this bloody, should it? Maybe it’s the only way—feeding on what came before, new and full at last.

Lucy Rose’s horror-folktale hybrid, The Lamb, is hypnotic, grotesque and beautiful all at once.

Although she’s just a kid, Cecilia has two full-time jobs: elementary school student, and interpreter for her Spanish-speaking parents. 

In her picture book debut, The Interpreter, Olivia Abtahi (Twin Flames) has crafted an empathetic, gently humorous look at what it’s like to be a go-to translator in immigrant and/or multilingual families. Fittingly, The Interpreter is itself a multilingual book: cleverly conceived watercolor and pencil-crayon artwork by Monica Arnaldo (The Museum of Very Bad Smells) separates out languages by color. Orange word bubbles are for Spanish, blue for English and pink for Farsi when Cecilia’s family encounters another kid-interpreter.

Cecilia’s life has become overwhelmingly blue and orange, to her and her friends’ consternation. She’s a plucky, considerate child who beams when her mom says, “What would I do without you?” But while it’s rewarding to explain her sibling’s medical treatments, ensure the hairdresser doesn’t cut mom’s hair too short, and assist dad with his driver’s license photo (“No smiling. / Sin sonrisa.”), it’s also exhausting. 

Not surprisingly, when a perceptive teacher inquires how she—just her, not her family—is doing, Cecilia loses her cool and releases her bottled-up frustration in a gloriously explosive double-page-spread: “I don’t want to run errands every day and wait at the DMV! I want to be outside, I want to play soccer . . . I want, I want, I want.” Her parents are shocked at her outburst, and then shocked at how Cecilia’s calendar has been overtaken by interpreting without their realizing. “I want to help,” Cecilia says,. “just not all the time.”

Abtahi does a stellar job of introducing the concepts of boundaries, self-advocacy and work-life balance while cautioning readers that being super-accommodating might result in being taken advantage of or overburdened, even by those who care about us. But asking for and accepting help can make things better for all involved: By the book’s happy end, Cecilia’s aunt and brother are pitching in with interpreting, she’s back to playing with friends and everybody is smiling—especially Cecilia.

 

Olivia Abtahi does a stellar job of introducing the concept of boundaries, while cautioning readers that being super-accommodating might result in being overburdened, even by those who care about us.

Singer-songwriter Neko Case has always had a sort of feralness about her. Case cut her teeth in the ’90s Pacific Northwest punk scene, with a hardscrabble backstory perfectly suited to the era. She joined the Canadian supergroup The New Pornographers, which she still records and tours with today, and she’s recorded seven solo albums over the past two and a half decades. A self-described “critter,” Case embodies an animalistic spirit that’s tangible in the magical, swirling energy of her music. In her richly told memoir, The Harder I Fight, The More I Love You, Case invites readers into her origin story.

Case was born to deeply unready teenage parents of Slavic descent who she describes both as “if a tree and a doe had a baby,” and “two young people [who] had no business being together and even less business forcing a human soul into this world.” Her descriptions of their poverty, her nomadic existence moving back and forth between her parents and her fractured relationships with both ring gritty, painful and true. Yet Case employs the same fairy tale-like storytelling language in The Harder I Fight that she uses in her lyrics, casting a veil of enchantment over her experiences, however painful. For example, while in college, Case experienced a mental breakdown that caused her to believe a man was following her wherever she went—a terrifying time. And yet, when she pauses to wait for her pursuer to show himself while walking one day, a coyote, which she names “a timeless trickster god,” emerges from the mist, and the image hangs frozen in time for the reader.

Fans of Case will note that the book shares a title with her 2013 album, a sign that this literary work functions as an extension of her art and music. Even for the uninitiated, however, The Harder I Fight is lush with meaning. Now in her mid-50s, Case came of age as one of the first generations to begin parsing generational trauma, and therein are the best lessons of her remarkably tender narrative. It is a handing down of wisdom on how to turn wounds into magic, and an ode to the persistent ability to love, and how that transforms our lives.

Case describes discovering the literary figure of the psychopomp in her studies of the Slavic tales of her ancestors: a trickster god who guides a protagonist through their story, “dol[ing] out the clues—cryptic but always correct—that allow the protagonist to solve an important riddle or find the path out of the forest themselves.” She felt an immediate attachment to the archetype: “Like a psychopomp, I wanted to inhabit a den in the forest and possess the answers to transformation and growth that I’d croak out now and then to visitors.” Her disappointment was sharp upon discovering that, as a human being, she was excluded from ever being one. This book, however, might beg to differ. Hold The Harder I Fight in your lap like a warm, furred creature. Listen to what the psychopomp has to say, and let it guide you out of the woods.

Neko Case’s memoir, The Harder I Fight, The More I Love You, is an ode to the persistent ability to love, and how it transforms our lives.

For civil rights attorney and legal scholar Michelle Adams, the story of the fight to desegregate schools in metropolitan Detroit in the 1960s and early 1970s is personal. Born and raised in the city, she was introduced to the law early: Her father was one of only two Black graduates from the Detroit College of Law in 1957. She is now the Henry M. Butzel Professor of Law at the University of Michigan and has been an expert law commentator for documentaries about the Constitution and the Supreme Court. 

As readers of The Containment: Detroit, the Supreme Court, and the Battle for Racial Justice in the North will discover, Adams is also a consummate storyteller with an in-depth understanding of her subject. She deftly illuminates the complex history and significance of the 1974 Supreme Court case Milliken v. Bradley, in which the court overturned a lower court ruling that had approved the desegregation of schools not only in urban Detroit, but in 53 districts throughout the wider metropolitan area. The higher court determined that the segregation that existed in suburban neighborhoods did not warrant the redrawing of school district lines to achieve integration because no intentional discriminatory acts by the districts could be proven. Adams effectively demonstrates that this decision put a stop to a visionary, holistic approach to integration—an approach that might have served as a model throughout the North. 

The prologue opens in 2006, when Adams attended oral arguments at the Supreme Court, having filed an amicus curiae brief to support a Seattle school desegregation case (which ultimately failed). Some of the issues raised in that case, especially the question of how discriminative policies in housing and neighborhoods impact schools, made her think again of Milliken v. Bradley, a case she had often taught. She reflects on the many ways in which the promise of Brown v. Board of Education, which asserted that separate facilities cannot be equal, has largely been unfulfilled. Instead, policies and practices keep Black families contained in neighborhoods served by failing schools.

Adams’ riveting narrative sweeps readers into the effort to challenge Detroit’s separate and unequal school system in the 1960s and early 1970s. She digs deep to tell the story about a creative, hard-fought attempt at metropolitan desegregation, recounting how the court’s decision impacted the city, the activists and even the district judge who presided over Milliken v. Bradley in Michigan. 

While The Containment reads at times like a legal thriller, Adams never loses sight of providing readers with broader historical context and what the failure of Milliken v. Bradley means for Americans today. Nevertheless, Adams is not without hope for the future. She concludes, “In 1974, the U.S. Supreme Court took us down the wrong path. But we can still choose another.”

Reading at times like a legal thriller, Michelle Adams’ The Containment sweeps readers into the effort to challenge Detroit’s separate and unequal school system.
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“This is how England claimed you—through its rain,” remarks Shiv Advani when he arrives in the country at London’s Victoria Station and finds “thin, fine icicles” pricking his skin. From these opening lines, Beena Kamlani introduces the primary conflict of her debut novel, The English Problem: the tension between the home we are from and the home we have chosen.

This detailed and informative work of historical fiction follows Shiv starting from his childhood in northern India in the 1920s. The doting son of political elites and later a semi-protege of Mahatma Gandhi himself, Shiv is staunchly dedicated to carrying out the wishes of his superiors. But once he arrives in England to study law and support Indian independence, he finds himself in settings where his ambition and his values clash. There lies the crux of Shiv’s journey. Through experiences in shame, violence, love and friendship, Shiv discovers his own moral compass. The direction it takes him in, however, is a departure from his intended path. From the halls of libraries to the quarters of lovers, readers see Shiv confront expectations, disappointment and new personal lessons against a backdrop of actual historical events.

Kamlani’s writing vividly brings us into Shiv’s experience through his senses. That said, the book may appeal more to readers who enjoy history and philosophy, due to its emphasis on both. In particular, conversations with historical figures, including the likes of Virginia and Leonard Woolf, E.M. Forster and Gandhi, give readers the opportunity to be immersed in some of the era’s ruling ideas.

The English Problem is a true bildungsroman, as Shiv feels out the lines between desire and obligation, and learns what it means to be at home. Readers will certainly enjoy its language and the subtle complexity of its themes.

Beena Kamlani’s detailed historical debut, The English Problem, follows an Indian man who journeys to England in the 1930s to study law and support Indian independence, but finds himself caught between his ambition, his heart and his values.
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The sweetest sparks fly when childhood friends agree to a marriage of convenience for the sake of a green card in The Broposal, the charming adult debut from Sonora Reyes, author of acclaimed YA novels The Lesbiana’s Guide to Catholic School and The Luis Ortega Survival Club.

Alejandro (Han) and Kenny met in second grade during a contentious game of dodgeball, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. No one is surprised when they announce their engagement. In fact, most of their friends and family think it’s about time they made it official. The thing is, Han and Kenny are faking the whole thing so that Han can get a green card and become a U.S. citizen. If Han is going to fake marry anyone, it might as well be his lifelong bestie, who knows him better than anyone else. Sweet, sensitive Kenny would do anything to help his friend, and if it helps Han get over his toxic ex, Jackie, then all the better. But soon their fake relationship begins to feel all too real. With all their friends and family rooting for them, can these two bros dodge threats from the vengeful Jackie and immigration officers and make it down the altar for real?

Reyes doesn’t shy away from infusing this rom-com with very real and terrifying stakes. (Sensitive readers should consider reading the list of triggers in the Author’s Note.) On one hand, it is a complete delight to watch Han and Kenny dance around each other, completely oblivious to their true feelings and fooling no one but themselves. They adopt a cactus together, co-parent an adorable dog and support each other at every turn. Despite all of this, there is an almost constant hum of unease in the background, as their happiness is on shaky ground thanks to forces outside their control. While this worked for most of the narrative, at times it overwhelmed the story, since the odds against Han and Kenny are almost insurmountable. With Jackie as an almost cartoonish villain threatening their happiness at every turn (“Jackie” may replace “Karen” as a generic placeholder for horrible white women committed to being the worst), the additional threat that ICE presents to Han every time he leaves his house and a few other obstacles I won’t spoil, Han and Kenny do not have an easy road to happiness. But Reyes understands that queer joy is important: Even if we have to wait till the very last pages, their characters are going to get that hard-won HEA. Throughout The Broposal, Reyes effectively conveys the deep love that their characters have shared since they were young. So despite moments when everything feels bleak, that love is still palpable, and it’s clear that these two sweethearts are going to make it.

Fans of Reyes’ previous work will be excited for their adult debut and the chance for more from this talented author.

In their adult debut, Sonora Reyes infuses a rom-com with real and terrifying stakes.
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In February 2023, a male Eurasian-eagle owl escaped from his vandalized Central Park Zoo enclosure in New York City. Until his death a year later, the owl’s journey through Manhattan was intensely chronicled by birders, reporters, tourists and just about everyone else. In The Book of Flaco: The World’s Most Famous Bird, prolific nature writer David Gessner documents that phenomenal year with keen wit and scrutiny.

Hatched and raised in captivity, Flaco lived in a cage the size of a department store display window. The vandals—or liberators?—who cut the steel mesh of his enclosure skillfully avoided detection by a nearby camera. Suddenly free to roam, the raptor had to learn how to fly, catch his meals (mostly rats) and—his biggest challenge—avoid the admiring hordes following him everywhere. Recapture attempts by the zoo grew complicated as online birders alerted crowds to his locations. Culture wars and controversy flared as New Yorkers and the world debated no less than the conditions of freedom: Should authorities capture Flaco and, probably, save his life by returning him to his enclosure? Or would doing so end the much more worthy, though dangerous, life that he was now experiencing at last?

When Flaco eventually left Central Park’s trees for the city’s rooftops, ledges and sheltering courtyards, his followers fretted. When he perched and peered into their windows with his huge orange eyes, they fell in love. Among the many New Yorkers Gessner colorfully depicts is playwright Nan Knighton, who shared an afternoon with Flaco when he visited her 13th floor window. “I missed that surreal, wondrous, exciting, and funny time with him,” she admits to Gessner after the owl’s death. “I still do.”

With wisdom earned from his own experiences following ospreys and snowy owls, and in a style both engrossing and endearing, Gessner suggests that the story of Flaco has many lessons to teach us: about risk-taking, rat poisoning, a zoo’s responsibility and anthropomorphism. And hooting. Flaco hooted everywhere, long and loudly, in search of a mate, of another owl, of some connection to . . . something. He never found it. The Book of Flaco suggests that when we humans free ourselves to explore and learn, we may come to understand Flaco’s hoot, and our own nature.

David Gessner explores the life and death of an owl on the lam in his animated, endearing The Book of Flaco.

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