Nicole Brinkley

Children's & YAMiddle GradeChildren's

Aniana del Mar Jumps In

Review by Nicole Brinkley

Aniana del Mar knows how to keep a secret. At her papi’s insistence, Ani keeps her swim meets and the medals she wins hidden from her mami, who fears the water after a hurricane destroyed her home and killed her brother. So when Ani’s body starts to ache, her joints swelling and her limbs radiating with pain, it’s not a difficult decision for Ani to keep it all a secret in order to continue swimming.

But then one morning, Ani wakes up in so much pain that she cannot move, and her life changes irrevocably. To help her doctors understand what might be happening, Ani must reveal to them—and to her mami—the truth about swimming. After Ani is diagnosed with juvenile idiopathic arthritis (JIA), she feels as though she’s losing her swim team, her ability to focus in school and her mami’s trust. She clings to her hope of getting back in the water, but how can she convince her family to let her swim again when all they seem to do is worry? 

Characters with chronic pain are underrepresented in children’s literature, and in Aniana del Mar Jumps In, Dominican American debut author Jasminne Mendez offers a welcome addition to this small but growing group. The novel has many strengths, including Mendez’s excellent portrayal of Ani’s family and skillful juxtaposition of Ani’s religious mother with her more spiritual godmother, but it shines brightest in Mendez’s approach to writing about Ani’s JIA.

Ani’s initial realization that her aches aren’t typical, her choice to conceal her pain and the spiraling effects of that choice all offer realistic glimpses of what it’s like to deal with chronic illness at a young age. After her diagnosis, Ani struggles with the disconnect between how everyone around her treats her—as someone who is courageous but fragile—and the fact that she views herself as a girl who isn’t brave, but just “managing [her] life now.” Her realization that she’ll never be able to return to being “Old Ani” is reassuring and empowering. In a poem titled “New Ani,” she reflects, “New Ani knows that this is her body and she can / decide what to do with it. // New Ani is learning that she is strong enough, / like Galveston, to survive storm surges and sea sickness.”

Mendez conveys all of this through clever, accessible narrative verse. She makes creative use of added space between words, lines and letters (l i k e  so), as well as capitalization (“DriBbLe CrOsSoVeR / SHOOT!”). Young readers will not only immediately recognize many of these techniques from their own text messages but also be able to easily replicate them within their own poetry. For those especially eager to try their hand, Mendez includes a short guide to the various poetic forms she employed.

Aniana del Mar Jumps In will be enjoyed by aspiring poets and readers who like moving novels in verse such as Jasmine Warga’s Other Words for Home and Andrea Beatriz Arango’s Iveliz Explains It All. It will strike an even deeper chord with any reader who, like Ani, has experienced chronic pain—even if they try not to let it show.

Debut author Jasminne Mendez offers a welcome portrayal of a young protagonist navigating chronic pain in this accessible and empowering novel in verse.
Children's & YAYA FictionYA

The Next New Syrian Girl

Review by Nicole Brinkley

Second-generation Syrian American Khadija Shaami lives to buck the expectations of others, especially her overbearing mother. She loves driving her huge, luxurious Mercedes-Benz G-wagon, has decked out her bedroom with Syrian flags and artwork and is the only Muslim girl who boxes at her gym. Leene Taher, a refugee from Syria, seems to embody all the stereotypes Khadija wants to defy. Leene is a respectful, diligent daughter who’s grieving the loss of her father and brother while trying her best to fit in and make friends in a new country. When Khadija’s mother invites Leene and her mother to live with them and all but insists that the girls become friends, both are positive that it will never happen.

Yet as time passes, Khadija and Leene realize that their differences might be useful to each other. Khadija can help Leene find her place in America, and Leene can help Khadija placate her mother and earn permission to travel abroad next summer. But as the two begin to reveal their secrets to each other, an opportunity arrives that could heal their families and cement their friendship—if they’re brave enough to pursue it.

The Next New Syrian Girl is a heartbreaking but hopeful story about two girls trying to do right by their families while finding their own independent paths. Syrian American debut author Ream Shukairy balances moments of joy—scenes at Khadija’s boxing gym, shared rides in the car that Leene dubs “the Tank” and a particularly funny reference to popular professional wrester John Cena—with weighty themes, including grief, depression, suicide, racism and war.  

The book’s brightest light is Shukairy’s depiction of how Khadija and Leene embrace their identities and come to value their unique passions and dreams. Their distinct voices flow well together within the novel’s dual-narrative structure, offering portrayals of two young women who refuse to let simplistic definitions rule their lives. This refusal is often literal, as Khadija frequently offers up dictionary-style vocabulary explanations before countering them with her own perspective, and Leene is equally fascinated by the concept of semantics, “the meaning of words based on context.” 

The Next New Syrian Girl could be more consistently paced—it’s front-loaded with repetitious details and races through its back half—but the large cast of supporting characters provides ample rewards. Standouts include Khadija’s emotionally complex mother and her kindhearted crush at the gym. Shukairy skillfully illuminates the many ways that Khadija’s and Leene’s lives are shaped by the presence and the absence of loved ones, and these dynamics lead to rich contrasts throughout. 

For readers who enjoy heart-wrenching, character-driven novels, The Next New Syrian Girl establishes Shukairy as a new author to watch. 

Ream Shukairy’s portrayal of two young women who refuse to let simplistic definitions rule their lives establishes her as a new author to watch.
Children's & YAYA FictionYA

Alondra

Review by Nicole Brinkley

Seventeen-year-old Alonda is a straight-A student who never gets in trouble and does whatever her strict, overprotective guardian, Teresa, asks of her—all while keeping her dreams locked up tight inside. But when the sweltering June heat has her fleeing to the window of her Coney Island apartment in search of a cool breeze, Alonda spots something that sends those dreams tumbling out into the open: four teens practicing professional wrestling on the playground below.

It takes Alonda a week to work up the nerve, but she introduces herself to the ragtag group, and soon she’s joining them. In between her chores and her new job at a nearby amusement park, Alonda cuts promos (the speeches that establish characters and the personal stakes of matches), perfects hip tosses and hurricaranas and forms deep friendships with King, Lexi, Spider and Pretzel. But figuring out her own wrestling persona, the titular Alondra, is harder, because Alonda isn’t sure what she wants. Is it to wrestle in front of a crowd of adoring fans? Is it doing what her mother, who died when Alonda was 7, would have wanted? Is it to pursue her attraction to King, the handsome self-proclaimed antihero of their group, or her feelings for Lexi, the artistic in-ring superhero?

Award-winning playwright Gina Femia’s first YA novel, Alondra, is a fast-paced, queer homage to summer in Brooklyn. Alonda and her band of hardworking misfit wrestlers are well-crafted and grounded, and Femia captures their close connections as she places them in dramatic yet familiar situations: making art, fighting with parents and caregivers, deciding what college to attend and exploring who they could be if they allowed themselves to be anything. Readers will yell, cringe and cheer as Alonda finds her bisexuality and her voice, as her friends find their footing as a troupe and as her guardian, Teresa, finds self-confidence after years of shouldering her burdens alone.

Alondra is set in 2015, which prevents Femia from referencing the numerous female professional wrestlers who achieved widespread popularity after shifts in the industry, beginning in 2016, resulted in greater support of female talent. Instead, readers will find mentions of figures such as John Cena, Eddie Guerrero and AJ Lee, which may make the novel feel dated for teens deep in the wrestling fandom. However, Alonda’s love for wrestling’s technical aspects, from the way her friends edit their video packages to the bruises she earns while squaring up with Lexi, shines through and acts as the perfect backdrop for her internal struggles with identity.

Like the best professional wrestling performances, Alondra is a heartfelt story that provides a realistic yet blissful experience.

In this heartfelt novel, Alonda joins a group of teens practicing professional wrestling and confronts questions of identity and desire in and out of the ring.
Children's & YAMiddle GradeChildren's

Dear Mothman

Review by Nicole Brinkley

Noah doesn’t know what to do since his best friend, Lewis, died in a car crash—not that anybody else knew Lewis by that name. Like Lewis, Noah is transgender, but it was a secret they kept just between them, and with Lewis gone, Noah can’t talk about his feelings with anybody . . . except, maybe, Mothman. 

Lewis believed in the cryptid, a humanoid figure with enormous wings first spotted in West Virginia in 1966, but Noah didn’t. Now Noah has come up with the perfect way to honor Lewis’ memory: He’s going to prove that Mothman is real for the sixth-grade science fair. He sets up an old camera to record potential appearances, researches Mothman sightings near his Pennsylvania town and writes letters to Mothman to try and get to know him better. But as Noah starts to think he understands a little of what it means to be a monster, he finds his efforts increasingly mocked by his classmates—except for three new friends who want to help. If Noah is brave enough to trust them with the truest parts of himself, maybe Mothman will show his face—or maybe Noah will find the strength to go looking for Mothman himself.

Robin Gow’s novel in verse is destined to join the growing ranks of queer children’s literature classics. Told through Noah’s thoughts and notes to Mothman, Dear Mothman is an affirming ode to queerness and a haunting, beautiful story about what it means to be different.

Noah’s fascination with Mothman begins as a desperate attempt to remain connected to the only person who truly understood him, but it comes to represent what it means to be a creature hiding in the world. Through his project, Noah finds the strength to move beyond a passive existence and do what Mothman cannot: show himself to the world. “What can I do / to show them what Mothman is like? / What I am really like?” Noah wonders. “Then, do I really want to show my class everything? // To show them everything / not just about Mothman / but what being a monster means— / how it’s like being a queer person? / That I’m a queer person. // The beauty of the unknown darkness / and wild magic / of a creature / so few people get to see.”

Queer and neurodivergent childhood experiences deepen this stunning exploration of identity. Noah’s new friends role-play as wolves on the playground despite being “too old” for such activities. Noah worries about his friends judging his emotionally overloaded outbursts and frets that they won’t want to hang out with him anymore. The whole group struggles to explain to their parents how differently they feel from the other children in their class—and how differently they feel from their parents.

Dear Mothman offers a beautiful and moving glimpse into the world of a child who deserves understanding and appreciation, but far more importantly, it’s a breath of fresh air for any queer reader. Noah’s journey honors all parts of the queer experience, regardless of how public that experience may be. This is a book that will make readers feel seen and, ultimately, leave their hearts full.

Read our interview with Robin Gow, who explores grief, queer identity and one of North America’s most beloved cryptids in Dear Mothman.

As it honors all parts of the queer experience, this book will make readers feel seen and leave their hearts full.
Children's & YAMiddle GradeChildren's

The House That Whispers

Review by Nicole Brinkley

When his parents decide they need private time to “talk,” 11-year-old Simon and his sisters, Talia and Rose, end up at their grandmother’s century-old house for the week. Nanaleen’s house used to be a comforting place, but now it feels wrong: It smells like wet towels, there’s a scritch-scritch-scritching sound in the walls, and the water stain above Simon’s bed keeps getting bigger. Worst of all, Simon could swear there’s a ghost. He sees it in the shadows of photographs and the dark corners of rooms, and he knows it’s coming for them.

In order to save his family, Simon convinces his sisters to hunt for ghosts, the way they did when they were younger. But sleuthing feels impossible amid Simon’s anxieties about his family, Talia’s abandonment of him to spend time with a cute new friend and Nanaleen’s worsening forgetfulness. Then Simon finds an old photograph of Nanaleen’s sister Brie, who went missing during her senior year of high school. Maybe she’s the ghost that’s haunting Simon—or maybe it’s all that’s gone unspoken in this stressed-out family.

“Too often, when adults talk about ‘protecting’ kids from certain things, it really feels like they’re just trying to protect themselves from having a slightly uncomfortable conversation.” Read our Q&A with Lin Thompson about The House That Whispers.

There are no real ghosts in Lin Thompson’s The House That Whispers. Instead, the novel is a thoughtful, satisfying exploration of how secrets can weigh on the soul. Many concealments weave in and out of the narrative: Simon’s gender identity and new name, which he has yet to share with his family; Talia’s Sapphic feelings for her friend; Nanaleen’s declining health; and the underlying threat of a potential divorce between Simon’s uncommunicative parents.

Initially, the metaphorical haunting gives Simon a distraction from addressing all the problems around him, but eventually it leads to the discovery of his queer family legacy. His great-aunt Brie’s spiritual presence becomes a comfort for Simon (and Talia), proving the power of queer history to strengthen and encourage. Though not the spooky tale that some kids may wish for, The House That Whispers will still please readers of emotional middle grade fiction.

There are no real ghosts in Lin Thompson’s The House That Whispers. Instead, it’s a thoughtful, satisfying exploration of how secrets can weigh on the soul.
Children's & YAMiddle GradeChildren's

The Remarkable Rescue at Milkweed Meadow

Review by Nicole Brinkley

Of all the creatures in Milkweed Meadow, the most gifted storyteller is Butternut. She’s one of nine rabbit siblings and by far the most anxious of the bunch. With “brambles” of disaster scenarios running wild through her mind, Butternut knows she has to use her intelligence—what her protective grandmother calls her “milkweed”—to survive in a world where she could be attacked by dangerous predators.

Butternut, however, can’t stop thinking about the creatures in the world around her and how their lives affect one another. When she tries to help some squirrels in need, a rascally blue jay steals one of her warren’s treasures, and Butternut’s defensive brambles momentarily disappear in a fit of fury. Although she considers herself a coward, Butternut climbs a fence and steals the treasure back, and along the way makes friends with a robin fledgling. 

As other creatures in the meadow begin to listen to her stories, Butternut finds herself questioning some of her grandmother’s advice and begins to build interspecies bonds despite the prejudices of her family—and the families of her new friends. And when disaster strikes, she must put aside what she’s been told in order to do what she knows is right.

With charming black-and-white illustrations from Caldecott Medalist Doug Salati (Hot Dog), Elaine Dimopoulos’ middle grade novel reckons with the realistic challenges of an untamed animal’s life while preserving the magic of wilderness. Butternut narrates the cozy woodland story with cheeky asides to the reader about how stories work: how she’s going to hold some information to build tension, and how she hopes you’ll love her cast of characters. Ultimately, readers will be left with the impression that, if they can be brave and put aside their stigmas, they too can have an adventure worthy of an audience the size of a meadow.

Young readers who squirm when bad things happen to animals will need to avoid this one: The novel starts with a blue jay stealing and eating a robin’s egg, and later, a car strikes a young mother coyote and leaves her pups orphaned. Children who understand the risky truths of living wild, however, The Remarkable Rescue at Milkweed Meadow will be left with a deep desire to become wildlife rehabilitators—and maybe convince their parents to start on that journey too. 

Readers will be left with the impression that, if they can be brave, they too can have an adventure worthy of an audience the size of a meadow.
Children's & YAMiddle GradeChildren's

What Simon says—and doesn’t say

Interview by Nicole Brinkley

Soon after Simon and his sisters, Talia and Rose, arrive for a week at their grandmother Nanaleen’s house, Simon becomes convinced that the house is haunted. But in Lin Thompson’s second middle grade novel, The House That Whispers, Simon’s deepest fears aren’t things that go bump in the night—they’re all the things he can’t control, such as the possibility that his parents might split up, the way Nanaleen seems to be having more trouble remembering things and the fact that Talia hardly ever talks to him anymore. The walls of Nanaleen’s house may be trying to tell Simon and his family something, but in order to move forward, they’ll all have to find the courage to listen.

The House That Whispers is your second published novel. How was its creative journey different from the journey of The Best Liars in Riverview, your first novel?
The biggest difference was the timeline, honestly. I spent over seven years working on my debut before we sold it—and then The House That Whispers went from an idea to a draft to a final manuscript in about a year total. It was such a wildly different creative experience, but in some ways, all those years I spent working on my first book gave me the tools to be able to write this second one so much more quickly.

It was also incredibly helpful that I got to work with my editor right from the start this time. I was so nervous when I sent her my first draft, which was a complete mess compared to the fairly polished versions she’d read of my first book, but she was able to sort through my jumbled thoughts and gently home in on what I’d written the book about: a kid who feels like too many things in his life are changing all at once, and who’s scrambling to try to control the few things he can.

Tell us about Simon and what’s going on in his life and in his heart as the book opens.
Simon is an 11-year-old trans kid with a big imagination and a lot of energy. At the novel’s start, he and his two sisters are going to spend a week at their grandmother’s house while their parents work through some marital issues at home. Simon is also starting to notice that his grandmother is forgetting things and his older sister is pulling away from him more and more.

With all these things already shifting in his family, Simon has decided that it’s not the right time for him to come out as trans just yet, so he’s been keeping his gender and newly chosen name to himself for now. Whenever the other characters unknowingly misgender him, he fixes the name and pronouns in his head (and on the page) so that the reader, at least, gets to know the real him throughout the story.

How did you develop Nanaleen’s house as both a setting and a character in its own right? Is it based on any real houses that you’ve spent time in?
I knew the feeling I wanted the house to have. Simon’s family has lived there for several generations, and I wanted to convey a sense of weight from that history, from all these lives that have come before and the unexpected places that their stories slip through the cracks.

For the simple logistics, when I realized how important the house itself was going to be, I looked through records of houses built in the same time period and combined a few to make myself a floor plan.

I also took inspiration for a few bits and pieces from the houses of my grandparents on both sides of my family: the dormitory-esque room where Simon and his sisters sleep, the upstairs closet full of old stuffed animals, and the walls and walls of family photographs.

“I was incredibly secretive as a kid, for reasons I couldn’t have articulated back then.”

For a novel with the word whispers in the title, there sure are a lot of secrets that the characters aren’t telling one another. What drew you to creating a story in which so many characters are withholding things? Did any characters reveal any secrets or surprises to you as you drafted?
I think secrets are a theme I’m always drawn to. I was incredibly secretive as a kid, for reasons I couldn’t have articulated back then. Now I can see how that instinct was probably tied to gender discomfort and neurodivergence, but at the time it just felt like I had all of these thoughts and feelings that I couldn’t let anyone else know about because it would change the way they looked at me. I didn’t realize how much that was weighing on me until I started finding people I could comfortably open up to.

But I’m also very interested in secrets within families and that strange dynamic where everyone in the family seems to know about something but no one really talks about it. Simon’s great-aunt Brie definitely surprised me as I was drafting. I knew I wanted to explore some of those unspoken family secrets, but I wasn’t quite sure how, and with Brie, it really felt like I was uncovering pieces of her story and her life as I was writing them.

The novel is set during a pivotal time for Simon’s family, and in some ways, Simon’s parents also function as ghosts within the story: They’re physically absent for much of the novel, but they’re definitely present in Simon and his siblings’ minds. What felt important to you to convey about these dynamics?
I love that description of Simon’s parents as ghosts. Even though they’re not on the page much, their relationship issues really kick-start the story, and the stress of that is always lurking in the back of Simon’s mind. I think it all ties back to those themes of secrecy and the things we don’t talk about. Even as Simon’s parents are struggling, they’re trying to maintain this image for the kids that everything is fine. But Simon and his siblings all know on some level that it isn’t true, and in a way, it’s scarier for them to know that something is wrong without having anyone tell them what. At the same time, Simon spends a lot of the book doing a similar thing—trying to convince both himself and his family that he isn’t bothered by everything that’s happening, even though it’s more and more obvious that he is.

“Too often, when adults talk about ‘protecting’ kids from certain things, it really feels like they’re just trying to protect themselves from having a slightly uncomfortable conversation.”

Simon and his older sister, Talia, are deeply affected as they uncover the story of their great-aunt Brie. What would you say to an adult who thinks that middle grade readers aren’t ready to learn about the hidden and sometimes hurtful queer histories in their own families?
Back when I was a children’s librarian, we talked a lot about how important it was for kids to learn about hard subjects like death or divorce before they encounter them in their own lives. Having that context already in place can be invaluable if or when they do have to navigate those scary times.

I think the same concept applies here. Kids should know that queer people exist and have always existed, and it’s OK to tell them that queer people haven’t always been treated well and that it isn’t fair or right. Kids are going to learn it at some point—they might have already—and it’s so much better for them to hear that message from a trusted adult who can answer questions and help support them through it.

Too often, when adults talk about “protecting” kids from certain things, it really feels like they’re just trying to protect themselves from having a slightly uncomfortable conversation. But if you aren’t talking with your kids about hard topics, that doesn’t mean they aren’t learning about them—it just means that while they’re learning about them, they’re also learning to put their trust somewhere besides you.

Throughout the novel, Simon grapples with the concept of perfection, especially with regard to his understanding of himself and his family. What do you hope young readers take away from his experiences and the realizations he eventually has about this idea?
I hope readers can see that perfection isn’t a real thing. So much of Simon’s focus on perfection is about the external image of it: this false projection of a perfect family or a perfect life. But none of it reflects what’s actually going on internally. And the more Simon and his family focus on making their lives look perfect from the outside, the more they’re neglecting their actual feelings and struggles underneath. Simon himself spends so much energy trying to look happy that he makes himself miserable in the process. But you’re allowed to feel negative emotions, and you’re allowed to acknowledge when you’re having a hard time. Better to be messy and real.

“You’re allowed to feel negative emotions, and you’re allowed to acknowledge when you’re having a hard time. Better to be messy and real.”

What was the most rewarding part of writing this book?
Putting words to Simon’s gender euphoria. I loved getting to write a trans kid who feels so much joy in figuring out who he is, and it was important to me that he keep carrying that joy even as he’s struggling. Now more than ever, I want to get to celebrate what an amazing, happy, beautiful thing it can be to be a trans person.

Read our review of The House That Whispers by Lin Thompson.

What about the book are you most proud of?
It’s such a simple thing, but I’m proud that the reader gets to meet Simon as himself, even before the other characters in the book know his name or gender. It was deeply cathartic to let Simon take charge of how he’s referred to in the story and how the reader knows him. He tells us who he is, and we just get to believe him.

It seems fair to call The House That Whispers a ghost story of sorts. What are some of your favorite ghost stories (in any medium) and why? Have you ever personally had an encounter with something supernatural?
My favorite ghost stories are the ones that seem at least as interested in exploring the characters’ inner journeys as they are in the actual ghosts. One of the inspirations for this book was “The Haunting of Hill House” on Netflix; I love how that show uses horror to explore the characters’ emotions and mental health and the cycles of trauma in the family at its center.

As far as I know, I’ve never had a direct encounter with the supernatural. I did have a bit of a scare while writing this book, though. My home office is in the basement, and sometimes I would be working after dark, and I started hearing these scritch-ing sounds in the walls and shuffling behind the ceiling tiles. As it turned out, we had a mouse infestation! It really felt like the universe was trying to give me a fully immersive writing experience. If there are any actual ghosts in our basement, they don’t seem to want to bother anyone.

Author photo © Katherine-Ouellette

Middle grade author Lin Thompson reveals the many secrets at the heart of their second novel, The House That Whispers.
Children's & YAMiddle GradeChildren's

Finding ourselves in a monster

Interview by Nicole Brinkley

Novelist and poet Robin Gow explores grief, queer identity and one of North America’s most beloved cryptids in Dear Mothman. Noah’s best friend, Lewis, always believed that Mothman, a creature first spotted in West Virginia in 1966, is real. After Lewis dies in a car crash, Noah decides to honor his friend by proving Mothman exists for a sixth-grade science fair project. As Noah seeks the truth about this local legend, he also finds the courage to show his truest self to the world.

Introduce us to Noah and what he’s working through as the novel opens.
Noah lost his best friend, Lewis, a few months earlier. Lewis and Noah shared so much—they were the only trans kids in school, and in many ways Lewis’ boldness made a pathway for Noah to express himself and his identity too. Noah has only recently started to come out to people as trans, so he’s also trying to understand how to share that without Lewis to lean on. Then there’s the question of Mothman. Noah has always been the skeptic of their duo, but without Lewis, he’s finding himself even more curious about Mothman.

Noah’s feelings of loss and grief come through so clearly. As you were writing, what felt like the most important aspects of his emotions to capture and convey to the reader?
I wanted to capture the ways grief is knotted and complicated. One moment we can feel intense despair and sadness. In the next we can find ways to twist those feelings into guilt or even frustration and anger. I thought it was important to show all the different ways Noah’s mind tries to wrap itself around Lewis’ absence and what it means for him and the world around him.

Noah relates to Mothman deeply, and the novel contains many beautiful reflections on the relationships between queerness and monstrousness. Why was it important to you to explore these ideas—and to do so for a middle grade readership?
When I was a middle schooler I didn’t know myself as a queer person. I didn’t have that language, but I always gravitated toward monsters because I could see how they were often misunderstood or mischaracterized by the stories they found themselves in. I wanted to speak to youth who, like me, gravitate towards the strange and the monstrous because we see ourselves in them. Then, also, I hoped to help us question what a monster is. Often monsters are echoes of what a society fears most, and those fears can be unfounded. They are often a version of “fear of the other.”

“Often monsters are echoes of what a society fears most, and those fears can be unfounded.”

How did you first encounter Mothman?
My college friends just generally liked all things supernatural and strange. I was our college Gay-Straight Alliance president and I literally gave a PowerPoint presentation on why cryptids were queer culture. It started with a joke that Nessy was definitely a lesbian.

I was drawn to Mothman specifically because I felt like he was misunderstood. He never does anything mean to people in the stories—he’s just lurking.

Dear Mothman is both epistolary and written in verse. Why did you decide to use these two forms? Why did blending them feel like the best way to tell Noah’s story?
Both forms allow the reader to access Noah’s most personal and often scattered thoughts as he tries to connect with someone (or something, depending on how you think about Mothman). And both poetry and the epistolary form allow space for messy emotions and confessions.

The first draft of the book was actually only written in letters. As I revised, I found moments that worked better as just Noah talking and moments that felt best directed to Mothman. I think having both makes the moments when Noah is reaching out to Mothman even more powerful. Overall, I think verse can really embody the whirling feelings of characters’ coming-of-age moments.

One of the most fun elements of Dear Mothman are Noah’s sketches. They look like something a kid his age would actually draw. How did these visuals come to be part of the book?
One of my favorite things about Mothman and other cryptids is that artists have so many different renditions of them. From the beginning I knew that Noah and Lewis would see those variations online and probably want to add to them. The first page I wrote was the school report Lewis and Noah made about Mothman, and I imagined that drawing it was really exciting for them because it would be a moment to let their imaginations explore what they thought Mothman was like.

Then, as we revised the book, we found more places where Noah might doodle. I drew some idea sketches in places and descriptions in others, and we worked with an illustrator who brought the ideas to life. Rebecca Harry did the drawings, and I think she perfectly captured how Noah would imagine Mothman as a gentle and fun monster. I also think the drawings channel the whimsy and fantasy of the cover art by Tracy J. Lee!

How do you think art can help us channel our feelings and understand ourselves?
As a young person I actually mostly “wrote” in drawings. I made comics and graphic stories before I was writing anything. I am autistic, and I really struggled with writing and reading, especially in elementary school through middle school. Drawing was a space where I could push those struggles with words aside and capture imaginary creatures and worlds. I often draw myself as different genders and species. Drawing felt like the best kind of escape.

Noah meets new friends through LARPing—live-action roleplaying. Tell us about the role that these new friends and LARPing play in Noah’s life and why they’re such an essential part of his story.
In my original drafts of the story, Noah’s friends were just playing pretend. My editor pointed out that kids at this age start to age out of just playing pretend and start to do things like Dungeons & Dragons and LARPing—still playing pretend but in different structures. To Noah, the fact that these kids still use their imaginations to play signals to him that they might be possible friends and allies, because he also loves to dream and imagine.

And things like LARPing and Dungeons & Dragons can be a huge part of queer culture. I mean yes, nonqueer people play them too, but for queer people these games are spaces where we can be ourselves and explore genders and sexualities without the confines and limits of the real world. In my own life, role playing and playing pretend were the first place I got to be my real gender. Even if I didn’t come out until college, I was playing games as a boy in elementary school.

Early in the novel, when Noah is telling Mothman about a conversation he had with his mom, he writes, “Why doesn’t anyone listen to me? . . . No one listens to kids or monsters.” That line is going to resonate so powerfully with so many young readers, so I want to ask: How do you think the world would be different if it weren’t true?
I think we would be a more imaginative place. I think so many of the world’s problems persist because we’re forcibly cut off from our imaginations by crushing systems of capitalism and white supremacy. Then we inflict that violence on our youth. Sometimes we do this to try to help them survive and sometimes we do this almost as a punishment. Because we had to go through it.

I reflect on my experiences as a young autistic person in an ableist world. I was often made fun of, harassed and punished by adults and educators for my imagination, for being strange and for questioning what we were told. I learned to hide myself to avoid as much of that harassment as I could. I’ve spent most of my adult life working to reclaim what these systems have tried to beat out of me. This is the truth for so many youths, and at even higher rates for youth of color. I think about where our dreams and imaginations could take us if we gave all youth the space to be creative instead of just trying to survive.

The world needs drastic change, and I think more than any group of people, youth can see that and have the curiosity and questions to bring forth that change.

“I think so many of the world’s problems persist because we’re forcibly cut off from our imaginations.”

Three big-picture questions: What was the most challenging part of writing this book? What was the most rewarding? And what about the book are you most proud of?
The most challenging part was probably carrying the plot through poems. I am a poet-of-center and thus my books often begin almost as character studies with a plot in the background, so it’s something I have to work to bring forward.

The most rewarding, I think, is how I’ve given space to Noah’s gender feelings. It’s sometimes hard to feel like we have space as trans people to have complicated and unsure feelings around gender, but I feel good about how that came through in this book.

I’m proud of how I’ve navigated Mothman as a character and a presence. I struggled with how to end the story and not tie a neat bow but still give the reader a satisfying conclusion. I am someone who genuinely believes in monsters, ghosts and all things unexplained, and I feel proud of how I (I hope) have sustained that mystery and fantasy.

If you were to go searching for any cryptid (besides Mothman, of course), who would you want to look for? Would you want to find them?
I would look for the Squonk or the Jersey Devil. The Squonk is a somewhat lesser-known cryptid of Pennsylvania. He cries all the time and is a kind of wrinkly piglike creature. I have two pet pugs and I feel like he’s not that far from a pug dog . . . so I’d be very happy to find the Squonk.

The Jersey Devil I’m interested in because I think the Pine Barrens are probably the most mythical-feeling place I’ve ever been. It feels like ancient creatures lurk there. I’m still not sure if I’m ready to meet the Jersey Devil though. They seem a bit more frightening, but if given the choice I think I would still want to meet them.

Read our review of Dear Mothman by Robin Gow.

In Dear Mothman, a sixth grader’s search for a mythical creature leads to friendship, healing and hope.
Children's & YAMiddle GradeChildren's

102 Days of Lying About Lauren

Review by Nicole Brinkley

The amusement park security guards that patrol the Haunted House of Horrors have yet to notice the ghost on the top floor. But it’s not a real ghost; it’s 12-year-old Mouse, who snuck into the attraction with nothing but the bag on her back and a “borrowed” uniform. For the past 102 days, she has been helping customers and sweeping the streets without being paid. She knows how to avoid being photographed by tourists’ cellphones and when to avoid managers who could clock her as a guest, and she even gets free daily meals of tacos and cinnamon bagels from the food vendor stands.

Not even her best friend, Tanner, knows the truth about Mouse’s living situation. Mama abandoned her here, and living at the amusement park is much better than dealing with strange social workers. Better to keep her head down and take care of the park, Mouse thinks, than to go out the front gates into the unknown.

But it only takes one day for Mouse’s carefully constructed house of cards to start tumbling. A girl named Cat calls out Mouse’s name—her real name—and claims to be her cousin. Mouse finds Tanner distraught after a huge fight with his CEO father. And a storm is coming to the park. Can Mouse keep her house standing, or is this a mess that not even she can clean up?

With the immersive, heart-pounding 102 Days of Lying About Lauren, debut author Maura Jortner honors the legacies of classics like Gertrude Chandler Warner’s The Boxcar Children and modern books like Catherine Newman’s One Mixed-Up Night. Almost every child who has visited an amusement park has entertained the idea of living inside of one, and Jortner deftly juxtaposes the rollicking chaos of that reality with more serious subjects such as familial disagreement and child abandonment.

Though there is no world where a child could live inside a Disney-esque park without being caught, Jortner does attempt to address the issues of security cameras, photos and money. But the focus of the book isn’t on the hard logistics of amusement park life; it’s on the dramatic, deeply emotional relationships between Mouse and the people in her life. Mouse struggles with the complicated feelings around her abandonment by Mama, swinging from anger to love to deep sadness, and she uses those feelings to connect with Tanner and his struggles with his family. By the time Cat—and a kind security guard—arrive to try and help Mouse, the internal emotional turbulence is at an all-time high, paralleled by the storm that crashes into the park. 

Though the required suspension of disbelief may be too much for some older readers, 102 Days of Lying About Lauren is a thrilling, fast-paced read that the younger middle grade set will love.

Almost every child has entertained the idea of living inside an amusement park, and Maura Jortner deftly juxtaposes the rollicking chaos of that reality with more serious subjects.
Children's & YAMiddle GradeChildren's

Ghost Book

Review by Nicole Brinkley

When Hungry Ghost Month arrives, the veil to the underworld lifts to allow bug-eyed, starving ghosts into the world of the living, where they feast on food left out by thoughtful mortals . . . and hunt for the delicious souls of the newly deceased. July Chen’s dad insists these ghosts aren’t real, so she ignores them—even though she alone can see them.

Other than her dad, no one that July meets ever seems to remember her, so she slips through life unnoticed—until she runs into the wandering soul of the wandering soul of William, a still-­living boy. William has experienced countless near-death experiences since birth, and the latest freak accident has landed him in a coma. July promises to help William return to his body, but soon starving spirits descend upon them and William’s tether to the real world begins to fray, forcing July to look at the truth of her own life: why people forget her, why she possesses special yin-yang eyes that allow her to see ghosts and how far she is willing to go to rescue her new friend.

Author-illustrator Remy Lai, known for her award-­winning graphic novels Pie in the Sky and Pawcasso, brings her trademark colorful style to a darker yet equally charming palette in her new folkloric contemporary fantasy, Ghost Book. Not a single panel is wasted, and readers who pay close attention to the art will be deeply rewarded by neatly placed clues that foreshadow the story’s final twists.

Lai explores grief and other hard topics with a careful hand, avoiding a descent into overwhelming sadness. Serious topics—the loss of a parent, the fear of dying and the pain of betrayal—are juxtaposed neatly with the presence of an adorable ghost named Floof and jokes about how passionately ghosts love dumplings. Prevailing above all is the power of friendship, and July’s and William’s attempts to save each other’s lives will thrill readers.

Lai limits her human cast to a handful of characters, but the myriad spirits she pulls from Chinese mythology will inspire readers to learn more about the real Hungry Ghost Festival. Kids who like to mimic the art styles of graphic novels will be equally inspired by both the hungry ghosts, drawn in detail with gaunt faces and hideous boils, and the simpler forms of Floof and the friendlier background ghosts. For kids who eat up graphic novels like Anya’s Ghost by Vera Brosgol, Pilu of the Woods by Mai K. Nguyen and Ghosts by Raina Telgemeier, Ghost Book will make a perfect addition to their shelves.

Remy Lai juxtaposes serious topics with charming humor in Ghost Book, a lushly illustrated folkloric contemporary fantasy that will inspire readers to learn more about the real Hungry Ghost Festival.
Children's & YAPicture BookChildren's

Mole is Not Alone

Review by Nicole Brinkley

Mole is not the sort of animal who likes big crowds. Mole’s idea of a fun time involves digging tunnels and working on construction projects. So when Mole gets invited to Rabbit’s birthday party, his anxiety spikes. For a critter used to spending time alone, a crowded party is going to be too much.

But supporting friends is more important than nerves, so Mole prepares Rabbit’s favorite dessert and heads to the party. However, Mole’s twisting journey through the tunnels is spent fretting, and when he finally arrives at Rabbit’s door, he is too nervous to knock. Then Skunk arrives, who isn’t a big fan of crowds either. Together, they build up the courage to knock on Rabbit’s door.

It’s not unusual for small children to fret about crowds, especially ones containing strangers. Maya Tatsukawa’s Mole Is Not Alone will help shy kids realize that they’re not alone. Mole’s anxieties around sharing space with so many other animals—even those considered friends—are clearly conveyed through text written entirely as speech bubbles from Mole.

Created through a combination of stencils, stamps, paint and digital illustration, Tatsukawa’s charming art includes many small details that will allow children to pore over each page in search of something new about their favorite animal characters. There’s even a two-page spread of a maze that readers can complete to help Mole move from one tunnel to the next.

Sweet and cozy—much like the cream puffs Mole makes—Mole Is Not Alone lends itself well to both storytime read-alouds and quiet snuggles before bed. Fans of Yeorim Yoon and Jian Kim’s It’s OK, Slow Lizard and Cori Doerrfeld’s The Rabbit Listened will want to add this to their shelves.

Sweet and cozy—much like the cream puffs Mole makes—Mole Is Not Alone lends itself well to both storytime read-alouds and quiet snuggles before bed.
NonfictionGraphic MemoirsFamily & Relationships

This Country

Review by Nicole Brinkley

In 2016, New Yorker cartoonist Navied Mahdavian and his wife needed a change, so they packed up their lives and fled—with their dog—from San Francisco to a cabin in rural Idaho. Despite not knowing what wood best keeps houses warm in frigid winters or how to stop a car from freezing during snowstorms, Mahdavian couldn’t help but want his version of the millennial American dream: living off the land in a house you own while building a career as an artist.

Most of Mahdavian’s debut graphic memoir This Country: Searching for Home in (Very) Rural America takes place on the six acres around his family’s cabin. There, Mahdavian wanders with his dog, tends to the garden and learns the history of the land—both the stories maintained by his white neighbors and the deeper Indigenous history. Mahdavian’s minimalist illustrations convey how large and rural Idaho can be, and they make it hard not to fall in love with that sort of hopeful landscape. Swaths of blank pages are populated by only the horizon and the plants and animals Mahdavian loves. If Idaho were simply gooseberries and black-billed magpies, it would be impossible to leave.

As Mahdavian settles into his cabin and tries to revel in the slow day to day of his life, he begins to fall in love with the natural world around him, even as his gun-toting neighbors remind him that people like Mahdavian—who is Iranian American—are considered outsiders. Beneath the big blue sky, Mahdavian struggles with their small-minded thinking and wonders if this place he loves can become home–and what choosing to make this place home really means.

It’s the surrounding people that leave Mahdavian feeling disconnected from the land whose history he seeks to understand. Mahdavian’s candid anecdotes showcase neighbors who welcome him and help during crises—even while slinging racial slurs and perpetuating stereotypes. Despite the serious and occasionally threatening nature of these exchanges, Mahdavian’s humor and thoughtfulness honors the kindness contained in these strange relationships while refusing to gloss over the harm that such insular thinking can cause.

Both poetic and personal, This Country meditates beautifully on what it means to create a home in the pockets of America where not everybody is wanted, due to their race or other aspects of identity. This Country is a must for fans of graphic memoirs like Kate Beaton’s Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands, and it’s not one to miss for anybody interested in insightful explorations of America’s heartland.

Both poetic and personal, This Country meditates beautifully on what it means to create a home in the pockets of America where not everybody is wanted, due to their race or other aspects of identity.
Children's & YAYA FictionYA

Together We Rot

Review by Nicole Brinkley

Wil Greene has spent months stalking Elwood Clarke’s family and obtaining photographic evidence about their Garden of Adam cult. On one stakeout, she even caught the Clarke patriarch sacrificing a rabbit in the woods. Police say Wil’s mom merely skipped town, but Wil suspects the Clarkes are actually behind her disappearance. It would be easier to find out where they’re keeping her mom if Wil was still talking to her former best friend, but Elwood told her that his family did nothing wrong, and Wil doesn’t have space in her life for liars.

But then, on Elwood’s 18th birthday, Wil finds him dying of hypothermia and with nowhere to go. The self-flagellating Clarke heir is on the run from his own parents, who intend to violently sacrifice him to the woods. Wil agrees to help him, but as they dig up secrets about the Clarke family, the town’s dark history and the fate of Wil’s too-inquisitive mother, Wil discovers that something demonic is growing inside of the boy she still loves.

Skyla Arndt’s debut novel takes second-chance romance in a gruesome, horrific direction as together, feisty outcast Wil and soft, sheltered Elwood fight for agency regarding their own fates. Beautifully written, Together We Rot (Viking, $18.99, 9780593526279) shines best in moments where Wil and Elwood stumble back into their old friendship. Their faith in each other, even in moments of visceral body horror, will set readers’ hearts fluttering—though mileage may vary on whether out of love or terror.

A well-balanced cast of teen friends and adult companions—including Wil’s grief-stricken father and tarot-loving eccentric Cherry—flesh out the small town of Pine Point with realism, while the terrifying Garden of Adam cult acts as a mythical stand-in for parents who dictate their children’s lives. Though the villainous group’s comeuppance happens too swiftly as the plot rushes to its end, it is nonetheless satisfying. Fans of twisted, monstrous romantic horror in the vein of Rory Power’s Wilder Girls and Sarah Hollowell’s A Dark and Starless Forest will love Together We Rot.

Skyla Arndt’s debut novel takes second-chance romance in a gruesome, horrific direction as together, feisty outcast Wil and soft, sheltered Elwood fight a terrifying cult for agency regarding their own fates.

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