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All Middle Grade Coverage

Superstar athlete Arnie “Yash” Yashenko can’t believe it when Principal Carmichael tells him he won’t graduate eighth grade unless he goes to summer school—for gym.

When it comes to sports, Yash is no slouch: He already plays on the high school’s JV teams. But thanks to a change in state requirements, he’s going to be a slug, which is what everyone calls kids in the Physical Education Equivalency summer program (whose super-embarrassing acronym is indeed “PEE”). So, instead of training for high school football with his best friends Hammon and Amir, Yash grouses through gym class with the likes of sweet but super-uncoordinated Kaden; insightful former athlete Cleo; self-righteous wannabe journalist Arabella; twins and sworn enemies Sarah and Stuart; and oft-destructive class clown Jesse.

Slugfest, by beloved and prolific bestselling author Gordon Korman (who published his 100th book, The Fort, in 2022), is a rousing tale filled with hilarity and heart. Readers who love to root for underdogs and unlikely friends—a la The Bad News Bears, School of Rock and The Breakfast Club—will delight in the PEE kids’ gradual transformation from wary individuals tossed together by fate into true teammates who can achieve more together than apart.

Employing multiple perspectives with realistic, appealing voices, Korman explores how biases can take hold and posits that having an open mind can lead to a more fulfilling, fun life. We’ve all got something to offer; we just need to find the right context. This is true of the kids as well as septuagenarian PEE coach Mrs. Finnerty, a former second grade and home economics teacher who plies her charges with an astonishing array of delicious baked goods. Though the slugs scoff at her “kiddie games,” they learn playfulness and badassery are not mutually exclusive.

Whether he’s embodying the exquisite tension of a first date or the no-holds-barred thrills of a citywide flag football tournament, Korman’s gift for breathless play-by-play will have readers cheering for Yash and company to win at summer school and in life—whatever sporty or non-sporty form that victory might take.

Whether he’s embodying the exquisite tension of a first date or the no-holds-barred thrills of a citywide flag football tournament, Gordon Korman’s gift for breathless play-by-play will have readers cheering.
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The Unnatural History Museum may be falling apart, but it’s Kess Pedrock’s home and contains almost everything she loves: mysterious and magical skeletons from Eelgrass Bog, her petulant and perpetually busy brother, and her best friend Jim, a demon trapped as a jarred shrunken head. Only her parents are missing, but maybe, when they come back from their trip in Antarctica, they can save the museum. Until then, it’s up to Kess.

One day, the museum finally receives a visitor in the form of a girl named Lilou Starling, who later reveals that her grandfather died and left her a mysterious map with a cryptic puzzle scrawled on its back. This puzzle can only be solved by venturing into the bog itself. Despite Jim’s warnings, Kess sets off with Lilou, determined to both save the Unnatural History Museum and impress her new friend. But between the burning watch fires and eccentric witches, Kess discovers that more of her life is tied up in the bog than she could ever have anticipated. And digging too deep might destroy the one thing she’s trying to save.

Mary Averling bewitches with her debut middle grade novel, The Curse of Eelgrass Bog, which straddles the line between slimy and sweet, concocting a fantasy world that balances snarky demons, magical bogs, concerned witches and awe-inspiring serpents.

The mystery left behind by Lilou’s grandfather will keep even the sharpest readers on their toes, leaving them gasping as the perfectly paced story comes to a head. Averling handles Kess’ emotional struggles—particularly her fluttery feelings toward her newfound friend, as well as her simultaneous sense of obligation toward and longing for her missing parents—with a nuanced yet optimistic lens that will endear Kess to readers.

Whimsically creepy, The Curse of Eelgrass Bog will delight middle grade fans, especially those who loved Claribel Ortega’s The Witchlings or Jacqueline Davies’ The International House of Dereliction. Readers who love fantastical stories—or digging for magical bones in the dirt—should add this to their shelves.

Mary Averling bewitches with her debut middle grade novel, The Curse of Eelgrass Bog, which straddles the line between slimy and sweet, concocting a fantasy world that balances snarky demons, magical bogs, concerned witches and awe-inspiring serpents.
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If the best fiction taps into universal longings, it’s no wonder that middle grade novels often focus on protagonists who feel left out. Lisa Yee evokes this feeling with The Misfits #1: A Royal Conundrum, the first installment in a series focusing on Olive Cobin Zang and the other members of the Misfits, a secret group of young special agents.

Newbery Honor winner Yee teams up with Caldecott Medalist Dan Santat, and the result is a fun caper accentuated by Santat’s vivid illustrations. Olive, a Chinese American 12-year-old, knows that something is up when one day her InstaFriends account vanishes, along with all evidence of her presence at school. So when she’s called to the office and learns her mother (who travels constantly and doesn’t remember Olive’s birthday) is enrolling her at the Reforming Arts School of San Francisco (RASCH), Olive is not exactly surprised. Although she’s terrified that this might be a punishment—after all, RASCH used to be a prison—Olive won’t miss her old school. And because she feels invisible, she’s sure it won’t miss her either. The only person who would have missed her was her grandmother Mimi, but she’s been gone for months, though no one will tell Olive what happened: Her mother will only say, “She’s no longer with us.”

Once at RASCH, Olive feels instantly at home, a feeling that increases after she’s sorted into a pod of fellow outsiders. This team of kids brings unusual tech savvy and unique mental and physical talents (Olive’s Mimi was a circus performer who trained Olive on the trapeze) to their division of NOCK (“No One Can Know”), an elite force whose “mission includes ensuring the safety of the community, guarding the possessions of the citizens, and preventing civil disorder.” With their combined skills and immediate bond, the Misfits work together to uncover the mystery behind a string of jewel thefts and prevent their beloved RASCH from being closed by its patron, Dame Gloria. From mind-bending technology to sometimes hilarious hijinks, A Royal Conundrum has everything a young reader—especially one who feels invisible—could want.

From mind-bending technology to sometimes hilarious hijinks, A Royal Conundrum has everything a young reader—especially one who feels invisible—could want.
STARRED REVIEW

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Book jacket image for The Curse of Eelgrass Bog by Mary Averling

Mary Averling bewitches with her debut middle grade novel, The Curse of Eelgrass Bog, which straddles the line between slimy and sweet, concocting a fantasy

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Orlagh Cassidy, Tove Jansson

Listeners will be immersed in this meditative exploration of time spent in nature—the story of Moomin creator Tove Jansson and her partner Tooti Pietila’s life together on an island off the Gulf of Finland.
Jami Attenberg’s guide to writing, Derek B. Miller’s World War II art heist and Abbott Kahler’s thriller debut are among January’s top reads.
STARRED REVIEW

September 29, 2021

These five titles explore family and kinship in Native American communities

Across genres, grief and uncertainty are tempered by embracing community.

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Métis author Michelle Porter weaves a beguiling and intricate story out of sparse, interlocking poetic fragments in her fiction debut. Her expertise as a poet and writer of nonfiction is on full display in this genre-blending book, which is deeply rooted in Métis storytelling, matrilineal knowledge and spirituality. It feels more like a collection of stories told by elders gathered around a fire or in a kitchen than a traditional novel. This unique structure creates a surprising momentum, effortlessly drawing readers into many meandering plots.

The story follows several generations of Métis women as they face turning points in their lives. Geneviéve (Gee), in her 80s, has checked herself into rehab for drinking. Gee’s 20-something great-granddaughter Carter, adopted by a white family, meets her grandmother Lucie for the first time when she requests Carter’s assistance in her decision to die by suicide. Carter’s estranged birth mother Allie attempts reconciliation, often through texts. Meanwhile, Gee’s sister Velma has recently died and is trying to make peace with her life from the spirit realm.

However, these women and their complex relationships are not the novel’s sole focus. It also charts the life of a young bison, Dee, whose herd’s ancestral territory is now crisscrossed with fences that force bison to adjust to human constraints. Dee’s chapters are some of the most poignant in the book—she longs for freedom and adventure even as she learns that her survival is bound up with that of her herd.

Chapters from the perspectives of bison grandmothers, Gee’s dogs and the grassland itself add to a rich mix of human and nonhuman voices. In contrast to Carter’s wry and resigned narration, Dee’s voice bursts with unconstrained joy and heartache. Gee is constantly cracking jokes, her sister in the spirit world speaks with a melancholy longing, and the texts from Carter’s mother are clipped and full of simmering regret and pain.

A Grandmother Begins the Story is a beautiful meditation on the interconnectedness of spirit, land and family. It’s about what gets passed down from mothers to daughters and what doesn’t. It’s about the stories that persist through generations—sometimes hidden, but always present—and what happens when those stories break open into new shapes.

Chapters from the perspectives of bison grandmothers, dogs and the grassland itself add to the rich mix of human and nonhuman voices in A Grandmother Begins the Story.

Emily Dickinson famously pronounced that “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers,” providing the enduring metaphor of a spritely little bird that dwells within each of our souls. With Swim Home to the Vanished, poet and first-time novelist Brendan Shay Basham suggests that, in contrast, grief is a thing that may be best embodied by fins and gills.

Basham’s peripatetic novel recounts the extraordinary odyssey of a Diné man named Damien after his younger brother drowns in the Pacific Northwest. Still reeling six months after Kai’s body washes ashore, Damien finds himself irresistibly called to the water, the source of his loss but also the source of all life. When gills begin to sprout behind his ears, he quits his job as a chef and makes his way south—first by truck, then by foot—to a small seaside fishing village. There he encounters village matriarch Ana Maria and her two daughters, Marta and Paola, with whom he shares a certain kinship, as they too have recently lost a family member. However, the early hospitality offered by these women may not be as it seems. Rumors of their supernatural origins swirl, and Damien soon finds himself caught up in poisonous family dynamics and power struggles that threaten to consume not only him but also the entire village.

Basham binds together myth and history in Swim Home to the Vanished, drawing inspiration from the Diné creation tale as well as what is known as the Long Walk—the U.S. government’s forced removal of the Navajo people from their ancestral lands. Basham’s own brother died in 2006, and while Damien’s grief causes him to lose the ability to speak, Basham’s words course across the page, sucking readers in with their vivid imagery and raw emotions.

Basham has a particular gift for transmuting inner intangible turmoils into corporeal form; the various characters’ physical transformations from human to creature are a creative epigenetic exploration of the ways in which trauma and grief shape who we are. For readers desiring straightforward writing and an unambiguous narrative, Swim Home to the Vanished may frustrate with its dreamlike nature, but for fans of poetic storytelling, Basham’s narrative will prove a challenging yet cathartic read.

Brendan Basham binds together myth and history in Swim Home to the Vanished, drawing inspiration from the Diné creation tale as well as what is known as the Long Walk—the U.S. government’s forced removal of the Navajo people from their ancestral lands.
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Mia is of two tribes: Her mom is Jewish, and her dad is Muscogee. Mia’s dad and his new family live in Oklahoma, far away from California, where Mia lives with her mom and stepdad, Roger. Since marrying Roger, Mia’s mom has begun to take participation in Judaism much more seriously.

Exhausted by her experiences at Jewish day school and frustrated with her mother’s refusal to speak about her dad, Mia works out a secret plan to visit her dad in Oklahoma and learn more about her Muscogee heritage. While Mia initially feels like an outsider there, it doesn’t take her long to bond with an older cousin and feel at home with new traditions. But Mia’s mom quickly realizes that Mia’s not on the school trip she claimed to be and comes to get her. Will this incident be the final fracture in Mia’s family, or will it create a bridge between tribes?

Inspired by author and cartoonist Emily Bowen Cohen’s real-life experiences growing up Jewish and Muscogee, graphic novel Two Tribes (Heartdrum, $15.99, 9780062983589) examines the complex tensions and beautiful facets of a childhood between cultures and in a blended family. Cohen supports the story with a vibrant but realistic illustration style peppered with the occasional abstract image.

Where Two Tribes shines is in its portrayal of Mia as a self-possessed 12-year-old who is attuned to the importance of embracing differences rather than pretending they don’t exist. Cohen provides a nuanced picture of how Mia has in some ways come to resent her Jewish heritage because of the way it’s been placed in opposition to her dad’s Indigenous culture.

The story is somewhat unbalanced by Mia’s Jewish family and rabbi, who are portrayed more antagonistically than the other characters. For example, when Mia’s school rabbi makes a racist joke about Native Americans at dinner with Roger and Mia’s mom, it’s brushed off by all the adults as a simple mistake rather than a genuinely problematic remark. However, Mia’s family and her rabbi eventually begin to understand how they have failed Mia in certain aspects.

With its incredibly complex subject of personal identity, Two Tribes might have benefited from the additional space given by a traditional novel form to explore its themes more deeply rather than coming to a picture-perfect resolution. That said, perhaps the increased accessibility of the graphic novel format serves this book well. For children just coming into adolescence, a biracial background—especially involving two marginalized groups—can make for a tangled web of difficulties. By seeing their stories represented, things might start to make sense.

The graphic novel Two Tribes examines the complex tensions and beautiful facets of a childhood between cultures and in a blended family.

Sixteen-year-old Winifred Blight lives in a small house near the gates of one of the oldest cemeteries in Toronto with her father, who runs the crematory. For as long as Winifred can remember, her father has been in mourning for her mother, who died giving birth to her. Winifred, too, has been shaped by this absence, as she knows her mother only through the now-vintage clothes and records left behind. 

Desperate to assuage her father’s grief and form her own deeper connection with her mother, Winifred goes to her favorite part of the cemetery one day and calls out to her mother’s spirit—but she summons the ghost of a teenage girl named Phil instead. Soon, Winifred no longer aches with loneliness, nor does she care that her best (and only) friend doesn’t reciprocate her romantic feelings. But Winifred and Phil’s intimate connection is threatened when a ghost tour company wants to exploit the cemetery and Winifred’s con-artist cousin risks exposing Phil’s existence. To protect Phil, Winifred will have to sacrifice the only home she’s ever known.

Acclaimed author Cherie Dimaline’s Funeral Songs for Dying Girls is a lyrical coming-of-age ghost story that’s more interested in capturing emotion than explaining the nuts and bolts of its supernatural elements. Phil is a specter who appears when Winifred thinks of her, but her body is, at times, corporeal; in one scene, Winifred braids Phil’s long hair. The novel instead focuses on how the bond between the girls lessens the grief that roots them both in place as Phil slowly reveals to Winifred what happened in the months leading up to her death.

Dimaline is a registered member of the Métis Nation of Ontario, and Winifred and Phil’s Indigenous identities play crucial roles in the novel. Winifred’s mother and great aunt Roberta were Métis, and Winifred infers that Phil is Ojibwe. The stories Phil tells about her life as a queer Indigenous girl growing up in the 1980s are often harrowing, as she recounts moving from the reservation to the city to escape a miserable situation at school only to find herself in even worse circumstances that ultimately lead to tragedy.

Wrenching and poignant, Funeral Songs for Dying Girls is a haunting tale about what it means to search for home—not the place, but the feeling you carry with you.

This lyrical ghost story portrays how a bond between two girls—one living, one not—transforms the grief that roots them both in place.
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A line from Jessica Johns’ haunting, atmospheric and beautiful debut novel, Bad Cree, has been tumbling around in my head since I set the book down. “That’s the thing about the [prairie]. . . . It’ll tell you exactly what it’s doing and when, you just have to listen.” Johns’ protagonist, a young Cree woman named Mackenzie, tries to hear things she’s been ignoring: grief, her family, the lands she grew up on. But there’s something else lurking just outside her perception, something more dire. Strap in for a dread-filled novel that examines the impact of grief on a small community. 

Mackenzie hasn’t been sleeping well. To be more specific, she hasn’t been dreaming well. Every night, her subconscious shows her terrifying things, painful memories and, always, a murder of crows. Soon she notices crows outside her apartment window, following her to work and watching from power lines. Something is wrong, and she fears it has to do with the years-ago death of her sister. Mackenzie’s auntie pleads with her to come home, to be among her people, the Indigenous Cree of western Canada. There, with her mother, cousins and aunties, Mackenzie searches for what haunts her mind. Hopefully she can find it before it finds her. 

Jessica Johns on the lingering nature of loss—and what makes a great dive bar.

Bad Cree began as a short story, and it’s still tightly written, brisk and efficient as a novel. Johns does, however, slow down when it comes to themes she clearly cares about, such as female relationships. A bar scene midway through the narrative does a particularly lovely job at enriching the portrayal of the community of women who surround Mackenzie. Their camaraderie shows just how important these relationships can be to people feeling lost or alone.

This web of powerful, positive connections stands out all the more in the face of Bad Cree’s truly frightening moments. The dream sequences are both spectacle and puzzle, a mix of memory and fiction, but it’s clear that something beyond just bad dreams is happening to Mackenzie. The unanswered question of what exactly that is provokes a consistent feeling of dread, and the climax is tense, horrific and exciting.

Bad Cree examines how grief can warp someone, how it can terrorize a person by slowly turning reality into nightmare. But there is also a beautiful hope at the center of Johns’ vision: Grief can be tempered by embracing your community. Alone, Mackenzie is just one person, but by returning home, she becomes a thread in a human fabric, woven together to make something stronger.

Jessica Johns’ Bad Cree examines the impact of grief on a small community, mixing truly frightening moments with warm camaraderie.

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STARRED REVIEW

September 29, 2021

A garden of unearthly delights

These fantastic volumes will send the art lovers in your life on a journey through mystical worlds.

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These fantastic volumes will send the art lovers in your life on a journey through mystical worlds.
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As the apprentice to Mestra Aronne, 11-year-old Cinzia knows that strength lies in telling the truth. Together, she and Mestra Aronne print avvisi: hand-created newspapers that update the bustling city of Siannerra on the latest news.

When Mestra Aronne announces in an avvisi that the principessa’s brother is stealing money from hardworking citizens, she and Cinzia are dragged to the palazzo to be charged with treason. Cinzia manages to escape, returning to Siannerra with the help of the principessa’s strange but passionate daughter, Elena. Together, they set off to find evidence that Mestra Aronne was telling the truth and save her from jail, with the help of a pirate girl and her gang. Can Cinzia convince the people of Siannerra to help stop censorship in their city? 

The first collaboration between New York Times bestselling author Marieke Nijkamp and debut illustrator Sylvia Bi, Ink Girls pulls inspiration from Italian history as it explores the power of truth. The central issue of censorship is the most obvious echo of our modern era, but other subplots—including how city leadership can fail to consider marginalized groups, and how “not every family knows how to be a family”—also make this historical fantasy graphic novel feel fresh and relevant. 

Bi excels with spreads of the vast cityscape, and her charming illustrations feature inclusive character designs, though some of the panels are drawn at awkward angles. This shouldn’t be an issue for anything but the more eagle-eyed readers: the plot, pacing and colors are compelling enough to keep the story moving forward. 

Although the ending wraps up perhaps too neatly for a book with political themes, there is no doubt that readers will feel inspired. Back matter explains how avvisi actually once existed in Italy, and while the city of Siannerra isn’t real, Nijkamp and Bi hope their fictional girls can provide motivation to improve the real world. 

Ink Girls will resonate with readers facing censorship in their own communities, while also delighting those just looking for a historical adventure. Hand this to fans of Netflix’s The Sea Beast or pair with Niki Smith’s The Deep & Dark Blue and Ru Xu’s NewsPrints as stories featuring girl gangs and political intrigue. 

Ink Girls will resonate with readers facing censorship in their own communities, while also delighting those just looking for a historical adventure.

As Christina Wyman’s heartfelt and often heartbreakingly realistic Jawbreaker opens, Maximillia (Max) Plink receives distressing news from her orthodontist.

Dr. Watson says Max’s braces aren’t enough to prevent possible future double jaw surgery—it’s time to start wearing headgear known as “the jawbreaker” for 16 hours a day. It’s yet another thing that makes Max, a witty and kind seventh grader, feel like an outsider in her own life. She observes, “I basically have a shiny metal orb around my head. You could probably stand me on the roof of your house to get a better Wi-Fi signal.”

Despite this unwelcome fashion statement, Max perseveres. She’s used to trying to stay positive, because she’s already relentlessly bullied at school. The most enthusiastic participant in this cruelty is her own younger sister, Alex. Their parents routinely downplay Max’s concerns. Worried about finances, they’re having loud arguments more frequently than usual.

Thankfully, Max finds respite with her best friend Shrynn and as a writer for her school newspaper. When she learns of a journalism competition sponsored by their local Brooklyn news station, it sounds like the path to a happier future. But there’s a catch: A video essay is required for entry. “The thought of my face, my mouth, my teeth living online until the end of time makes me want to cry,” Max thinks.

Tantalizing suspense builds as the contest deadline approaches. As Max contends with all the stressors swirling around her, she wrestles with difficult questions: Should she insist her parents do something about Alex? Would it be a mistake to enter the contest and show her face to the world? Why is Shrynn acting so standoffish lately?

Wyman demonstrates an impressive ability to conjure up both the pain and delight of middle school with immediacy and empathy. An impassioned author’s note reveals that Wyman’s own background inspired this sometimes harrowing, but ultimately hopeful, story. “Sometimes finding joy takes a lot of work,” she notes. Reading Jawbreaker is an excellent and highly gratifying start.

Christina Wyman demonstrates an impressive ability to conjure up both the pain and the delight of middle school with immediacy and empathy.
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In a magnificent flourish, an elephant bursts forth from an old teapot; a small blackbird breaks out from behind the glass of a framed engraving; a bewildered girl emerges from behind a folding blue screen. This is how The Magicians awaken and leave the abandoned house in which they’ve slumbered for years. They are soon chased by the Huntress and the Clinker, a fiery mechanical cross between a lion and a dragon. This pursuit reaches a grand scale as it traverses a true carnival of settings—including a pastoral village, a blank realm “outside” the physical world, and a golden plain that serves as a battlefield.

Both children and adults will be dazzled by the intricate details and textures of the bold silk-screen-style illustrations. Blexbolex’s careful compositions evoke sweeping action and emotion, and one will want to constantly leave The Magicians open for display. With its jaunty blue text and cream-colored, double-layered pages, the physical printing of this volume is impeccable—among the best of the year—and accentuates the reading experience.

Translator Karin Snelson smoothly derives a folkloric cadence from the original French prose: As the blackbird “marauds through fields and orchards . . . the day passes deliciously” and later becomes “charged with a heavy nostalgia.” Elevated word choice and spirited phrasing give a timeless quality to this fantastic graphic novel, which muses upon mercy, change and possibility. Just as any gift should, The Magicians certainly lends itself to endless revisiting with its thematic and emotional depth.

Elevated word choice and spirited phrasing give a timeless quality to Blexbolex’s fantastic graphic novel, which muses upon mercy, change and possibility.
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When Renée Watson read her first Ramona Quimby book as a child, she was startled by where Beverly Cleary’s beloved heroine lived: Klickitat Street was just around the corner from Watson’s aunt’s home in Portland, Oregon. “I was so in awe that a character in a book could live in my city and in a neighborhood that I was very familiar with,” Watson remembers. “It was empowering. I didn’t know how to articulate that as a child except to say, ‘I know where she lives.’” From that moment on, whenever Watson visited her aunt, it became a running joke to say, “Ramona is your neighbor.”

Now, as an adult writing for young people, Watson divides her time between Portland and New York. Ways to Build Dreams is the fourth and likely final installment in her middle grade series about Ryan Hart, a lively, inquisitive Black girl who lives in Portland, just like Ramona Quimby. “I see the power in representation,” Watson says, speaking from her Harlem home. “We say that a lot when it comes to race, but I also think where people live and the names of places and the histories of places matter too.”

“The Ryan Hart series is in many ways a love letter to Portland,” Watson continues. “Portland is the perfect balance of city and nature, and I really wanted to highlight that. I’ve done a lot of work critiquing Portland and talking about some of its challenging, harmful issues, but there’s also so much to love.” For instance, in Ways to Build Dreams, Ryan and her family take a day trip driving along the Columbia River, with stops at Latourell Falls and Vista House at Crown Point. Ryan also attends Vernon Elementary, the school Watson attended in real life. “I was trying to model the series after [Beverly Cleary] in that same way of actually naming real places in the city so that young people in Portland could have an anchor and really see their city represented.” (She also features her hometown in several books for older readers, such as Piecing Me Together, which received a Newbery Honor and a Coretta Scott King Award).

“Portland is the perfect balance of city and nature, and I really wanted to highlight that. I’ve done a lot of work critiquing Portland and talking about some of its challenging, harmful issues, but there’s also so much to love.”

Watson remembers that she loved reading about Ramona because “she is not perfect and has flaws and can throw tantrums and feel all of her emotions. At the time, that just felt so freeing because there weren’t a lot of girl characters who could be as bold, feisty and human.” She loosely based Ryan’s personality on that of her goddaughter, who is now 15—and also named Ryan Hart. “In every book I write, the main character’s name is intentional,” Watson notes. “I was just thinking of Ryan as being a more traditional male name and was going to build off of it. But then, as I looked into what her name means, I was like, ‘Oh my goodness, it is just so perfect.’” Ryan means “little king” in Gaelic, and that connotation has become an anchor for every book. “I wanted to make sure that I’m constantly bringing the reader back to this notion of living up to your name or to what your loved ones wish for you,” Watson explains.

While the character named Ryan is an active kid who rides her bike and gets in water balloon fights, Watson notes: “I was not that girl. If we were going to the park, I would be the one who would bring my book with me or my journal, and I would sit under the tree and write poems or read while my friends were playing. I was a quiet and very creative child—very introspective.” Still, Ryan’s family dynamics and adventures, while fictional, are inspired by Watson’s own childhood.

During middle school, Watson was bused to a white school on the other side of town, an experience she described in a moving 1995 essay, “Black Like Me.” One day, her seventh grade science teacher chastised the class for failing a test on which Watson got an A, saying, “And this is why I am so disappointed in all of you. You let Renée Watson come all the way over here from northeast Portland and get a better grade than you in science!” When Watson later pondered that painful moment, she wondered, “What if she had allowed space in her narrative for black children from northeast Portland to be capable of meeting high expectations, of achieving academic success? What if she really saw me?”

Watson answers that question in many ways with the Ryan Hart books, filling them with moments of Black joy and achievement. Ways to Build Dreams begins with Ryan and her classmates working on a group history project about Beatrice Morrow Cannady, a community activist and educator, and the owner of Oregon’s largest Black newspaper—a story Watson had been wanting to explore for some time.

While Watson enjoyed reading about Ramona Quimby, she saw more of a reflection of herself in the poetry of Maya Angelou, Langston Hughes, Nikki Giovanni and Gwendolyn Brooks: “Those poets raised me.” She adds that Sandra Cisneros’ novel The House on Mango Street (which is about a Latina girl growing up in Chicago) gave her “permission to write about home in the way that home was for me—a Black neighborhood, Black music, the food, all of that.” She adds, “I’m constantly trying to show young people in my books, ‘Hey, I see you and I know what you are capable of.’”

Watson’s goal is to provide “a nuanced telling of the Black community.” With Ryan Hart, she “leans into the joy more so than the pain.”

“So I do have these cultural moments, but they’re very much tied into these slices of the everydayness of being a Black girl in a city like Portland. . . . Because really, that was my childhood. Yes, there were hardships, but mostly there were family dinners and cookouts and neighbors looking out for me and teachers who loved me. We didn’t have a whole lot of money, but we had a whole lot of love.”

Some of Watson’s favorite scenes occur when Ryan’s grandmother washes and fixes her hair. “In Black culture, it really is a big deal because there’s so much conversation around our hair,” she says. “I wanted to highlight different hairstyles throughout the series, and normalize her getting her hair done and the way in which we do it. Those times I remember as a child were so sacred because you’re spending a lot of time with that person. You have conversations that you might not have [when facing each other]. [These scenes] became such an anchor in each book, where that’s really a breakthrough moment for Ryan. Usually, she’s telling Grandma about something that’s happening that’s not so great, and Grandma gives her some wisdom.”

Watson has always known that the series would end with Ryan graduating from fifth grade, which she does in Ways to Build Dreams. Still, she can’t help being a little sad to have finished the final installment.

Might we see Ryan again, perhaps in books focused on her siblings, Ray or Rose?

“Oh, I’ve never thought about that,” Watson says. “That’s a very good thing to think about.”

Read our starred review of Ways to Build Dreams.

 

Renée Watson celebrates her hometown and leans into Black joy and achievement through her feisty heroine, Ryan Hart.
STARRED REVIEW

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This month’s top titles include career-best works from Jesmyn Ward, Alexis Hall and Naomi Alderman.
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“A thin and scrawny thing,” Elpidia has been repeatedly attacked by her female cousins in a family feud that extends to the family’s youngest members. She lives with her Abuela in a trailer and helps out at Abuela’s cantina while dreaming of someday owning a food truck and escaping the barren Southern California desert. Her parents burned down their home and are in prison for drug-related convictions.

Her classmate Stan—the only white kid in their sixth-grade class—is dealing with bullying as well, and is unable to protect himself against his father’s drunken rages. Stan’s mother and Elpidia’s grandmother independently decide that their charges need to learn how to defend themselves, so they take them into the deep desert to learn from Charlie Ramos, a legendary local figure known as “El Escorpion” who teaches a style of Filipino fighting. Nowhere Special will engross readers from start to finish. Before turning to writing, author Matt Wallace was a professional wrestler and instructor in unarmed combat and self-defense. He notes in a content advisory that the book addresses “heavy issues with very personal meanings to me, and I’ve done my absolute best to write about them in a way that will be appropriate for preteen readers.” Characters throughout the novel’s memorable scenes struggle to develop the responsibility and judgment needed to escape a destructive, unending cycle of violence.

Wallace excels at depicting realistic family scenarios, complex moral dilemmas, and good-hearted, but flawed, adults. Nowhere Special offers moments of hope and redemption amidst poverty and great tragedy. Although there are no tidy resolutions, Stan and Elpidia grow empowered and discover the salvation that close friendships can provide. Despite the seemingly insurmountable difficulty of their family and social situations, these protagonists’ dreams feel possible by the end of the book.

Author Matt Wallace excels at depicting realistic family scenarios, complex moral dilemmas, and good-hearted, but flawed, adults.

On a gloomy winter afternoon, a quiet and lonely 11-year-old named Kara Lukas notices a snow angel by the lake near the Stockholm apartment she shares with her busy mom. Something about it strikes her as strange: There are no footprints anywhere near. Curious, Kara traipses out onto the snow to look more closely. As she snaps a picture with her phone, Kara has the eerie sense someone is watching her.

So begins Stockholm-based Matthew Fox’s evocative debut middle grade novel, The Sky Over Rebecca, which won the 2019 Bath Children’s Novel Award as an unpublished manuscript.

Kara spends her school holiday break exploring her strange discovery by the lake, which leads her to find a girl named Rebecca and Rebecca’s younger brother, Samuel, who is unable to walk. The cold, hungry siblings are camping alone on the lake’s island, so Kara brings them food and an old blue coat that once belonged to her mother. Kara comes to realize the siblings are from a different time: 1944. They are Jewish refugees on the run from the Nazis, hoping to be rescued by a British plane that Rebecca believes will land on the frozen lake.

As the dangers to Rebecca and Samuel in their own time intensify and her friendship with Rebecca builds, Kara musters up courage and decides to do all she can to save them—even if it means taking dangerous risks out on the ice.

Fox’s spare yet lyrical prose is well-suited to The Sky Over Rebecca’s haunting, austere setting and atmosphere. The novel’s stylistic restraint and vividly drawn characters will intrigue young readers and help them easily follow narrative shifts between the horrifying, wartorn past and the less deadly but still frightening present.

The Sky Over Rebecca does not shy away from somber subjects, including death. Fox introduces the terror of persecution in an accessible manner for young readers who may be reading about the Holocaust for the first time. A poignant final twist leads to a resonant conclusion in this memorable first novel.

The Sky Over Rebecca’s stylistic restraint and vividly drawn characters will intrigue young readers and help them easily follow narrative shifts between horrifying, wartorn 1944 and the less deadly present.

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