When a new boy moves to the neighborhood, Dot introduces herself and asks if he wants to play. The boy, slump-shouldered and sad, declines. Dot wonders whether he’s sad because he didn’t want to move. 

That night, the boy writes down a wish on a star—to “fly far far away and maybe never have to come back”—and ties the note to the string of a golden balloon, which lands outside Dot’s bedroom window. Dot reads the note, which also reveals that the boy’s name is Albert. Endeavoring to make Albert happy, Dot builds him a kite and, after finding another balloon note in which Albert wishes for a dog, gives him her favorite plush puppy. Albert brightens, but only momentarily.

Albert’s next note wishes that his dad “was here again” and “could come back.” Dot imagines what it would be like if her own father weren’t around. Her empathy makes her realize that her job isn’t to make Albert happy: “Sometimes, it’s okay to be sad. Sometimes, it’s the only thing we can do.” She decides to sit with Albert on a porch swing in his backyard, even amid long silences, until he’s ready to open up. 

Author-illustrator Jonathan D. Voss employs a painterly style in The Wishing Balloons, an emotionally charged tale. His remarkably thick and textured brushstrokes, fuzzy forms and highly saturated colors give his artwork the appearance of memories or dreams: Specifics are blurry and emotions dominate. In the absence of sharp lines and distinct facial expressions, the characters’ body language conveys their feelings—particularly Albert’s overwhelming sadness.

Some lines of text as well as some illustrations are depicted as if on separate sheets of paper affixed to the page with torn pieces of tape. This technique, along with a textured, handwriting-style font, lends The Wishing Balloons the feel of a scrapbook of memories. 

A story of loss and healing, The Wishing Balloons pulses with tenderness. It’s sure to prompt readers to consider extending their hand to anyone in need and to reflect on what true friendship really looks like. 

Life in space means big changes, and when Molly moves to an underground room on the moon along with her mom and her little brother, Luke, there are many new things to discover. Molly uses her imagination to make the most of her family’s limited resources. She creates a fort, a cape and a tea set out of some packing crates, a solar panel cover and a couple of old tin cans. But when Luke wants to play with Molly’s toys, Molly encounters one lesson that’s just as hard to learn on the moon as it is on Earth. 

Illustrator Diana Mayo’s art is an intriguing study in contrasts. She envisions the moon as a world that seems both strange and familiar, vast but confined, cozy yet intensely isolated. The deep blue color palette of her mixed media images feels appropriately lunar and a little mysterious. A string of lights draped over Molly’s fort casts a warm glow that tempers the sense of loneliness amid the vacuum of space. 

Mayo demonstrates her skill for visual storytelling as she employs a variety of perspectives to create the atmosphere (or lack thereof) of life inside this tiny underground room. As Molly’s mom unpacks early on, two red buttons escape from a sewing box; they can be seen floating in every scene in the book, a clever nod to the moon’s decreased gravitational pull. 

Author Mary Robinette Kowal places readers right alongside Molly as the girl puts her powers of invention to good use. Although older readers may interpret Molly’s family’s lunar journey as a metaphor for a myriad of scenarios such as illness, relocation or homelessness, younger readers may ask more practical questions: Why are Molly and her family on the moon? What will they eat on the moon? How will they get back to Earth? An author’s note answers some of these questions but will likely fuel even more.

Molly on the Moon is a sweet reminder that everything is better with a friend—and that a little ingenuity and compassion can lift any situation, regardless of gravity.

A tiny owl becomes an unexpected hero in Knight Owl, a tale of dreams, dragons and determination.

“Since the day he hatched, Owl had one wish. To be a knight.” Owl loves to envision himself armed with a sword and shield and bravely confronting a dragon. At Knight School, his hard work and resilience are rewarded, though the experience is not without challenges, including heavy swords and Owl’s “habit of nodding off during the day.”

After graduation, Owl takes a post on the Knight Night Watch. One night, a hungry dragon approaches the castle. Although he is frightened, Owl reminds himself that he is “a real knight and knights are brave.” He cleverly finds a way to transform his menacing foe into a memorable friend.

Knight Owl has all the ingredients for an old-fashioned tale of medieval gallantry. Owl’s blend of ambition and tender vulnerability will be instantly relatable to young children who, like Owl, live in a world designed for creatures much bigger than they are.

Suffused with luminous warmth, the jewel-tone illustrations by author-illustrator Christopher Denise are a visual feast. Denise intersperses full-bleed spreads depicting cozy interiors and starlit castle walls with humorous and poignant vignettes of Owl and his endearing knightly pursuits. Early on, Denise depicts Owl’s heroic aspirations in a style that evokes medieval tapestries, and whimsical details abound, such as a textbook held open to a chapter called “How to build knight stuff.” Effective shifts in perspective underscore Owl’s diminutive size as he stands watch on the castle’s high wall and, later, quakes under the looming gaze of the golden-eyed dragon.

In Tremendous Trifles, a 1909 collection of columns written by the English writer G.K. Chesterton and originally published in the Daily News, Chesterton memorably observed, “The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon.” In its own way, Knight Owl does this as well, demonstrating how dragons can be overcome through bravery, perseverance and kindness. And in Owl’s case, with a shared box of pizza.

“Not everyone loves a train,” begins Kate Hoefler and Jessixa Bagley’s Courage Hats. Mae, carrying a small yellow suitcase, and Bear, with an old-fashioned knapsack across his shoulder, are both feeling anxious as they board a high-speed train. They don’t know each other yet, but they will.

Because she will be traveling “deep into bear places,” Mae has made a paper-bag headpiece to help her look more like a bear, with round ears and a brown nose. And because Bear will be venturing “deep into people places,” he has crafted a similar human-esque paper-bag hat. Each headpiece has a large hole that reveals Mae’s and Bear’s true faces, but to themselves and each other, they are utterly transformed.

Wearing their hats, Mae and Bear find seats next to each other on the train. Mae’s suitcase turns out to contain a tea set, while Bear’s polka-dotted knapsack holds sandwiches, crackers and cookies. Together, they enjoy a cozy spread as the train carries them on to a destination revealed on the book’s final page.

Bagley (Before I Leave) creatively extends Hoefler’s narrative, using eye-catching perspectives and presenting a world in which anthropomorphized woodland creatures and humans share spaces. The journey, not the destination, is the point of this rewarding story about finding courage via the gifts of friendship and abundant imagination.

Readers will especially appreciate Hoefler’s poetic and nuanced observations once Mae and Bear’s journey gets underway. There’s “a lot to notice” out the window of a train, Hoefler writes, such as “how a train carries the sky on its back.” Bagley illustrates this by depicting the new friends from behind as they take in the marvelous view of a golden meadow flanked by distant mountains. 

There’s gentle humor in Courage Hats as well, rooted in the contradictions between Hoefler’s text and Bagley’s images. When Mae first meets Bear, Hoefler (Real Cowboys) tells us that Mae has “found a big grown-up to sit with,” while Bagley depicts Bear (in his person hat) sitting next to the window of the train’s bench seat, arms crossed in his lap. Similarly, Bear is relieved to have “found a small cub to sit with.” Later, as Mae and Bear find comfort in each other’s presence, they both reflect that, if not for their newfound friendship, they “might have missed what was right next” to them.

Courage Hats is a satisfying story about facing your fears. After all, if you can’t find your courage, “you can wear it on your head at first.”

Expect the giggles to begin from the opening endpapers of Chester van Chime Who Forgot How to Rhyme. They feature small drawings, and each illustration is accompanied by a pair of rhyming words. For example, a depiction of a green slug smiling on a fluffy green rug says “Slug Rug.”

The book itself is about poor Chester van Chime, who awakens one morning to discover that he has lost the ability to rhyme. Scattered across his bedroom are objects that evoke rhymes: The same slug from the endpapers smiles happily from a green rug next to Chester’s bed, and we see two toy ducks inside a blue toy truck. Despite all these visual clues, Chester simply can’t “match up two sounds.”

Author Avery Monsen presents a text filled with rhyming couplets that fall flat on their poetic faces. “He tried not to panic. He played it real cool / and picked up his backpack and walked to his . . . / . . . learning place with teachers and stuff.” Adults, welcome to your next Best Storytime Book.

Abby Hanlon, illustrator of the side-splittingly funny Dory Fantasmagory chapter book series, brings her playful sensibilities to these vivid tableaux. Her spreads teem with rhyming pairs. Owls decorate Chester’s bathroom towel; a pup smiles from the cup on his sink; a fox steals a sock while Chester’s getting dressed; and can you guess what winged mammal appears on his doormat? As Chester’s frustrations over his failures escalate, so do the visuals. Chester’s classroom devolves into chaos as his classmates try to resuscitate his rhyming acumen.

Chester walks home from school in despair, but he soon realizes that everyone has off days and no one can be perfect all the time. Besides, by day’s end, Chester can rhyme again—for the most part. And remember those winning opening endpapers? The book’s closing endpapers feature an entirely new but equally delightful set of drawings.

It’s a must-read, a hit, a guaranteed good time. If only more books were like Chester van . . . what was his name again?

Abdul likes straight lines and a good story. But at school, Abdul struggles to keep his “scribbly, scratchy, scrawly letters” within the lines of his paper. And spelling? It’s downright impossible. “Some stories are for books,” Abdul thinks, “but not his.” When a writer named Mr. Muhammad visits Abdul’s class, he encourages Abdul to embrace his “mess,” and Abdul realizes that a good story might come from his messy writing after all.

Abdul’s Story is an honest, encouraging depiction of a boy with a learning disability and the power of finding your story. Author Jamilah Thompkins-Bigelow candidly portrays Abdul’s emotions and challenges. She captures the way his inability to write “neat sentences” leads to both feelings of failure and a sense of determination. Her narration is well balanced and invites the reader inside Abdul’s experience. Her text describes Abdul’s difficulties without specifically labeling them, so readers with a wide range of learning disabilities will be able to identify with him.

The book’s illustrations by Tiffany Rose are lively and optimistic, filled with friendly lines and details that round out the story without overwhelming the eye. Bright background colors and scenes of Abdul’s bustling neighborhood and cheerful classroom contribute to an overall sense of approachability and welcome. At one point, Abdul writes and erases so many times that he tears a hole in his paper. Ashamed, he hides under his desk and imagines “an eraser big enough to erase himself.” Rose poignantly brings this sequence to life. As Abdul crouches under the table, his eyes downcast and arms wrapped around his knees, the eraser of a giant yellow pencil has already smudged out his hands and feet.

In a picture book that centers on a character with a learning disability, different typographical choices—particularly on pages where text appears on a colored background opposite an illustration—would have increased readability for dyslexic readers. One widely cited study by Luz Rello and Ricardo Baeza-Yates, for example, suggests that dyslexic readers may find sans serif typefaces easier to read, while Abdul’s Story’s text is set in Absara, a humanist slab serif font.

In a world that can often be inaccessible, Abdul’s Story is an example of the power of casting a child with a learning disability in a starring role. As we witness Abdul working hard to improve his story, we’re reminded that very few things are ever perfect on the first try, but it’s in the trying that we eventually find success.