Over the course of a week, several baking projects, and new curtains, I listened to Ron Rifkin read me Milkweed. The story is painful mostly because, for an adult or anyone who's even sampled the multitude of children's books about the Holocaust, the downward slide is inevitable. From the orphan who thinks his name is Stopthief and can wallow in a small mountain of stolen food with the other boys, to the boy Misha who brings home a cooked rat for his adopted sister, to the arrival of trains in the Warsaw ghetto - we are not surprised. But Stopthief-Misha-Jack is surprised. Or, if not surprised, uncomprehending. While he looks out for others, slipping out a hole in the wall and bringing food to the ghetto, others must look out for him, for the boy who doesn't know the meaning of happy or how to comb his hair.

The voice is perfect - both the voice of the character and the voice of Rifkin as the character. Soothing and jarring at the same time, innocent and hardened, sad but somehow joyful. There are moments of incredulity - that the boy has survived so long, that he understands so little of what is going on - but it only mirrors the incomprehensible world around him.

I was surprised at how far the story followed Misha, but it has no tidy, feel-good ending. I'm not sure who I would recommend this to, although it's excellent. The sense of foreshadowing reminded me of Ellen Klage's The Green Glass Sea, where the person who knows WWII history knows where the story ends, but some readers could potentially miss the depth of the story - or be surprised into learning a piece of history.

A while back, I was compared to a combination of Martha Abbott and Ivy Carson, which of course made me go grab a copy of The Changeling off the library shelf (autographed: “Greetings from Zilpha Snyder”). I went on a huge Snyder kick, probably in middle school - something about her books appealed hugely to my kind of imagination. And yes, I am a combination of Martha and Ivy. I’ve got Martha’s holding back, and being the one who latches onto a more spontaneous friend. I’ve got a bit of Ivy’s dancing and imagination.

Martha is the youngest child in a family of active and successful people, while she got stuck with the hobby of gardening, which she doesn't really like, thanks to her grandmother. Her teacher calls her sweet, "but an awful daydreamer." She doesn't really have friends or interests, until she meets Ivy, one of the troublesome Carsons who are in and out of town and jail. Ivy defines herself as a changeling, an outsider in her family. The story starts when the girls are seven and continues through Ivy's many appearances and disappearances until the girls are sixteen.

One of the things that struck me most about the whole book (and as far as I remember this is true of all of ZKS’s books) was how well she captures the way children imagine and play and interact with each other. The way certain spots are magic - the grove of trees, the stone - and the way others are frightening but magnetic, like the burnt-out house. An original mythology of each childhood. The way a game changes and evolves from a near-religious belief to a performance, an acting out. The sense of going through phases, and changing without being aware of it at the time, and the way you realize you are different in front of different people. The way there is a spontaneous friend and the one who's more held-back, but the friendship somehow requires the alchemy of those two types to last over the years, on and off.

I also love that Martha becomes herself in high school. She gets most of the pain and angst out of the way in middle school (how true, how true) and settles down to true Martha-ness. I don’t think I was quite so much myself in high school (not to the degree that I am now, but I suppose that’s only natural) but 9th grade certainly was a big sigh of relief after middle school.

Depending more on character than plot, this story belongs to girls who live off their imaginations.

I find it hard to put Peace Like a River into the words of a review, but I'm still compelled to try. As far as plot goes, I made the mistake of reading the jacket flap and knowing too much of the story in advance. While the story fits together in perfect pieces, the real strengths are the characters and the tone. Reuben Land is telling us the story of when he was a boy of eleven, a boy with bad lungs and a close family and an adventure in front of him. The first chapter tells how he came into the world, how he wasn't breathing and how his father, Jeremiah, commanded him, "in the name of the living God," to breathe.

"Real miracles," Rube tells us, "bother people, like strange sudden pains unknown in medical literature. It's true: They rebut every rule all we good citizens take comfort in. Lazarus obeying orders and climbing up out of the grave - now there's a miracle, and you can bet it upset a lot of folks who were standing around at the time. When a person dies, the earth is generally unwilling to cough him back up. A miracle contradicts the will of earth...I believe I was preserved, through those twelve airless minutes, in order to be a witness, and as a witness, let me say that a miracle is no cute thing but more like the swing of a sword."

After that first chapter pulled me in, I found the book curiously hard to pick up, until I got near the end and finished it in a swoop of held breath. There are journeys, and miracles, and the epic Western poems of Rube's sister, Swede. The ending, pitch perfect with more joyfulness than I expected, is a testament to the fact that a book can be about faith without being preachy. This is one to save up and reread.

Costis is sure his life is about to end. At the very least he will be exiled, for what else could a member of the Guard expect after attacking the new king and knocking him to the ground? Instead of his expected punishment, Costis is separated from his squadron and swept into court life, where he must obey the king’s whim. This is no easy task for a man who resents this seemingly inept fool’s acquisition of the Queen and throne. All of Attolia seems to be plotting against the outsider king Eugenides, but as Costis is swept into the world of political intrigue, assassinations, betrayals and power, he finds himself questioning his own loyalties and the true nature of the king who “never looked the way he was supposed to” (110).

Fans of The Thief and The Queen of Attolia, Turner’s previous books set in the fictional lands of Attolia, Eddis, and Sounis, will find a story worth the wait as they peer over Costis’ shoulder for a glimpse of old friends. For readers new to these lands inspired by the landscape and culture of ancient Greece, a rich challenge awaits. While some references and subtext will only be accessible for readers of the earlier books, the book can and does stand alone. Not a simple story, the complex characters and plot reward the attentive reader with their emotion, humor, and faith – in queens and kings, gods and goddesses. Leaving an opening for future sequels, but without leaving the reader dangling over the edge of a cliff, The King of Attolia will have appeal to readers looking for a substantial and engrossing series.

“‘It’s easy to become anything you wish…so long as you’re willing to forfeit your soul.’”

Illustrating the words of the Chinese herbalist’s wife, Gene Luen Yang tells us three linked stories in graphic novel form. The monkey king, “a deity in his own right,” is turned away from the music and wine of a dinner party in heaven. “‘You may be a king,’” the bouncer tells him, “‘but you are still a monkey.’” Determined to gain acceptance, he masters the arts of kung-fu from Invulnerability to Drowning to Shape Shift. Believing he has transcended his former self, he takes on the powers of heaven. Meanwhile, Jin Wang dreams of being a Transformer when he grows up, but instead finds himself the outsider in his school. He finds a friend in a fellow outsider, Wei-Chen, and tries his hand at romance, but discovers the price of transformation. A third story line follows “all-American” Danny, who feels his entire life is disrupted with each visit of his cousin, Chin-Kee, the embodiment of every Chinese stereotype, from his name to his to-go container luggage.

Yang creates a perfect balance between his stories, each engaging, humorous and thoughtful. Although much of the story is told through illustrations, with a single facial expression conveying as much as a paragraph of text, Yang’s words are no less powerful. While the characters are primarily Chinese Americans, the story has broad appeal, speaking not only to the specifics of the characters’ experiences but also to anyone who has ever felt like an outsider. The story deals with action, romance, humor, and betrayal, and contains little to find offense at. There are a few instances of mild language and a scene of a teen smoking; the story is suitable for and would appeal to middle school and up. At times deceptively simple, American Born Chinese contains rich layers of character and insight. “‘Return to your true form and you shall be freed,” a monk tells the monkey king, but each character must first have a taste of transformation.

“Books are the ultimate Dumpees: put them down and they’ll wait for you forever; pay attention to them and they always love you back.” (p. 110)

Gunshot, Tennessee is home to the grave of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and a tampon string factory. For the summer, it is also home to washed-up child prodigy Colin and his Judge Judy-loving best friend Hassan, who cut short a road-trip to record the town’s oral histories for the factory owner. They board with her and her daughter, Lindsey, while Colin tries to get over being dumped by his nineteenth Katherine. Along the way, Colin works on his Theorem of Underlying Katherine Predictability, attempting to graph each of his failed relationships and predict the course of any future relationship. Things, of course, are not simple, as Colin is distracted by a girl who is not named Katherine, a feral hog hunt, and a few town secrets. Will Colin have his Eureka moment? Prove his Theorem? Matter? Be betrayed by his memory? Learn to tell a story? Get the girl? Get out of Gunshot alive?

Green’s second novel is a witty, off-beat charmer with a snappy pace and dialogue. The plot is almost irrelevant at times, as the characters pull you along for the ride. It is, in a sense, the classic road-trip story of self-discovery and friendship, although the characters spend more page-time driving to Hardee’s for Monster Thickburgers than they do in road-tripping. Although Colin’s Theorem figures heavily into the story, the math never takes over, being carefully consigned to footnotes and an appendix. More smart-assed than intellectual, the story should have wide appeal with high school students and up. Some language, a physical fight, and a scene of two characters caught having sex serve the story and do not feel gratuitous. Themes of rejection, romance, motivation (or lack thereof), the nature of popularity, and finding your place in the world make this a classic story for young adults.

For middle grades, but with strong appeal for adults.

When his quiet village is raided by berserker Northmen, apprentice-bard Jack must take on more than he ever thought possible. In front of him lie sea-sickness, storms, pillaging and trolls, and behind him lie his teacher, the Bard, and the parents he is only beginning to understand. Traveling across the sea and through the wilds of the north, Jack is challenged with rescuing his sister – and with uncovering his own identity and place in the world.

Farmer’s adventure story is thick with colorful characters, plot turns, and language that sings quietly. Heroes and villains alike are a perfect balance of flaws and strengths, challenging both Jack’s first impressions and our own. Though the story is long, the pace is brisk, the humor unexpected, and the rewards satisfying. The tangle of myth, fantasy and history will appeal to fans of all three. Readers should also take to heart berserker Olaf One-Brow’s timeless advice: just say no to pillaging.

While this book is aimed at middle graders, based on the age of our hero, it should also have strong appeal for adults. The setting is radically different from that of Farmer's The Ear, the Eye and the Arm (strongly recommended), but both books share a confident tone, originality, and loveable characters.