Featured Book: Shift

In Shift by Jennifer Bradbury, friends Chris and Win—known as Chrisandwin by everyone at school for their attached-at-the-hip nature, decide to take a cross-country bike trip from their home in West Virginia to Washington state following their high school graduation.  It’s both a last-hurrah before going off to separate colleges and a way to avoid the minimum wage drudgery of a summer job.  But something goes not quite as planned—at least for Chris. He and Win (short for Winston) get separated towards the end of the journey. And when Chris returns home, heads off to college in mid-August, he learns that his friend never returned home at all.  He faces not only the prospect that something terrible happened to his best friend, but also pressure from Win’s father (who’s hired several people to “tail” Chris—including an F.B.I. agent—and threatened to disrupt Chris’s education or even end his dad’s job) to give Win up, convinced that he knows where his son is, what’s happened to him. Or even that he had something to do with his disappearance.
   

Shift by Jennifer Bradbury
Atheneum Books, 2008
Cover art by Greg Stadnyk

The chapters alternate between the aftermath of Win’s disappearance on the bike trip and the bike trip itself. Bradbury uses this broken time effectively, offering pieces of the mystery just as we need them and staging the action for the most emotional impact when the mystery is finally “solved” (HINT: the why in this novel is the key to the mystery and the emotional heart of the story, as it should be with any good mystery novel—thanks for that lesson, Mary Logue!). I’m using a similar structure for a novel I’m currently working on, and Bradbury’s offered here an example of how it can work really, really well.

Friendship, obviously, is central to Shift. But I’ll get to that in a minute. I also want to talk about fathers, which are also an important part of this story.  Early in the novel, Chris’s dad pulls him aside and tells him to stop just talking about taking the bike trip. Set a date.  And no matter what happens, leave on that date. Apparently he had dreamed about, talked about, saved up for a driving trip along Route 66 when he was much younger. But that’s all he did—prepare. He never did it.  He doesn’t want his son to have that same regret. Later in the novel, both when Chris is on the actual trip and when he’s being harassed by Win’s dad, Chris’s dad is sympathetic, understanding, patient, wise. But believably so. He’s a father you don’t often find in YA literature. He’s refreshing. And I’m glad we have his moment of regret early in the novel, because otherwise he would have seemed a little too one-dimensionally “perfect.”

Win’s dad, on the other hand, is a father figure we’re more accustomed to seeing in YA lit.  Controlling, angry, concerned about family and personal image. He has incessantly chipped away at Win’s spirit for eighteen years.  But Bradbury tempers his otherwise unsympathetic antagonism by letting us see, through Chris’s eyes, him crack a little under the pressure of searching for his missing son. During a scene in which he comes to Chris’s college to bully him into giving up whatever information he has about Win, Chris sees that he’s shaken, almost panicky, under his seemingly cool demeanor. Chris wonders, and we wonder, if maybe it’s not just pride or his son’s shot at the Ivy Leage (Win’s late for reporting to school at this point) that he’s worried about. Maybe he’s actually—finally—worried about losing his son

But in the end, this is a story of friends. Of friendship. Of growing up. Of separation. They start their biking journey as Chrisandwin, together (as friends, as their fathers’ sons).  They end their journey, and the story, as Chris. And Win.

There’s a great scene in a barn in chapter twenty, in which Chris and Win have an all-out, no-holds-barred wrestling match.  They’re not angry at each other, exactly. They just wrestle, as boys do. But the reader senses there’s more at stake than just bragging rights in this match. Chris flashes back to a church revival they came across on their trip, in which the preacher talked about Jacob having to wrestle an angel.  The physicality of the boys working out whatever it is that they need to work out works well.  They’re boys. They don’t talk. At least not about emotion. They act. Even the Jacob v. Angel reflection works well. And when Win demands Chris let him go, we know he’s not talking about him letting him out of the near-pin he has him in. He means LET ME GO. For good.  Then he tells him he’s been a good friend.  A true friend. It's a powerful scene.

The wrestling sequence is just one example of how well Bradbury captures not only a teen male voice but the teen male world.  Chris is thoughtful, smart, and articulate, but he’s still a guy and thinks and feels as guys have been conditioned to (especially teenage guys, especially when it comes to emotion). There’s one point, during the end of the book, where she falters a bit, though.  Just preceding what is otherwise an excellent scene (which I’ll discuss in a moment), Bradbury has Chris recall, for several paragraphs, a long-sleeved T-shirt that he really likes and used to wear all the time. He’s literally outgrown it (oversimplified version: Win=T-shirt). This is a little too obvious. Too clichéd. And way too much telling.  Especially for a boy. Everything else in the novel is visceral. Punches we can feel. The wrestling match does the trick. As does the following scene. The shirt isn’t necessary.

Fortunately, this sequence is followed by the scene I just mentioned. Chris is alone with his bike at the end of the trip (Win has already bailed on him).  He rolls his wheel into the ocean and says, “We made it. To no one. Then he revises, “I made it.”  And between this scene and the barn scene, and the hundreds of hints all along the journey, we get understand: Chrisandwin—as noted above—is now Chris. And Win.

Recommended for boys ages 14-17.

Featured Book: Strays

In Strays, by Ron Koertge, Ted, a shy, mild sixteen-year-old, is thrust into the foster care system when his parents die suddenly in a car crash.  He meets Astin—long time foster kid at the Rafters’ (Ted’s new foster home), who is about to graduate and “age out” of the system—and C.W., who arrives at the Rafters’ at the same time as Ted and is both a wannabe gangsta and, as it turns out, a kind-hearted dog-lover.

The book is about Ted letting go of his parents. They didn’t treat him very well, but he’s nonetheless haunted by their gruesome and abrupt end. He didn't get to say goodbye. Or tell them off.

Strays is also about Ted finding real friends. Family. A “pack” to run with.

In fact, early in the story, Ted, who is awkward and unpopular at his previous school, finds his closest friends are animals, with whom he can inexplicably communicate. It just starts, without warning, around page 14 or so. At first, I wonder if Ted’s imaging it, making it up, or if he’s just plain crazy. Is this an ability he’s always had, or has it developed since his parents’ death?  As it turns out, it doesn’t matter, because it provides for Ted (and me) what’s needed, when it’s needed. At first, it’s only animals who know him, love him, care about him.  Then it’s people, and the animals can go back to being important to Ted in a different way. They don’t have to stand in for real human relationships.

Strays by Ron Koertge
Candlewick, 2007

I like how Koertge handles Ted’s outward emotions throughout the novel.  Ted’s a guy. A teenage guy. He doesn’t want to talk about his feelings. Not to his social worker. Not to the Rafters. Not to Astin or C.W. He even lies to several of these people, claiming he’s “talking things out” with the others. But he really, really needs to talk. And as willing as animals are to listen, their open ears are not enough. Then Megan, Astin’s girlfriend, sets up Ted on a sort-of “friend date” with her pal Wanda.  Even though I thought the relationship between Ted and Wanda will bloom into a romantic one (several times), it doesn’t.  They’re friends. And each can talk to the other about their parents, or any number of other things, that they can’t talk about with anyone else, including Astin and Megan. 

Each character in Strays is well drawn—odd, unique, and authentic. Ted’s foster mother treats a doll like a real child after having lost her own. The father doesn’t particularly like kids, and doesn’t really want to be a part of the foster care system, and might just be in it for the money or to give his wife kids in a non-biological and non-adoptive way.  And he has tons of unreasonable rules. But the foster parents are demonized as foster parents often are. Neither is abusive, and both do pretty much exactly what they say they’ll do.  They’re irritating and predictable in almost a comforting sort of way, and Ted knows where he stands with them—more so than he did with his biological parents.

Astin, Megan, Wanda, and C.W. all reveal themselves to be multidimensional, too.  Astin is a tough biker who’s figured out how to live successfully with the Rafters. He decides to take Ted under his wing, even though he’s out of this place (and the system) very soon.  Megan is wealthy and can be haughty, bossy, but she cares enough for Ted to introduce him to Wanda, and she’s insightful enough to know they’ll hit it off.  C.W. constantly criticizes Ted for his clothing and strives for a tough “street” image, but he falls in love with a stray dog who he puppy-talks to, and is visibly moved when Ted offers him his seat on Astin’s bike following a shooting that C.W. witnesses.  And Wanda is bitter about her parents ditching her and somewhat ashamed of her weight, but she’s warm, witty, and kind, always being up front with Ted about their relationship while only being somewhat of a tease—no more than Ted can handle, though.

All of them are strays, lost, abandoned in some way or another, by the adults that are supposed to be responsible, in charge. Supposed to love them. But they find each other. And even though their relationships aren’t permanent, they remind them that they can have friends, family, meaningful connections, even without parents.

Recommended for boys, ages 14-17.

Electric Tuna

So my son and I go for a walk (usually several) every day. It's nice. He usually falls asleep in his Baby Bjorn, and I listen to This American Life, or some such, on my ipod.

Sometimes these walks are very early in the morning.

A few days ago, on one such early morning walk, we strolled past an automotive shop I must have walked by several hundred times.

And I completely misread its sign.

The incident, of course, inspired a sort of Americanized haiku.

Tired eyes first glance lies.
"Electra Tune," Riley--not
"Electric Tuna."

I'm Back!

Sorry about the serious lack of posts. Since mid-February, my wife and I each completed our respective graduate programs; I finished my thesis; we had a son, who's now five months old; and we packed up and moved 1,200 miles across the country.

So we've been busy.

But we've settled into our new digs and routines. And I'm ready to get down to business.

Watch for regular posts soon!

Baby Boy

No post this week, folks. I just became a father!

Featured Book: Rats Saw God

Steve York is the son of an astronaut. A famous astronaut who rubs elbows with former presidents and military Who’s Who. An astronaut who, Steve feels, treats his son as a trophy, someone to be displayed, someone to impress others with. Steve now lives with his mom and sister in San Diego. But for two years, he lived with the astronaut in Houston.

In Rats Saw God by Rob Thomas, Steve tells two stories simultaneously (or perhaps alternately is more accurate). We witness the action in his current life, in which he’s become a pot-smoking senior in San Diego who’s barely passing his classes (but somehow manages to be a National Merit finalist). And, from a 100-page essay he writes to get credit for English and graduate on time, he tells us about his sophomore and junior years of high school in Houston where he’s a straight-A student with a great group of friends and a fantastic girlfriend.

Rats Saw God by Rob Thomas
Simon & Schuster, 1996
Cover art by Chris Raschka

Steve’s voice is strong, narration tight (if unreliable). The dialogue is interesting, clever. Characters rich. And I love the parallel structure of the story, the way Steve’s present and past lives unfold together, so that we (and he) can see where he’s been, how he got there. And, most importantly, we realize Steve’s flaws, just as he does. His attitudes change, as ours do. By the end of the story, both the reader and Steve see the world a bit differently, see Steve’s parents differently. Especially Steve’s Dad.

And both narratives manage to be compelling without being gimmicky. The structure serves the story, not the other way around. Steve’s transformation is earned. We feel his pain and his anger at the lowest point of his high school life, but we also share in his redemption (which is much subtler than I’m probably making it sound).

The relationships between characters are also well defined and understood. Thomas shows us, in action and dialogue, how the characters feel about one another. And here’s what I mean about the unreliable narrator: Early in the novel (both in real time and in Steve’s 100-page essay), Steve tells us how he feels about the astronaut (the name he uses for his father). We then see the astronaut through that lens throughout the novel. After a critical conversation between Steve and his sister (as well as some insight Steve gains from writing his essay), Steve (and we) see the astronaut in a new light.

Steve’s friendships (and girlfriendships) are complicated and fascinating, from his membership (or, non-membership membership) in GOD (Grace Order of Dadaists) and friendship with group leader Doug, to his more intimate relationship with Dub. Then there’s Sky, the really cool supportive teacher who all of the non-conformist kids love. Sky was really the only character from the novel that really bothered me. His story arch seemed a little obvious (the only inorganic feeling part of the novel). That said, the result of his story arch is still gripping, emotionally devastating, and crucial to the novel.

This novel was published in the mid-1990s, but (despite some dated references to the Seattle grunge scene), it holds up. Rob Thomas later made a move to television, writing first for Dawson’s Creek then creating and producing Veronica Mars. His talent for dialogue and insight into the complexity of teenage life continue to make his work relevant to teens.

Recommended for boys, ages 15-18.

Featured Book: Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie

In Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie by David Lubar, we’re reminded that high school is exhausting. In addition to homeworking and fretting about becoming a big brother, Scott writes for the school paper, serves (briefly) on the student council, and works behind the scenes for the all-school play. Poor kid hardly has time to sleep.

Endearing, sympathetic, and clever (without being too clever), Scott narrates the ins and outs of his first year of high school—the loss of his three childhood friends (to girls, wrestlers, and Texas), the pursuit of his kindergarten chum (who’s become the cutest girl in ninth grade), the awkward dances in which all the guys stand to one side waiting for the painful ordeal to end, and his accidental friendships with a senior bully and a girl everyone calls a freak. The movement through the novel is spot on. We cover an entire school year in 280 pages, breezing through when we can, slowing when we need to focus on important moments. Scott is reflective, but not distractingly so. We understand Scott in the way that he speaks to and interacts with others, NOT by him TELLING us who he thinks he is.

Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie
by David Lubar
Speak, 2005

One of the most charming elements of the novel is the relationship Lubar establishes between Scott and his unborn kid brother. He writes him letters, telling him about school, offering him advice and reflections about his own mistakes and misfortunes. What’s great is that Scott is able to write these things to his baby brother (who may or may not actually ever see the letters) that he doesn’t feel he can say to his dad, older brother, or former best friends. Guys don’t talk about feelings. Scott, although sometimes suspicious, and even jealous, of this strange thing growing in Mom’s belly, obviously cares about him. And his scrawling to the little alien helps him understand his own world a little better.

Finally, Lubar does a fine job with the classroom scenes—especially English class. Not only does he authentically depict interactions between students in class (when the teacher’s not looking), but he presents a teacher that all book lovers dream about having. Also, Lubar cleverly works discussions about the elements of craft into his text. For example, Scott narrates the beginning of chapter twenty-six from first-, second-, and third-person during the class’s discussion of viewpoint. This sequence is a perfect example of how Scott (and Lubar) manages to be quite clever without being gimmicky or over-the-top.

Recommended for boys, ages 13-15.