Guys Write for Guys Read–ed. by Jon Scieska

Guys Write for Guys Read.  ed. by Jon Scieska.  New York: Viking, 2005.

Are you a guy?  Looking for advice?  Or maybe you’re a girl looking for advice on how to deal with guys?  Look no further:

“Guys BITE THEIR TOENAILS! This is an art form, not a disgusting habit!  If Olympic gymnasts could bend down far enough to bite their toenails, they’d win gold medals every time!  We defy the physical laws when we chew our toenails.  Not only should we not stop doing it–we should do it more often, and in public!

After guys BITE THEIR TOENAILS THEY CHEW THE NAILS UP INTO LITTLE PIECES AND SWALLOW THEM! Not an art form, really, but crunchy–yum!

After guys BITE THEIR TOENAILS AND CHEW THEM AND SWALLOW THEM THEY FIND A GIRL AND KISS HER! Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh!” (p. 218 )

Not the toenail type?  Not a problem; how about dessert instead?

“The cat puked up the pecan nut log.  Jeff, the youngest and smallest [of the brothers] (and closest to the floor) was the first to go.  He got one look and whiff of the pecan nut cat yack and blew his own sticky lunch all over the cat.  The puke-covered cat jumped on Brian.  Brian barfed on Gregg.  Gregg upchucked on Tom.  Tom burped a bit of Stuckey lunch back on Gregg.  Jim and I rolled down the windows and hung out as far as we could, yelling in group puke horror…Stick with your brothers.  Stick up for your brothers.  And if you ever drop a pecan nut log in a car with your five brothers and your cat…you will probably stick to your brothers.” (p. 216)

Sage advice, learned the hard way, is what this book is all about: guys’ favorite authors, writing about being guys, including tales like…

• My Maturity, in Flames
• Boys, Beer, Barf, and Bonding
• My French Teacher Tried to Kill Me
• My Entire Football Career
• Bombs, Girls

For these and other stories (high school guys CANNOT afford to miss Chris Crutcher’s story, but it can’t be printed here), check out Guys Write for Guys Read.

The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Goth Girl–by Barry Lyga

Lyga, Barry.  The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Goth Girl. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 2006.

“Fanboy has never had it good, but lately his sophomore year is turning out to be its own special hell.  The bullies have made him their favorite target, his best (and only) friend seems headed for the dark side (sports and popularity), and his pregnant mother and the step-fascist are eagerly awaiting the birth of the alien life form known as Fanboy’s new little brother or sister.

Fanboy, though, has a secret: a graphic novel he’s been working on without telling anyone, a graphic novel that he is convinced will lead to publication, fame, and–most important of all–a way out of the crappy little town he lives in and away from all the people who make it hell for him.

When Fanboy meets Kyra, a.k.a. Goth girl, he finds an outrageous, cynical girl who shares his love of comics as well as his hatred for jocks and bullies.  Fanboy can’t resist someone who actually seems to understand him, and soon he finds himself willing to heed her advice–to ignore or crush anyone who stands in his way.

But Kyra has secrets, too.  And they could lead Fanboy to his dreams…or down a path into his own darkness.”

Blood on the River–by Elisa Carbone

Carbone, Elisa.  Blood on the River: James Town 1607.  New York: Viking, 2006.

“Some would say I am lucky.  Others would say I am doomed.  I escaped the gallows–that is why I am lucky…As for being doomed, if I am doomed then so is Richard.  We are the two boys Reverend Hunt decided to bring with him on this jounrey to the New World.” (p. 6-7)

The way we think of it, a trip across the ocean is an exciting adventure or a relaxing vacation.  For Samuel, however, who was released from jail for theft only to become one of the settlers that would found James Town, Virginia in 1607, this “vacation” looks more like this:

“We are all seasick.  And bored.  And we are going absolutely no place.  We have had nothing but storms and winds blowing the wrong direction for weeks now, and so we sit anchored in the cold, close enough to see England’s shores but still trapped down in this hole of a ‘tween deck with the stench of urine and vomit and chicken dung.” (p. 15)

Sounds like it couldn’t get much worse, but then they finally arrive on the coast of Virginia:

“Suddenly I hear a cry, then frantic shouting and someone moaning.  I run to the railing.  In the half-light of dusk I see them, five of them, crouched on a hill, their naked bodies painted, arrows flying from their longbows.  Already ne of the sailors has fallen…I see now that this land is not so free and open.  This is Indian land, and they do no want us here.  And what is worse, it seems to me that their bows and arrows are quicker, more accurate, and can shoot farther than our muskets.” (p. 61-62)

Vacation?  Not on your life, and not on Samuel’s life either.

Mister Pip–by Lloyd Jones

Jones, Lloyd.  Mister Pip.  New York: The Dial Press, 2007.

“Everyone called him Pop Eye.  Even in those days, when I was a skinny thirteen-year-old, I thought he probably knew about his nickname but didn’t care.  His eyes were too interested in what lay up ahead to notice us barefoot kids.  He looked like someone who had seen or known great suffering and hadn’t been able to forget it.  His large eyes in his large head stuck out further than anyone else’s–like they wanted to leave the surface of his face.  They made you think of someone who can’t get out of the house quickly enough.  Pop Eye wore the same white linen suit every day.  His trousers snagged on his bony knees in the sloppy heat.  Some days he wore a clown’s nose.  His nose was already big.  He didn’t need that red lightbulb.  But for reasons we couldn’t think of he wore the red nose on certain days–which may have meant something to him.  We never saw him smile.  And on those days he wore the clown’s nose you found yourself looking away because you never saw such sadness.” (p. 1)

When the village freak–the only white man left on the island–becomes the kids’ teacher, life turns upside down.  And when war and rebellion hit the island, it all goes downhill from there.  Who do you trust?

Uglies–by Scott Westerfield

Westerfield, Scott.  Uglies.  New York: Simon and Schuster, 2005.

When I was a teenager, I felt ugly; most of us do around that age, and you probably have too.  Rotten though it is, it’s normal.  We pretty much grow out of it or get over it eventually.  But it’s painful while it’s happening, right?  Wouldn’t it be perfect if we could just find a way to fix it?

Fast forward to the future: you can now get a surgery to become stunningly beautiful.  Everyone does it.  As soon as you turn 16, you get the surgery, become gorgeous, move to a new city where all your perfectly gorgeous friends live, and all you have to do is party and have fun all day.  Seriously, that’s all there is to it, no hidden tricks.  And everybody’s happy all the time, because there’s no uglyness or stupid stuff like that to stress them out.

But then your best friend decides she wants to run away and not have the surgery.  What the heck?  Who wants to stay ugly forever, on purpose?  She’s obviously an idiot, and it’s not your problem…until you get dragged to Special Circumstances and find out you won’t be allowed to turn Pretty until you find her and bring her back.  You can die ugly for all they care.

That is NOT acceptable, so you go off to find her.  Pretty simple job, really.  But what’s out there in the wilderness, anyway?  Guess you’re about to find out…

A Wreath for Emmett Till–by Marilyn Nelson

Nelson, Marilyn.  A Wreath for Emmett Till. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 2005.

Emmett Till was only fourteen in 1955, a friendly kid from Chicago on a trip down south to meet his relatives.  He was probably like you in many ways.  You may even have committed his crime yourself: whistling at a pretty girl.  But where you might have gotten a cross look or a joking slap for your trouble, Emmett became the victim of one of the most notorious lynchings in American history.

“Pierced by the screams of a shortened childhood,
my heartwood has been scarred for fifty years
by what I heard, with hundreds of green ears.
That jackal laughter.  Two hundred years I stood
listening to small struggles to find food,
to the songs of creature life, which disappears
and comes again, to the music of the spheres.
Two hundred years of deaths I understood.
Then slaughter axed one quiet summer night,
shivering the deep silence of the stars.
A running boy, five men in close pursuit.
One dark, five pale faces in the moonlight.
Noise, silence, back-slaps.  One match, five cigars.
Emmett Till’s name still catches in the throat.”

Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy–by Gary D. Schmidt

Schmidt, Gary D.  Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy.  New York: Clarion Books, 2004.

“Turner Buckminster had lived in Phippsburg, Maine, for fifteen minutes shy of six hours.  He had dipped his hand in its waves and licked the salt from his fingers.  He had smelled the sharp resin of the pines.  He had heard the low rhythm of the bells on the buoys that balanced on the ridges of the sea.  He had seen the fine clapboard parsonage beside the church where he was to live, and the small house set a ways beyond it that puzzled him some.  Turner Buckminster had lived in Phippsburg, Maine, for almost six whole hours.  He didn’t know how much longer he could stand it.” (p. 1)

In some places, being the son of a minister is no big deal.  Phippsburg, Maine, is not one of them.  Everybody is constantly scrutinizing Turner to see if he is upright enough, moral enough, brave enough, polite enough, and even whether his shirt is starched-white enough.  So far, he is a miserable failure.

And things only get worse after those first six hours.  Within two days of his arrival in Phippsburg, he has become the laughingstock of the whole town for his failure at playing baseball, been teased mercilessly as a coward for not jumping off a huge cliff into the ocean, and gotten caught skipping rocks across water that just happened to bump into somebody’s old fence.  Before he can blink, he is sentenced to spend his summer reading and playing organ for a repulsive old woman who yells at him, helps spread the rumors about him, looks and smells funny, and is absolutely obsessed with her own death and making sure her last words will be written down.  He’d just as soon die.

But then he meets Lizzie, an island girl who can row a boat, play baseball like nothing else, dig clams, and speak to whales.  And that changes everything forever.

Red Spikes–by Margo Lanagan

Lanagan, Margo.  Red Spikes.  New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2007.

Do you have nightmares?

“It’s not possible, Tregowan had said.  I saw Ark.  No one the size and make of Thomas Chauncey could do such damage.  His ear was torn near right off.” (p. 79)

“And fluffther-fluffther over the rim they came like boiling, only the boilings ran away on little gray-and-pink legs, and pulled gray tails behind them.  They poured off the table edges and ran out the door and away to the west, to the town.” (p. 125)

“In the end I said to it, ‘I have already been eaten by one of you.’  It puffed up all fat and stiff-legged.  ‘Why don’t you go and find a real bird?’” (p. 61)

“‘Well, how about—these is good for a snack, after they’ve lain awhile.’  He looked doubtfully at the pile.  He had one in his hand, by its little blackened leg.  As Oll watched, the leg came out of its rotten hip socket, and the rest of the baby fell back onto the pile.” (p. 52)

“Yes, it was always a trudge here.  But what was the hurry when it came to eternity?  Might as well trudge as not.  Barto was new here; he didn’t realize.  He’d just arrived, and by car accident, so he was still in a kind of shock.” (p. 98)

“Underneath is other cloth, finer, paler, with a shape inside.  I don’t want to touch it.  And you don’t have to, says my hunter’s mind.  See?  You’ve got a second chance to walk away.  Take it, take it.  Go.  My breath, through my teeth, sounds like a straw broom sweeping a stone step.” (p. 37)

What if your nightmares were real?

Hattie Big Sky–by Kirby Larson

Larson, Kirby.  Hattie Big Sky.  New York: Delacorte Press, 2006.

Orphaned at the age of five, Hattie has been shuffled from place to place between relatives for eleven years, with one consistent message at every place she lands: she does not belong there.  After three years under Aunt Ivy’s dubious care, she is beginning to think she will never find a place that feels like home.  But then, out of the blue, she receives a letter from a long-lost uncle with a jaw-dropping final paragraph:

Being of sound mind, I do hereby leave to Hattie Inez Brooks my claim and the house and its contents, as well as one steadfast horse named Plug and a contemptible cow known as Violet.

Signed, Chester Hubert Wright, Uncle to Hattie Inez Brooks

Postscript: H–Bring warm clothes and a cat.

The bequest of a homestead claim of 320 acres in Montana is too much for Hattie to resist, and she leaves to take up the claim almost immediately, eager to finally have a home of her own.  To inherit all that land, though, she first has to prove up the claim for its remaining ten months.  To do that, she must plant and harvest crops on 40 acres of land, as well as putting up a mile and a half of fence; needless to say, the project turns out to be more than she bargained for!   First she’ve likely to freeze to death, then there’s so much heat and drought that she wonders if she’ll die of the sun, and in between are so many lessons learned the hard way that she’s occasionally tempted to up and quit the whole darn thing.  Things are finally starting to look up for her when the worst happens–will Hattie be able to keep the only real home she’s ever known?

Sold–by Patricia McCormick

McCormick, Patricia.  Sold.  New York: Hyperion, 2006.

You probably know that in many parts of the world, kids your age do not have the same kinds of freedoms and privileges you have.  Extreme poverty means a lot more than not getting to watch tv or join the soccer team; for 13-year-old Lakshmi in Nepal, poverty means surrendering everything to help her family survive.  When her step-father announces that she must leave their village to find work as a maid in the city, Lakshmi is unhappy but willing.  As she leaves the village with the woman who appears to have hired her, though, things start looking fishy, and they don’t get any better as she reaches the big city.

“Mumtaz studies me.  ‘Are you ready to go to work?’ she says in my language.  I nod and say yes, then nod again, although I do not understand how these city people do their chores in such fine clothes and uncomfortable shoes.  I follow Mumtaz down a hallway lined with tiny rooms.  We pass by girls sitting cross-legged on the floor.  Girls drawing on tiger eyes.  Girls spraying themselves with flower water.  Some of them stare at me.  Some take no notice.

“We go up some stairs, down another hallway, then into a room where an old man is lying on a bed.  His skin is yellow and he has tufts of hair poking out from his ears.  Mumtaz speaks kindly to him and I wonder if he is sick.  Across the hall, in another room, where a red cloth is hung across the doorway, I hear the sound of grunting.  It is a strange, animal sound that makes me shudder.  Mumtaz points to me and says something to the old man.  He licks his palm and smoothes down his hair.  They do not seem to notice the grunting.  Then it stops.  The red cloth is pulled back.  And a man stands in the hallway zipping his pants.  I look down at my red-painted nails and my new shoes.  Something is not right here.  I don’t know what is going on, but it is not right, not right at all.”  (p. 102-103)

And it’s not right.  Lakshmi has been sold into the illegal sex trade in India, and her only way out…well, it isn’t a way out at all…