The School Story by Andrew Clements; Simon & Schuster Books For Young Readers: New York, 2001; $16 Have you ever wondered how children get their books published? I know I have. Well, this whole book is an example of how one girl, Natalie, gets the story she wrote made into a real book (and a bestseller). Natalie is twelve years old, but she is still an amazing author. Her best friend is Zoe, and it was all Zoe’s idea for the book to be published. Zoe is one of my favorite characters in this book. She is brave, smart, funny, and a great friend. She and Natalie are very different, but they help each other out. Without Zoe, Natalie would never have had the courage to try and publish her book, or have figured out how to. Zoe and Natalie’s relationship, as you will find out, is a big part of the book. One of the reasons I liked this book so much was that I could relate to how Natalie feels about her work. I really like to write, but I don’t like to let many other people see my creations. I’m sort of shy, and I would never have had the courage to send my work to a publisher. But the way Natalie gets her story published (with Zoe’s help) is something I never could have dreamed of doing. It’s all very clever and well thought out, and it involves a lot of courage. If it were me doing that, I would probably have chickened out in the first part of the process. I also think that it was very interesting how Zoe planned the whole thing out. It made this the kind of book you didn’t want to put down until you figured out what was going to happen to Natalie and Zoe next. Another reason I liked this book so much was that, through what was happening to Natalie, you learned a lot about the publishing process too. It helps that Natalie’s mom is a publisher, and so, as she explains things more clearly to Natalie, it’s like she’s explaining things more clearly to you. I think it was smart of Andrew Clements to make her mom do this, because it really helps young kids understand what happens after they send their work out. But the parts in this book that were the most touching to me were all the parts when Natalie thought about her dad. Natalie’s father died a few years before this book was set, so he only appears in memories. The way she thinks of him and remembers him is so sweet to me. My dad is still alive, but it makes me think about how I feel about him, and how much I love him. When I read the part in Natalie’s story about the dad it made me cry because I knew that Natalie was really writing her story for her father. It was amazing to me how Andrew Clements can make you laugh, cry, and learn about publishing in a 196-page book. One of the only things I didn’t like about this book was that it never gave a copy of The Cheater, Natalie’s book. It sounded very good and I really wanted to read it, even though it was made up. Other than that, I really liked this book, and it is even one of my favorites now. From the illustrations to the exciting style of writing, this book is a true inspiration to all young writers, and I would suggest it to anyone who loves to write. Jill Giornelli, 9Atlanta, Georgia
January/February 2003
Himalayan Adventure
The whiteout was incredible, one of the most amazing things Jack Graham had ever seen. Unfortunately, one thing he hadn’t seen lately was the rest of his team. He knew he had to keep going . . . otherwise he would freeze in this stark, hostile, white world. The shrieking wind bit his face and blew ice crystals into his beard and goggles, giving him the appearance of a snowman. He checked his oxygen. Just six minutes’ worth left. Jack struggled to stand against the snow and ice and wind. He shook out his beard and stumbled into the field of colorlessness. Was that ice he heard cracking? He took a step, felt the ground give way, and fell. He screamed as he plummeted and was silenced as his shout was replaced by the cracking of bone on hard ice. Jack awoke to the sound of voices above. He tried to yell, “I’m down here, in this pit,” but the sharp pain in his chest caused it to come out, “Oohwhuph.” He could hardly breathe and his chest, arm, and head hurt, and were all throbbing. He slowly got to his feet. At least his legs hadn’t been hurt. He took a deep breath and looked around. He saw a blue, icy cave with glistening walls and sunlight at the top of a wide, vertical shaft. If only I was back in Arizona, he thought. He could feel the cool pillows and sheets of his bed back home. What I would give for some chicken noodle soup. He longed for the beautiful sunsets and dry warmth from the afternoon sun. Snapping back into reality, he headed for a patch of ice with the most light coming through it and pounded on it with his good arm. The tiny crack where he hit the wall brought fresh air into the cave. He grabbed as much of his climbing gear as he could and, remembering his ice ax, chopped a hole big enough to climb through, and slowly, with great pain, he passed through. He was greeted by the harsh winds of the north face of the mountain, the only one never climbed by man. He staggered onto a ledge, and began a slow and agonizing descent. After several minutes, his head began to spin, and he tottered and teetered perilously near to the three-thousand-foot drop-off next to him. He slipped and blacked out. Leaping into the air with a loud yell, he flew, eating up the distance When Jack woke up, he was lying in a rock-walled cave, with an insulated blanket draped over him, and the smell of something sweet wafting through the thin air. He looked around at decades’ worth of used climbing gear. Bottles, stoves, parkas, goggles—a treasure trove of all things mountaineering. A hulking, gargantuan figure stood over a fire, boiling tea. Its hair was shaggy like a mammoth’s, and it had no visible eyes or mouth. The beast turned toward him, and he recognized it from pictures he’d seen, and stories he’d heard. It was the abominable snowman himself—the yeti. He was in awe, afraid and curious and realizing that the yeti had rescued him from certain death. Just then he noticed a strange, hard object around his arm and a bandage around his head. He touched the gauzy substance and felt warm blood in a circular area on it. I must have taken a nasty spill, he thought. The great mass of hair hobbled over to him, bringing a cup of sweet liquid, and the man drank. Sleep came quickly, and for the third time his eyelids fluttered open and the huge beast was gone. He stood up, put on long underwear, insulated snow pants, two parkas, and his boots. He grabbed his ice ax, gave himself fresh oxygen, and left. Jack fumbled and stumbled down from the cave ledge. He paused for a second, looking down at the white valley below. How am I ever gonna get down there? he wondered. It’s hopeless. Upon reaching a larger ledge, he promptly hit his arm on a rock and howled, his voice echoing through the valley below. When at last the noise died down, he heard a rumbling from the peak above. “Avalanche!” he yelled as he ran. The torrent of snow swept him off his feet and he tumbled, twisted, and was whipped around by the wave. As the avalanche slowed, it came nearer and nearer to a patch of yellow rocks. The stones became larger and larger until the avalanche stopped and Jack was close enough to realize that they were the tents of his team. There was just one obstacle left. As he approached the edge of the gorge, he could see that no ladders were still bridging the twenty-foot gap. He would have to descend, and ascend again on the other side. He hammered a spike into the permafrost. He tied a rope onto the spike, and clipped himself onto it. Slowly and cautiously he lowered himself into the dark abyss of the canyon. Finally his feet hit solid ice. Turning, he saw another gap, but couldn’t see the end in the dim light. He couldn’t take his chances going down further; he didn’t have enough rope. The only way to cross was to jump. He first took off as much gear as he could. Then he unclipped his rope, took a deep breath, and broke into a full run for the edge of the drop. Leaping into the air with a loud yell, he flew, eating up the distance. He felt himself slowing, and looked down. The blackness was still there. He stretched his legs out in front of him as far as he could, and felt a knot tighten in his stomach as he began to fall. In one last effort to save himself, he reached his hands out as far as he could, until they ached, and, by the fingertips of both hands, caught a ledge. He pulled
Finding an American Voice
Dong-suk followed his uncle, carefully keeping his pace slow enough for his haal-mu-hee, his grandma. His mother was close behind. The group moved along with hurried steps, adding to the bustle of the sidewalks of Seoul. His hand was gripped tightly around his grandmother’s and he shouldered a backpack. Although his feet were quick to stay in line behind his uncle, his thoughts were slow. He was going to America to be with his father, who had left a year before. He could not wait to see his father, but he was afraid his father would not be proud of him. As he thought, his free hand closed around the black stone in his pocket. He hugged her, begging her not to cry, using all his courage to reassure her The stone had been given to him the night before. There had been a specially cooked meal and his grandmother had told her stories and sang songs. She had driven away all his doubts about America. After dinner, while he was in bed, Grandmother had come in and given him a tiny pebble, her lucky dol, or stone. Dong-suk remembered the way she had smiled, showing her famous dimple on her cheek. Then she had spread out her small, delicate hands, wrapping him in a hug. * * * Abbie banged the front door open and stepped inside without taking off her rollerblades. “Abbie May Kessler, what have I told you about roller-blades in the house?” said her mother as she passed by. Abbie smiled, ducking her head so her mom wouldn’t see. She threw off the rollerblades and then hopped on up to her bedroom as her mom yelled, “And you’d better get started on those book reports of yours. If you haven’t gotten them finished by July, you won’t be going to Gram’s house with us.” Abbie sighed; why had her mom chosen to give her three extra book reports when the school had already given her one! She liked reading and writing, but not when it was four four-page book reports on four different people. * * * They were on the subway for a pretty long time; the airport was a good distance away from where they lived. Dong-suk went over his limited vocabulary of the new language in his mind, trying to pronounce the unfamiliar words exactly right. He hoped that his English would be good enough for America. He glanced up and felt his heart skip a beat. There it was. The bee-hang-gi. Dong-suk pressed his nose against the window and let his eyes dance from one of the huge aircrafts to another. He watched one of the huge birds take off right before his eyes. Airplane, he thought, cleverly using an English word instead of Korean. He smiled at the thought of using an English word; it made him feel important; it made him feel American. Dong-suk’s flight number boomed over the intercom system and he bravely stood up, hoping that his legs would not collapse. He walked with his uncle, grandmother, and mother over to the gate. His grandmother set the little suitcase she had been carrying down and kissed him on the forehead. His mother’s eyes were glossy and red. He hugged her, begging her not to cry, using all his courage to reassure her. Then he faced his uncle. He looked up, staring at his uncle’s face. The soldier, he thought; his uncle had always reminded him of a soldier. He sniffled, but did not cry under his uncle’s stern eye. * * * When the plane had landed, Dong-suk was greeted by his father and a strange man with brown, wavy hair who was tall and skinny. Dong-suk was surprised, even baffled a little. He was expecting to only be met by his father, but he was curious about this man, so it didn’t bother him much. He was so glad to see his father, glad that that long waiting was over. His father looked happy as they hugged and Dong-suk couldn’t stop smiling. He tried to stay awake for the car ride; he wanted to see every little bit of America he could. The signs fascinated him. They were so colorful and he could make out most of the letters. He was content. Slowly, though, his seat felt more and more comfortable and his eyes more and more heavy. * * * Abbie rushed downstairs when she heard the car door slam. She opened the door and flung herself outside. “Hi, Daddy,” she called into the darkness. “Hey, Abbie, honey. Could you come over here and help me?” he answered back from the driveway. When Abbie got there, she was surprised to see two other figures next to the car, one she recognized a little, and one around her own size. She grabbed some bags from the trunk of the car and headed in, toward the steps. She put the luggage down near the door. Her mom was standing there. “Who are those for?” she asked. Abbie shrugged. A few moments later, her father stood there in the doorway, with two people at his side. “I would like you to meet Dong-suk,” he said, looking at the younger person. The other one was Mr. Lee; Abby recognized him. He had started working for her dad when he had arrived in America, last fall. “They will be staying for dinner, since Dong-suk hasn’t eaten anything in a long time and it’s much too late to go out to a restaurant.” Abbie looked at the boy, studying his tan skin and almond-shaped eyes; the boy stared back at her, his expression unreadable. There was a moment’s silence and then his father explained that Dong-suk had come to America to be with him, and that he did not know very much English. Abbie felt a little squeamish as the boy watched her. It wasn’t that she was prejudiced, she hated people like that, but well, this was a different feeling.
