Counting by 7s, by Holly Goldberg Sloan; Dial Books for Young Readers: New York, 2013; $16.99 Twelve-year-old Willow Chance, who is fascinated by and knowledgeable about plants and medical conditions, has enough to deal with starting a new middle school with no friends and being accused of cheating on an important test before her parents die in a car crash. She soon finds that not only her world is changed after her parents’ sudden, tragic death, but her personality as well. Willow no longer finds herself indulging in her old habits—counting by sevens (her lucky number), charting home-grown sunflowers’ percentage of germination, or even checking the time of day. The summary on the back cover of the book states that “the triumph of this book is that it is not a tragedy.” After reading the first twenty or so chapters of the book, I couldn’t say I agreed with this. Willow was completely devastated after losing the only family she ever knew—who wouldn’t be? But as I proceeded to read the rest of the book, I found that the statement was true. Willow’s story is not a tragedy. Instead, the plot focuses on how she puts herself back together, piece by piece, until she finally returns to her old self. I have come across several books in which the protagonist has been orphaned, but none that feature this unusual way of bringing realism to the narrative. When I finished this book, I wasn’t left with the same sense of emptiness I’ve experienced with other books. I left Willow with compassionate, understanding people who care for her. I do miss the characters, but I don’t feel the need to read more and more about what happens, as the ending is positive and satisfying. However, what I enjoyed most of all about this book was how well written it was. In the first page, the balance between rich description and the flow of action really pulled me in. The opening scene, which includes speaking in Vietnamese and eating ice cream with the school counselor at the Foster’s Freeze, left me wondering and motivated to read more. The chapters flip between first-person narration from Willow’s perspective and third-person narration, giving the reader a viewpoint of what’s going on in Willow’s opinion and what’s happening in the rest of the world. The author is so insightful about seeing the world through Willow’s eyes that I can easily relate to her in many ways as a twelve-year-old myself. Willow’s story possesses another unique quality that many books lack—there is no “bad guy,” bully, or even unkind person in her story. Instead, Willow’s villain is her own misery. This makes the book even more realistic. Willow does not need to humiliate, stand up to, or get revenge on anyone to be able to fix her life—she has to overcome her enemy by achieving happiness and returning to her old personality, or, as she puts it, “the Old Me.” As new characters are introduced throughout the book, the author includes Willow’s first impressions and, over time, subtly points out their strengths, weaknesses, and traits. Through many interactions, the reader learns to like the characters, each in their own way. The characters who are important enough for Willow to get to know are compassionate people, at least on the inside. I think Counting by 7s is a worthwhile read because the uniqueness and realism of the plot and characters is well-matched with the compelling narrative. Isabel Folger, 12Santa Cruz, California
November/December 2014
Life Among the Whispers
By Mathilde Fox-Smith Illustrated by Anika Knudson No longer was the building a building, but a window He had decided earlier that he wouldn’t do it tonight. This nagging annoyed him profoundly. Though now that he was already plastered against a wall, inches from the swerving shaft of police-car headlights in the city, it might as well happen. As soon as the tires rolled over the crumbly pavement, he crept from the shadowed wall, slipping down the road. The streets were licked by shadows and mostly undisturbed by the din of passing cars. He could faintly picture a blank, ancient building in the back of the park a few roads over, one that he had seen before. To avoid being questioned or recognized by drivers, he kept his head down, his eyes burning into the sidewalk. A tall gate guarded the entrance to the quiet park, made up of thin black posts set close together. A barrier of thick bamboo crowded the borders between grass and street. He began to shove aside the flexible trunks, squeezing in between the stems. It enclosed him in a chamber of green as he pushed through to the park’s grassy edge. Pale moonbeams pooled over the dark ground. Barbed wire twisted between the park and the site of the old building. Gingerly taking the smoother bit of the wire in between his fingers, he jerked it up as far as he could to create an entrance for himself. Crumpled leaves and rust-colored pine needles concealed cans of spray paint, stashed there on his last encounter with the police. Lifting a random container, he scrubbed away a patch of the dirt and scanned the color: brown. Pictures fluttered back into his brain. Selecting a cream-white from the paints, he also chose a scene. And then, he began to paint. Lise woke abruptly. The cheerful chirping of a robin rang in her sleepy ears. Roused by it, she slipped out of bed. Her long hair was matted from sleep. Lise clomped into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “Morning!” she was greeted by her mother. Lise returned a smile and plopped down into a hard wooden chair. “Would you mind much if I go to the new art exhibit?” she requested. “Well, we have a party, and dinner out tonight… you know that your father’s running for office again,” she warned. “He might want you to help with pamphlets and flyers.” “I won’t be long.” “Yeah, I guess. But be sure to be back by two-fifteen,” she agreed. Lise smiled in thanks and finished her breakfast hastily. The brutal August sun cast its blinding rays over the city and the people that swarmed like ants in the streets. An art gallery was featuring a new exhibit, and Lise was eager to visit it. Though her intention was to stay for that exhibit only, she decided to wander about the old ones, too. Just as she exited, Lise was drawn into the cheerful green park. Her feet ached from her brisk walking in the gallery, so she swiveled around to where she thought was a bench. That ambition quickly vanished from her mind. She remembered the building quite clearly; that was why she didn’t recognize it at first. Its crumbly surface was completely slathered in paint. Lise blinked repeatedly, astonished. The only thing that remained of the eerie side of it was the floppy fencing of barbed wire. Otherwise, it was majestic. A painting of a sunset flourished over the bricks. The vibrant sky was streaked with crimson, magenta, vermillion, and turquoise. They blended beautifully above the magnificent, blazing sun, reflecting in the rippled ocean. Even the water nearly moved. The beach was a golden stretch of beige, shining in the sun’s rays. Just in the front of the piece, a single luscious palm tree leaf waved. No longer was the building a building, but a window. Lise was petrified with amazement at the artwork, her breath blown away. She stepped closer, examining every flawless stroke of the painting. “Wow,” she breathed. A tiny signature was traced with black spray paint: “Tobias Acosta.” She suddenly remembered the stern reporters on television who spoke of the so-called Tobias Acosta, a graffitist. Although his paintings were signed with that name, no recorded resident of the city was called by it. Of course, she knew this painting was outrageously wrong—it was graffiti, but her amazement defied her consciousness. Lise uttered, “I never thought I’d see one in person before they erased it.” She moved close enough that her fingers curled around the rusty barbed wire and took in every perfect detail. Unexpectedly, Lise’s eyes strayed to her digital watch and she gasped at the square letters. “Three o’clock! Oh, I’d better go.” She took one last examination of the picture and reluctantly turned to leave. Lise took a particularly long time returning home, the image glowing in her mind. By the time she approached her doorstep, the little watch ticked three-fifteen. Entering the apartment, she was first greeted by her mother, and her daze quickly dissolved. “Sorry. I… lost track of the time,” she stammered, because it wasn’t a total lie. What would her parents—her campaigning father, mostly—think if she marveled over the artwork of a criminal? Lise passed her mother and entered her own room, standing before the dresser and gazing at the girl in the mirror. “Will I ever be able to draw like that?” she wondered aloud. Lise’s favorite activity was art, and she was praised at school and home for her artwork. The girl repeated her question, but something in her aqua eyes made Lise know that her inquiry was foolish. * * * “Mom… I left my purse in the car.” “Lise, do you really need it?” She sighed, “I’ll get it.” Her mother’s forehead creased, but she tossed Lise the keys to their vehicle and called, “Be quick!” The warm August air was much more welcoming at
Performance
Night knits the mountains close and hazy lines shoot high. A half moon rising low and dim quietly moans a tune; the wind is at a howl; the trees are a wobbling drum. The lake ripples— the main event is about to occur— Though it is nothing special, really, but celestial dead bodies that light up our little souls. Izzah Khairi, 13Calgary, Alberta, Canada
