Seriously, though, I think the show does a brilliant job of exploring — or at least addressing in passing — the myriad of things going on in England immediately pre-WWI and during the war. The show seems to have the same sort of conflicted attitude about the economic and social inequality that I imagine (based on things I’ve read, not any personal experience) many modern English people have. Lord Grantham is a benevolent dictator of a beautiful home, and it’s easy to see Downton as a sort of wish-fulfillment paradise, but we never forget that Grantham is a dictator, and that any decent lives his servants or children have is entirely due to his indulgence. In other words, we know this social structure is horribly imbalanced and wrong, but oh my goodness the dresses.

I could go on and on about this show, and probably will at some point. But this is supposed to be about books. Staircase Wit posted this intriguing list of Downton read-alikes, divided into fiction and non-, adult and YA. Can’t wait to try some of them!

I’d like to add The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, by Laurie R. King: Older Sherlock Holmes and his young sidekick Mary Russell team up to solve mysteries in WWI England. Utterly delightful.

Any other suggestions?

In the French fairy tale on which this is based, one sister is kind to a fairy/witch/whathaveyou and is blessed to have jewels and flowers drop from her mouth when she speaks. The second sister goes to demand the same blessing, but because of her rudeness is cursed with toads and snakes. In this twist, the snakes and toads are a blessing of a different sort — toads are lucky and snakes are revered as rat-catching symbols of the goddess Naghali. The setting is a fictionalized polytheistic 17th century India, occupied by fictionalized pseudo-Muslims who call themselves Believers.

Tana and her mother Hiral are the only family Diribani has left after her father, Hiral’s second wife, dies. Miracle of miracles, they actually love each other; no wicked stepmother and sister here. Newly impoverished, both sisters want to keep the family together, but the goddess’s blessings make that impossible. Diribani wants to share her gift, but nearly starts a riot during a parade for the visiting prince and is taken to his palace far away for her protection. Tana’s gift is feared by the Believers. The prince orders her and Hiral to live in the temple grove outside the village, where her beasties can quietly slither off to the forest. They are sad to be separated, but it seems for the best.

But of course it’s not that simple. Diribani has a hard time fitting in with her new companions, who are Believers and royalty to boot. The wicked, greedy local governor drives Tana out and wants Diribani and her jewels for himself. And of course both girls fall for men they think they can’t have.

I liked the delicate interplay between the two religions. The Believers are an occupying power, yes, but they are only portrayed as evil at the beginning, while they’re still “the other” — as Diribani gets to know them she comes to appreciate their customs. I also liked Diribani’s and Tana’s separate quests to determine what Naghali intends for them to do with her gifts. Both girls have quite believable crises of faith, but the goddess never really forsakes them. This is an unabashedly religious book in a way that modern readers will relate to, I think, even though the religion is made up. There was also a surprising amount of complex political intrigue; I can see this appealing to fans of Megan Whalen Turner’s The Thief.

None of the characters ever particularly grabbed me, unfortunately. There’s too much “oh woe, I am a plain/useless/lazy girl; my sister is so much better than me” from both sisters, though that improves some once they start traveling and having adventures. The book struck me as a bit overwritten, with a lot of unnecessary explanation of thoughts and feelings that were obvious. But the descriptions were certainly gorgeous, and Allegra and I both loved the fairy tale “twist.” Most importantly, a lot more happens than in Tall Story, and on that basis we thought it would be more appealing to young readers. I had a blast chatting with Allegra about these books, as she is a young teenager herself and therefore very differently qualified than I am to judge kid appeal!

Also reviewed by: My Library Card Wore Out (my co-judge), Birdbrain(ed) Book Blog (who sent it on to our round of Nerds Heart YA), The Book Smugglers, and Forever Young Adult.

“Strong female character” is one of those shorthand memes that has leached into the cultural groundwater and spawned all kinds of cinematic clichés: alpha professionals whose laserlike focus on career advancement has turned them into grim, celibate automatons; robotic, lone-wolf, ascetic action heroines whose monomaniacal devotion to their crime-fighting makes them lean and cranky and very impatient; murderous 20-something comic-book salesgirls who dream of one day sidekicking for a superhero; avenging brides; poker-faced assassins; and gloomy ninjas with commitment issues.

Or the YA versions, typically found in fantasy or historical fiction: the girl who dresses up as a boy to fight or do some other “male” activity; the girl who hates the feminine tasks assigned her and runs off to do boy stuff instead; the girl who saves the world with her ass-kicking skills.

Chocano acknowledges that the original goal of “strong female characters” was “strong” as in “interesting or complex or well written,” and that is certainly the goal of these YA characters as well. Too often, though, the thing that makes them interesting or complex is the fact that they don’t want to do what their society expects of them as women. They buck their culture’s expectations while fitting neatly into the reader’s. What girl would want to be stuck with no options but cooking and sewing and getting married? By modern standards, a girl who submits to those restrictions couldn’t possibly be strong.

But that ends up implying that cooking and sewing and raising a family can’t be strong things to do — or more to the point, that they can’t be strong things to want, since to be strong a YA character must go after what she wants. (Though that’s a pretty American attitude — it could also be strong to submit to what one doesn’t want for the good of the many. But that’s a discussion for another time.) I would love to see more YA historical fiction and fantasy with more strong (as in complex, interesting, and possessed of inner strength) female characters who aren’t strong (as in wielding a sword).

Arianna of Wandering Librarians writes more about that inner strength idea.

Al Capone, my favorite of the two, takes place on Alcatraz in 1935, when guards’ families lived on the island. (I have a bit of a prison thing — any closed society, really — so I was all over this premise. Also my students have been recommending the book to me for years.) Moose has just moved to the island with his father, mother, and sister Natalie. Natalie has an undiagnosed mental disability (she would probably be diagnosed with fairly low-functioning autism today). Their mother, obsessed with curing her, has sent her to every quack she could find. Now they’ve moved to San Francisco so Natalie can attend a school for special-needs kids.

But she doesn’t get in. So Moose’s mother insists that Moose come straight home from school every day on the ferry and take Natalie around the island with him and the handful of other island kids. Moose is initially grumpy about Natalie cramping his style, but the extra interaction does turn out to help both Natalie and Moose.

I made that description mostly about Natalie, but there’s a lot more going on for Moose: the Warden’s daughter Piper, who’s way too much trouble to be as cute as she is. His new friends at school and their regular baseball games. His relationships with his parents. All are handled with humor and sensitivity, and despite the historical setting the whole thing feels like it could have happened yesterday. This is a book that happens to have an autistic character, not an Austism Problem Novel.

Anything But Typical, on the other hand, is definitely a one-trick pony. Jason, the narrator, is far higher functioning than Natalie — he is “mainstreamed” in school, though he finds a lot of challenges there now that he’s denied his one-on-one assistant. His favorite thing in the world is Storyboard, the forum to which he posts his short stories. He strikes up a correspondence with PhoenixBird, which turns into an online friendship. When Jason’s parents surprise him with a trip to a Storyboard convention, he’s terrified of meeting PhoenixBird — will she still be his friend or even his girlfriend, or will she ditch him once she sees how “weird” he is?

It’s not much of a spoiler to say that she reacts with some distance when they meet — the book would be wildly unrealistic if she didn’t. Jason’s life is pretty tough in some ways. He doesn’t understand what people expect of him or how to give it, but he wants to please them; he wants the kind of relationships “neurotypicals” have. The “uplifting” ending has him proud of his unusual mind, but one definitely gets the sense that he’s going to go through that cycle (as we all do, I guess) many times before adulthood.

This is a solid story that provides a good perspective on autism from the inside (with the caveat, of course, that autism varies widely, so no one should take this as The Way the Autistic Mind Works). My favorite part was reading the descriptions of Jason’s inventive stories, somewhere between magical realism and fable. But overall, it didn’t particularly grab me — there just wasn’t enough depth. (On the other hand, gorgeous cover!)

Al Capone also reviewed by: Of Cabbages and Kings, Searching for a Good Read, and Fyrefly’s Book Blog

Anything But also reviewed by: Auntie Sarah, Abby (the) Librarian, and Ms. Yingling

Richard Peck gave the following cover blurb: “high drama about how language unlocks the world.” Which I think covers it nicely. When you think about it, this is an oddly cerebral book for kids (aimed at 10-14, I’d say?) — the central question with which Annie occupies most of her thoughts is, “How can I get Helen to understand the concept of language?” Not generally the stuff of high drama.

And yet it is (and not just because Annie slaps Helen around a whole lot). It’s a fascinating thing to consider, what language is and how it happens, and Miller makes these questions absolutely accessible. I was less drawn in by Annie’s quixotic attempt to make an emotional connection with Helen, but I’m going to chalk that one up to my almost complete lack of a mothering instinct for small children.

Miller also manages to deal pretty smoothly with 19th-century discipline, which can make for awkward 21st-century reading. As I said, Annie gets awfully physical with Helen — not to hurt her, but to get her under some control. I’m not sure how else anyone, even today, would deal with a wild, spoiled 6-year-old who thought nothing of kicking, biting, and breaking people’s teeth, but it’s uncomfortable to read about in this post-spanking era.

More subtly difficult is the way Annie (who was blind herself) thinks about disability:

Turned in profile, her misshapen eye is hidden from my view. I see only half of her face — the pretty half. I fancy it’s also the bright half, the obedient half. Is this the side of Helen that let me touch her moments ago?

Yeesh. Of course, it makes perfect sense that Annie would have seen things that way, as a product of her time. But it’s by no means a prejudice we’re free of in the 21st century, and this is a subtle enough expression (one of many in the book) of the idea of disability as a sort of “devil’s mark” on an otherwise good child that I hope kids don’t just take it in stride.

Also reviewed by: YA or STFU, Jen Robinson’s Book Page, Becky’s Book Reviews, and Eva’s Book Addiction.

One of you lovely people (sorry, I forget who) recommended this for our 8th grade summer reading list a couple of years ago. I added it on the strength of the recommendation and a few reviews, but decided this year I should probably read it if I wanted to justify keeping it around, especially as it’s one of the few non-YA novels on the list and I didn’t want any phone calls.

The most inappropriate thing that happens, you’ll be relieved to know, is that Mary and Holmes spend time together unchaperoned. (This Edwardian/WWI-era setting is a fascinating one as a tipping point for technology and social mores — the Victorian Holmes, who finds it safest if he thinks of Mary as a young man, and Mary, accustomed to running about in trousers and attending Oxford in the absence of most of the male students.) The prose will be challenging for most middle schoolers, but Mary is the kind of strong, independent, clever young heroine who might pull adolescent readers through the tough bits. (If they are at all like I was… er, still am… these adolescent readers will also be all aflutter about Holmes and Mary’s not-quite-romantic relationship. It’s not creepy, I swear.)

I am not a mystery fan, a Holmes nut, or an aficionado of the era (though I’m rapidly becoming one), but I loved absolutely everything about this book. King adds further depth to Holmes while remaining solidly grounded in Conan Doyle’s canon, and his verbal and intellectual sparring with Mary is wonderful. I had to work to keep up with Holmes’ and Mary’s deductions and references, but enough was always explained that I never felt stupid or left out, despite having, of course, a vastly inferior intellect.

Spoiler alert: Don’t google the author or the series! You will learn a thing you don’t want to know yet. Just trust me that it’s the beginning of a very long series, the second is called A Monstrous Regiment of Women, and I will be checking it out from the library just as soon as it opens tomorrow. I believe my spring break will be spent in post-WWI England.

Also reviewed by: A Striped Armchair and Book Lust

This won a National Book Award and I’d heard people suggest this as a “YA book for adult readers,” so I think my expectations were too high. I thought it was fine, but it lacked the depth I’d hoped for.

The first half reminded me of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Evie isn’t that poorly clued in to the behavior of those around her, but she spends most of her time somewhat naively observing the adults — while it was pretty obvious to me that she was tragically misreading several key points. (I’m not sure how obvious it will be to your average teen reader.)

The second half picks up as events start to unravel and Evie starts to grow up. Blundell creates a tense atmosphere of noir-ish dread, and I zipped through it once I got to the halfway mark. Evie’s growth from naivety to maturity is a believable one for the character. It just made the first half drag for me since the adults were where the action was, and Evie was missing most of it.

Also reviewed by: Persnickety Snark, Bookshelves of Doom, and Steph Su Reads.

Yes, ok, this is very much an Oppressed Girl Living Through Important History Finds Her Inner Feminist (and Maybe Falls in Love) book. Fortunately it’s a really good one. I appreciated the unusual colonial perspective on World War II, and I’m always fascinated by the Indian struggle for independence — but Venkatraman rightly keeps the focus on Vidya and her personal conflicts, as is realistic for a book narrated by a teenage girl.

Luckily Vidya is smart and thoughtful, so her personal conflicts are well-considered. Her feminism doesn’t come from nowhere; her father is a student of Indian philosophy, and as she reads his favorites, she comes to her own conclusions. You might have had some version of this conversation:

“Killing people is always wrong.”
“Yeah, but what about Hitler? Should we have let him win?”

India in 1942 — when to be a soldier meant choosing between Ghandi’s ideal of non-violent resistance, or fighting with your oppressors against a possibly greater foe — is the perfect setting for this old debate. Vidya and her brother get into some great shouting matches about it.

Plus the writing is gorgeous! I lived in Madras for the days it took me to read this — the plates of fragrant rice, the flowers picked for morning prayer, the festivals (man, I thought we Jews had a lot of holidays!), the secluded library… yum. (And yes, all right, The Boy is pretty cute, and Vidya doesn’t let him get away with anything. It’s a good romance, if that’s your thing… ahem, Kate Diamond.) We teach India in 8th grade social studies, so I’m going to push it around here for that reason, but it’s an enjoyable read all on its own.

Also reviewed at: S. Krishna’s Books, Reading on a Rainy Day, Bookshelves of Doom, and Asian Review of Books

Evolution was a Newbery Honor book this year, and it sure does have “Newbery” all over it, with the cute 19th-century pinafore and the spunky-yet-wholesome heroine who loves science and her granddaddy. All of which is to say, I adored it. It might seem too “good for you” for some kids, though.

It’s episodic and slice-of-life, without much in the way of overarching plot. Calpurnia is yet another “tomboy” who bravely strives to shrug off the limitations her society places on women. If actual history had had as many of these girls as YA fiction does, we would have won the vote a hell of a lot sooner. (Can we get a novel about a 19th-century girl who loves needlework and looks forward to marrying a boy from a good family? Didn’t those girls have interesting lives sometimes, too? Especially since, quite frankly, most of my students are more likely to be the modern equivalent of this girl than of Calpurnia or Caddie Woodlawn.)

I loved her relationship with Granddaddy. I loved that he wasn’t secretly a sweet doting grandfather just waiting to emerge; he was in fact as hopelessly absorbed with his own interests as he looked, but Callie fit right into that single-mindedness. (The scenes in which he forgets that she’s a kid and wants to share a celebratory shot of liquor with her? Priceless.)

And I loved the promise of a new millennium — kids might be frustrated by the lack of resolution to Callie’s problems (I sure would have been), but I know what happens after that snowy Jan. 1, 1900. The telephones and automobiles that are so novel in Callie’s town take over the world. The 19th Amendment passes in Callie’s 32nd year. More and more women go to university, become scientists. I like to think Calpurnia V. Tate is one of them.

Also reviewed at: A Fuse #8 Production and onehandclapping.

I love almost everything about this wonderfully original book: the mom’s boyfriend who’s actually a nice guy and a good dad, the chapter titles structured as $20,000 Pyramid categories (it took me awhile to get that), the way the tone evokes A Wrinkle in Time. It’s one of those cozy books where everyone is good and forgiving and human without being saccharine, and it probably makes me a giant wuss, but I love that. The end is creepy and tragic and uplifting, and I bawled my eyes out.

As a side note, I have to quote this delicious (snerk) swipe at food-related racial shorthand:

My first memory of Julia is from second grade, when we made self-portraits in art. She complained there was no “cafe au lait”-colored construction paper for her skin, or “sixty-percent-cacao-chocolate” color for her eyes. I remember staring at her while these words came out of her mouth, and thinking, Your skin is light brown. Your eyes are dark brown. Why don’t you just use brown, you idiot? Jay Stringer didn’t complain about the paper, and neither did any of the other ten kids using brown.

What really makes this work is that while Julia is set up to be the snotty love-to-hate-her girl, she ends up being a friend. So we see how even though she’s privileged financially, she encounters so much racism that she needed to ennoble her brown skin as “cafe au lait” — and somehow Stead manages to make all of these points subtly, while staying within sixth-grade perspective.

Sadly what I don’t love about this book is the cover. I would have loved the hell out of this book when I was twelve, but no one could’ve convinced me to read it. I would have looked at the cover, gone “Meh, depressed kid with no friends and too much interior life,” and tossed it. (I didn’t like books that hit too close to home, apparently.)

We just got it, so I haven’t started foisting it on my kids yet, but I think they’ll love it. Highly recommended!

Also reviewed by: Abby (the) Librarian, Educating Alice (which has an annoying snowfall animation, but makes up for it with posts by her students about the book), and A Fuse #8 Production (who writes much longer reviews than I do, so she says all the things I wanted to say but didn’t).

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