Middle Grade Monday: Wish, by Barbara O'Connor

 

Title: Wish
Author: Barbara O'Connor. Read by Suzy Jackson
Publication Info: 2016, Recorded Books. 4:40. Hardcover 2016, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 240 pages.
Source: Library digital resources

Publisher's Blurb:

Eleven-year-old Charlie Reese has been making the same secret wish every day since fourth grade. She even has a list of all the ways there are to make the wish, such as cutting off the pointed end of a slice of pie and wishing on it as she takes the last bite. But when she is sent to the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina to live with family she barely knows, it seems unlikely that her wish will ever come true. That is until she meets Wishbone, a skinny stray dog who captures her heart, and Howard, a neighbor boy who proves surprising in lots of ways. Suddenly Charlie is in serious danger of discovering that what she thought she wanted may not be what she needs at all. 


My Review:  
I enjoyed this story. It's a sweet tale, with a likeable main character who manages some significant personal growth, and is definitely human. And it's a dog story that does not involved the loss or death of the dog, thank heavens!

Now for the critique: I knew how this was going to play out from about page one, and there were no surprises there. There were also some pretty predictable stereotypes on display. The good people were too good, and Charlie's hopeless parents are off-stage and undeveloped. Even Charlie is pretty easy to draw, though I think she's the only character who is at all multi-faceted (maybe her sister Jackie, too, a bit). The depiction of the small-town/rural setting jarred a bit, too. Hicks from the sticks is another stereotype we don't need to perpetuate.

When I think about the story, I have to wonder why I enjoyed it so much. Maybe because it WAS a simple story with obvious outcomes, in a time of great uncertainty. Sometimes it's not bad to be predictable. I'm doing a lot of re-reading of favorites right now, and this had some of that feeling to it.

Maybe the reading had something to do with it, too: Suzy Jackson does a good job of rendering the characters, without an excess of Southern drawl, but with just enough to give a feeling for where the story takes place.

My Recommendation:
Enjoyable as brain candy, and might be good reading for a kid who needs a little help seeing what he/she has. Most of what Charlie learned was to stop wanting what she couldn't have, and to see how good what she did have could be. Might annoy those who live in the sticks. An easy read for kids from 8 up.


FTC Disclosure: I checked Wish out of my library, and received nothing from the writer or publisher for my honest review. The opinions expressed are my own and those of no one else. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."  

Friday Fiction: Dahlia

I think I'm getting my mojo back. This week's story came to me at the sight of a "lost cat" (or maybe dog) poster glimpsed while I was biking. I'm pretty sure the pet's name was Dahlia, and I couldn't help thinking that was a name to offend a cat. The story unfolded itself from there. And next week's story again grew out of something seen while out riding. I guess I need to ride more to write more? In any case, it's nice to have the ideas flowing again, though not necessarily coming from the usual prompts.

###

Dahlia

On a grey and gloomy day on moderately quiet street in a medium-sized town, a woman of more or less middle age moved from lamp post to lamp post, taping up signs. Each featured a photo of a large marmalade cat and read, “MISSING CAT! Dahlia is lost! She is lonely, cold and scared. Won’t you help me find her?” and gave a phone number to call if the cat was seen. The woman shivered as she worked, and drew her sweater more tightly about her shoulders.

Meanwhile, across town on a rather less quiet street, a large marmalade cat relaxed in a nightclub, enjoying the scene. Word of the notices came by roundabout means. The small furry dog who lived three houses down from Dahlia and the woman saw the notices, and told Tom, the feral cat who stole his kibble, and Tom told the bird known as Shut-up-you-dirty-old-bird. Shut-up lived at the nightclub and came right home to tell Dahlia.

“Awk! Tom says that Killer Instinct says that your human is looking for you.”

“So?”

“She thinks you’re lost.” Both animals had a good laugh over that, before Dahlia asked for particulars. “Put up signs, that’s how. Killer I. saw them himself.”

When the nightclub finally closed, Dahlia took a nap. The cat got up and went out to see the signs at first light. “You know,” Dahlia growled to Killer Instinct, “Not only am I not lost, cold, lonely or scared, but I’m really not a Dahlia, either, if you know what I mean. I’m more of a James Dean. Or maybe Lord somebody.”

Killer Instinct nodded. It was true. The nice lady, who really was good at opening cans of cat food, and even handed out dog treats if you shook hands or did anything silly like that, wasn’t very observant. She tended to think of all dogs as “he” and cats, like boats, as “she.” She had never noticed that Dahlia was, in fact, a male cat.  Before Killer Instinct could offer any suggestions, a door opened nearby, and a voice called into the night.

“Fluffy! Fluffers, you bad dog! Come in now and I’ll give you your treats!”

Killer I. tried not to look at the cat, and trotted off.

“Dogs,” muttered James Dean. “Always thinking with their stomachs.” The cat formerly known as Dahlia stalked back down the street, tail erect. “Anyone who called me ‘Fluffers’ would live to regret it,” was his final take on the matter, though no one was present to hear, Shut Up having stayed at the nightclub to get his beauty sleep.

And yet. As James Dean, Feline Rebel, made his way back across town to the nightclub, he couldn’t help thinking of The Woman. He knew what that poster meant. Sooner or later someone would recognize him. What was she thinking, saying he was scared, anyway? He wasn’t scared of anything!

The Speakeasy wouldn’t open for hours, but the cook at the diner on Main Street always gave him a sausage when he came around, so he hung out there in the mornings, working the breakfast crowd and napping in an empty booth when business was slow. Late morning, he moved to the Café three doors down, and napped in their front window. The staff there thought he added a classy touch.

Mid afternoon, he headed back toward the Nightclub. It wouldn’t open for hours, but he could get in some quality napping before the music started. But when he turned onto a side street, his eye was caught by a poster. One of his posters.

So The Woman had ventured this far from her easy chair and her lace curtains for him! He thought that ought to make him feel something. He remembered, too, that she had a grand way with a can opener. Slowly, he found himself turning toward the old neighborhood.

Shut-up-you-dirty-old-bird found him first. “Awk! So you’re going back? Leaving the high life?”

“I don’t know.” James Dean stopped for a moment. He had a sudden inspiration. He suddenly saw that he wasn’t Dahlia: The Woman was. “’Dahlia is lost, lonely and scared,’” he quoted. “I’m not lost or scared and never lonely. But she is. The Woman.”

“And she has a can opener,” the bird mocked. He and the cat turned at a low growl.

“Nuthin’ wrong with that.” Killer Instinct kept his voice as low and rough as possible for a small dog with—James Dean couldn’t help but notice—very fluffy fur and a diamond-studded collar.

“It's a bit dull there, though,” James Dean said. He thought about the music and dancing at the nightclub. He particularly liked the lights that made spots run all over the floor.

An idea began to form in his feline brain. “Yeah, I’m gong home. But I’m not settling down and I won’t be Dahlia again.”

“You gonna keep running off?” Killer Instinct asked, forgetting to keep his voice low and gruff.

“Not exactly.”

Killer I. and Shut Up pestered James Dean all the way home, but he wouldn’t tell them his plan, and they had to leave when he reached the little house and The Woman with the can opener.

James Dean would have preferred to walk right in, or at the least knock on the door in a confident and domineering manner. But since the door was closed and he was a cat, he settled himself on the doorstep and yowled.

Afterwards, James Dean preferred not to think about the greeting the woman gave him, alternately hugging and scolding him, though she also opened a can of fancy tuna for him, which went a long way toward erasing the offense.

The hard part came later. He kept an eye on the time, and at the right moment—he got a bit of luck here, as The Woman went into the front garden to mess about with her flowers—he made his move.  James Dean followed her out, and, making sure she was watching him, trotted out the front gate.

“Oh, stop, you bad cat!” she cried, and trotted after him, dropping her clippers on the walk, but clutching her huge hat to her head as she went. James Dean made sure he went just fast enough to keep ahead of her without losing her.

He could hear the music from half a block away, and they were playing his song. He headed for the front door, where a man seemed to pick who could come in and who couldn’t by looking at little bits of paper. James Dean darted between his legs into the main room.

The lights were spinning over the floor, and he at once forgot his mission in the excitement of dancing with them.  Behind him, the woman gasped. For once in her life forgetting to be polite, she pushed past the guard, exclaiming “Good heavens, Dahlia!”

The guard turned. “You mean Johnny?”

“Johnny?” The Woman sounded very confused.

“We call him John Travolta on account of how he likes to dance when the disco ball’s on.”

“He?” The Woman gasped. “John Travolta? But her name is Dahlia.”

“She’s a he, ma’am. Sounds like he’s been living with you under false pretenses.” He seemed to find this very funny, and laughed loud and long, but The Woman did not laugh.

By now the manager had come up and she turned to him. “Does she—he—come here often?” She pointed, and he broke into a grin, seeing Johnny dancing with the sparkles.

“You bet. Every night for the last week.”

“Oh!” she gasped. She stood there in her nondescript slacks and sensible shoes, and the foot inside one of those shoes began to tap. Then the other. Then, with a sudden laugh that made the manager think she wasn’t so old after all, she moved onto the dance floor, matching her moves to the cat’s.

James Dean/Johnny Travolta looked around and spotted the parrot watching them.

“Well, Cat, you did it,” the bird cawed.

“Shut up, you dirty old bird,” someone shouted.

The cat gave a small, satisfied “meow” and went on dancing with sparkles, his Human following obediently.

###

©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2014


Don't miss the Pismawallops PTA Back-to-School sale! Ebook just $2.99 until Sept. 10. Visit Amazon or use coupon code PJ97S to get the same price from Smashwords, which sells all formats, including Kindle, Kobo and Nook.

Flash Fiction Friday: ". . . And His Dog"

This weeks' Wendig Challenge was a "must contain" challenge, with two lists of story elements from which the random number generator gave me two: an escaped prisoner and a faithful hound.  I chose to interpret that a bit loosely, of course.  As a bonus, it happened in Skunk Corners.

. . . And His Dog

I never liked being shut in a schoolroom all day.  Way I saw it, whoever thought of locking kids up most of the daylight hours had a mean streak a mile wide and a mile deep.  Early on, I took to dodging school as much as I could.

I’d start out toward the school in the morning—Ma was a stickler for that—then whistle up old Stinkpot and go off wherever.  Everyone called my dog Stinkpot because he liked smelly stuff way too much.  Ma’d make me wash him, and then he’d go and tangle with a skunk.  When that wore off, he’d roll in something dead.  He was that sort of dog.  You’d never say he was a dog who had much use for school.

Some days, when I would go to school, ol Stinkpot, he’d come and sit outside, like he was scouting a way to bust me out.  See, he knew as well as me that school was a sort of jail, mean to keep us kids locked up on account of the grownups don’t want us to have fun.  Mebbe on account of grownups never seemed to have much fun, most days.

Anyhow, when Stinkpot’d come to school, I’d say I had to take him home, else the dogcatcher would haul him off and eat him.  I’d cry about it if I had to.  That was when we lived in Lupine, and the dogcatcher was an old fellow we boys figured ate dogs and cats.  So teacher’d let me go, and I’d give Stinkpot a biscuit for busting me out of the jailhouse.

#

Everything got different when we moved to Skunk Corners.  I never knew why Pa took us off up there.  It was awful close to the edge of everything, and made Lupine look pretty good.  Anyway, though, we moved up there and Ma was so busy, she told me to just go up to the school and register myself.

“Or whatever they do in this two-bit town,” I heard her mutter when she thought I’d gone out.  Now, that wasn’t right.  Two-Bit was two stops down the train line closer to Lupine.   Skunk Corners was beyond Two-Bit and just one stop short of Endoline.

Ma’s instructions looked to me like my perfect chance.  No one around there knew I was even there, let alone that I was supposed to be in school.  I was twelve years old, and could read and figure, which seemed good enough to me.  How much learning did a boy need in those mountains, was how I argued it.  And Pa kept moving us farther back into the hills, so it looked to me like I’d had plenty of school for where we were heading.

Of course, I didn't make that argument to Ma and Pa.  Ma’d say to get my backside to the school if I didn’t want her to tan my hide.  And Pa would say that if I didn’t want an education I could start working on the farm for real.  I already did plenty of work, feeding the animals and grubbing out stumps.  So I just started up the trail to town, meek as could be.

Once out of sight of the cabin, I slung my books under a bush and whistled.  Stinkpot came trotting up, smelling more like skunk than ever.  Figured, now we lived in Skunk Corners.

“C’mon, boy, we’re going exploring.”

We went on that way for a week.  I left home every morning, and wandered off wherever we chose to go.  Stinkpot could always find his way home, so I didn’t worry none about getting lost.
But come Saturday, I wanted to see the town, such as it was.  We’d got off the train and gone right through to the farm, no time to explore nothing.  Ma’d been careful to point out the schoolhouse, but that wasn’t what I wanted to see.  I made a note of it all the same, to know what to avoid.

I’d stayed away all week so no one would send me to the school.  But Saturday would be safe, surely, so we started off early.  Ma wanted some flour and cornmeal from whatever they had for a store, so I even had an excuse.  I wasn’t in any hurry to do the shopping, though.  I just poked along the dusty street, checking things out.  I still avoided that school, but took a good look in at Two-Timin’ Tess’s Tavern.

All on a sudden, someone in dungarees, a big flannel shirt, and a pair of moccasins blocked my path.
“You’re new in town.”  I was surprised to hear a girl’s voice coming from the mass of denim and flannel.  I risked a look, and I guessed she was a girl, though her hair was cropped short and her hands were in her pockets, just the way mine were.

“Yeah,” I said, cautious-like.

“You got a name?”

“Lije.  Elijah Monroe.  Ma’am,” I added uncertainly.

She shook her head.  “I’m just Big Al.”  She studied me some more.  “On second thoughts, that’ll be ‘Teacher’ to you.  I’ll see you in class Monday.” It wasn’t a question.  Then she gave Stinkpot a chunk of jerky, petted his big silky ears, and was gone into the big brick building that claimed it was a library.

I shrugged and finished my exploring, and bought Ma’s supplies.  By the time I was home, I’d forgotten all about Big Al.

#

Come Monday, I did what I always did.  I headed for the creek, Stinkpot at my heels, and went to fishing.  It was a perfect day for it, and I had a great time in the creek, even if I didn’t catch no fish.
Along about mid-morning, Stinkpot disappeared, but I didn’t pay that no mind.  Stink, he’s always haring off after something or other, and he always comes back when he’s ready, or when he’s hungry.

Just when I was starting to think about eating the bread and butter Ma’d put up for my lunch, up bounded Stinkpot.  I took it for granted he’d come back for lunch, until a noise made me look beyond at the bushes.  There stood that Big Al person.  I looked from her to Stink and back, and she nodded.

“Yup.  He brought me, just like I asked him to.  And now he’s going home, and you are coming to school.”  Then she stood there with her arms crossed, and glared at me until I packed up my fishing stuff and came up to her.  I stood there waiting for the roof to come in on me, because she was big, and she looked mean.

But Big Al—Teacher—just laughed and petted Stinkpot.  She gave him another bit of jerky.  “Good boy.  You run along home now.”

And that lousy traitor dog panted a smile, wagged his tail, and trotted off.  And Teacher took me by the arm and hauled me back to prison.

Which is how I came to learn there’s more to school than ABC and more to ‘Rithmatic than two plus two.  I’m still not sure I like it, but Stinkpot won’t come bust me out anymore, so I guess I’ll have to stick around and learn something.

 ###

©Rebecca M. Douglass 2014

 

Kid Lit Blog Hop--Parched, by Melanie Crowder

Title: Parched by Melanie Crowder, 154 pages

Publisher: Harcourt Children's, 2013

Source: Library

Summary:

In an unnamed (but African-feeling) land, violence has taken over as sea levels rise and drought leaves almost no fresh water anywhere.  Told from the perspectives of Sarel, a girl whose parents have been killed for their water; Nandi, the leader of the pack of dogs who surround Sarel; and Musa, a boy with the water song inside him, the story tells how all must work together to survive in a parched land.

Review: 

Parched reads almost, but not quite, like a realistic novel.  The author's choice to keep the place unnamed has allowed for a slight exaggeration (I hope) of conditions compared to anywhere real, and leaves room for a hint of magic in the ability of the boy Musa to "hear" the water underground.  I usually prefer more realism and less magic (except in books that are clearly fantasy), but this is good.   The blend works, and the result is a powerfully moving book told in a lyric style that is beautiful even when the story is ugly.

And the story does have its ugly parts.  It opens with violence: the murder of Sarel's parents, and the burning of their home, and there are upsurges of violence throughout.  At times the beauty of the prose makes a striking contrast with the ugliness of human nature, though the stylistic writing keeps that ugliness at just enough distance not to be jarring.  I would, however, recommend this only for older middle-grade students, because of the violence.  Ultimately, however, it is less about how the world could look in a time of extreme shortages, and more about the beauty of the earth.

Probably my biggest criticism of the book is an ending that seems to imply that everything is fine, though the underlying causes of the children's troubles are unchanged, and I see nothing about their situation to protect them from the evil leaking out from the city.  This is not uncommon for children's books, of course--some kind of happy resolution is a good idea.  But sometimes to our adult eyes, it's too clearly contrived--or doomed to be short-lived.


 Full disclosure: I borrowed a copy of Parched  from the library.  I received nothing from the author or publisher for my review, which is my honest opinion.  The opinions expressed therein are my own and those of no one else.

###