My Favorite Memes about Reading. Ever.

The Best YA Books of the 2000s

Compare/Contrast Between Red Queen and El Deafo

(Red Queen, by Victoria Aveyard; El Deafo, by CeCe Bell)

If you've heard of these books, you'll know they're pretty differ-ent. To summarize Red Queen, a girl lives in a world divided by blood. People with Silver blood are rulers, and they have special powers. People with Red blood have no special talent and are generally very poor. Mare Barrow is an anomaly–her blood is Red as dawn, but she has talents up her sleeve and is forced to marry the prince. In El Deafo, a girl struggles with the social consequences of being deaf and wearing giant hearing aids.

So take Red Queen. Mare is a Red who has grown up in poverty. But when she shows off her strange abilities, ones that shouldn't exist, she's married into the royal family. Mare has been thrust into a new world, one of balls and etiquette, feasts and silk. Meanwhile, the Reds are beginning to grow unsatisfied with their position at the bottom of the barrel....

In El Deafo, CeCe (it's an autobiography)has grown up in the city, where she has attended a sheltered school for the deaf. But she moves into the country/suburbs, where there is only one school. Just like that, she's in regular, hearing classrooms, making regular hearing friends. And there may just be a boy involved...

Anyway, these books are similar because they both shove girls into unfamiliar situations where they are physically different.

They're different for some obvious reasons: Red Queen takes place in a dystopia, El Deafo takes place in 1970's Virginia. Mare fights for her life, while CeCe fights for friends. But the characters deal with their problems differently. Mare is more of a headstrong, fight -first-questions-later kind of girl, as are many main characters in dystopian YA literature. CeCe is quieter and more subtle. I'll give them this, though: they are both brave, in different ways. 

I love both of these books!

A Random Short Story Draft...

Alice walked by the bakery every day. On this particular Wednesday in January, it was shrouded in snow, its' eaves dripping with icicles and its' walkway coated in frost. Alice peeked into the window, thick glass with a Help Wanted sign taped to it; it was nearly empty, with just an employee, a mother and daughter, and a heavy man with a cup of coffee.

"Mommy, Mommy, can I have this one?" said the little girl, pointing at a thick piece of fudge.

"Oh, Willa, we'll be having dinner soon! Would you like some hot chocolate?" proposed the mother.

The man behind the counter handed Willa a cup of hot chocolate and the mother, a tea. Mother helped daughter put on her coat, a gaudy thing with a fake-fur hood. Alice scooted to the side as they walked out of the little shop.

Alice drew her coat closer around herself, not wanting to go home. But she put one boot in front of the other, slowly crossing Main Street. She had crossed Main Street hundreds, even thousands, of times, without her mother, but the memories came flooding back.

There was her mother, listening to Alice's teacher at Parent Night, her hair smoothed into a bun and her skirt long, taking the role of Alice's Mom. There was her mother, hustling around the kitchen, throwing spices into pots, taking the role of Chef For The Whipple Family. Alice couldn't quite place this memory, as it happened nearly every night. Then, finally, there was her mother as Alice had last seen her, at the Christmas Eve party: her face freshly painted on, hair spilling down her back, handing an frosted cocktail glass to Angeline from down the street, taking the role of Charlene, The Pretty Hostess.

Before she knew it, Alice was standing in front of her house. It was dark except for the blue glow of television, and a laugh track blared. She knew it was a laugh track only because her father never laughed.

She creaked open the door, dashed for upstairs before Mr. Whipple could notice her. Not that he would, because his rerun of All In The Family was so loud. Did they even still play reruns of that, wondered Alice. Her English assignment seemed to glare at her from her backpack, but instead she flopped onto her bed and pulled something from under her pillow.

Dear Alice,

I'm sorry. I don't want to leave on these terms, but you know your father...always better to slip away when he's too wasted to notice. I wish I could take you, but I don't know where I'm going.

The bakery...the only reason I lasted here this long. I hate Iowa, I hate this town of Jop-lin, the dot on the map. But how much I loved Joplin Bakery. By this point, I can sit down–they'll always bring me a Colombian roast, medium size, and a slice of lemon pound cake. It's sweet. The only place where Daniel your dad, sorry, won't go. Too much happiness and warmth, too many fathers taking happy children for a bite to eat. Also maybe the lack of tequila. It's the only place to go to be free of him. 

Go in, have a coffee and some cake. For me. But after that, try to stay off of caffeine.

–Mom

Alice had not had even a sip of Coke since that. It was the least she could do for her mother. But she had never been able to step over the threshold of the bakery. Something had always held her back. She had been twelve the last time she'd seen her mother. She was sixteen now, and she had never been the same. Before, she had been one of the most popular and well-liked girls at Joplin Middle. Now she was quiet and reserved, sitting at a back desk and getting fair grades at Joplin High School.  

Alice heard the ominous click of the TV turning off and her father thundering up the stairs.

"Just sitting here, you?" he asked her. "When I was sixteen, I was always working or out with my friends"–Alice doubted that–"but all you do is lumber around, missing Charlene! You know what you need?" he asked, getting louder. "A job! Do something productive, get some money so you don't come whining to me!"

Alice nodded like she often did when her father acted this way. She averted her gaze, staring at the Sam Adams in his hand. 

Having tired himself out, Mr. Whipple stomped into his room, turning the radio to a Brewers game.

Alice stood up, taking one last look at her mother's old note. Her father may have been completely drunk, temperamental to say the least, but for once he was right. 

The walk to the bakery seemed to take a very short time. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside, enveloped by warm air and the aroma of freshly baked cookies and coffee. She stepped up the counter and ordered a medium-sized Colombian roast coffee and a slice of lemon pound cake.

With a glint of challenge in her eye that had not been there for four years, she said to the man behind the counter, "I'd have to fit it around school, but I heard you're hiring. Would you be interested in me?"

The Lonely Hearts Club

This is a review of "The Lonely Hearts Club" by Elizabeth Eulberg. Penny Lane Bloom (named for the Beatles song) is disappointed when her longtime hopefully-more-than-friend Nate ditches her for another girl.

Just in time for junior year, Penny swears off boys. Forever.

Or at least until she gets out of suburban Illinois.

She starts the Lonely Hearts Club. As girls who've had bad boy experiences join and join--until a peak at 40 members!--Penny is their crowned, gloried leader.

Until she falls in love with a new boy of her own....


Rating: 8.5/10 stars

Price: I actually got this as an advance copy from Scholastic.

Age: 10+ (There isn't anything too bad, but you need to have a bit of a background interest in boys)

Upcoming...

Title Pending

As you may know, I'm just as much a writer as I am a reader and blogger. So along with Ella (troublesofabookworm.blogspot.com) I am writing a story. As of now, it's called "Title Pending," and while it's not technically a book it is--I hope--a great story and I hope you enjoy it!

This chapter 1 (equivalent to about seven pages on Google Docs)!

JANUARY 12 

        THE WEEKLY

Obituaries

On January 12, Victoria McCartney passed away due to a car crash. While police are still further investigating the crash, Victoria is IMMENSELY missed by her entire town and everybody around her. At only 32, beautiful, loving, and caring, she will not be forgotten. The memorial service for this exceptional woman, daughter, and fiancé will be held on January 31 at 1:00 pm.


“Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly…”

-Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

chapter one

Stepping out into the quaint wintry landscape with its snow-capped evergreens and the sweet smell of the crisp, grey air, Lucy and Kaitlyn hooked arms, mounted their snow-grazed bicycles, and headed off down the street. Though the streets were blanketed with a thick layer of snow, Lucy breathed in the essence around her and decided to take her jacket off. She thrusted her dark blue jacket into the woven basket that had been attached to the handlebars of all her bikes since she was seven.

“Are you insane? It’s below freezing out here and you’re in a freaking sleeveless dress!” Kaitlyn exclaimed.

“Oh, relax,” Lucy replied. “Zoey’s house is just four blocks away, and I’m wearing a scarf and tights and boots. With the chunky knit socks! That you love! What more do you want from me, Kaitlyn?” She smirked but could practically hear Kaitlyn rolling her eyes.

Lucy loved the icy, frigid air biting her cheeks as she rode fast down the street. She relished the sting on her skin and the scent that only snow gives that is practically ineffable. To Lucy, there was nothing quite like looking out the frosty window and seeing fresh snow descend from the white-gray sky. Kaitlyn used to tell Lucy when they were little that Santa Claus, in fact, lived in the sky and not the North Pole, and that snow was just bits of his white beard falling off.

“That’s impossible,” Lucy would say.

“He has a very big beard,” Kaitlyn would answer.

They were very simple, low-maintenance children. That was the only answer Lucy would ever need to answer that question- he has a very big beard. Lucy remembered this on the bike ride and laughed. Kaitlyn asked why she was laughing.

“Life’s just funny, Kaitlyn,” Lucy stated.

“You sound very cliché, Lucy,” Kaitlyn remarked. After some silence, she added, “But it’s true.”

Lucy parked her bike and waited a moment until after Zoey welcomed Kaitlyn in. Though Lucy was never a very quiet girl, sometime she liked to pause her talking and take in the tranquility of things. She looked up at the trees, their branches bare and frosted. Before putting her coat back on again, Lucy thought how loud a quiet Sunday in January could really speak. She heard her boots click on the newly paved walkway and didn’t bother to knock, knowing that Zoey was expecting her anyway.

“How was Zoey’s?” their mother Josie called from the kitchen.

“Fine, but I’m famished. We spent the entire time cramming for the science midterm,” Lucy replied. She combed her fingers through her inky, shoulder-length hair as she and Kaitlyn traipsed into the kitchen, hyped up on adrenaline from racing back to the house on their bikes.

“And we managed to cram a bit of TV in there somewhere, too,” Kaitlyn added.

“I’m going to ignore that. But! We have homemade chicken stew,” Josie asserted.

This said stew was a Wethers family tradition- Josie’s great grandmother had come up with the recipe and had taught it to all her daughters and granddaughters and so on. Lucy knew that Josie wasn’t much for cooking, but this was the one recipe that she knew her mother could fully master. It was rich but not too creamy; plentiful with vegetables but not too much slightly gross celery.

“So, how was your studying? And the TV,” Josie added with a smirk.

“Hectic,” Kaitlyn deadpanned as she set down forks and knives on the dining room table. Lucy considered the dining room a breakfast nook where they often had dinner rather than a dining room. It was a rather prepossessing little room with a dangling chandelier, three upholstered, maroon colored chairs, and pale blue curtains draped over the windows. It was Lucy’s favorite place in the house to unwind.

“Which was hectic, the studying or the TV?” Josie asked.

“That’s for you to decide,” Lucy interjected, seating herself in her chair. After a number of years, they had each adopted their own chairs. She secretly resented anybody who took her seat.

“I’m surprised you guys are hungry. That Diane usually feeds you constantly,” Josie said.

It was not false- every time Lucy went over, Zoey’s mother, Diane, would always feed them snacks or anything homemade. Nonetheless, Diane would rarely give Zoey too many snacks. “The guests get the food,” she would say. Zoey always scowled at her but took the food anyway. Zoey was athletic and had a fast metabolism, but Diane always insisted that she wouldn’t stay like that forever.

Lucy waltzed into the kitchen for a second serving of stew. She gazed at the bulletin board above their old percolator. It was smothered in old works of art from elementary school days and fading photographs that were wilted around the edges of people that had come and gone in and out of their lives. Teachers’ notes and reminders and ripped yearbook pages. Mother’s Day cards and thank you notes. The doctors’ office schedules and emergency contacts. Yet behind all that, Lucy saw one thing that had been there for years that nobody bothered to remove - a lone, wallet-sized picture of her father, hanging in the corner like an unwanted bruised apple at the bottom of the fruit basket. Nobody had paid much attention to it, but at times, she allowed herself to remember her father. He left when she was barely two years old, much too early for any distinct memories of him. From the picture she could tell he was clean shaven and had short but messy, dark hair accompanied by piercing blue eyes with yellow rings around the pupils. She had probably inherited the bright, yellow-ringed eyes from him, considering that her mother had what she called “poop brown” eyes.

Nobody talked about their father much- he was a distant memory that none of them preferred to dwell on, especially Josie. Though Josie always described him as the “non-existent asshole of the house”, the little girl inside of Lucy inwardly liked to believe that he was a man on a mission and he left them for a reason, and would come back someday. Yet leaving is leaving and she knew it was immoral in every way, and so he was almost never brought up.

It wasn’t until Josie called her back into the dining room, wondering why she was taking so long to get her stew, that Lucy realized that she was lost within her own mind. She was constantly reading and new thoughts were incessantly taking up space in her brain and so she was constantly losing herself in them. Lucy was what Kaitlyn liked to call the “Persistent Wonderer.” It was true; of the twins, Lucy was always asking completely arbitrary questions about anything around her and often wouldn’t stop asking until anybody around her answered. Or at least until Kaitlyn answered.

Lucy left the kitchen while her stew was still warm.

Friday afternoon, Lucy had decided that she wanted to walk home from school.

“But it’s freezing outside,” Kaitlyn complained.

“No, actually, it’s four degrees above freezing, so that’s a plus,” Lucy

smugly retorted. She loved messing with Kaitlyn. She loved that Kaitlyn despised it but laughed at the same time. “Come on, it’s such a nice day outside! The sun is shining… You have on your nice new parka…”

Kaitlyn still wore a doubting look. Finally, she gave in.

“Fine. Whatever. Let’s go.”

They were sitting on a wooden picnic table with their bags parked by their feet, both of them on their phones. They were both scrolling through their text messages- Josie was not replying. Kaitlyn texted, we’re walking home. See you later. Lucy grabbed her bag, swiftly hopped of the picnic table, and headed off. Kaitlyn followed behind.

Halfway down the street, Lucy suddenly remembered why she hadn’t been answering. Josie usually stayed home from work Fridays to run errands, she’d been called in for work that day. She reminded Kaitlyn, and Kaitlyn nodded. It was silent the rest of the way home but for the snow dropping from the trees and the thoughts cluttering Lucy’s head.

Lucy learned two things when they finally arrived at home: the driveway had just been freshly shoveled after a late night snow, and that Josie’s car was here. Kaitlyn’s face grew pale. The last time they got home from school and Josie’s car was their, their great-grandmother had passed away. Although they were only seven when that happened, Lucy remembered their tear-stained, agonized mother sitting at the kitchen table with clumps of tissues around her and hoped something bad hadn’t happened.

The optimist that she was, Lucy brushed it off and let out a little chuckle.

“Don’t worry, Kait, we’re fine,” Lucy reassured her sister. She said it reluctantly because she wasn’t so convinced herself. She dug into her bag for her key, only to find that Kaitlyn had opened the door without struggle.

A cacophonous sound emerged from the kitchen.

“Mom?” Kaitlyn meekly whispered, less of a question for Josie and more of a reminder to herself that their mother was actually still in the house. After a little while, Josie responded with a submissive “I’m here” and the girls tiptoed over to the kitchen.  

Josie was very sensitive, but it was easy to tell - or at least, for Lucy and Kaitlyn - when she was actually distressed. At this very moment, she looked terrible; like a crumbling, decrepit, abandoned house. Her under eyes were incredibly red and puffy and her nose was the color of a dried out tomato. She looked as if she was breaking apart. Lucy felt herself tear up at the sight and reached over to cradle her mother’s shoulders in her hands. She looked over to find Kaitlyn doing the same thing. Kaitlyn grabbed Lucy’s hand.

“Mama, what’s wrong?” Kaitlyn cooed.

Josie shook her head and let out a sob, a truly grating and heart-breaking sound for her daughters.

“Mom,” Lucy demanded, now extremely serious. “Mom, come on. You can talk to us, you know you can.”

Josie looked up.

“I… I have something to tell you.”