Fawn Creek, LA is a very small town–so small that the school has only 12 kids in the seventh grade class, and those kids have known each other pretty much all their lives. So, when a new kid comes to town, and she’s mysterious and stylish, with the name “Orchid”, everyone is immediately paying attention. Orchid Mason comes to Fawn Creek direct from Paris, or maybe New York City, and she has the most interesting stories to tell. And Orchid wants to be friends with Grayson and Dorothy, who feel like the misfits in Fawn Creek’s seventh class and in their own families.

This book was decently written, but it left a bad taste in my brain. The author, who grew up in Louisiana, seemed to have an axe to grind about small towns and small town life. The kids all call their little town “Yawn Creek”, and Grayson is ostracized and ridiculed because he is more interested in style, clothing, and fabric than he is in going hunting. Grayson’s own brother calls him “little sister” and worse names. Grayson’s father denigrates him and doesn’t understand him, even though the dad does sort of come through in a good scene towards the end of the book. Grayson’s best friend, Dorothy, is an only child who feels invisible, and her parents are uncommunicative and just odd. In fact, none of the parents in the book are very kind or helpful or in touch with their children’s needs or concerns, except maybe Grayson’s mom who grows some as a character.

I guess the gist of the story is that small towns are ugly and full of bullies and weird religious fanatics. There’s a group of three seventh graders who call themselves the “God Squad”, so poorly characterized that I never could remember which girl was which. There are also a couple of “mean girls” and some jock boys. It was all rather dingy and unpleasant, and I was glad to close the book and escape from Fawn Creek. If I lived in a small town, like Fawn Creek, I wouldn’t choose this book to help me see the good aspects of community. But it might make me even more anxious to get out.

“Fished from the river as an infant and raised by a roving band of street urchins who call themselves the Crowns, eight-year-old Duck keeps her head down and he mouth shut. It’s a rollicking life, always thieving, always on the run—until the ragtag Crowns infiltrate an abandoned cathedral in the the city of Odierne and decide to set down roots.”

Now the leader of the Crowns, the fearless Gnat, wants Duck to apprentice with the local baker, Master Griselde, and use her position of trust to steal both bread and coin for the Crowns. As Griselde becomes a friend and a mentor, even getting a tutor to teach Duck to read, the choices become more and more difficult for Duck. Will she remain loyal to the Crowns, the only family she’s ever known, or will she become someone new, a respectable and honest apprentice baker? Can she start a new life, or will the old one pull her back into the gang?

I really enjoyed this story and felt as if it had a lot say about loyalty and forgiveness and the possibility of change. However, in some chapters that alternate with the ones that tell Duck’s story, the voice and narrative are that of a frustrated gargoyle who lives on the roof of the unfinished cathedral, unable to fulfill his destiny of being a rescuer and a protector. The stories do intertwine and come together in the end, but I never cared or wanted to read about the gargoyles. And I don’t think I can put the book in my library, even though it’s a good story, because the chapters told from the viewpoint of the gargoyles portray them as profane and prone to insults and salacious gossip. Also the gargoyles are just ugly, mean, and sad. I wish Ms. Eagar had left out the gargoyle chapters.I sort of get what she was going for–a parallel story of identity and redemption–but it just didn’t work.

Lindsay Eagar also wrote Race to the Bottom of the Sea, which I added to my list of 50 Best Middle Grade Novels of the Twenty-first Century. She’s a good writer, but The Patron Thief of Bread could have done without the gargoyles or with better gargoyles or something.

This book tells a great story, but adapting it for young readers, which is all the rage right now, was a bad call. Sang Ly lives with her husband and baby at Stung Meanchey, the largest garbage dump in all of Cambodia. Ki Lim, the husband, picks recyclables out of the garbage to make a living for the family. Sang Ly does some trash-picking, too, but mostly she takes care of baby Nisay, who is sickly and small with chronic diarrhea.

The story develops as Sang Ly becomes friends with the grumpy Rent Collector, Sopeap, and Sopeap teaches Sang Ly to read and to appreciate literature. There are some lovely moments in this story as Sopeap’s character and mysterious past are revealed and as she shares her love of literature with the illiterate Sang Ly. However, I feel as if most of those moments and insights would pass right over the head of the middle grade readers to whom this book is being marketed. Instead, they would remember the dump and the poverty and the dangers of trash-picking and the death and disease. The picture on the cover (supposed to be Sang Ly?) is misleading. There are a couple of minor characters in the book who are children, but mostly this book is about adults with adult concerns and problems. I would possibly give this book to young adults, high school and up, but it’s just not a middle grade novel.

The original adult novel was based on a true story, a film documentary called River of Victory. I wouldn’t mind watching the documentary, and I also wouldn’t mind reading the full, adult novel. The writing is good, and the story itself is inspiring. I just don’t think it should have been adapted for middle grade readers.

I feel a little sorry for books published in 2020 or 2021. The opportunities for publicity and recognition and even borrowing from libraries was, well, restricted, as were all things by the Big C. Dayna Lorentz’s middle grade novel about a boy and a coyote is worth a look, even when most reviewers have moved on to the new books of 2022.

Wayward Creatures is about two wayward creatures: twelve year old Gabe and a coyote named Rill. Gabe is entering seventh grade with a family distracted by economic problems and friends who spend all their time on competitive soccer and have no time for him. Gabe, trying desperately to impress his erstwhile friends, does something very stupid and destructive and ends up having to pay the consequences.

Rill, a somewhat anthropomorphized coyote, does something stupid, too. She leaves her pack–father mother, younger sisters and brothers–because she doesn’t feel appreciated. Gabe’s life and Rill’s intersect when Gabe is cleaning up the forest as a part of the restorative justice process. The book is steeped in the ideas of restorative justice, and there’s an author’s note at the end that explains what that is and how it works. Nevertheless, the ideas of animal control and habitat preservation and anger management and restorative justice, while they are a major part of the novel, never get in the way of the story, but rather become a natural part of the tale of one boy and one coyote.

I tend to still think that coyotes are mostly pests, but I’m at least willing now to give them the benefit of the doubt. And I think the ideas of restorative justice, which I first encountered in the writings of Chuck Colson, are certainly a much-needed tool that can be used to improve our criminal justice system and should be more widely implemented. That said, this book is a good story, not propaganda, and I did like the Gabe parts better than I liked the Rill the coyote parts of the book. My attitude towards coyotes may have worked itself up to tolerance: if they don’t bother me, I’ll try not to bother them.

In Honor of Broken Things by Paul Acampora.

A Song Called Home by Sara Zarr.

Both of these recently published middle grade realistic fiction books, set in the present day, are about children dealing with broken families and tragic circumstances and about forming new friendships in difficult times. In the book In Honor of Broken Things, Oscar, Ellie, and Noah become “accidental” friends when they end up in the same eighth grade pottery class together in the middle of the school year. Noah, a near genius, has been homeschooled all his life, but since his mom is no longer a dependable teacher, he’s ready for a change–public school. Ellie and her single mom just moved to the small Pennsylvania coal town of West Beacon from Philadelphia, and Ellie can’t get used to living in such a small place. Oscar is returning to school after a family tragedy, his sister’s death, and he’s expected to carry the school football team to victory in spite of his grief and confusion and loss.

A couple of unnecessarily didactic moments were intrusive enough to take me out of the story momentarily in In Honor of Broken Things. ( Apparently, the word “lunatic” is now considered “unkind, hurtful, and meaningless”, and therefore inappropriate even if applied to oneself. And not all Hispanic cultures and countries celebrate the same holidays (duh), so saying that Dia de los Muertos represents Spanish-speaking culture is grounds for an apology since the holiday isn’t really celebrated in the Dominican Republic.) But overall the story was readable and relatable. The author uses the technique of switching point of view from one chapter to the next, so we get to see the events of the story from three different points of view. I didn’t think the voices of the three main characters were different enough for me to distinguish, and I often had to look back to the beginning of the chapter to figure out who was speaking in this particular chapter. Nevertheless, I liked the metaphor of the delicate and sometimes broken and repaired pottery as it resembles relationships and friendships and even life itself. We are all a little broken, and we do need to help each other pick up the pieces when we fall and try again.

A Song Called Home was more problematic. I’ve read several of Sara Zarr’s young adult novels, and although I enjoyed some better than others, I thought overall that she was a pretty good writer. I believe that A Song Called Home is Ms. Zarr’s first middle grade novel, and it just didn’t work–for several reasons. Lou/Louisa/Belle/Lulu/Lu/El (yes, she goes through that many names, maybe a few more) is the main character in this book about a family dealing with change. Lou’s mom is getting remarried to Steve, and Lou and her older sister Casey are not happy. The family is moving from the city to Steve’s house in the suburbs, and Lou’s alcoholic dad who left them two years ago is also not happy about the new marriage, the move, and all the other changes that ensue.

I get it that all of the names are a picture of Lou trying to figure out who she is and who she is in relation to all of the people in her life. I just thought it was excessive. And there was a lot of crying, and talking about crying, and thinking about not crying, and almost crying, and hidden tears, and open tears—almost every other page someone is crying or trying not to cry. Again, I get it. They’re a family who has learned, especially Lou, to hide their emotions, to tread carefully, because of living with an explosive and unpredictable alcoholic dad. But really, edit it down a bit.

I thought it was lovely to read a book about a family that goes to church and prays. Lou spends time trying to figure out how to pray for her dad and how to understand her faith, and those parts of the book are natural and well written, obviously by someone who is familiar with evangelical Christian culture and thought. But suddenly about halfway through the book, a minor character, one of Lou’s new classmates, shows up with “their” own pronouns, “they” and “them”. And Lou is asked to choose her pronouns when she starts out in a new fifth grade classroom. Really? Do ten and eleven year olds have to choose genders and pronouns now? Is this a California thing? (The story takes place in and near San Francisco.)

I almost put the book down when the gender pronoun-choosing began, but I decided to finish. And the story does end well. But sneaking gender confusion propaganda into a middle grade fiction book is not O.K. And it all felt way too preachy and mostly sad to me. Lou says her favorite books are “sad books” (example: Where the Red Fern Grows). But there’s a difference between sad books and books that are preaching about how it’s OK to be sad. I prefer the former.