Review: The Ethan I Was Before by Ali Standish

The Ethan I Was Before is a story of family, friendship, heartbreak, and growth. Ultimately, it is an exploration into the way life changes you in the aftermath of a tragedy.

Twelve-year-old Ethan is in the throes of guilt and loss when the novel begins, believing himself to be responsible for the death of his best friend. He and his family have uprooted their lives, moving from Boston to a small town in rural Georgia, in order to give Ethan relief from his hardship and an opportunity for a fresh start. Despite this and other extreme efforts from his parents, nothing seems to alleviate his despondency—nothing, that is, until he befriends Coralee, a clever little girl with a big heart and some tall tales, who gives him what he feels is a second chance at friendship.

Because of trauma that goes undefined for a good portion of the book, Ethan's life is divided into rigid categories of the Before and the After. He knew who he was before the tragedy struck—daring, athletic, happy—but he is discombobulated and struggles to reorient himself afterwards. Losing his best friend, his good relationship with his family, his interests, his school, and even his city, Ethan is no longer recognizable even to himself, especially to himself.  

Standish impeccably conveys Ethan's heartbreak at such devastating loss and thoroughly demonstrates his inability to move past it. He is a highly reliable, relatable, and empathetic character whose struggles are so tangible that the reader yearns to relieve him of some of his burden. The reader feels a sensation of helplessness as he plods through the days and aches for nothing other than to be with someone he can no longer be with.

Ethan is not the only multi-dimensional character. There is his grandpa's struggle to get past his own heartbreak; there is Coralee's family dysfunction; there is his mother's childhood baggage. Nearly every other character is fleshed out enough to give the reader glimpses of rich, intricately woven inner lives. Every relationship in the book is both complex and realistic.

Set in Georgia, the location becomes a character of its own, impossible to deny or ignore. The South is present in the diction and dialogue of the characters. It is present in the names of characters and places, in the weather, in the mannerisms. It is present in the endangered red wolves, which later become a crucial part of the story.

Something changes about halfway through the novel. It seems to diverge from the story of Ethan's healing to something more akin to a mystery when Coralee and Ethan come into possession of several expensive pieces of jewelry. Then the story veers into something like a thriller when Ethan and Coralee brave the outdoors in the zenith of a hurricane. Initially there is some question about how these various components of the story will pertain to the beginning, but it is quickly evident that these pieces are easily reconcilable. All aspects of this book are woven together seamlessly. When the reader has questions, there will ultimately be answers.

The pace in which the story is told is drawn out, but never once does it feel slow. Rather, this measured clip adds to the story's allure and suspense. What exactly happened to Ethan's friend? What did his brother say to him that wounded him so severely, and what mounted a barrier between them? What is Coralee hiding? Why is Ethan's mother's relationship with her father so strained? Why does Ethan feel so guilty? What really happened to Kacey? All of those questions and more are answered in due time, but the reader must possess an element of patience.

Though this is a novel intended for young adults, it holds appeal for mature audiences as well. It speaks volumes about the power of friendship, family, healing, and forgiveness. It is a remarkable thing to witness Ethan's recovery, to watch him grow and heal from start to finish. The Ethan at the end of the book is shockingly different than the Ethan at the start, but he ultimately evolves into a person that is whole instead of a person that is fragmented.

This review was also published in Yes! Weekly. 

Review: Ask Me How I Got Here by Christine Heppermann

Ask Me How I Got Here begins as Addie sheds one boyfriend and takes on another. Shortly after the new relationship begins, she learns that she is pregnant and aborts the baby almost immediately. Following this, she shuns her boyfriend, quits cross-country, lies to her family about where she is, and begins spending all of her time in a coffee shop with former teammate Juliana.

This was my first experience with Christine Heppermann, but, as a longtime lover of Ellen Hopkins and stories told in verse, I began this book with high hopes. However, it didn’t take long for me to realize that the story is not so much a story as it is scattered ramblings that all just happen to concern one girl.

Addie’s leap from one relationship to another is so quick that I didn’t initially realize there was a new person in the picture. This might be because the dialogue is inconsistent, and it is often difficult to discern which person is speaking. Some dialogue is in italics… some is in quotation marks. Some is without punctuation at all. There is no discernible pattern.

Addie never specifically tells us that she is struggling from her decision. She goes from learning about her pregnancy to having an abortion in a matter of pages. This is not something she thinks about. It is more like something that happens to her rather than a choice she makes. The rest of the book seems to lack direction and is perhaps more concerned with exploring other issues, like Addie’s sexuality.

Though I would have loved to see more of Addie’s thoughts behind her abortion and the guilt that followed it, I actually happened to appreciate that Addie’s suffering is revealed externally rather than explicitly. Her struggles manifest more through things she does (or doesn’t do) rather than her internalizing everything. Unfortunately, this is about the only thing I appreciated.

I personally disliked Addie’s constant comparison of herself to the Virgin Mary. It is a sense of entitlement that is neither deserved nor explained. It makes it seem that she does not believe her pregnancy is a result of her actions, and that she became pregnant not by sex but by some divine intervention. It seems that she is not taking responsibility for her role in conception. At the same time, it is interesting that she writes in this manner. It is interesting to see her perspective on her actions, and to wonder if she views what she did as a sin at all.

Perhaps my biggest issue with the book is that it’s never actually clear whether it sides with a pro-life or a pro-choice mentality. Sure, we can make assumptions, but is the message that it’s okay to have an abortion, or do her struggles mean to discourage other young women from making the same mistake?

Ultimately, I found this book to be fragmented and jarring. It could have said a great deal about any number of things, but the story suffers from the form in which it is told. Perhaps it could have had more potential if it were told in prose.

Review: The Rest of Us Just Live Here by Patrick Ness

The Rest of Us Just Live Here is Mikey's story, a normal kid with normal friends in a normal small town that has extraordinary events. These events involve "indie" kids saving the world from vampires, zombies, ghosts, and just general monsters of the week. Mikey and his friends, though ordinary, are on the cusp of graduation, ready to escape their tiny town, both because of bad home situations and terror of what will strike the town next.

This book is a hybrid between modern fantasy and an exploration of a myriad of health issues afflicting a modern day family. This hybrid is interesting in theory, but the execution isn't exactly successful or seamless. It's my opinion that this could've been a much better book if it stuck to either one of these directions, rather than trying to combine the two.

Maybe I'm alone here, but I spent a good portion of the book wondering if the "indie kids" and that part of this universe existed only in our narrator's head. I don't have any justification for thinking this other than the fact that our narrator isn't entirely reliable, but everything that pertains to the indie kids is so vague and unexplored that I had a hard time accepting it as reality.

I spent the entirety of the book wondering what exactly the indie kids are. You can infer that they act as some sort of conduit between the natural and supernatural, whatever the supernatural means in this context. But how are the indie kids chosen? Who chooses them? What are their tasks exactly? What are their powers? Why do they all have such unique names? Are they born with those names, or do they select them later in life after being chosen? I don't necessarily need these questions to be answered, but the fact that I had so many unanswered questions while reading the book was distracting.

Each chapter begins with a short synopsis that tells us what is going on with the indie kids. These passages are interesting but vague. As the story progresses, you can see the overlap between the actions of the indie kids and the effects on our normal main characters.

The book progresses quickly. It's easy to get swept up in the drama while reading it, but, as soon as I put it down for a bit, I wondered what in the world just happened. Not that the book is actually difficult to comprehend, but I hated wondering what the point of it all was the entire time I was reading it.

Again, the book would've been infinitely better if it has been a fully committed fantasy novel or a fully committed contemporary novel. Had it been fantasy, there might be more information about the indie kids and how that world works. We might've gotten an explanation on what exactly the blue-eyed creatures were. Had it been about simply Mikey and his family, well, that could have been interesting too. They've got no shortage of issues to work through. His politician mother's public face versus her private one, his father's alcoholism, his sister's eating disorder, and his own OCD.

Not that I loved the normal characters or anything. Plus, one of them isn't even normal at all, seeing how he's one-quarter god and is worshipped by all felines, house cats and mountain lions alike.

And the romance is just... annoying, for lack of a better word. All of it. Mikey pining for Henna, Henna having the "stomach feeling" for Nathan, Nathan's elusive behavior, Mel's affair with a doctor seven years her senior, Jared's secrets... It was a tad exhausting to keep up with.

Unfortunately, this is a forgettable book with forgettable characters. It's stunning to me that Patrick Ness wrote it. The very fact that his name is on the cover is the reason that I read it at all. But luckily, this is the exception and not the standard. The Chaos Walking is one of my favorite YA series, and the other works I've read by him have all been incredible. This one may have been disappointing, but I’ll continue to read his books with great enthusiasm.

Review: Belzhar by Meg Wolitzer

Belzhar is the tale of wounded teenager, Jam Gallahue, who is sent to “a therapeutic boarding school” called The Wooden Barn to recover from the death of her boyfriend, Reeve Maxfield. She is among a small elite group of students chosen to take a legendary class, Special Topics in English. The five members of this group are classified as emotionally fragile and highly intelligent, each having undergone their own personal tragedy.

I don’t really see the high intelligence manifested in Jam. Sure, she is incredibly fragile when it comes to emotions, but the only other thing we know about her is that she has long hair. Oh, and she dated an English boy who died.

“I’m British, Jam, did you forget?”

No, nobody forgot, because Reeve’s defining characteristic is his nationality. If I were to reread this book, which I wouldn’t, I’d count how many times his country of origin is referenced. Not only is Jam’s relationship with him unbelievable due to its brevity (forty-one days, to be precise); it’s unbelievable because Reeve is a two-dimensional caricature.

The insipidness doesn’t end with Jam and Reeve. The other four members of the Special Topics in English have, for the most part, not endured truly traumatic life events, at least not to the degree in which they are portrayed. The only legitimately tragic situation is probably Sierra’s, whose eleven-year-old brother was abducted under her watch.

The story is rife with misdirection, such as Jam’s younger brother’s newfound kleptomania and her playing the role of goat doula for a night. There are all these entrances to various bunny trails that never actually lead anywhere. And Jam’s halfhearted relationship with Griffin? Is it really necessary that she recover from one relationship with another?

As for the supernatural element, the place the students call Belzhar, I personally was looking forward to discovering this new world, but that was before I knew what kind of world it would turn out to be. Basically, it is a place of grand delusion, a place the members of the class can go to pretend their great calamities never occurred. Belzhar does nothing but nurture denial, although I suppose at least one of our characters is thoroughly imbedded in denial anyway…

I can appreciate the link to the book’s namesake, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. In that book, the protagonist undergoes a sudden yet severe crisis in which she no longer wishes to exist. The characters in this book are like that, in a way. Their lives plummet abruptly, leaving them reeling from the struggle to adjust. But in Jam’s case, the catalyst for her plummet is not even based in reality.

Be warned: I cannot stress enough how much I despise the ending of this book.

It’s sad when you begin to sympathize with a stereotypical mean girl, who just so happens to be the protagonist’s nemesis, but there’s very little choice towards the end of this book. I had a difficult enough time feeling sorry for Jam before finding out what really happened to her. It’s beyond impossible to pity her after that discovery.

Mean Girl Dana Sapol has it right:

 “Good-bye and good riddance, you psycho loser.”

Review: Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn

This book is less of a Whodunit than it is an in depth exploration of some deeply troubled minds. It's pretty clear from the beginning of the book that the culprit is one of two people (both of whom end up incarcerated). However, nobody is innocent. Everybody is troubled. Altogether, the characters make up the cast of one of the darkest books I've read in quite some time.

Not that it isn’t enjoyable, but I felt sort of nasty reading while it. It's up close and personal; it's unflinching in its depiction of what troubled people do to themselves and to others. And that's another thing: some people self-damage while others feel an irresistible urge to maim others. It's interesting in this book to find out which sort of person each of the characters are.

Camille Preaker, a police reporter, has returned home to get a head start on the story of what appears to be a serial killer. This is not just any serial killer, though, but one that strangles young girls and removes all of their teeth postmortem.  

At first, I was a little irritated that the investigation goes so slowly. Pages and chapters go by without any new information provided. Long passages are devoted to reveries concerning Camille's past life. Long, troubled reveries, incredibly sexual and violent in nature. At some point along the way, I realized the story is less about the dead little girls than it is about Camille confronting that past life.

I didn't necessarily like Camille's character. Aside from the screwed up mentality (and her unique tendency to carve words into herself all over her body), she's really rather drab. I can remember nothing about her personality, nothing that doesn't come back to the madness of it all. She cuts; she's a neat freak; she's a writer (crime journalist, evidently), but there's nothing else.

At some point, even she acknowledges this. She has no friends, no pets, not even a houseplant. She went off to college long before the story started, became a non-person. Everything about her seems to exist in the past. She had a brief lugubrious stint where she needed enough sex to satisfy forty people (apparently to the point where she also needed to lose her virginity in eighth grade to four guys at once).

And her stepsister, Amma? She's meant to sound precocious (if that could possibly be considered the right word), but hard drugs and promiscuity at thirteen? She's worldly and ingenious. It really feels like she knows too much, too much of the wrong kind of thing.

This book has a rather interesting perspective on the crazed female mind. No one in the entire town, including the police force, truly entertains the notion that the killer could be a woman. I don’t intend to give spoilers, but this still demonstrates preconceived notions about women and their instincts to be maternal.

It's hard to say much about this book-not because there isn't a lot to say, but rather because the whole thing is so interwoven together. Camille's character is greatly defined by her mother, and the childhood death of one of her sisters rattles them all.

Sharp Objects is compelling, truly. I hate it for its nastiness and love it for its insatiability. Another thing: there are some pretty brutal images from a hog farm Camille's mother owns. If I weren't already a vegetarian, I would become one immediately.

Review: The Rose Society by Marie (The Young Elites #2)

If The Young Elites was good, then The Rose Society transcended any and all of my expectations. It's darker, sexier, and just fuller than the first one. Adelina has truly come into her own.

Adelina is supposedly the villain in her own story, but she never feels that way to me. Never once do I feel any sort of resentment or hatred towards her. She may be hell-bent on her revenge, but Marie Lu writes in such a way that Adelina is completely justified for her thoughts and actions. I root for Adelina. I hate her enemies with her. I feel myself descending into her madness alongside her. She is always in the right.

My few complaints from the previous book have been completely nullified. While I originally had a problem with flip-flopping perspectives (Adelina's lengthy chapters told in first person and random, shorter chapters in third), I find this book much more consistent in its presentation. I even looked forward to the random breaks in Adelina's monologue, where the side characters take over. Maeve, Teren, and Raffaele are all complex, sophisticated characters, each with an ulterior agenda.

Marie Lu does an excellent job balancing the new characters with the old. She doesn't bog us down with too many of them. It's wonderful to meet this new cast and to get a more in depth experience of all of their individual powers.

I must say that I now get the *big deal* surrounding Teren. I found him rather tedious in The Young Elites, but now he seems to be one of the most complicated characters in the story. I'm beyond eager to see what will come into play for him in the next book.

On the other hand, in The Young Elites, Enzo was one of my favorite characters, and now I find his presence a tad... offensive. I suppose coming back from the Underworld would change anyone, but it's easy to resent him when one takes into account the hypocrisy with which he treats Adelina. It's like my perspectives have flipped. It's complicated. 

It's all complicated. And that's one of the most amazing things about it. All the characters are so real; the world itself is well planned. This story is built upon layer upon layer upon layer, each layer being gradually revealed to us as deeper and more tangled than the last. 

I am both dreading and eagerly anticipating the ending. Who am I kidding? I'm basically drooling over it, desperate for it. But the dread is still intact. The biggest reason for this is that I know from my previous experience with the Legend series that Marie Lu will not write easy or tidy endings. There will be finality and closure, yes, but it will most likely rip some hearts to shreds in the process. It will probably rip up my own. Oh, I love sad endings, but they are still tremendously difficult to read.

I really can't praise this series enough. It's not just that this is an impeccable book; it's also that Marie Lu is an impeccable writer. I fully intend to read anything and everything she publishes.