Write a review of your favorite book. Make sure you include:
• What makes it your favorite book
• A synopsis of the whole story
• A description of a character
• Who you would recommend the book to
• Don’t give too much away, though!
I will do this homework. I will do this homework because I already have a favorite book. I already have a favorite book and I want to talk about it. It’s time to talk about it. It’s time to let go. I’m ready.
But what if people laugh? What if everything goes backwards? What if Shadid and Luzie and even the boy think I’m mad? Because I am mad.
No, the boy won’t think I’m mad. And everyone else …
I’ll give them all a chance. I’ll be involved. I’ll be me. For the first time in forever and forever I’ll just be me and I’ll say what’s inside. Everything that’s inside.
Trees of Britain: An Illustrated Guide
My favorite book is not a story, even though I love stories. I love stories much, much more than information books, much, much more. I love the mystery, the plot unfolding, developing in your mind. I love all the characters, good and bad, almost-real people who leap off the page and walk around in your world. I love escaping in a story. But I can’t talk about a story, because none of them are my favorite book. My favorite book is Trees of Britain: An Illustrated Guide.
What makes this my favorite book?—This is my favorite book because it’s the last thing that my brother ever gave me. If that’s not a reason for a favorite book, I don’t know what is.
A synopsis of the whole story—The whole story? This book doesn’t have a story. Well, that’s not true, is it? The words in this book don’t tell a story. But the story of the book, well … Moses died on the 13th December, fifteen months and seven days ago. My birthday is on the 18th November. Moses gave me this book almost a month before he left. Every day he asked me if I was enjoying the book. I lied. I said that I loved it. I hadn’t looked at it. Now I look at my book every day.
A description of a character—This book has no characters. Well, again, that’s a lie, because it has one character, the voice in my head, the voice who reads every word to me—Moses.
He was the kindest, funniest and funnest brother a girl could ever wish for. But he was unhappy. I didn’t know. No one told me. He was ill, he was so unhappy. He was so unhappy that he couldn’t find a way to live anymore. He couldn’t find any way, except one way, the way out.
Who would I recommend the book to?—This is a book that makes me happier than any other; I just have to see it and I smile. But it is also a book that makes me sadder than any other. I wouldn’t recommend this book to anyone. This is a book just for me.
I read my review in class. I read it fast. I read it without looking up from the page, crinkled and creased in front of me, my hands shaking.
It was hard at first. My voice was high and faltering. A tear, just one, escaped my eye. But then I steeled myself.
That’s brilliant, isn’t it? I steeled myself. I made myself into steel. Nothing could hurt me. I was cold and hard like metal.
Of course, I wasn’t. Inside I shook and fluttered. I saw in my mind my class, friends and ex-friends alike, laughing and laughing. I saw Mr. Wills ripping up my report. I saw myself crumbling to dust.
But I held my voice steady. I stopped my hands shaking. I read word after word after word until they all flowed out, until everyone heard what I had not said before, what I’d never said, what had made me the freak.
And when I stopped no one laughed, no one spoke, no one even breathed.
I still did not look up from my page.
A sniff broke the silence, then a voice. “Thank you, Kaia,” Mr. Wills said. “Thank you.”
There was silence for a moment more and then something I didn’t expect—clapping. Not the riotous clapping of a class of eleven-year-olds, but a soft, gentle clapping. And it felt in that moment that they’d reserved this clap just for me.
I looked up.
I looked at Mr. Wills. He was dabbing his eye with a tissue.
I looked at the class, who looked at me, looked at me like I was something new, not something old and forgotten.
Then I looked at the boy. He was clapping with the rest, his head cocked to one side. And I knew he’d listened; every time, he’d listened.
I trembled and felt happy and scared and relieved all at once. I’d done it.
Soon, after a few more book reviews, real book reviews this time, it was break. We filed out of the classroom, heading for coats; the spring air still chilled us. Mr. Wills stopped me.
“Really, thank you,” he said. And, “I’d love to see your book, Kaia. It means so much to you.”
I nodded in reply and turned to leave but my teacher wasn’t finished.
“And I’m sorry,” Mr. Wills said. “I don’t think I’ve always given you … well … enough time, I suppose.”
I nodded again. I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing.