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Attention 5th Graders! Here are descriptions of the books that made our 2017 bracket.

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Attention 5th Graders! Here are descriptions of the books that made our 2017 bracket.

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Read as many as you can by May 5th and then the voting will begin.

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by Lauren Wolk

Growing up in the shadows cast by two world wars, Annabelle has lived a mostly quiet, steady life in her small Pennsylvania town. Until the day new student Betty Glengarry walks into her class. Betty quickly reveals herself to be cruel and manipulative, and while her bullying seems isolated at first, things quickly escalate, and reclusive World War I veteran Toby becomes a target of her attacks. While others have always seen Toby’s strangeness, Annabelle knows only kindness. She will soon need to find the courage to stand as a lone voice of justice as tensions mount.

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Wolf Hollow book trailer... - SafeShare.tv

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SafeShare.tv removes unwanted distractions from YouTube and Vimeo videos and reduces ads, so you can focus on the content. Perfect for schools and businesses!

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by James Patterson and Chris Grabenstein

What makes Isaiah so unique? First, his fur is as blue as the sky--which until recently was something he'd never seen, but had read all about. That's right--Isaiah can read, and write. He can also talk to humans...if any of them are willing to listen! After a dramatic escape from a mysterious laboratory, Isaiah is separated from his "mischief" (which is the word for a mouse family), and has to use his special skills to survive in the dangerous outdoors, and hopefully find his missing family. But in a world of cruel cats, hungry owls, and terrified people, it's hard for a young, lone mouse to make it alone. When he meets an equally unusual and lonely human girl named Hailey, the two soon learn that true friendship can transcend all barriers.

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Issuu is a digital publishing platform that makes it simple to publish magazines, catalogs, newspapers, books, and more online. Easily share your publications and get them in front of Issuu's millions of monthly readers.

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by Barbara O'Connor

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.

From award-winning author Barbara O'Connor comes a middle-grade novel about a girl who, with the help of a true-blue friend, a big-hearted aunt and uncle, and the dog of her dreams, unexpectedly learns the true meaning of family in the least likely of places.

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Barbara O'Connor talks about her inspiration for WISH, a novel about a girl who, with the help of the dog of her dreams, discovers the true meaning of family.

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by Linda Sue Park

Raffa Santana has always loved the mysterious Forest of Wonders. For a gifted young apothecary like him, every leaf could unleash a kind of magic. When an injured bat crashes into his life, Raffa invents a cure from a rare crimson vine that he finds deep in the Forest. His remedy saves the animal but also transforms it into something much more than an ordinary bat, with far-reaching consequences. Raffa’s experiments lead him away from home to the forbidding city of Gilden, where troubling discoveries make him question whether exciting botanical inventions—including his own—might actually threaten the very creatures of the Forest he wants to protect.

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Wing & Claw: Forest of Wonders by Linda Sue Park | Official Book Trailer

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From Newbery Medal-winning author Linda Sue Park comes the first book in the captivating Wing & Claw trilogy, a middle grade fantasy about a boy, a bat, and an amazing transformation. -- From Newbery Medal-winning author Linda Sue Park comes the first book of a captivating fantasy-adventure trilogy.

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by Peter Brown

When robot Roz opens her eyes for the first time, she discovers that she is alone on a remote, wild island. She has no idea how she got there or what her purpose is--but she knows she needs to survive. After battling a fierce storm and escaping a vicious bear attack, she realizes that her only hope for survival is to adapt to her surroundings and learn from the island's unwelcoming animal inhabitants.

As Roz slowly befriends the animals, the island starts to feel like home--until, one day, the robot's mysterious past comes back to haunt her.

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Boook Trailer for the novel The Wild Robot

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by Chris Grabenstein

Eleven-year-old P. T. Wilkie may be the greatest storyteller alive. But he knows one thing for a fact: the Wonderland Motel is the best place a kid could ever live! All-you-can-eat poolside ice cream! A snack machine in the living room! A frog slide! A giant rampaging alligator! (Okay, that last one may or may not be made up.) There’s only one thing the Wonderland doesn’t have, though—customers. And if the Wonderland doesn’t get them soon, P.T. and his friend Gloria may have to say goodbye to their beloved motel forever.

They need to think BIG. They need to think BOLD. They need an OUTRAGEOUS plan. Luckily for them, Gloria is a business GENIUS, and OUTRAGEOUS is practically P.T.’s middle name. With Gloria’s smarts and P.T.’s world-famous stories and schemes, there’s got to be a way to save the Wonderland!

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Author Chris Grabenstein discusses his childhood inspirations for his newest book WELCOME TO WONDERLAND: HOME SWEET MOTEL.

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by Avi

In this spine-tingling story from Newbery Medal winner Avi, a boy must solve the mystery of the ghost haunting him.

For most of Tony Gilbert’s life, he has thought of his uncle as “Weird Uncle Charlie.” That is, until Uncle Charlie moves in with Tony and his family. Uncle Charlie is still odd, of course—talking about spirits and other supernatural stuff—but he and Tony become fast friends, and Tony ends up having a lot of fun with Uncle Charlie.

When Uncle Charlie dies suddenly, Tony is devastated. Then he starts seeing Uncle Charlie everywhere! It doesn’t help that Tony switched schools—it was Uncle Charlie’s dying wish that Tony attend the Penda School, where Uncle Charlie himself went as a kid. The Penda School is eerie enough without his uncle’s ghost making it worse. On top of that, rumors have been circulating about a student who went missing shortly before Tony arrived. Could that somehow be related to Uncle Charlie’s ghost?

Full of twists and turns that get spookier by the chapter, School of the Dead is a fast-paced mystery that Avi’s fans will devour!

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by John David Anderson

Everyone knows there are different kinds of teachers. The boring ones, the mean ones, the ones who try too hard, the ones who stopped trying long ago. The ones you’ll never remember, and the ones you want to forget. Ms. Bixby is none of these. She’s the sort of teacher who makes you feel like school is somehow worthwhile. Who recognizes something in you that sometimes you don’t even see in yourself. Who you never want to disappoint. What Ms. Bixby is, is one of a kind.

Topher, Brand, and Steve know this better than anyone. And so when Ms. Bixby unexpectedly announces that she won’t be able to finish the school year, they come up with a risky plan—more of a quest, really—to give Ms. Bixby the last day she deserves. Through the three very different stories they tell, we begin to understand what Ms. Bixby means to each of them—and what the three of them mean to each other.

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Rebecca Roudabush has cooties.

I'm not making this up. We've run tests. She came up positive on the cootometer, all red, off the charts. Steve and Brand and I are in full quarantine mode. Steve has his ski gloves on to minimize exposure even though it's seventy degrees outside; he looks like Darth Vader from the elbow down. He says this is the sixth case of cooties in room 213 already this year. I don't ever doubt him. Of course, Rebecca insists she's clean, tells us that there is no such thing as cooties.

They all say that. They stick their tongues out at us and call us morons, but we know better. Rebecca's in denial. She needs a support group. We tell her we can give her the names of several kids who have been through this already.

"You guys are so idiotic," she says.

"We're not the ones who got saddled with a case of the coods."

That's Brand. He likes to make up words or abbreviate them or change them somehow, mashing them together to make new ones. He made up the word tunk, which means to bomb a test so bad it's funny, like tanking and flunking all at once. And flipwad, which is what we call the older kids who give us a hard time or anyone else we don't like, which isn't a lot of people, though we do have a typed-up list.

"So I have cooties, then?"

"The numbers don't lie," I tell her. "We ran several tests. You came up positive on all of them."

I show her the printout. Actually, it's not a printout, it's a piece of scrap paper that we dug out of recycling and scrawled a bunch of random numbers on in red marker. But it's got her name at the top, and on the bottom in big bleeding letters it says POSITIVE. There's also a drawing of a dinosaur I made in the margin, but I cover that with my hand. Not because I'm embarrassed. Just because it's not relevant.

"So that stupid scrap of paper means I'm contagious?"

"Highly," says Steve, Vader arms crossed in front of him.

"And these cooties . . . they're, what, fatal?"

Rebecca has been in school for over half her life. You would think this would be common knowledge. "Only to some," I say. "There are some who can carry the infection for years and never present symptoms. But awesome people are highly susceptible."

Rebecca nods way too thoughtfully for someone with a debilitating imaginary disease. I've known her since second grade and I can tell she's planning something. She's all narrow eyes and tapping feet. My mom once said she thought Rebecca was cute. That was the last time I ever talked to my mother about girls.

"And they are transmitted how, exactly?" Rebecca asks.

"Physical contact, primarily," Steve says, looking at his shoes, which is what he does when he's about to tell you a bunch of stuff you don't know and probably never cared to. "The cootie virus is transmitted by touch, though it's even more highly concentrated in saliva. Just one milliliter of spit from someone with the virus is enough to infect the entire population of New York City-roughly eight point four million people."

I don't know if that's true or not, but I nod along. Steve is full of facts and figures. Sometimes I write down the things he says and Google them when I get home-things like the fact that hornets can sting multiple times because they have smooth stingers, and that the number one cause of death in Guatemala is the flu. He's never wrong about stuff like that. After so many years of best-friendship, I've pretty much learned to stop doubting him. Steve pushes his glasses up, all scholarly-scientist-like. It's not part of the act. He really has trouble keeping them in place.

Rebecca stares at each of us in turn, contemplating her next move.

"Saliva, huh?"

"Yup," says Brand.

"Okay . . . then it would be really horrible if I did this."

Rebecca Roudabush licks her hand, tongue pressed flat against her palm from wrist to fingertips. Then, before any of us can react, she rubs that same cootie-infested hand all over Steve's face.

This is exactly how epidemics start.

Steve screams, burying his face into his own oversize mitts, smearing Rebecca's infection around and making it worse. Brand tries to pull him away, but Rebecca's too quick. She reaches out and grabs Brand by the arm, pushing his sleeve back and planting a zerbert right below his elbow, just like when we have fart-sound contests before school. Flrrrrbbbbttt. He instantly buckles at the knees, just staring at the ring of Rebecca's wet, cootie-infested spit in horror. Steve is floundering, wiping his face with his shirt, as if that will help. As if he isn't a dead man already.

Rebecca turns to me. "You're next, Christopher," she says, using my full name like a four-letter word. I look at Steve and Brand convulsing on the ground, faces scrunched in disgust. There's a code, I know. Unspoken rules about not leaving your comrades behind when they're paralyzed in the mulch, victims of a biological terrorist with a wavy red ponytail. But Rebecca is malicious. Plus she has freckles, which I take as a sign that her particular cooties are somehow advanced in nature. Incurable. There is nothing I can do for my friends now.

So I run.

With Rebecca trailing, I take off across the playground, dodging in and around the swings and beneath the monkey bars, RR right on my tail, determined to tackle me, pin me to the ground, and probably cough all over my face-or something even worse. But she won't catch me. I'm Usain Bolt. I am Cheetah Boy. Faster than a lightning strike. Mulch chips burst into flames at my heels. Yet somehow, she is gaining on me. I make a full circuit of the playground and find Brand and Steve standing again, miraculously cured, or perhaps just incubating, ready to collapse to their deaths at any moment. They see me coming, trailing Rebecca behind me, and take off as well, all three of us charging blindly through the middle of a pickup kickball game. Turning a sharp corner around the redbrick facade of the school.

And running straight into Ms. Bixby.

There are six kinds of teachers in the world. I know because we classified them once during indoor recess. First you have your Zombies: those are the ones who have been doing it for a few centuries, since Roosevelt was president-the first Roosevelt, with the broomy mustache from those museum movies. The Zombs speak in a mumbled monotone and come equipped with an armory of worksheets all designed to suck any fun out of the learning process, which doesn't take long, considering how little fun comes included at the start. They may not eat your brains, but the Zombies won't do much to nurture them either.

Then there are the Caff-Adds. Brand calls them Zuzzers. You can spot them by their jittery hands and bloodshot eyes and the insulated NPR travel mugs they carry around with them. Unlike the Zombs, the Caff-Adds are like little bouncy balls, but you can't really stand to listen to them either because they talk so fast, zuzzuzzuzz, like sticking your head in a beehive. Unfortunately, our Spanish teacher is one of those, so not only can't I understand her, but even if I could, I couldn't.

Then you have your Dungeon Masters. The red-pass-wielding ogres who wish paddling was still allowed in schools. The kind who insist on no talking, whether it's reading time, work time, sharing time, lunchtime, after school, before school, the weekend, whatever. You are supposed to just sit still and shut up. Mr. Mattison, the art teacher, is one of those. We draw in absolute silence during art. Graveyard quiet, which is actually fine by me, because it's the one specials class worth concentrating in, though while I'm there I mostly draw pictures of Mr. Matt carrying a club and picking the meat off the bones of the latest student to whisper a word.

Then you've got your Spielbergs. They're not nearly as cool as Steven Spielberg. We just call them that because they show movies all the time. Some of them are Zombie Spielbergs. Mrs. Gredenza falls into this category. She once showed us a film on the life cycle of fruit flies that was pretty gross but also didn't make much sense, seeing as how she was supposed to be teaching us geometry. At least with Spielbergs you often get a chance to doodle or nap or text-that is, if one of the Dungeon Masters hasn't captured your phone yet and fed it to his goblins.

My personal favorites are the Noobs. The overachievers. Fresh picked from the teacher farm. With their bright eyes and their colorful posters recently purchased from a catalog and the way they clap like circus seals when you get the right answer. They don't stay Noobs for long. They get burned out pretty quick. A year. Maybe two. I don't think it's the students' fault, though. I blame the system.

The last kind we simply call the Good Ones. The ones who make the torture otherwise known as school somewhat bearable. You know when you have one of the Good One because you find yourself actually paying attention in class, even if it's not art class. They're the teachers you actually want to go back and say hi to the next year. The ones you don't want to disappoint.

Like Ms. B.

✦✦✦

I remember the first time I met Ms. Bixby. It wasn't day one of class or even Meet the Teacher Night. It was actually three years ago. At the circus.

We were in the concession area, my parents and my little sister and me, buying six-dollar snow cones and swirly suckers. My parents are firm believers in "maximizing invested family time," meaning that on the few occasions we all go somewhere together, they bribe my sister and me with sweets so we won't whine. It usually works.

The circus was the latest monthly-mandated-whole-family-outing, and we were making the most of it, turning our tongues blue and taking in the preshow show-mostly clowns flopping around in giant red galoshes and mongo honkable schnozzes. We stopped in front of a juggler, a woman with short blond hair streaked with pink, dressed in a tuxedo, expertly weaving three bowling pins in the air. Her cheeks were blushed red, one painted lip tucked under the other in concentration. Then she saw my mother and stopped, stuck one pin under her arm. She looked familiar. "Linda?" she called.

"Maggie?" my mother squeaked. Hugs followed.

"You actually did it? You quit your job to join the circus?"

"Pays better than teaching," said the juggler, and she and my mother laughed. The woman explained she was just an amateur, but when the circus came in, they sometimes hired local talent to act as lobby entertainers. My father coughed and smiled politely.

"Saul, this is Maggie Bixby. She teaches at Fox Ridge," my mother said. "Sixth grade, right?"

The teacher masquerading as a part-time circus performer nodded. "The last one before we ship them off." She had bright-green eyes, the color of new grass.

"Sixth grade," my father echoed. That at least explained where I had seen her before. Probably in the halls. Or making a mad dash for the parking lot when the last bell rang. She looked like a Noob, or maybe a Zuzzer with her wide eyes and cockeyed smile, though at the time we hadn't classified them yet.

"Linda is one of our best PTA members," Maggie Bixby said, putting a hand on my mother's shoulder. "I don't know what I would do without those Friday-morning bagels." Then she looked at me. "How are you, Christopher? You ready for the circus?"

I wasn't sure if she meant the actual circus or the next year of school, but I remember being impressed that she knew my name. It made me feel famous or something.

"It's just Topher," I told her. "Nobody really calls me Christopher." At least nobody I like.

"I'll remember that," she said.

Then she put on a little show for the four of us, right there, juggling five multicolored balls and then pulling a quarter from behind my sister's ear, which she was even allowed to keep. As we left to go see the real show, I asked her if she could teach me how to juggle.

She said to wait a couple of years.

She'd probably teach me something.

We topple into Ms. Bixby like dominoes, the three of us. We obviously startle her; she takes a step back, a hand over her heart like she's ready for the Pledge, and fixes us with a look that is disapproving, but not out-and-out angry, as if she isn't sure whether to lecture us or laugh at us.

"What are you doing?" With anyone else, she would have emphasized the doing. But with us it was always the you. As in, you three . . . again? Before I can answer, Rebecca turns the corner and runs into us, causing us to catapult forward, nearly bowling Ms. Bixby over again.

"Sorry," Rebecca exclaims, breathless. "I was . . . we were . . ."

"Playing tag," I say, turning and giving Rebecca an imploring look, begging her to go along. But she must still be infected: the coots have gone to her brain and made her too honest for her own good.

"You little liar!" she shouts back. "You said I was diseased! I was chasing you!"

"That's sort of like tag," I mumble.

Ms. Bixby pins me with cat eyes. She has a way of asking you questions without speaking a word. I try to explain as calmly as possible.

"She tried to kiss me."

"I absolutely did not!" Rebecca shouts.

"You sucked on my arm!" Brand seconds.

"I gave you a zerbert!"

"And licked my face!" Steve adds.

Now it's Ms. Bixby's turn to grimace. She looks at me for confirmation. "Technically she licked her hand and then touched his face, but by the transitive property of equality, it's pretty much the same thing."

Ms. Bixby taught me the transitive property of equality this year. This is what teachers call "applied knowledge." I secretly suspect Ms. Bixby is impressed, but she doesn't want to show it. She's good at hiding what she's really up to, I've noticed. She puts a grumpy face on instead.

"You said I had cooties!" Rebecca implores, stomping her feet.

Ms. Bixby sighs the Teacher Sigh. The one they must give you as you walk out the door with your teaching degree. Equal parts exasperation, disappointment, and longing for summer vacation. "Did you tell Rebecca she had cooties?"

It's a question for all three of us, but Steve, thankfully, answers. He has all the answers.

"We informed her of her positive diagnosis, yes. But only in the interest of keeping the rest of the population safe. It was for the greater good." I hand over the sheet of paper with the doodled dinosaur and Rebecca's made-up lab results.

"I see," Ms. Bixby says. I still think she's trying not to smile. "And did you zerbert Steve's arm?"

Rebecca drops her head, red ringlets curtaining her eyes.

"Right. Okay. Listen up. All four of you. I'm going to tell you something your parents should have told you a long time ago."

I look up at Ms. Bixby, afraid of what's coming next. No doubt something about spit and kissing and germs and zerberts. I think back to that video about fruit flies. I hope this isn't one of those conversations.

"Cooties don't exist," she says, her voice tinged with fake relief. Steve looks sort of surprised, and I wonder if this is actual news to him. "They did, once," Ms. Bixby says, "but scientists eradicated them back in 1994, thanks to a vaccine discovered by three smart girls who were hoping it might help keep boys from acting like total doofs all the time."

She looks at me as if she's waiting for something. The aha moment.

"It didn't work, did it?" I ask.

"Apparently not," she says. "Now I want you three to apologize to Rebecca."

"Apologize to her? She chased me around the playground!"

"Yes, and in a few more years you'll want to be caught. But for now, apologize. And no more talk of cooties or any other imaginary diseases."

There's nothing to it. Sorry is the only way out of this.

"Mrmfwrmrmm."

Rebecca glares at me.

Ms. Bixby glares at me.

I want to glare at somebody, but Steve and Brand are looking down at their feet. So I glare at Rebecca, who glares back at me harder, if that's even possible.

"I'm sorry," I say a little more clearly.

"Me too," says Steve.

"Yeah," adds Brand.

Then Ms. Bixby whispers something in Rebecca's ear, and she smiles. It kind of makes me jealous. Then Rebecca gives us each a warning look, one eyebrow raised, and runs back off to the playground. We turn to follow her when an "ahem" from Ms. Bixby stops us. Apparently we aren't finished yet.

We all three turn around, tensing for whatever is about to come. Ms. Bixby doesn't look happy. She doesn't look ticked off either. She actually looks sad. Lost. Like she's forgotten that we are even there. But she takes a deep breath and the clouds seem to pass.

"I've always said the greatest gift you are ever given is your imagination. But you have to stop and think about how your words and your actions impact those around you, right?"

We nod dutifully. Even the Good Ones go into lecture mode every once in a while. They're entitled to. It's the slack we cut them for not boring us to death.

"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be," she adds.

That was another thing about Ms. Bixby: She was always saying little quotes like that. She called them "affirmations." They were basically sayings she had collected. A few of them were hers, but most of them were borrowed. Except she hardly ever said where she'd borrowed them from. She spoke them like they were universally true, written in the wind for everyone to hear. We called them Bixbyisms. Another Brand word.

"Now go wash your hands and faces. Because even though I'm certain Miss Roudabush doesn't have cooties, I can't speak for any other germs."

We all wait one more second to make sure the lecture is over; then we nod in unison and I follow Steve and Brand toward the door. As I slink inside, I turn and spy on Ms. Bixby through the window. I do that sometimes, when she's not looking.

Ms. B. is huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around in her cable-knit sweater. Rebecca's positive diagnosis sits crumpled in her hand. She isn't watching the other students on the playground. She is staring out over the slides and swings to the stretch of fields and the sky beyond and the three clouds reaching out for each other with wispy fingers but not quite there yet.

Three weeks later she gives us the news.

We found out on a Tuesday. I was wearing a red sweater. Not bright red. More of a maroon, like the color of cherries-real cherries, not the ones you find in canned fruit that taste a little like medicine. I remember it was raining that day, spattering against the windows. I don't like the rain because the water sloshes up and soaks the cuffs of your socks when you run through the grass, and then your ankles are red and itchy the rest of the day. Ms. Bixby and I don't agree on this. She thinks rain is fantastic, but maybe that's because she wears sandals all the time and doesn't have to worry about the sock issue.

She waited until the end of the day to deliver the news, but I could tell it was coming. She had been acting differently for a while. For instance, the week before, I was informing her about the world's deadliest snake based on venom toxicity, and she completely zoned out and didn't hear a word I said, as if the world's deadliest snake didn't matter. Normal Ms. Bixby would care about that sort of thing. She would find it interesting. She would ask me questions. But she just nodded and told me to go back to my seat. That's when I knew something was wrong.

That whole Tuesday was wrong, in fact. It wasn't just that we were stuck inside because of the weather. That was also the day Tyler Fisk slipped a ketchup packet onto my chair before I sat down at lunch. It was also the same day my mother forgot to cut my sandwich diagonally, instead hacking it straight down the middle, which, as anyone can tell you, makes it harder to avoid the crust. I took four bites and left the rest.

Then, twenty minutes before pack-up, Ms. Bixby sat us in a circle and told us about her diagnosis. I remember writing the words down in my notebook, asking her to spell them: ductal adenocarcinoma. I wanted to make certain I looked up the right thing when I got home. We all sat quietly while she explained. It's a type of cancer that attacks the pancreas. They ran tests, she said. They took pictures. There was no question. She had a tough battle ahead of her, but she was going to "beat this thing."

It did mean that she wouldn't be able to finish out the school year, however. In fact, she had already arranged for her last day-the Friday of the next week. In the meantime, they would find a sub to take over the class for the last month of school. I sat and stared out the window at the rain forming ankle-deep puddles on the sidewalk.

I remember Grace Tanner crying and Ms. Bixby giving her a hug and telling her to be brave. I remember Topher giving me a confused look, as if he needed me to explain what a carcinoma was, and me scooting closer to him. I remember the quote she had on the board that day. "Things are never as bad as they seem." I'm sure she put it there just to make us feel better, though Ms. Bixby was so calm that the news didn't seem as terrible as it should. Brand sat at the very back of the room and didn't say a word. He looked angry, but I think he looks angry a lot of the time.

I shifted uncomfortably on the floor. My pants were still wet from where I tried to rinse the ketchup stain out. I didn't cry, because I knew that if Ms. Bixby put her mind to it, she could "beat this thing," just like she said. She's one of the smartest people I ever met.

The deadliest snake in the world is the inland taipan, by the way. A single drop of its venom is enough to kill a hundred men. And yet, in the recorded history of snakebites, this species of snake has only ever killed one person. I told that to Ms. Bixby at the end of that day, the day she broke the news. She asked me what the moral was. She's always asking me what I think the moral is, because she knows I sometimes don't get that part. But the moral of the inland taipan was easy:

Just because it can doesn't mean it will. Things are never as bad as they seem.

She said I was brilliant and gave me a high five and I smiled. She has a way of making even minor victories seem big. Then she turned away from me and blew her nose. She's very polite that way.

It's important to be recognized for one's accomplishments. That's what my dad says. Accomplishment and recognition are two of my parents' favorite words.

I won an award once for being able to name every country in the world, along with their capitals, populations, and official languages, a total of 194, though the number has changed since then. Believe it or not, they are still making new countries. I should think 194 would be plenty.

I memorized them in alphabetical order, from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe. The capital of Zimbabwe is Harare, but if you're like most people, you don't care. Every two years, during the Parade of Nations at the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, I can tell you exactly who is going to come next. Hungary, Iceland, India, Indonesia, Iran, Iraq, Ireland, and so on. I could go on, but as Topher often tells me, I probably shouldn't.

The award was a red ribbon with gold embossed letters that said Holy Cross Christian Fellowship 13th Annual Talent Show. Honorable Mention. Honorable mention because I wasn't one of the three most talented kids to take the stage that night, though it wasn't actually a stage, just the pulpit decorated with tufts of white flowers. I didn't get a ribbon in a primary color or the twenty-dollar iTunes gift card. The most talented participant was Christina Sakata, who played Beethoven to a standing ovation, curtsying in a puffy black dress that cost way more than twenty dollars. In my defense, Christina Sakata had been playing the piano since she was four, and I only started memorizing countries three weeks before the show. Also in my defense, Christina Sakata is better than me at just about everything. She is better than me at reading and roller-skating and cooking and basketball (though I haven't met anyone who is not better than me at basketball). She has perfect skin and 20/20 vision. I think she's convinced the entire world that she is perfect. I know she's convinced my parents. I'm always hearing about how great she is. Talented pianist. Natural gymnast. Straight-A student. A model child.

Very few things in life are perfect. Snowflakes are perfect. The way Lego bricks fit together is perfect. My sister is not perfect. But try as hard as I could, I couldn't point out a single mistake in her playing that night, even though she has no problem pointing out mine. After the standing ovation, my mother turned and told me I did a nice job too.

I still took my honorable mention ribbon to school the next day and showed it to Ms. Bixby, who let me tell the class about it and recite the countries all over again, even though I didn't even make the top three. The only person who laughed was Trevor Cowly, who apparently found something amusing about the nation of Djibouti. "Ja-booty," he said, and collapsed in a snorting fit. Ms. Bixby fixed him with a look and he instantly shut up. Most of the class clapped at the end. Topher let out a whistle because he's Topher. When I finished, though, I saw Trevor turn to Brian Frey and whisper, "What a weirdo." I couldn't hear him, but I'm a better-than-average lip reader. It comes from having people talk about you out of earshot all the time.

It didn't bother me much-being called a weirdo. I know I'm the only person in room 213 who has ever heard of Lesotho or cares that it is a country completely surrounded by another country. I know that the other kids have names for me. The nice ones call me C-3PO, or Data, which is either a Star Trek reference or a Goonies reference or both. And I know what the not-so-nice ones call me too.

I was just going to let Trevor Cowly's comment slide, but Ms. Bixby had heard it too. She cleared her throat to get everyone's attention and thanked me for sharing. Then she said, "'To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.'" And she looked right at me and smiled, and I smiled back, because I like her quotes. I have most of them memorized too.

Then Ms. Bixby asked if she could display the ribbon on the chalkboard for the day, and I let her, because I knew when I got home I would just take it up to my room and tuck it away in my sock drawer and probably not look at it again, mostly because it was only an honorable mention, but also because it would only remind me of who actually won, and I didn't need another reminder.

Christina has so many trophies and ribbons that my parents had to build an additional shelving unit in her room to display them all, but for an hour at school at least, in room 213, my sister's trophy case didn't matter, and I would steal glances at the chalkboard and my white-and-gold ribbon hanging proudly from Ms. Bixby's smiley-face magnet.

It takes time to memorize every country and its capital and population. Ms. Bixby can appreciate the effort. She knows the state capitals. Of course, teachers are always making their students memorize state capitals, but most of them cheat and use an answer sheet to grade you. Ms. Bixby actually knows them. I quizzed her on it. She knows all the presidents, too, though her understanding of the planets of our solar system is less than thorough. She didn't know, for example, that Venus is actually warmer on the surface than Mercury. When I suggested she brush up on her astronomy, she seemed offended, saying that she probably knew things that I didn't.

I told her that was highly unlikely.

Then she asked me who the lead singer of Led Zeppelin was. I told her zeppelins could not be made of lead due to the obvious weight issues. She said, "Case closed."

Led Zeppelin is a band. I know that now. I looked it up. The lead singer was a guy named Robert Plant. Their best-selling song was about a woman who purchases a stairway to heaven so she can go shopping. It's eight minutes long, the song, which is too long to pay attention to any one thing, even Ms. Bixby, and it doesn't make much sense. Still, I guess she proved her point. There are probably a few things she knows more about than me.

That same afternoon that Ms. Bixby put my ribbon on the board, Trevor Cowly missed ten minutes of recess for his "weirdo" remark. Even though the comment didn't bother me, it wasn't so bad to see him standing against the wall. It's important to have your accomplishments recognized.

✦✦✦

The day Ms. Bixby told us she wouldn't be able to finish out the school year, I came home and found my honorable mention ribbon right where I'd left it: tucked beneath several carefully folded pairs of socks. It had a crease across the middle, and the yarn tied to the top was frayed, but it felt smooth and slick in my hand. I could hear my sister practicing some new, complicated piece on the piano downstairs.

I sat on my bed and stared at the ribbon in my hand. Just stared and thought about Topher and Ms. Bixby and songs and ductal adenocarcinoma and all the things I still didn't know about, and maybe didn't want to. And then I heard my sister growl in frustration and bang on the keys, which normally makes me smile.

You can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose. That's something my dad told me. Turns out . . . not entirely true. I mean, the middle part is obviously true. But the last part isn't true at all.

Steve once had a booger, just, you know, kind of stuck there, on the rim, all crusty and stuff. It was reading time, and everybody was planted in their books, but I couldn't concentrate. I just kept staring across the table at that booger. And I whispered to him, told him about it, like, Dude, you've got a little something, right . . . there . . . on the end. And he brushed his finger across his nose, or gave it a little flick, but it was, like, glued there. And he didn't seem to care. He sniffed and shrugged and went back to his book. And I went back to my book. But every other word I'd look up and see it there. Greenish gray, and rock solid, like snot lava that had erupted and then hardened over time. And I whispered and hissed and pointed, and he brushed and blew and shrugged, and it stayed. And I don't know why, but it was totally driving me crazy, like when the roof of your mouth itches and you try to scratch it with your tongue. So finally I just reached across the table and dug in with my fingernails and gave it a tug, peeling it free and flicking it onto the floor.

Apparently I must have scratched him a little, or maybe the crust of hardened snot had attached itself to one of his nose hairs that got yanked out or something, because as I pulled it off, Steve screamed and slapped my hand and his eyes welled up with those little tears you get whenever you sneeze too hard. And Ms. Bixby asked us what was going on, and I told her I was just helping Steve get a booger out, which apparently was not the thing to say as it caused everyone in class to groan and make faces and prompted Ms. Bixby to say that, from here on out, everyone was responsible for picking their own boogers, thank you, and disposing of them in a discreet and sanitary manner, which did not include flicking them in other people's hair, sliming them across the bottoms of desks, or rolling them into doughy balls to be played with, which caused half the room to groan again but at least provided some distraction, as everyone was looking at Ms. Bixby and no longer looking at me. Except for Steve, who stared at me with watery eyes.

"You don't have to thank me," I told him. He didn't.

Still, it proves my point. You can pick your friend's nose. But there's a difference between can and should.

It isn't the last part of my father's saying that I wonder about, though. It's the first part. About friends. Because I'm not entirely sure about them either. It's not exactly as if I picked Steve and Topher to be friends with. And it's not like they picked me. It's more like I just glommed onto them somehow. And got stuck there over time, like dried snot.

We don't have all that much in common. I mean, all three of us like video games, and we live in the same town, and we think ordering pizza should be an at-least-twice-a-week thing, but I have that in common with every guy in my school. In fact, I probably have more in common with just about every other kid in school than with those two.

For starters, Steve is a certifiable genius, boogers or no boogers. He has, like, one of those photographic memories. He can recite the Gettysburg Address, and he knows the names and stats of every Transformer ever invented. And he's really good at math. I still struggle sometimes with long division, and he's already mastered algebra. His head is full of numbers and statistics and names of books and world records and who knows what else. I sometimes think he might be a cyborg.

Topher's a genius too. Not like Albert Einstein genius, but in that creative sort of way. He's a better writer than me, and don't even get me started on his drawing. That kid has more stories inside his head than you could check out of the school library.

I'm no genius. I can't draw. I don't know what the capital of Montana is (Butte, I think-but that can't be right, because nobody would just tack an E onto the end of that word and make it their capital city). I'm not really great at anything, actually. I've played soccer and baseball-and rugby once. Suffered through tennis camp. I get Bs and Cs on everything, whether I try or not. I suppose I can cook a little bit, but that's only what I've taught myself, and only because I've had to. I can make a decent omelet, though it's usually easier to just heat up a burrito in the microwave-two if Dad's hungry.

Point is, I'm not like them. We're not like peas in a pod or anything. But sometimes you just need a place to sit and eat lunch.

This was last year. I transferred over to Fox Ridge for the fifth grade because we moved into a smaller house-there was no way my dad's disability checks were going to cover the cost of our old one. Besides, it had too many steps and no shower on the first floor, so it just wasn't practical anymore. So we moved, and I changed schools, and on my first day I stood in the doorway of the cafeteria and looked around at all the full tables, a hundred backs to me as I scanned for a place to eat. There was an empty chair at Topher and Steve's table. The two of them were huddled over a notebook, looking at one of Topher's sketches; they didn't notice me until I was standing right in front of them. I asked if there was anyone sitting in the empty seat. Topher said no, Steve said nothing, and that's how it started.

So maybe Dad was right. Maybe I did pick them. Or maybe there just wasn't anywhere else to sit.

I didn't pick Ms. Bixby, either. Just dumb luck, I guess. Or maybe she picked me, though I doubt it. I'm not sure how students are chosen for classes at the start of the year, but I'm pretty sure that the teachers don't gather around a list of names like dodgeball captains and take turns drafting whichever students they want. If they did, I would probably be one of the last ones picked. Not because I'm a troublemaker or anything-just because I don't stand out. Maybe you could say it was fate, but I don't think so. You start believing that things were supposed to happen a certain way, you start to ask questions that nobody has answers for.

When I found out that I would be in Ms. Bixby's class for sixth grade, I was dizzy with relief. I knew Topher and Steve were going to be in her class, and after nearly an entire year at a new school, they were still the only friends I'd made. The other sixth-grade teacher was Mr. Mackelroy: a balding, fortysomething Dungeon Master (according to the Topher Taxonomy) who smelled like stale cigarette smoke and vanilla air freshener and scowled at everyone who walked by. Every soon-to-be sixth grader was hoping for Ms. Bixby. Besides, Ms. Bixby had a reputation: For streaking her hair pink, which the girls thought was cool even if they made fun of it. For letting students make videos about what they did over winter break instead of writing essays. For secretly smuggling in her candy-bowl leftovers from Halloween and dishing them out, even though she knew our backpacks were already crammed full of chocolate. And for having a python as a class pet, because, as she put it in a devious whisper, "Our class pet could eat Mr. Mackelroy's class pet for breakfast." Which was true: Mr. Mack had a warty, bulbous brown lump named Jabba the Toad.

There were other things, too, little things. Like how she always chose The Hobbit as the class read-aloud and had different voices for every character. How she could be strict when she needed to be and sweet when she wanted to be and kind of a smart aleck all the times in between. But mostly there was the way she listened to you, giving you her full attention. All the other teachers, they'd keep looking around the room when you talked, but Ms. Bixby fixed you with her eyes and waited for you to finish no matter how long it took you to figure out what you wanted to say.

None of that mattered at the time, of course. At the time, all I cared about was that I would be in the same class as my friends. That was the cake. Ms. Bixby was just the icing.

There was no way of me knowing what would happen between us, after all.

There was supposed to be a party. That was the problem, really, because if there had been a party, I could have said what I needed to. If there had been a party, I wouldn't have this hole right in the center of my chest, threatening to eat away at me from the inside out. I wouldn't feel like throwing up every time I walk into room 213 and see that quote on the wall, the last one she left there, just for me. The sub tried to erase it, but I wouldn't let her. I knew what book it was from.

It was supposed to be a "sort of" farewell party. Sort of, because she insisted she'd be back. Probably not till next year, but she'd be back. It was a temporary good-bye. More of a "see you later." The party was scheduled for Friday. Her last official day. It was to take place during lunch. She was going to order pizza for the whole class, and McKenzie's mom was bringing cupcakes. We had leftover juice boxes from our Valentine's Day celebration a few months ago. There would be a more professional gathering with coffee and pound cake in the teachers' lounge after school, a chance for Ms. Bixby to say "see you later" to the other teachers, but this party was just for us.

Except it didn't happen.

That Monday, with only five days left until her last day, we all shuffled into the room to find someone else waiting for us beside Ms. Bixby's desk. It was Principal McNair, wearing a navy business suit, black hair corralled into a bun, purple bags under her eyes. "I'm sorry, kids," she began. "But I'm afraid Ms. Bixby isn't coming in today. It looks like she won't be back for the rest of the year, in fact."

Standing beside me in his stupid Gap sweatshirt, Kyle Kipperson blurted out, "Is she dead?" I turned and glared, wanting desperately to punch him square in that giant, upside-down-lighbulb nose of his. Principal McNair looked like she was about to have a heart attack.

"Oh heavens, no!" she choked. "No. Not at all. She just isn't feeling well. And we all thought it best if she started taking her leave of absence early and concentrated on taking care of herself."

There were groans from all over. Most of them were for Ms. Bixby, though I'm sure some were just disappointed that there wouldn't be a party. Part of me just wanted to scream at them. Topher told them all to shut up, which raised the principal's eyebrow but at least stopped the groaning.

"You should know that she fought us over it, but we insisted," Principal McNair continued. "She wanted to be here. She even recorded a message for you."

Principal McNair turned around and fumbled with Ms. Bixby's computer for a moment, trying to get the smartboard to work. She wiggled the mouse and the screen flashed to life, revealing Ms. Bixby, looking much the same as the Friday before, except like she'd just woken up, her eyes not as bright. She smiled that smile of hers, though: The one that lets you know that she knows what you're really up to. The one that I'd gotten more than once.

"Hello, class," prerecorded Bixby said, pulling the pink strand behind her ear, her face filling the camera. "Sorry to leave you all in the lurch like this, but it turns out Principal McNair doesn't want me hanging around the school anymore. She's afraid I'm contagious."

"Absolutely not true," the flustered principal whispered, but we all hushed her so that we could hear the rest of Ms. Bixby's message.

"Turns out I'm going to take my time off a little earlier than expected. Relax in my hammock with a good book and some mint tea, catch up on my to-dos, and, of course, get healthy. But before I leave, I want you all to know how proud I am of you. It has been wonderful getting to know you and watching your minds evolve and expand, and I only hope that you've learned as much from me as I've learned from you." Video Bixby paused, looked down and then back up. "I will be back next year," she said finally, "and you will all come back and visit me, I'm sure, and we will have that party we planned on. So be good for Principal McNair and the sub, and thanks for being such an awesome class. Remember me and smile, for it's better to forget than to remember me and cry. Au revoir."

The picture froze and Principal McNair hunched back over the computer. In a blink, Ms. Bixby was gone. The room was completely silent. It was a long time before anyone made a move or a sound. Even Kyle Kipperson managed to keep his big mouth shut for once. Then finally Sarah Tolsen timidly raised her hand.

"What about The Hobbit?"

Principal McNair looked confused. "What about The Hobbit?" she asked back.

"Ms. Bixby's been reading it to us after lunch. We only have twenty pages left," Sarah explained, pointing to the hardback copy sitting on the desk. "We were supposed to finish it this week. We have to know how it ends."

Principal McNair smiled unconvincingly. "I'm sure the sub can finish reading the book to you."

"But will she read it like Ms. Bixby reads it?" Carlos Menzanno asked.

"Yeah, will she do the voices?"

"And what about our field trip to the duck pond? Ms. Bixby said she'd take us on Thursday."

"And we never got around to finishing our unit on the coral reef."

"Is there a chance she'll be back before the year ends?"

"Can't she just come back for the party at least?"

It was a flurry of questions. Everybody was just shouting them out, nobody bothering to raise their hand. Even with the principal in the room, the class soon dissolved into a muddle, twenty uncertain voices burbling at once. I didn't raise my hand. The questions I had, I was sure Principal McNair couldn't possibly answer. Neither Topher nor Steve raised their hands either. The principal looked from one face to the next, clearly overwhelmed, reaching out to steady herself against the desk. Then I heard McKenzie ask if she should still bother to bring in cupcakes on Friday.

Next thing I knew, Principal McNair was walking quickly out the door, one hand over her face, just leaving us alone in the room with a blank screen, an unfinished book, and so many questions.

I'm no genius, but there is one thing I do know: I know that Ms. Bixby isn't coming back this year. I know a thing or two about hospitals and medical procedures and recovery times. I know that sometimes it's easier to tell somebody what they want to hear or tell them only part of the truth.

There's a difference between the truth and the whole truth. The truth is Ms. Bixby is sick and she is leaving. The whole truth is that I have something I need to tell her. Something she already knows, but I feel like I have to say it out loud, in person, just in case she's forgotten, because she needs to hear it just as much as I did.

Which means, somehow or another, I've got to see her again.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Rebecca Roudabush has cooties. I'm not making this up. We've run tests. She came up positive on the cootometer, all red, off the charts. Steve and Brand and I are in full quarantine mode. Steve has his ski gloves on to minimize exposure even though it's seventy degrees outside; he looks like Darth Vader from the elbow down.

# data[].attributes.body
by James Pattersen

With her irresistible urge to tell a joke in every situation--even when she really, really shouldn't--twelve-year-old Jacky Ha-Ha loves to make people laugh. And cracking wise helps distract her from thinking about not-so-funny things in her life, like her mom serving in a dangerous, faraway war, and a dad who's hardly ever home.

But no matter how much fun Jacky has, she can't seem to escape her worries. So one starlit night, she makes a promise to keep her family together...even if she has to give up the one thing that makes her happy. But can she stop being Jacky Ha-Ha, if that's who she really is?

# data[].attributes.body
by Elly Swatrz

To twelve-year-old Molly Nathans, perfect is:

―The number four

―The tip of a newly sharpened No. 2 pencil

―A crisp white pad of paper

―Her neatly aligned glass animal figurines

What’s not perfect is Molly’s mother leaving the family to take a faraway job with the promise to return in one year. Molly knows that promises are sometimes broken, so she hatches a plan to bring her mother home: Win the Lakeville Middle School Poetry Slam Contest. The winner is honored at a fancy banquet with white tablecloths. Molly is sure her mother would never miss that. Right…?

But as time passes, writing and reciting slam poetry become harder. Actually, everything becomes harder as new habits appear, and counting, cleaning, and organizing are not enough to keep Molly's world from spinning out of control. In this fresh-voiced debut novel, one girl learns there is no such thing as perfect.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
FINDING PERFECT is a debut middle grade novel by Elly Swartz that hits shelves October 18, 2016 (FSG). FINDING PERFECT is about twelve-year-old Molly Nathans, friendship, family, OCD, and a slam poetry competition that will determine everything. www.ellyswartz.com www.twitter.com/ellyswartz Audio piece produced by Josh Swartz, https://twitter.com/joshbswartz

# data[].attributes.body
by Hope Larson

It's 1860 in New York City. When 12-year-old twins Alexander and Cleopatra's father disappears, they join the Black Hook Gang and are caught by the police pulling off a heist. They agree to reveal the identity of the gang in exchange for tickets to New Orleans. But once there, Alex is shanghaied to work on a ship that is heading for San Francisco via Cape Horn. Cleo stows away on a steamer to New Granada where she hopes to catch a train to San Francisco to find her brother. Neither Alexander nor Cleo realizes the real danger they are in-they are being followed by pirates who think they hold the key to treasure. How they outwit the pirates and find each other makes for a fast-paced, breathtaking graphic adventure.

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BUY THE BOOK

Trade Paperback

$12.99

Square Fish

Square Fish

ISBN: 9781250121844
224 Pages, Ages 10-12

Get ready for a thrilling journey in Compass South, a New York Times-bestselling middle-grade graphic novel full of pirates and adventure, written by the adapter and illustrator of the New York Times-bestselling A Wrinkle in Time: The Graphic Novel.
It's 1860 in New York City. When 12-year-old twins Alex and Cleo's father disappears, they join the Black Hook Gang and are caught by the police pulling off a heist. They agree to reveal the identity of the gang in exchange for tickets to New Orleans.

But once there, Alex is kidnapped and made to work on a ship that is heading for San Francisco via Cape Horn. Cleo stows away on a steamer to New Granada where she hopes to catch a train to San Francisco to find her brother.

Neither Alex nor Cleo realizes the real danger they are in-they are being followed by pirates who think they hold the key to treasure. How they outwit the pirates and find each other makes for a fast-paced adventure.

This full color graphic novel is perfect for readers of all genders, including reluctant readers, comics fans, and anyone who enjoys action packed seafaring adventures. It's the first book in a duology, followed by a standalone sequel, Knife's Edge.
Praise for Compass South: A New York Times bestseller!
"Mock's luminous full-color artwork beautifully showcases the late nineteenth-century locations, swashbuckling pirate battles, and jungle treks, all while effortlessly distinguishing among characters (no small feat, given the expansive, diverse cast a... More...

Get ready for a thrilling journey in Compass South, a New York Times-bestselling middle-grade graphic novel full of pirates and adventure, written by the adapter and illustrator of the New York Times-bestselling A Wrinkle in Time: The Graphic Novel.
It's 1860 in New York City. When 12-year-old twins Alex and Cleo's father disappears, they join the Black Hook Gang and are caught by the police pulling off a heist. They agree to reveal the identity of the gang in exchange for tickets to New Orleans.

But once there, Alex is kidnapped and made to work on a ship that is heading for San Francisco via Cape Horn. Cleo stows away on a steamer to New Granada where she hopes to catch a train to San Francisco to find her brother.

Neither Alex nor Cleo realizes the real danger they are in-they are being followed by pirates who think they hold the key to treasure. How they outwit the pirates and find each other makes for a fast-paced adventure.

This full color graphic novel is perfect for readers of all genders, including reluctant readers, comics fans, and anyone who enjoys action packed seafaring adventures. It's the first book in a duology, followed by a standalone sequel, Knife's Edge.
Praise for Compass South: A New York Times bestseller!
"Mock's luminous full-color artwork beautifully showcases the late nineteenth-century locations, swashbuckling pirate battles, and jungle treks, all while effortlessly distinguishing among characters (no small feat, given the expansive, diverse cast and two sets of twins). Meanwhile, Larson, befitting the seafaring adventure, keeps the pace clipping along with frequent scene breaks and propulsive reveals. . . . A gorgeously executed, lively caper." - Booklist, starred review

"Larson, best known for her graphic novel adaptation of A Wrinkle in Time, weaves a wonderful, vivid story, assisted beautifully by Mock's illustrations, which take the twins from murky back alleys to bright and vibrant ocean scenes... A charming choice for elementary and middle school library graphic novel collections." - School Library Journal, starred review

"Larson's ( Who Is AC?) concoction of tried-and-true adventure elements-stowaways, pirate raids, jungle tribes-hangs together convincingly, and scene-stealers such as Tarboro, a free black man who's a brilliant swordsman and the story's true hero, provide moral ballast. Illustrator Mock, making her debut, adeptly captures the changing relationships between the twins-especially the gender-bending awkwardness that accompanies Cleo's stint as a boy. A sequel is promised." - Publishers Weekly

"Captures all the rollicking action of a Robert Louis Stevenson-type sea adventure." - The Horn Book

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Reviews

Praise for Compass South

"Mock's luminous full-color artwork beautifully showcases the late nineteenth-century locations, swashbuckling pirate battles, and jungle treks, all while effortlessly distinguishing among characters (no small feat, given the expansive, diverse cast and two sets of twins). Meanwhile, Larson, befitting the seafaring adventure, keeps the pace clipping along with frequent scene breaks and propulsive reveals. . . . A gorgeously executed, lively caper." - Booklist, starred review

"Larson, best known for her graphic novel adaptation of A Wrinkle in Time, weaves a wonderful, vivid story, assisted beautifully by Mock's illustrations, which take the twins from murky back alleys to bright and vibrant ocean scenes... A charming choice for elementary and middle school library graphic novel collections." - School Library Journal, starred review

"Larson's ( Who Is AC?) concoction of tried-and-true adventure elements-stowaways, pirate raids, jungle tribes-hangs together convincingly, and scene-stealers such as Tarboro, a free black man who's a brilliant swordsman and the story's true hero, provide moral ballast. Illustrator Mock, making her debut, adeptly captures the changing relationships between the twins-especially the gender-bending awkwardness that accompanies Cleo's stint as a boy. A sequel is promised." - Publishers Weekly

"Captures all the rollicking action of a Robert Louis Stevenson-type sea adventure." - The Horn Book

... More...

"Mock's luminous full-color artwork beautifully showcases the late nineteenth-century locations, swashbuckling pirate battles, and jungle treks, all while effortlessly distinguishing among characters (no small feat, given the expansive, diverse cast and two sets of twins). Meanwhile, Larson, befitting the seafaring adventure, keeps the pace clipping along with frequent scene breaks and propulsive reveals. . . . A gorgeously executed, lively caper." - Booklist, starred review

"Larson, best known for her graphic novel adaptation of A Wrinkle in Time, weaves a wonderful, vivid story, assisted beautifully by Mock's illustrations, which take the twins from murky back alleys to bright and vibrant ocean scenes... A charming choice for elementary and middle school library graphic novel collections." - School Library Journal, starred review

"Larson's ( Who Is AC?) concoction of tried-and-true adventure elements-stowaways, pirate raids, jungle tribes-hangs together convincingly, and scene-stealers such as Tarboro, a free black man who's a brilliant swordsman and the story's true hero, provide moral ballast. Illustrator Mock, making her debut, adeptly captures the changing relationships between the twins-especially the gender-bending awkwardness that accompanies Cleo's stint as a boy. A sequel is promised." - Publishers Weekly

"Captures all the rollicking action of a Robert Louis Stevenson-type sea adventure." - The Horn Book

Less...

Reviews from Goodreads

Hope Larson; illustrated by Rebecca Mock

Hope Larson adapted and illustrated A Wrinkle in Time: The Graphic Novel, for which she won an Eisner award. She is also the author and illustrator of Salamander Dream, Gray Horses, Chiggers, and Mercury. She lives in Los Angeles, California.

Rebecca Mock is an illustrator and comic artist. Her work has appeared in various publications including the New York Times and The New Yorker. She is co-organizer of the Hana Doki Kira anthology. Compass South is her first book.

Hope Larson

Lan Bui

Rebecca Mock

Kat Mukai

From the Publisher

Square Fish

g

$12.99

Square Fish

Square Fish

ISBN: 9781250121844
224 Pages, Ages 10-12

Reviews

"Mock's luminous full-color artwork beautifully showcases the late nineteenth-century locations, swashbuckling pirate battles, and jungle treks, all while effortlessly distinguishing among characters (no small feat, given the expansive, diverse cast and two sets of twins). Meanwhile, Larson, befitting the seafaring adventure, keeps the pace clipping along with frequent scene breaks and propulsive reveals. . . . A gorgeously executed, lively caper." - Booklist, starred review

"Larson, best known for her graphic novel adaptation of A Wrinkle in Time, weaves a wonderful, vivid story, assisted beautifully by Mock's illustrations, which take the twins from murky back alleys to bright and vibrant ocean scenes... A charming choice for elementary and middle school library graphic novel collections." - School Library Journal, starred review

"Larson's ( Who Is AC?) concoction of tried-and-true adventure elements-stowaways, pirate raids, jungle tribes-hangs together convincingly, and scene-stealers such as Tarboro, a free black man who's a brilliant swordsman and the story's true hero, provide moral ballast. Illustrator Mock, making her debut, adeptly captures the changing relationships between the twins-especially the gender-bending awkwardness that accompanies Cleo's stint as a boy. A sequel is promised." - Publishers Weekly

"Captures all the rollicking action of a Robert Louis Stevenson-type sea adventure." - The Horn Book

... More...

"Mock's luminous full-color artwork beautifully showcases the late nineteenth-century locations, swashbuckling pirate battles, and jungle treks, all while effortlessly distinguishing among characters (no small feat, given the expansive, diverse cast and two sets of twins). Meanwhile, Larson, befitting the seafaring adventure, keeps the pace clipping along with frequent scene breaks and propulsive reveals. . . . A gorgeously executed, lively caper." - Booklist, starred review

"Larson, best known for her graphic novel adaptation of A Wrinkle in Time, weaves a wonderful, vivid story, assisted beautifully by Mock's illustrations, which take the twins from murky back alleys to bright and vibrant ocean scenes... A charming choice for elementary and middle school library graphic novel collections." - School Library Journal, starred review

"Larson's ( Who Is AC?) concoction of tried-and-true adventure elements-stowaways, pirate raids, jungle tribes-hangs together convincingly, and scene-stealers such as Tarboro, a free black man who's a brilliant swordsman and the story's true hero, provide moral ballast. Illustrator Mock, making her debut, adeptly captures the changing relationships between the twins-especially the gender-bending awkwardness that accompanies Cleo's stint as a boy. A sequel is promised." - Publishers Weekly

"Captures all the rollicking action of a Robert Louis Stevenson-type sea adventure." - The Horn Book

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Lan Bui

Kat Mukai

From the Publisher

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g Trade Paperback $12.99 Square Fish Square Fish ISBN: 9781250121844 224 Pages, Ages 10-12 Get ready for a thrilling journey in Compass South, a New York Times -bestselling middle-grade graphic novel full of pirates and adventure, written by the adapter and illustrator of the New York Times -bestselling A Wrinkle in Time: The Graphic Novel.

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by Michale Beil

The Agents of the Glass are at the front lines of the fight between good and evil, and they have a new recruit. But is he up to the task?

Andover James Llewellyn, aka Andy, did the unthinkable: he turned in a bag of money he found on the street after a bank robbery. His selfless action caught the attention of the Agents of the Glass. Now, as one of the agency’s newest recruits, Andy is tasked with following the actions of a dangerous student at this new school, only he doesn’t know which student.

Is it Winter Neale, model student with countless extracurricular activities? Or could it be Jensen Huntley, an antagonistic, angry kid whose blog has angered the wrong people? Andy must determine his target quick, before the evil organization known at NTRP catches on to him. Will Andy succeed in his mission or will the Agents of the Glass have to find another recruit?

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by Grace Lin

Pinmei's gentle, loving grandmother always has the most exciting tales for her granddaughter and the other villagers. However, the peace is shattered one night when soldiers of the Emperor arrive and kidnap the storyteller.

Everyone knows that the Emperor wants something called the Luminous Stone That Lights the Night. Determined to have her grandmother returned, Pinmei embarks on a journey to find the Luminous Stone alongside her friend Yishan, a mysterious boy who seems to have his own secrets to hide. Together, the two must face obstacles usually found only in legends to find the Luminous Stone and save Pinmei's grandmother--before it's too late.

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by Dan Gemainhart

Joseph Johnson has lost just about everyone he's ever loved. He lost his pa in an accident. He lost his ma and his little sister to sickness. And now, he's lost his pony-fast, fierce, beautiful Sarah, taken away by a man who had no right to take her.

Joseph can sure enough get her back, though. The odds are stacked against him, but he isn't about to give up. He will face down deadly animals, dangerous men, and the fury of nature itself on his quest to be reunited with the only family he has left.

Because Joseph Johnson may have lost just about everything. But he hasn't lost hope. And he hasn't lost the fire in his belly that says he's getting his Sarah back-no matter what.

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by Sara Weeks and Gita Varadarjan

Joe and Ravi might be from very different places, but they’re both stuck in the same place: SCHOOL.

Joe’s lived in the same town all his life, and was doing just fine until his best friends moved away and left him on his own.

Ravi’s family just moved to America from India, and he’s finding it pretty hard to figure out where he fits in.

Joe and Ravi don’t– think they have anything in common – but soon enough they have a common enemy (the biggest bully in their class) and a common mission: to take control of their lives over the course of a single crazy week.

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by Gordon Korman

Cameron Boxer is very happy to spend his life avoiding homework, hanging out with his friends, and gaming for hours in his basement. It's not too hard for him to get away with it . . . until he gets so caught up in one game that he almost lets his house burn down around him. Oops. It's time for some serious damage control--so Cameron and his friends invent a fake school club that will make it seem like they're doing good deeds instead of slacking off. The problem? Some kids think the club is real--and Cameron is stuck being president. Soon Cameron is part of a mission to save a beaver named Elvis from certain extinction. Along the way, he makes some new friends--and some powerful new enemies. The guy who never cared about anything is now at the center of everything . . . and it's going to take all his slacker skills to win this round.