After now reading THE WEDNESDAY WARS three times, it remains for me the book of the year and my pick for the next Newbery Medal.
"Toads, beetles, bats, light on you!"
In September of 1967, in the suburbs of Long Island, Holling Hoodhood begins seventh grade at Camillo Junior High. Holling happens to be the only Presbyterian student in Mrs. Baker's class, and so on Wednesday afternoons, "when at 1:45 sharp, half of my class went to Hebrew School at Temple Beth-El, and, at 1:55, the other half went to Catechism at Saint Adelbert's," Mrs. Baker finds herself responsible for dealing with her one remaining student.
Holling, who believes Mrs. Baker hates him because of this situation, spends that first month's Wednesday afternoons completing classroom chores that his teacher assigns him. "The Wednesdays of September passed in a cloudy haze of chalk dust." But, after hilarious and unintended consequences result from Holling's missteps in carrying out several of his assigned tasks, Mrs. Baker decides to shift gears and spend subsequent Wednesday afternoons "doing" Shakespeare with her student.
It turns out that there are also hilarious and unintended consequences that result from this new course of action. For while Holling undertakes his experiencing of the Bard with the belief that, "Teachers bring up Shakespeare only to bore students to death," it turns out that he recognizes some terrific stories when he reads them and -- thanks to Caliban -- recognizes some great new (old) curses which he sets to practicing until, in times of great adversity, they leap as naturally from his tongue as do the phrases that are more commonly heard amongst today's young rapper wannabes:
"She put her red pen down. 'Since there are only two of us in the room -- a situation which has become very familiar to us these past months -- and since you were speaking, I assumed that you must be addressing me. What did you say?'
"'Nothing.'
"'Mr. Hoodhood, what did you say?'
"'Strange stuff, the dropsy drown you.'
"Mrs. Baker considered me for a moment. 'Was that what you said?'
"'Yes.'
"'A curious line to repeat, especially since the combination never occurs in the play. Are you trying to improve on Shakespeare?'
"'I like the rhythm of it,' I said.
"'The rhythm of it.'
"'Yes.'
Mrs. Baker considered this for a moment. Then she nodded. 'So do I,' she said, and turned back to spreading the red plague.
"That had been close."
While all of this makes for a truly delightful and zany tale, my description to this point merely scratches the surface of what Gary Schmidt has accomplished, for THE WEDNESDAY WARS is a profound story of change and of heroes, a story that hit me hard in the gut and is, unquestionably, one of the best books I have read in years.
Admittedly, some of my reaction to THE WEDNESDAY WARS results from the fact that I, like Holling Hoodhood, was a suburban Long Island seventh grader during the 1967-68 school year. This was a school year that, for me, began in innocence with my ongoing immersion in the Monkees and New York Top 40 radio at a time that the Summer of Love was happening across the country in my future home. It was a school year that began, in September 1967, at a point in my life when I'd been strongly influenced by The Church, the Boy Scouts, and the just-ended summertime days that I'd spent with the All-American, beer-drinking, blue-collar sages on Dad's construction sites.
It was a school year that came to include night after night after night of television news reports that showed shooting and bombing on the other side of the world, accompanied by body bags of American kids stacked up daily like so many cords of wood. It was a school year that ended, in 1968, with the murders of the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. and Bobby Kennedy.
For me and for America this was a school year of unprecedented change. And, having been there, I can state in no uncertain terms that through the ten chapters of THE WEDNESDAY WARS -- each one named for the successive months that constitute that school year -- Gary Schmidt both impeccably portrays those times and then relentlessly, and sometimes excruciatingly, injects those times into the hearts of his characters' lives:
"And that was when Mrs. Bigio came into the classroom. Actually, she didn't quite come in. She opened the door and stood leaning against the doorway, one hand up to her mouth, the other trembling on the doorknob.
"Mrs. Baker stood. 'Oh, Edna, did they find him?'
"Mrs. Bigio nodded.
"'And is he...'
"Mrs. Bigio opened her mouth, but the only sounds that came out were the sounds of sadness. I can't tell you what they sounded like. But you know them when you hear them.
"Mrs. Baker sprinted out from behind her desk and gathered Mrs. Bigio in her arms. She helped Mrs. Bigio to her own chair where she slumped down like someone who had nothing left in her.
"'Mr. Hoodhood, you may go home now, ' Mrs. Baker said.
"I did.
"But I will never forget those sounds."
The times also strike home for Holling as he witnesses the dinnertime war that is initiated between his father and his older, high school-attending sister when she appears at the dinner table with a flower painted on her face and fresh ideas of peace and love planted in her mind. Hollings' father, whose rationale for virtually everything he says and does is governed by his strategizing to gain new contracts for his architectural firm, will stand for nothing of the sort:
"'Thank you, Miss Political Analyst,' said my father. 'Now analyze this: The person to whom you are now speaking is a candidate for the Chamber of Commerce Businessman of 1967. This is also an honor that will lead to larger, more profitable ventures than he has yet seen. It is not an honor that is awarded to a man who has a daughter who calls herself a flower child. So go wash your face.'"
For Holling Hoodhood, the 1967-68 school year is a time of old heroes (and fat rats) falling and new heroes ascending. Four decades later, reverberations of that year's events are still keenly felt in America's politics and cultural wars. In THE WEDNESDAY WARS, Gary Schmidt provides readers with an unlikely young hero and an unmatched taste of a time that a-changed everything.
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Audible sampleSampleThe Wednesday Wars: A Newbery Honor Award WinnerPaperback – Print, May 18, 2009
by
Gary D. Schmidt
(Author)
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Purchase options and add-ons
In this Newbery Honor–winning novel, Gary D. Schmidt tells the witty and compelling story of a teenage boy who feels that fate has it in for him.
Seventh grader Holling Hoodhood isn't happy. He is sure his new teacher, Mrs. Baker, hates his guts. Throughout the school year, Holling strives to get a handle on the Shakespeare plays Mrs. Baker assigns him to read on his own time, and to figure out the Enigma tic Mrs. Baker. At home, Holling's domineering father is obsessed with his business image and disregards his family.
As the Vietnam War turns lives upside down, Holling comes to admire and respect both Shakespeare and Mrs. Baker, who have more to offer him than he imagined. And when his family is on the verge of coming apart, he also discovers his loyalty to his sister, and his ability to stand up to his father when it matters most.
Each month in Holling's tumultuous seventh-grade year is a chapter in this quietly powerful coming-of-age novel set in suburban Long Island during the late '60s.
- Print length288 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- Grade level5 - 7
- Lexile measure990L
- Dimensions5.13 x 0.73 x 7.63 inches
- PublisherClarion Books
- Publication dateMay 18, 2009
- ISBN-109780545178136
- ISBN-13978-0547237602
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From the Publisher
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| The Wednesday Wars | Okay for Now | Just Like That | Pay Attention, Carter Jones | Orbiting Jupiter | |
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| Read More Books by Gary Schmidt | Gary D. Schmidt tells the witty and compelling story of a teenage boy who feels that fate has it in for him, during the school year 1968-68. | Gary D. Schmidt expertly blends comedy and tragedy in the story of Doug Swieteck, an unhappy "teenage thug" who finds consolation and a sense of possibility in friendship and art. | With insight and a light touch, best-selling author Gary D. Schmidt tells two poignant, linked stories: that of a grieving girl and a boy trying to escape his violent past. | A coming-of-age story with the light touch of The Wednesday Wars, the heart of Okay for Now, and the unique presence of a wise and witty butler. | The shattering story of Joseph, a father at thirteen, who has never seen his daughter, Jupiter. |
Editorial Reviews
Review
"Schmidt makes the implausible believable and the everyday momentous. A gentle, hopeful, moving story." —Booklist(starred review)
"Schmidt, whose Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy won both Printz and Newbery Honors, delivers another winner. Deeply satisfying." —Publishers Weekly(starred review)
"Schmidt [gets] to the emotional heart of every scene without overstatement. Another virtuoso turn by the author ofLizzie Bright."—Kirkus Reviews(starred review)
"Schmidt rises above the novel's conventions to create memorable and believable characters." —Horn Book (starred review)
"One of my favorite books of the year." —New York Times
"A graceful novel full of goodwill, yearning and heart." —San Francisco Chronicle
"An entertaining and nuanced novel. There are laugh-out-loud moments that leaven the many poignant ones." —School Library Journal
"An accessible, humorous school story, and at the same time, an insightful coming-of-age tale." —BookPage
"Fans ofLizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boymay be pleasantly surprised to see Schmidt's lighter, even sillier side. "—Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books
About the Author
Gary D. Schmidtis the bestselling author ofThe Labors of Hercules Beal;Just Like That;National Book Award finalistOkay for Now;Pay Attention, Carter Jones;Orbiting Jupiter;the Newbery Honor and Printz Honor BookLizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy;and the Newbery Honor BookThe Wednesday Wars.He is also contributor to and co-editor, with Leah Henderson, of the acclaimed short story collectionA Little Bit Super.He lives in rural Michigan.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
September
Of all the kids in the seventh grade at Camillo Junior High, there was one kid that Mrs. Baker hated with heat whiter than the sun. Me.
And let me tell you, it wasn’t for anything I’d done.
If it had been Doug Swieteck that Mrs.
Baker hated, it would have made sense. Doug Swieteck once made up a list of 410 ways to get a teacher to hate you. It began with “Spray deodorant in all her desk drawers” and got worse as it went along. A whole lot worse. I think that things became illegal around Number 167.
You don’t want to know what Number 400 was, and you really don’t want to know what Number 410 was. But I’ll tell you this much: They were the kinds of things that sent kids to juvenile detention homes in upstate New York, so far away that you never saw them again. Doug Swieteck tried Number 6 on Mrs.
Sidman last year. It was something about Wrigley gum and the teachers’ water fountain (which was just outside the teachers’ lounge) and the Polynesian Fruit Blend hair coloring that Mrs.
Sidman used. It worked, and streams of juice the color of mangoes stained her face for the rest of the day, and the next day, and the next day—until, I suppose, those skin cells wore off.
Doug Swieteck was suspended for two whole weeks. Just before he left, he said that next year he was going to try Number 166 to see how much time that would get him.
The day before Doug Swieteck came back, our principal reported during Morning Announcements that Mrs. Sidman had accepted “voluntary reassignment to the Main Administrative Office.” We were all supposed to congratulate her on the new post. But it was hard to congratulate her because she almost never peeked out of the Main Administrative Office. Even when she had to be the playground monitor during recess, she mostly kept away from us. If you did get close, she’d whip out a plastic rain hat and pull it on.
It’s hard to congratulate someone who’s holding a plastic rain hat over her Polynesian Fruit Blend–colored hair.
See? That’s the kind of stuff that gets teachers to hate you. But the thing was, I never did any of that stuff. Never. I even stayed as far away from Doug Swieteck as I could, so if he did decide to try Number 166 on anyone, I wouldn’t get blamed for standing nearby.
But it didn’t matter. Mrs. Baker hated me. She hated me a whole lot worse than Mrs. Sidman hated Doug Swieteck. I knew it on Monday, the first day of seventh grade, when she called the class roll—which told you not only who was in the class but also where everyone lived.
If your last name ended in “berg” or “zog” or “stein,” you lived on the north side. If your last name ended in “elli” or “ini” or “o,” you lived on the south side. Lee Avenue cut right between them, and if you walked out of Camillo Junior High and followed Lee Avenue across Main Street, past MacClean’s Drug Store, Goldman’s Best Bakery, and the Five & Ten-Cent Store, through another block and past the Free Public Library, and down one more block, you’d come to my house—which my father had figured out was right smack in the middle of town.
Not on the north side. Not on the south side. Just somewhere in between. “It’s the Perfect House,” he said.
But perfect or not, it was hard living in between. On Saturday morning, everyone north of us was at Temple Beth-El. Late on Saturday afternoon, everyone south of us was at mass at Saint Adelbert’s—which had gone modern and figured that it didn’t need to wake parishioners up early. But on Sunday morning—early—my family was at Saint Andrew Presbyterian Church listening to Pastor McClellan, who was old enough to have known Moses. This meant that out of the whole weekend there was only Sunday afternoon left over for full baseball teams.
This hadn’t been too much of a disaster up until now. But last summer, Ben Cummings moved to Connecticut so his father could work in Groton, and Ian MacAlister moved to Biloxi so his father could be a chaplain at the base there instead of the pastor at Saint Andrew’s—which is why we ended up with Pastor McClellan, who could have called Isaiah a personal friend, too. So being a Presbyterian was now a disaster. Especially on Wednesday afternoons when, at 1:45 sharp, half of my class went to Hebrew School at Temple Beth-El, and, at 1:55, the other half went to Catechism at Saint Adelbert’s.
This left behind just the Presbyterians—of which there had been three, and now there was one.
Me.
I think Mrs. Baker suspected this when she came to my name on the class roll.
Her voice got kind of crackly, like there was a secret code in the static underneath it.
“Holling Hoodhood,” she said.
“Here.” I raised my hand.
“Hoodhood.” “Yes.” Mrs. Baker sat on the edge of her desk.
This should have sent me some kind of message, since teacherss areeeen’t supposed to sit on the edge of their desks on the first day of classes. There’s a rule about that.
“Hoodhood,” she said quietly. She thought for a moment. “Does your family attend Temple Beth-El?” she said.
I shook my head.
“Saint Adelbert’s, then?” She asked this kind of hopefully.
I shook my head again.
“So on Wednesday afternoon you attend neither Hebrew School nor Catechism.” I nodded.
“You are here with me.” “I guess,” I said.
Mrs. Baker looked hard at me. I think she rolled her eyes. “Since the mutilation of “to guess” into an intransitive verb is a crime against the language, perhaps you might wish a full sentence to avoid prosecution-—something such as, ‘I guess that Wednesday afternoons will be busy after all.’”
That’s when I knew that she hated me. This look came over her face like the sun had winked out and was not going to shine again until June.
And probably that’s the same look that came over my face, since I felt the way you feel just before you throw up—cold and sweaty at the same time, and your stomach’s doing things that stomachs aren’t supposed to do, and you’re wishing—you’re really wishing—that the ham and cheese and broccoli omelet that your mother made for you for the first day of school had been Cheerios, like you really wanted, because they come up a whole lot easier, and not yellow.
If Mrs. Baker was feeling like she was going to throw up too, she didn’t show it. She looked down at the class roll.
“Mai Thi Huong,” she called. She looked up to find Mai Thi’s raised hand, and nodded. But before she looked down, Mrs.
Baker looked at me again, and this time her eyes really did roll. Then she looked down again at the roll. “Daniel Hupfer,” she called, and she looked up to find Danny’s raised hand, and then she turned to look at me again. “Meryl Lee Kowalski,” she called. She found Meryl Lee’s hand, and looked at me again. She did this every time she looked up to find somebody’s hand. She was watching me because she hated my guts.
I walked back to the Perfect House slowly that afternoon. I could always tell when I got there without looking up, because the sidewalk changed.
Suddenly, all the cement squares were perfectly white, and none of them had a single crack. Not one. This was also true of the cement squares of the walkway leading up to the Perfect House, which were bordered by perfectly matching azalea bushes, all the same height, alternating between pink and white blossoms. The cement squares and azaleas stopped at the perfect stoop—three steps, like every other stoop on the block—and then you’re up to the two-story colonial, with two windows on each side, and two dormers on the second floor. It was like every other house on the block, except neater, because my father had it painted perfectly white every other year, except for the fake aluminum shutters, which were painted black, and the aluminum screen door, which gleamed dully and never, ever squeaked when you opened it.
Inside, I dropped my books on the stairs. “Mom,” I called.
I thought about getting something to eat. A Twinkie, maybe. Then chocolate milk that had more chocolate than milk.
And then another Twinkie. After all that sugar, I figured I’d be able to come up with something on how to live with Mrs.
Baker for nine months. Either that or I wouldn’t care anymore.
“Mom,” I called again.
I walked past the Perfect Living Room, where no one ever sat because all the seat cushions were covered in stiff, clear plastic. You could walk in there and think that everything was for sale, it was so perfect. The carpet looked like it had never been walked on—which it almost hadn’t—and the baby grand by the window looked like it had never been played—which it hadn’t, since none of us could. But if anyone had ever walked in and plinked a key or sniffed the artificial tropical flowers or straightened a tie in the gleaming mirror, they sure would have been impressed at the perfect life of an architect from Hoodhood and Associates.
My mother was in the kitchen, fanning air out the open window and putting out a cigarette, because I wasn’t supposed to know that she smoked, and if I did know, I wasn’t supposed to say anything, and I really wasn’t supposed to tell my father.
And that’s when it came to me, even before the Twinkie.
I needed to have an ally in the war against Mrs. Baker.
“How was your first day?” my mother said. “Mom,” I said, “Mrs. Baker hates my guts.” “Mrs. Baker doesn’t hate your guts.” She stopped fanning and closed the window.
“Yes, she does.” “Mrs. Baker hardly knows you.” “Mom, it’s not like you have to know someone well to hate their guts. You don’t sit around and have a long conversation and then decide whether or not to hate their guts. You just do. And she does.” “I’m sure that Mrs. Baker is a fine person, and she certainly does not hate your guts.” How do parents get to where they can say things like this? There must be some gene that switches on at the birth of the firstborn child, and suddenly stuff like that starts to come out of their mouths. It’s like they haven’t figured out that the language you’re using is English and they should be able to understand what you’re saying. Instead, you pull a string on them, and a bad record plays.
I guess they can’t help it.
Right after supper, I went to the den to look for a new ally.
“Dad, Mrs. Baker hates my guts.” “Can you see that the television is on and that I’m watching Walter Cronkite?” he said.
We listened to Walter Cronkite report on the new casualty figures from Vietnam, and how the air war was being widened, and how two new brigades of the 101st Airborne Division were being sent over, until CBS finally threw in a commercial.
“Dad, Mrs. Baker hates my guts.” “What did you do?” “I didn’t do anything. She just hates my guts.” “People don’t just hate your guts unless you do something to them. So what did you do?” “Nothing.” “This is Betty Baker, right?” “I guess.” “The Betty Baker who belongs to the Baker family.” See what I mean about that gene thing?
They miss the entire point of what you’re saying.
“I guess she belongs to the Baker family,” I said.
“The Baker family that owns the Baker Sporting Emporium.” “Dad, she hates my guts.” “The Baker Sporting Emporium, which is about to choose an architect for its new building and which is considering Hoodhood and Associates among its top three choices.” “Dad...” “So, Holling, what did you do that might make Mrs. Baker hate your guts, which will make other Baker family members hate the name of Hoodhood, which will lead the Baker Sporting Emporium to choose another architect, which will kill the deal for Hoodhood and Associates, which will drive us into bankruptcy, which will encourage several lending institutions around the state to send representatives to our front stoop holding papers that have lots of legal words on them—none of them good—and which will mean that there will be no Hoodhood and Associates for you to take over when I’m ready to retire?” Even though there wasn’t much left of the ham and cheese and broccoli omelet, it started to want to come up again. “I guess things aren’t so bad,” I said.
“Keep them that way,” he said.
This wasn’t exactly what I had hoped for in an ally.
There was only my sister left. To ask your big sister to be your ally is like asking Nova Scotia to go into battle with you.
But I knocked on her door anyway.
Loudly, since the Monkees were playing.
She pulled it open and stood there, her hands on her hips. Her lipstick was the color of a new fire engine.
“Mrs. Baker hates my guts,” I told her.
“So do I,” she said.
“I could use some help with this.” “Ask Mom.” “She says that Mrs. Baker doesn’t hate my guts.” “Ask Dad.” Silence—if you call it silence when the Monkees are playing.
“Oh,” she said. “It might hurt a business deal, right? So he won’t help the Son Who is Going to Inherit Hoodhood and Associates.” “What am I supposed to do?” “If I were you, I’d head to California,” she said.
“Try again.” She leaned against her door. “Mrs.
Baker hates your guts, right?” I nodded.
“Then, Holling, you might try getting some.” And she closed her door.
That night, I read Treasure Island again, and I don’t want to brag, but I’ve read Treasure Island four times and Kidnapped twice and The Black Arrow twice. I even read Ivanhoe halfway through before I gave up, since I started The Call of the Wild and it was a whole lot better. I skipped to the part where Jim Hawkins is stealing the Hispaniola and he’s up on the mast and Israel Hands is climbing toward him, clutching a dagger. Even so, Jim’s in pretty good shape, since he’s got two pistols against a single dagger, and Israel Hands seems about to give in.
“I’ll have to strike, which comes hard,” he says. I suppose he hates Jim’s guts right at that moment. And Jim smiles, since he knows he’s got him. That’s guts.
But then Israel Hands throws the dagger, and it’s just dumb luck that saves Jim.
And I didn’t want to count on just dumb luck.
Mrs. Baker eyed me all day on Tuesday, looking like she wanted something awful to happen—sort of like what Israel Hands wanted to happen to Jim Hawkins. It started first thing in the morning, when I caught her watching me come out of the Coat Room and walk toward my desk.
By the way, if you’re wondering why a seventh-grade classroom had a Coat Room, it isn’t because we weren’t old enough to have lockers. It’s because Camillo Junior High used to be Camillo Elementary until the town built a new Camillo Elementary and attached it to the old Camillo Elementary by the kitchen hallway and then made the old Camillo Elementary into the new Camillo Junior High. So all the rooms on the third floor where the seventh grade was had Coat Rooms. That’s where we put our stuff—even though it was 1967 already, and we should have had hall lockers, like every other seventh grade in the civilized world.
So I caught Mrs. Baker watching me come out of the Coat Room and walk toward my desk. She leaned forward, as if she was looking for something in her desk. It was creepy.
But just before I sat down, I figured it out: She’d booby-trapped my desk—like Captain Flint would have. It all came to me in a sort of vision, the kind of thing that Pastor McClellan had sometimes talked about, how God sends a message to you just before some disaster, and if you listen, you stay alive. But if you don’t, you don’t. I looked at my desk. I didn’t see any trip wires, so probably there weren’t any explosives. I checked the screws.
They were all still in, so it wouldn’t fall flat when I sat down.
Maybe there was something inside.
Something terrible inside. Something really awful inside. Something left over from the seventh-grade biology labs last spring. I looked at Mrs. Baker again. She had looked away, a half-smile on her lips.
Really. Talk about guilt.
So I asked Meryl Lee Kowalski, who has been in love with me since she first laid eyes on me in the third grade—I’m just saying what she told me—I asked her to open my desk first.
“How come?” she said. Sometimes even true love can be suspicious.
“Just because.” “‘Just because’ isn’t much of a reason.” “Just because there might be a surprise.” “For who?” “For you.” “For me?” “For you.” She lifted the desk top. She looked under English for You and Me, Mathematics for You and Me, and Geography for You and Me. “I don’t see anything,” she said.
I looked inside. “Maybe I was wrong.” “Maybe I was wrong,” said Meryl Lee, and dropped the desk top. Loudly. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry. I was supposed to wait until you put your fingers there.” Love and hate in seventh grade are not far apart, let me tell you.
At lunchtime, I was afraid to go out for recess, since I figured that Mrs. Baker had probably recruited an eighth-grader to do something awful to me. There was Doug Swieteck’s brother, for one, who was already shaving and had been to three police stations in two states and who once spent a night in jail. No one knew what for, but I thought it might be for something in the Number 390s—or maybe even Number 410 itself! Doug Swieteck said that if his father hadn’t bribed the judge, his brother would have been on Death Row.
We all believed him.
“Why don’t you go out for lunch recess?” said Mrs. Baker to me.
“Everyone else is gone.” I held up English for You and Me. “I thought I’d read in here,” I said.
“Go out for recess,” she said, criminal intent gleaming in her eyes.
“I’m comfortable here.” “Mr. Hoodhood,” she said. She stood up and crossed her arms, and I realized I was alone in the room with no witnesses and no mast to climb to get away.
I went out for recess.
I kept a perimeter of about ten feet or so around me, and stayed in Mrs.
Sidman’s line of sight. I almost asked for her rain hat. You never know what might come in handy when something awful is about to happen to you.
Then, as if the Dread Day of Doom and Disaster had come to Camillo Junior High, I heard, “Hey, Hoodhood!” It was Doug Swieteck’s brother. He entered my perimeter.
I took three steps closer to Mrs.
Sidman. She moved away and held her rain hat firmly.
“Hoodhood—you play soccer? We need another guy.” Doug Swieteck’s brother was moving toward me. The hair on his chest leaped over the neck of his T-shirt.
“Go ahead,” called the helpful Mrs.
Sidman from a distance. “If you don’t play, someone will have to sit out.” If I don’t play, I’ll live another day, I thought.
“Hoodhood,” said Doug Swieteck’s brother, “you coming or not?” What could I do? It was like walking into my own destiny.
Copyright © 2007 by Gary D. Schmidt.
Reprinted by permission of Clarion Books / Houghton Mifflin Company.
Of all the kids in the seventh grade at Camillo Junior High, there was one kid that Mrs. Baker hated with heat whiter than the sun. Me.
And let me tell you, it wasn’t for anything I’d done.
If it had been Doug Swieteck that Mrs.
Baker hated, it would have made sense. Doug Swieteck once made up a list of 410 ways to get a teacher to hate you. It began with “Spray deodorant in all her desk drawers” and got worse as it went along. A whole lot worse. I think that things became illegal around Number 167.
You don’t want to know what Number 400 was, and you really don’t want to know what Number 410 was. But I’ll tell you this much: They were the kinds of things that sent kids to juvenile detention homes in upstate New York, so far away that you never saw them again. Doug Swieteck tried Number 6 on Mrs.
Sidman last year. It was something about Wrigley gum and the teachers’ water fountain (which was just outside the teachers’ lounge) and the Polynesian Fruit Blend hair coloring that Mrs.
Sidman used. It worked, and streams of juice the color of mangoes stained her face for the rest of the day, and the next day, and the next day—until, I suppose, those skin cells wore off.
Doug Swieteck was suspended for two whole weeks. Just before he left, he said that next year he was going to try Number 166 to see how much time that would get him.
The day before Doug Swieteck came back, our principal reported during Morning Announcements that Mrs. Sidman had accepted “voluntary reassignment to the Main Administrative Office.” We were all supposed to congratulate her on the new post. But it was hard to congratulate her because she almost never peeked out of the Main Administrative Office. Even when she had to be the playground monitor during recess, she mostly kept away from us. If you did get close, she’d whip out a plastic rain hat and pull it on.
It’s hard to congratulate someone who’s holding a plastic rain hat over her Polynesian Fruit Blend–colored hair.
See? That’s the kind of stuff that gets teachers to hate you. But the thing was, I never did any of that stuff. Never. I even stayed as far away from Doug Swieteck as I could, so if he did decide to try Number 166 on anyone, I wouldn’t get blamed for standing nearby.
But it didn’t matter. Mrs. Baker hated me. She hated me a whole lot worse than Mrs. Sidman hated Doug Swieteck. I knew it on Monday, the first day of seventh grade, when she called the class roll—which told you not only who was in the class but also where everyone lived.
If your last name ended in “berg” or “zog” or “stein,” you lived on the north side. If your last name ended in “elli” or “ini” or “o,” you lived on the south side. Lee Avenue cut right between them, and if you walked out of Camillo Junior High and followed Lee Avenue across Main Street, past MacClean’s Drug Store, Goldman’s Best Bakery, and the Five & Ten-Cent Store, through another block and past the Free Public Library, and down one more block, you’d come to my house—which my father had figured out was right smack in the middle of town.
Not on the north side. Not on the south side. Just somewhere in between. “It’s the Perfect House,” he said.
But perfect or not, it was hard living in between. On Saturday morning, everyone north of us was at Temple Beth-El. Late on Saturday afternoon, everyone south of us was at mass at Saint Adelbert’s—which had gone modern and figured that it didn’t need to wake parishioners up early. But on Sunday morning—early—my family was at Saint Andrew Presbyterian Church listening to Pastor McClellan, who was old enough to have known Moses. This meant that out of the whole weekend there was only Sunday afternoon left over for full baseball teams.
This hadn’t been too much of a disaster up until now. But last summer, Ben Cummings moved to Connecticut so his father could work in Groton, and Ian MacAlister moved to Biloxi so his father could be a chaplain at the base there instead of the pastor at Saint Andrew’s—which is why we ended up with Pastor McClellan, who could have called Isaiah a personal friend, too. So being a Presbyterian was now a disaster. Especially on Wednesday afternoons when, at 1:45 sharp, half of my class went to Hebrew School at Temple Beth-El, and, at 1:55, the other half went to Catechism at Saint Adelbert’s.
This left behind just the Presbyterians—of which there had been three, and now there was one.
Me.
I think Mrs. Baker suspected this when she came to my name on the class roll.
Her voice got kind of crackly, like there was a secret code in the static underneath it.
“Holling Hoodhood,” she said.
“Here.” I raised my hand.
“Hoodhood.” “Yes.” Mrs. Baker sat on the edge of her desk.
This should have sent me some kind of message, since teacherss areeeen’t supposed to sit on the edge of their desks on the first day of classes. There’s a rule about that.
“Hoodhood,” she said quietly. She thought for a moment. “Does your family attend Temple Beth-El?” she said.
I shook my head.
“Saint Adelbert’s, then?” She asked this kind of hopefully.
I shook my head again.
“So on Wednesday afternoon you attend neither Hebrew School nor Catechism.” I nodded.
“You are here with me.” “I guess,” I said.
Mrs. Baker looked hard at me. I think she rolled her eyes. “Since the mutilation of “to guess” into an intransitive verb is a crime against the language, perhaps you might wish a full sentence to avoid prosecution-—something such as, ‘I guess that Wednesday afternoons will be busy after all.’”
That’s when I knew that she hated me. This look came over her face like the sun had winked out and was not going to shine again until June.
And probably that’s the same look that came over my face, since I felt the way you feel just before you throw up—cold and sweaty at the same time, and your stomach’s doing things that stomachs aren’t supposed to do, and you’re wishing—you’re really wishing—that the ham and cheese and broccoli omelet that your mother made for you for the first day of school had been Cheerios, like you really wanted, because they come up a whole lot easier, and not yellow.
If Mrs. Baker was feeling like she was going to throw up too, she didn’t show it. She looked down at the class roll.
“Mai Thi Huong,” she called. She looked up to find Mai Thi’s raised hand, and nodded. But before she looked down, Mrs.
Baker looked at me again, and this time her eyes really did roll. Then she looked down again at the roll. “Daniel Hupfer,” she called, and she looked up to find Danny’s raised hand, and then she turned to look at me again. “Meryl Lee Kowalski,” she called. She found Meryl Lee’s hand, and looked at me again. She did this every time she looked up to find somebody’s hand. She was watching me because she hated my guts.
I walked back to the Perfect House slowly that afternoon. I could always tell when I got there without looking up, because the sidewalk changed.
Suddenly, all the cement squares were perfectly white, and none of them had a single crack. Not one. This was also true of the cement squares of the walkway leading up to the Perfect House, which were bordered by perfectly matching azalea bushes, all the same height, alternating between pink and white blossoms. The cement squares and azaleas stopped at the perfect stoop—three steps, like every other stoop on the block—and then you’re up to the two-story colonial, with two windows on each side, and two dormers on the second floor. It was like every other house on the block, except neater, because my father had it painted perfectly white every other year, except for the fake aluminum shutters, which were painted black, and the aluminum screen door, which gleamed dully and never, ever squeaked when you opened it.
Inside, I dropped my books on the stairs. “Mom,” I called.
I thought about getting something to eat. A Twinkie, maybe. Then chocolate milk that had more chocolate than milk.
And then another Twinkie. After all that sugar, I figured I’d be able to come up with something on how to live with Mrs.
Baker for nine months. Either that or I wouldn’t care anymore.
“Mom,” I called again.
I walked past the Perfect Living Room, where no one ever sat because all the seat cushions were covered in stiff, clear plastic. You could walk in there and think that everything was for sale, it was so perfect. The carpet looked like it had never been walked on—which it almost hadn’t—and the baby grand by the window looked like it had never been played—which it hadn’t, since none of us could. But if anyone had ever walked in and plinked a key or sniffed the artificial tropical flowers or straightened a tie in the gleaming mirror, they sure would have been impressed at the perfect life of an architect from Hoodhood and Associates.
My mother was in the kitchen, fanning air out the open window and putting out a cigarette, because I wasn’t supposed to know that she smoked, and if I did know, I wasn’t supposed to say anything, and I really wasn’t supposed to tell my father.
And that’s when it came to me, even before the Twinkie.
I needed to have an ally in the war against Mrs. Baker.
“How was your first day?” my mother said. “Mom,” I said, “Mrs. Baker hates my guts.” “Mrs. Baker doesn’t hate your guts.” She stopped fanning and closed the window.
“Yes, she does.” “Mrs. Baker hardly knows you.” “Mom, it’s not like you have to know someone well to hate their guts. You don’t sit around and have a long conversation and then decide whether or not to hate their guts. You just do. And she does.” “I’m sure that Mrs. Baker is a fine person, and she certainly does not hate your guts.” How do parents get to where they can say things like this? There must be some gene that switches on at the birth of the firstborn child, and suddenly stuff like that starts to come out of their mouths. It’s like they haven’t figured out that the language you’re using is English and they should be able to understand what you’re saying. Instead, you pull a string on them, and a bad record plays.
I guess they can’t help it.
Right after supper, I went to the den to look for a new ally.
“Dad, Mrs. Baker hates my guts.” “Can you see that the television is on and that I’m watching Walter Cronkite?” he said.
We listened to Walter Cronkite report on the new casualty figures from Vietnam, and how the air war was being widened, and how two new brigades of the 101st Airborne Division were being sent over, until CBS finally threw in a commercial.
“Dad, Mrs. Baker hates my guts.” “What did you do?” “I didn’t do anything. She just hates my guts.” “People don’t just hate your guts unless you do something to them. So what did you do?” “Nothing.” “This is Betty Baker, right?” “I guess.” “The Betty Baker who belongs to the Baker family.” See what I mean about that gene thing?
They miss the entire point of what you’re saying.
“I guess she belongs to the Baker family,” I said.
“The Baker family that owns the Baker Sporting Emporium.” “Dad, she hates my guts.” “The Baker Sporting Emporium, which is about to choose an architect for its new building and which is considering Hoodhood and Associates among its top three choices.” “Dad...” “So, Holling, what did you do that might make Mrs. Baker hate your guts, which will make other Baker family members hate the name of Hoodhood, which will lead the Baker Sporting Emporium to choose another architect, which will kill the deal for Hoodhood and Associates, which will drive us into bankruptcy, which will encourage several lending institutions around the state to send representatives to our front stoop holding papers that have lots of legal words on them—none of them good—and which will mean that there will be no Hoodhood and Associates for you to take over when I’m ready to retire?” Even though there wasn’t much left of the ham and cheese and broccoli omelet, it started to want to come up again. “I guess things aren’t so bad,” I said.
“Keep them that way,” he said.
This wasn’t exactly what I had hoped for in an ally.
There was only my sister left. To ask your big sister to be your ally is like asking Nova Scotia to go into battle with you.
But I knocked on her door anyway.
Loudly, since the Monkees were playing.
She pulled it open and stood there, her hands on her hips. Her lipstick was the color of a new fire engine.
“Mrs. Baker hates my guts,” I told her.
“So do I,” she said.
“I could use some help with this.” “Ask Mom.” “She says that Mrs. Baker doesn’t hate my guts.” “Ask Dad.” Silence—if you call it silence when the Monkees are playing.
“Oh,” she said. “It might hurt a business deal, right? So he won’t help the Son Who is Going to Inherit Hoodhood and Associates.” “What am I supposed to do?” “If I were you, I’d head to California,” she said.
“Try again.” She leaned against her door. “Mrs.
Baker hates your guts, right?” I nodded.
“Then, Holling, you might try getting some.” And she closed her door.
That night, I read Treasure Island again, and I don’t want to brag, but I’ve read Treasure Island four times and Kidnapped twice and The Black Arrow twice. I even read Ivanhoe halfway through before I gave up, since I started The Call of the Wild and it was a whole lot better. I skipped to the part where Jim Hawkins is stealing the Hispaniola and he’s up on the mast and Israel Hands is climbing toward him, clutching a dagger. Even so, Jim’s in pretty good shape, since he’s got two pistols against a single dagger, and Israel Hands seems about to give in.
“I’ll have to strike, which comes hard,” he says. I suppose he hates Jim’s guts right at that moment. And Jim smiles, since he knows he’s got him. That’s guts.
But then Israel Hands throws the dagger, and it’s just dumb luck that saves Jim.
And I didn’t want to count on just dumb luck.
Mrs. Baker eyed me all day on Tuesday, looking like she wanted something awful to happen—sort of like what Israel Hands wanted to happen to Jim Hawkins. It started first thing in the morning, when I caught her watching me come out of the Coat Room and walk toward my desk.
By the way, if you’re wondering why a seventh-grade classroom had a Coat Room, it isn’t because we weren’t old enough to have lockers. It’s because Camillo Junior High used to be Camillo Elementary until the town built a new Camillo Elementary and attached it to the old Camillo Elementary by the kitchen hallway and then made the old Camillo Elementary into the new Camillo Junior High. So all the rooms on the third floor where the seventh grade was had Coat Rooms. That’s where we put our stuff—even though it was 1967 already, and we should have had hall lockers, like every other seventh grade in the civilized world.
So I caught Mrs. Baker watching me come out of the Coat Room and walk toward my desk. She leaned forward, as if she was looking for something in her desk. It was creepy.
But just before I sat down, I figured it out: She’d booby-trapped my desk—like Captain Flint would have. It all came to me in a sort of vision, the kind of thing that Pastor McClellan had sometimes talked about, how God sends a message to you just before some disaster, and if you listen, you stay alive. But if you don’t, you don’t. I looked at my desk. I didn’t see any trip wires, so probably there weren’t any explosives. I checked the screws.
They were all still in, so it wouldn’t fall flat when I sat down.
Maybe there was something inside.
Something terrible inside. Something really awful inside. Something left over from the seventh-grade biology labs last spring. I looked at Mrs. Baker again. She had looked away, a half-smile on her lips.
Really. Talk about guilt.
So I asked Meryl Lee Kowalski, who has been in love with me since she first laid eyes on me in the third grade—I’m just saying what she told me—I asked her to open my desk first.
“How come?” she said. Sometimes even true love can be suspicious.
“Just because.” “‘Just because’ isn’t much of a reason.” “Just because there might be a surprise.” “For who?” “For you.” “For me?” “For you.” She lifted the desk top. She looked under English for You and Me, Mathematics for You and Me, and Geography for You and Me. “I don’t see anything,” she said.
I looked inside. “Maybe I was wrong.” “Maybe I was wrong,” said Meryl Lee, and dropped the desk top. Loudly. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry. I was supposed to wait until you put your fingers there.” Love and hate in seventh grade are not far apart, let me tell you.
At lunchtime, I was afraid to go out for recess, since I figured that Mrs. Baker had probably recruited an eighth-grader to do something awful to me. There was Doug Swieteck’s brother, for one, who was already shaving and had been to three police stations in two states and who once spent a night in jail. No one knew what for, but I thought it might be for something in the Number 390s—or maybe even Number 410 itself! Doug Swieteck said that if his father hadn’t bribed the judge, his brother would have been on Death Row.
We all believed him.
“Why don’t you go out for lunch recess?” said Mrs. Baker to me.
“Everyone else is gone.” I held up English for You and Me. “I thought I’d read in here,” I said.
“Go out for recess,” she said, criminal intent gleaming in her eyes.
“I’m comfortable here.” “Mr. Hoodhood,” she said. She stood up and crossed her arms, and I realized I was alone in the room with no witnesses and no mast to climb to get away.
I went out for recess.
I kept a perimeter of about ten feet or so around me, and stayed in Mrs.
Sidman’s line of sight. I almost asked for her rain hat. You never know what might come in handy when something awful is about to happen to you.
Then, as if the Dread Day of Doom and Disaster had come to Camillo Junior High, I heard, “Hey, Hoodhood!” It was Doug Swieteck’s brother. He entered my perimeter.
I took three steps closer to Mrs.
Sidman. She moved away and held her rain hat firmly.
“Hoodhood—you play soccer? We need another guy.” Doug Swieteck’s brother was moving toward me. The hair on his chest leaped over the neck of his T-shirt.
“Go ahead,” called the helpful Mrs.
Sidman from a distance. “If you don’t play, someone will have to sit out.” If I don’t play, I’ll live another day, I thought.
“Hoodhood,” said Doug Swieteck’s brother, “you coming or not?” What could I do? It was like walking into my own destiny.
Copyright © 2007 by Gary D. Schmidt.
Reprinted by permission of Clarion Books / Houghton Mifflin Company.
Product details
- ASIN : 054723760X
- Publisher : Clarion Books; Reprint edition (May 18, 2009)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 288 pages
- ISBN-10 : 9780545178136
- ISBN-13 : 978-0547237602
- Reading age : 10 - 12 years, from customers
- Lexile measure : 990L
- Grade level : 5 - 7
- Item Weight : 2.31 pounds
- Dimensions : 5.13 x 0.73 x 7.63 inches
- Best Sellers Rank:#2,249 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
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Gary D. Schmidt is the author of the Newbery Honor and Printz Honor book Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy. His most recent novel is The Wednesday Wars. He is a professor of English at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
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5 Stars
and tells terrible teacher jokes
It’s the middle of the Vietnam war, and Holling Hoodhood, the heir of Hoodhood and Associates, is having problems at school and at home. His new teacher, Mrs. Baker, is strict, mean (well, to Holling at least), and tells terrible teacher jokes! She assigns Shakespeare stories to Holling, trying to bore him to death. Holling’s family is basically falling apart (even though they seem perfect on the outside). Holling’s father, Mr. Hoodhood - greedy and cruel - wants nothing more than to join this Architect club just to get more money and recognition. Mrs. Hoodhood - quiet and shy - is scared to object. And Holling’s sister, Heather, runs away. I really liked this book, because there were a lot of parts that made me laugh. But mostly, I enjoyed watching Holling grow up and become stronger. Strong enough to stand up to his dad. - Katie Qin
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Top reviews from the United States
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Reviewed in the United States on May 3, 2007
Reviewed in the United States on July 20, 2011
"So being a Presbyterian was now a disaster. Especially on Wednesday afternoons when, at 1:45 sharp, half of my class went to Hebrew School at Temple Beth-El, and, at 1:55, the other half went to Catechism at Saint Adalbert's. This left behind just the Presbyterians - of which there had been three, and now there was one. Me." - Holling Hoodhood
Holling Hoodhood knew seventh grade was going to be tough, he just didn't expect it to be THIS tough. He wasn't, for example, prepared for the quantity and quality of death threats he's received from state-penitentiary-bound eighth graders and his so-called friends (and over pastry, for goodness sake) - from his older sister, even. And he certainly had no inkling, before the school year began, that Mrs. Baker was going to hate him, which she must, because she's making him read Shakespeare - and it's not for class! Clearly, the teacher hates him, probably because she's forced to spend Wednesday afternoons with just Holling and the bard while everyone else is off at religious instruction. These are Wednesday afternoons she could have all to herself if it wasn't for Holling.
But, as 1967 bleeds into 1968, Holling begins to realize that Shakespeare (always excepting Romeo and Juliet) isn't that bad and that Mrs. Baker, well she might not hate him after all, at least not as much as he thought. Besides, Holling - like the rest of the world - has other, more weighty problems. The Vietnam War, grimly chronicled each night by Walter Cronkite, is tearing the country apart - and causing no little amount strife within Holling's own family. His father has become so dedicated to making his architectural firm a success that he has lost touch with the very people he claims to be working so hard for, his own family. It seems to Holling as if his father cares more about him as the future head of Hoodhood and Associates than he cares about the boy living in his own house right now. Holling's sister, a would be flower child and fervent supporter of the anti-war movement, is drifting farther and farther away from the family. Compared to all that, reading Shakespeare could almost be seen as a good thing. You know, if it wasn't for Romeo and Juliet.
The Wednesday Wars is one of those rare coming of age novels that manages to perfectly blend humor and the painful, difficult truths about growing up. In Holling Hoodhood, Mr. Schmidt has created the most likable of protagonists, a boy still young enough to get himself involved in unlikely scrapes even as he gains the maturity to stand up for himself for the first time. Mrs. Baker is that wonderful rarity, a true TEACHER, whose influence on Holling will no doubt be felt for the rest of his life. Everything about this gem of a novel was perfect: tone, language, pacing characters. The background of the Vietnam War was especially well done. Even though I was only five in 1968, I vividly remember the was on television and how it trickled down to every aspect of of American life. The Wednesday Wars definitely belongs in every library.
Holling Hoodhood knew seventh grade was going to be tough, he just didn't expect it to be THIS tough. He wasn't, for example, prepared for the quantity and quality of death threats he's received from state-penitentiary-bound eighth graders and his so-called friends (and over pastry, for goodness sake) - from his older sister, even. And he certainly had no inkling, before the school year began, that Mrs. Baker was going to hate him, which she must, because she's making him read Shakespeare - and it's not for class! Clearly, the teacher hates him, probably because she's forced to spend Wednesday afternoons with just Holling and the bard while everyone else is off at religious instruction. These are Wednesday afternoons she could have all to herself if it wasn't for Holling.
But, as 1967 bleeds into 1968, Holling begins to realize that Shakespeare (always excepting Romeo and Juliet) isn't that bad and that Mrs. Baker, well she might not hate him after all, at least not as much as he thought. Besides, Holling - like the rest of the world - has other, more weighty problems. The Vietnam War, grimly chronicled each night by Walter Cronkite, is tearing the country apart - and causing no little amount strife within Holling's own family. His father has become so dedicated to making his architectural firm a success that he has lost touch with the very people he claims to be working so hard for, his own family. It seems to Holling as if his father cares more about him as the future head of Hoodhood and Associates than he cares about the boy living in his own house right now. Holling's sister, a would be flower child and fervent supporter of the anti-war movement, is drifting farther and farther away from the family. Compared to all that, reading Shakespeare could almost be seen as a good thing. You know, if it wasn't for Romeo and Juliet.
The Wednesday Wars is one of those rare coming of age novels that manages to perfectly blend humor and the painful, difficult truths about growing up. In Holling Hoodhood, Mr. Schmidt has created the most likable of protagonists, a boy still young enough to get himself involved in unlikely scrapes even as he gains the maturity to stand up for himself for the first time. Mrs. Baker is that wonderful rarity, a true TEACHER, whose influence on Holling will no doubt be felt for the rest of his life. Everything about this gem of a novel was perfect: tone, language, pacing characters. The background of the Vietnam War was especially well done. Even though I was only five in 1968, I vividly remember the was on television and how it trickled down to every aspect of of American life. The Wednesday Wars definitely belongs in every library.
Reviewed in the United States on October 12, 2010
Gary D. Schmidt's The Wednesday Wars is about as pleasant as a book as you could ever read. It beguiles you with what is, to the adult, simple subject matter told in a I-know-better-than-you-do voice of a seventh grader. However, beneath the charm and hilarity of its narrator, The Wednesday Wars meditates on what it means to be human. Younger readers can learn at the pace of the main character while adults can learn from the milieu of characters that surround Holling. Schmidt takes the lessons learned from the Vietnam War era and makes them both palatable and perpetually present.
The book is most successful in its meditations on what it means to be human. For the literary minded, they will rejoice in the linkage of Shakespeare to learning important life lessons; for the not so literary inclined, Schmidt makes a pretty strong argument for how literature, at its best, can inform our character.
Another great aspect of the book is the careful use of humor. It's easy to find humorous situations in the life of a seventh grader, but Schmidt uses the humor not just for humor's sake, but to balance the moments of pathos within the book. This use of humor applies particularly well to the relationship between Mrs. Baker and Holling. Holling's misunderstanding of Mrs. Baker not only generates comedic moments, but also increases the emotional power of the book as Holling comes to understand what is at stake for Mrs. Baker.
Schmidt achieves genuine teaching moments without the book ever feeling didactic. Either we are shown the things that we need to learn, or we imbibe our lessons from the mouth of a seventh grader as he comes to grasp the things that Mrs. Baker, family, and life teach him.
The book is most successful in its meditations on what it means to be human. For the literary minded, they will rejoice in the linkage of Shakespeare to learning important life lessons; for the not so literary inclined, Schmidt makes a pretty strong argument for how literature, at its best, can inform our character.
Another great aspect of the book is the careful use of humor. It's easy to find humorous situations in the life of a seventh grader, but Schmidt uses the humor not just for humor's sake, but to balance the moments of pathos within the book. This use of humor applies particularly well to the relationship between Mrs. Baker and Holling. Holling's misunderstanding of Mrs. Baker not only generates comedic moments, but also increases the emotional power of the book as Holling comes to understand what is at stake for Mrs. Baker.
Schmidt achieves genuine teaching moments without the book ever feeling didactic. Either we are shown the things that we need to learn, or we imbibe our lessons from the mouth of a seventh grader as he comes to grasp the things that Mrs. Baker, family, and life teach him.
Top reviews from other countries
John Gilfillan
5.0 out of 5 stars
Terrific Read
Reviewed in Canada on June 16, 2022
This is a coming of age story as grade 7 student, Holling Hoodhood, struggles to figure out who he is. There are hilarious moments as he deals with his relationships at school and at home which are offset by more serious issues of bullying, racism and the 60’s politics. I loved the references to Shakespeare’s comedies and tragedies. Holling indeed learns, “To thine own self be true.”
Sergio
5.0 out of 5 stars
Entregado en tiempo
Reviewed in Mexico on January 14, 2020
Un libro escolar recomendable
Sir Furboy
5.0 out of 5 stars
Best Book of the Year So Far
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on March 22, 2010
I started this book on January 1st, and as I had the day off, finished it that evening. The following day I made a big deal out of this being the best book I had read this year. Now it is late March and I am reviewing it here, and it still is the best book I read this year. This story was frequently hilarious, and often touching. The characters were wonderful, colourful, amusing and just so real.
The book is essentially a coming of age tale, set against the back drop of an America at war in Vietnam and in the grip of cold war paranoia. Holling Hoodhood is the only Presbyterian child in a class of Catholics and Jews, and thus the only one who does not go off to one kind of religious instruction or another on a Wednesday afternoon. This leads to some quality time with a teacher who, too start with at least, he is quite sure hates him - and who presumably resents the necessity to look after a class of one.
The way the author writes this is just excellent. I could not put the book down. At times I wanted to almost cry with laughter and other times I was deeply moved by this first rate story, which really deserves to be much more widely known.
Called a young adult book, this is a story adults will love too.
The book is essentially a coming of age tale, set against the back drop of an America at war in Vietnam and in the grip of cold war paranoia. Holling Hoodhood is the only Presbyterian child in a class of Catholics and Jews, and thus the only one who does not go off to one kind of religious instruction or another on a Wednesday afternoon. This leads to some quality time with a teacher who, too start with at least, he is quite sure hates him - and who presumably resents the necessity to look after a class of one.
The way the author writes this is just excellent. I could not put the book down. At times I wanted to almost cry with laughter and other times I was deeply moved by this first rate story, which really deserves to be much more widely known.
Called a young adult book, this is a story adults will love too.
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TD
5.0 out of 5 stars
A well written book
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on June 3, 2018
This a great book that is both well written and fun. It makes the study of literature fun, as well as talking about how war effects all areas of life.
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Used to be a Fan of this company
5.0 out of 5 stars
I loved this book
Reviewed in Canada on June 18, 2016
Lovely and hilarious and moving. A juvenile fiction novel for the masses...maybe grown-ups especially. A ton of allusions, readers learn about Shakespeare, the Vietnam War, Martin Luther King, the Beatles...and on and on, and ultimately the narrator, a bright young whippersnapper of a teenage boy, becomes a man in the very truest senses...of the head and the heart. I loved this book.
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