The Boy Project by Kami Kinard

Kara McAllister has a problem. Already in the eighth grade, and she’s never had a boyfriend. Most other girls in Kara’s school have boyfriends–why shouldn’t Kara? How can Kara snag herself a boyfriend? She launches an ingenious research project—The Boy Project–to answer all her burning guy-related questions.

Using her middle school science fair as a cover, Kara puts together a notebook full of notes, graphs, and observations on the opposite sex. But after all that scientific research, one question still remains: will Kara ever get boyfriend?



Reading The Boy Project is like reading a run-on text from a bubbly best friend. Not in the, “hi, I lik 2 tpe lik dis” sense. More in the uplifting and easy to get caught up in sense. Kara’s humor and hyper thoughts make her an easily likeable character, as does her clueless naivety. At one point, Kara decides her soul mate is an Abercrombie employee because he smiles at her. Poor little Kara. So much to learn.



The only thing that bothers me about The Boy Project is . . . err . . . the subject of The Boy Project: eighth grade boyfriends. I don’t want to be like one of those people who say Twilight makes feeble-minded and impressionable thirteen-year-old girls everywhere go out and get into relationships with sparkly, possibly psychopathic boyfriends. But—sorry about this—isn’t the middle grade audience intended (around sixth grade) going to feel a bit boy-pressured? A year ago, when I was in middle school, almost no one had a boyfriend. Only a few Maybellines (“popular” children) and Vines (clingy, eyeliner-wearing children) bothered to. Middle school feels way too early to start obsessing over boys. I know that it’s probably a non-issue. Middle grade readers should be smart enough to tell a fun, light-hearted read from something to actually take seriously—but it did give me a moment’s pause.



The Boy Project gets four and a half stars!

This review is also posted on the amazing figment.com.

First book club meeting

School book club. My first time going to a book club -- ever. I had expectations of meeting people as awkward an book obsessed as I. The book we planned to discuss was Everlost. I envisioned sitting at a circular table, rolling around in a professional-looking rolley-chair, and having a spirited debate on Mary's creepiness factor.

But no.


Our chairs were stationary and our tables square.

We started the meeting by eating gummy snacks. Not just any gummy snacks, but organic fruit gummy snacks with no artificial colors. I highly recommend them. They tasted kinda like fruit juice but harder to swallow.

The first topic of discussion was pondering of what would happen if quicksand became a deadspot. Then we, meaning the three out of six people there who actually read Everlost, came up with a scenario about someone who would love quicksand enough for it to come back as a deadspot.

Five minutes pass.

Next topic of discussion: the goodness doughnut sandwiches. Result: decent enough if no mayonnaise is added.

Twenty minutes pass.

Random person while looking at watch:

"Well, I have to leave now. Bye"

Other person:

"Yeah, me too."

Me:

"Yeah..."

Success!

 Err... somewhat. The food was good. The people who came-- although shining examples of typical introverted bookworms-- managed to keep up conversations that were easy and fun to jump into. I only felt confused as to the lack of book topics. I don't know how the others felt about that; I know I wanted to keep the book conversations going, but being the one to initiate and keep the book-talk going could turn embarrassing fast if the other self-proclaimed bookwormies aren't as bookwormie as to want to really talk about every aspect of a book. Anyways, whatever we talked about, I liked. Are all book clubs like that? Minimal book-speak?  

Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor

Summary- Around the world, black handprints are appearing on doorways, scorched there by winged strangers who have crept through a slit in the sky.
In a dark and dusty shop, a devil's supply of human teeth grown dangerously low.

And in the tangled lanes of Prague, a young art student is about to be caught up in a brutal otherwordly war.

Meet Karou. She fills her sketchbooks with monsters that may or may not be real; she's prone to disappearing on mysterious "errands"; she speaks many languages--not all of them human; and her bright blue hair actually grows out of her head that color. Who is she? That is the question that haunts her, and she's about to find out.

When one of the strangers--beautiful, haunted Akiva--fixes his fire-colored eyes on her in an alley in Marrakesh, the result is blood and starlight, secrets unveiled, and a star-crossed love whose roots drink deep of a violent past. But will Karou live to regret learning the truth about herself?

Thankful for... Mammoth

   

 At first the contest had me confused. Thankful? There wasn't a particular book that immediately came to mind. Nothing had an impact earth-shattering enough for me to remember instantly. And, just sayin', I'm not a fan of anything Narnia although Turkish Delights sound heavenly. The Narnia book series has always sounded like it would be better read aloud to a gaggle of poor stuffed geese by an aloof, elderly English man. Not that I discriminate against aloof, elderly English men who pass lonely, lonely days reading aloud to a gaggle of stuffed geese. Much. The movie was surprisingly good, but I ending up falling asleep during the hour-long fight scene.

      I had to dig through my bookshelf to find a book I had almost but not quite forgotten about. Mammoth by John Varley was my Narnia. It was a just-because present from my college broke sister. I was ten, and I knew Mammoth was probably going to be a  face-palmer. The tip-offs?

1. The only books my sister ever reads are Serious Books. One bored weekend in her apartment, I found myself learning all about the joys of feminism in a concise work of literature topping a thousand pages. My sister had read over and highlighted the most important bits. Fun stuff.
2. The book in question was purchased new for a dollar.
3. I was ten. Mammoth was meant to be read by adults.

     Oh, yeah. Ten-year-old me had major skills of deductive reasoning. But my skills had failed me. Mammoth was good. While I was right about some scenes being too old for me (what did Matt and Susan mean when they said making love? Why did they lay down together? So. Many. Questions.), the parts that made sense opened my mind up to the possibilities of the good in bigger, more complex books. Mammoth helped me to branch out and find worth while middle-grade books leading me to become my obviously awesome bibliophile self. : D