Summary
We were only three angry high school girls, to begin with. Alix, the hot-tempered surfer chick; Stephanie, the tree-hugging activist; and me, Meg, the quiet foster kid, the one who never quite fit in. We hardly knew each other, but each of us nurtured a burning anger: at the jerks in our class, at our disappointing parents, at the whole flawed, unjust world.
We were only three angry girls, simmering uselessly in our ocean-side California town, until one day a mysterious, beautiful classmate named Ambrosia taught us what else we could be: Powerful. Deadly. Furious.
Yes, that's us. The three Greek Furies, come to life, ready to take our revenge on everyone who deserves it. And who doesn't deserve it, really? We're done with chances. We are angry. The Furies have come to town.
Jill Wolfson's Furious is an enthralling retelling of Greek myth.
School Library Journal Review
Gr 8 Up-Wolfson's modern supernatural Greek tragedy is a cautionary tale of bullying and retribution, featuring three righteously angry 10th-grade girls. Meg, a neglected and abused foster kid, is clinging to optimism; Alix is perpetually peeved but has a soft spot for her developmentally disabled big brother; and Stephanie is an environmental activist with a real-estate-mogul mom. After each girl comes undone by her rage, cool, popular classmate Ambrosia explains to them that they are "Furies" and then manipulates them into casting aside forgiveness and empathy to embrace a vindictive twisted justice. Ambrosia is motivated by her own quest for revenge against a line of ill-fated princes, which might include Meg's crush, Brendon. Initially, the girls use their powers to combat bullying, but things quickly spiral out of control until they realize they are worse than those they've targeted. Wolfson's plot is creative, and her knowledge of Greek drama and mythology solid. She provides valid talking points regarding the fine line between justice and revenge and the right to mete out either, and the peer cruelty sadly rings true. Although the realistically insecure and angry teens all evoke sympathy, Alix and Stephanie aren't as developed as protagonist Meg, whose indecisive inner monologue strains patience. Meg's friend Raymond (Wolfson's strongest, most distinct character) is well spoken and witty, but the dialogue between other characters can come off as unnatural. The novel's start is slow, yet its ending is too quick. Strictly an additional purchase for libraries with fans of mythology and retellings.-Danielle Serra, Cliffside Park Public Library, NJ (c) Copyright 2013. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Horn Book Review
High schoolers Meg, Stephanie, and Alix are angry at the world, each for her own reason. When mysterious Ambrosia unites them, the girls learn that they are actually the Furies, goddesses of Greek mythology. Suddenly the three have the power to retaliate against injustice; yet with power comes responsibility. A well-paced and cohesive story. (c) Copyright 2013. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
When a charismatic classmate unites three disenfranchised teens, they learn that their anger is an immense and terrifying power in this dark tale that gracefully weaves Greek myth with modern high school culture. Meg, Stephanie and Alix feel both powerless and incensed by the injustices they see around them. Seeing this, Ambrosia, immortal goddesscum-classmate, grooms the three girls for her own vengeful purpose. Ambrosia stokes their rage and directs them to their natural calling as the Furies, deities of vengeance. At first, the Furies are gentle and fair with their justice, punishing wrongdoers by burdening them with a sense of shame. But the girls become ever harsher, drunk on the corrosive power, and inflict mental anguish upon their victims before they, too, must face their personal demons. Meg's candid narration is occasionally suspended by Ambrosia's diary entries into The Book of Furious. Here, Ambrosia, in Greek theatrical tradition, expands on her long-standing hatred and the mythology from which the current drama has sprung. Fans of Wolfson's heartfelt realistic novels will relish her fleet prose and these new characters as she examines the theme of justice versus revenge. For readers moving beyond Percy Jackson into the more complex realm of teen angst, this is an enthralling and chilling tale that uses Greek mythology to create a timely fable. (Fantasy. 12 up)]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* Imagine the pecking order in a small coastal California high school where an elite surfer crew runs the social cliques. You pretty much accept that every day is bound to be a series of humiliations, large and small, muses Meg, an out-crowd 16-year-old whose life has been shaped by neglectful foster care. Stephanie and Alix, outcasts in their own ways, do battle every day, too. Who wouldn't want superheroes to swoop in and mete out punishments for meanness? Leave it to beautiful, exotic Ambrosia to gather the girls and infuse them with the supernatural strength of modern-day Furies to wreak vengeance on their tormentors. Ambrosia and a few other Olympian stand-ins pull divine strings in this spoofy romp as the deities come to Hunter High. Meg narrates, and her droll wit propels the action and high jinks. The power feels good but is it the right approach? Thoughtful riffs on revenge versus justice dapple the narrative, and sure, some of the reformed meanies can sound overly contrite. But the combination of poignant coming-of-age with creative satire equals a fun treatment on a big topic: how you grow confidence and establish identity in a rough-and-tumble landscape. A natural choice for older fans of Rick Riordan's myth-based series.--O'Malley, Anne Copyright 2010 Booklist
Excerpts
1 When you've got an overbite and only one real friend and you're what grown-ups euphemistically call "a late bloomer" (meaning I'm short and skinny where I shouldn't be skinny and I just got my period), you pretty much accept that every day is bound to be a series of humiliations, large and small. So given the sucky reality of being me, of being Meg, it's really something to say that in my almost sixteen years of living, despite my many episodes of blowing it big-time, this particular day turns out to be the most humiliating one of my life. More humiliating than when I was five and going to scary kindergarten for the first time and had to be pried loose from my foster mom. I was screaming and got a bloody nose from freaking out, and all the other kids were just sitting there--cross-legged and staring. More humiliating than finding out too late that an eighth-grade girl should never stand at the school entrance and hand out valentines to all 167 members of her class. Especially when the cards are personally signed and individually addressed. Even more humiliating than last week, when I must have had a brain drain that erased everything I ever learned from my previous humiliations. That's the only explanation for how I could walk right up to this guy Brendon--this popular guy with adorable eye crinkles when he smiles--and blurt out that I had a two-for-one mini-golf coupon and maybe he might want to go with me sometime. I love mini-golf--I mean, who doesn't? But Eye Crinkles only stared at me blankly, like he'd never seen me before, even though we've been in a ton of classes together for the past three years. And now his friends make pretend golf swings whenever I walk by. So probably you're thinking, what could be more humiliating than that? Hold on. It gets far worse. A brief setting of the scene. Third period. 10th grade Western Civ, my favorite class this year, even though Ms. Pallas makes you work your butt off just for a B. All the usual characters are there. Our teacher is standing to the side of the room, arms crossed, listening to our first oral presentations of the semester. I am in my usual seat--not too close to the front, not way in the back either--right in the middle where it's easy to get lost in the pack. Next to me, my best friend, Raymond, is totally engrossed in whatever genius thing he's writing in his notebook. In front of the class, one of the Double D twins, Dawn or DeeDee, is giving her presentation. Not to be mean or anything, but her report on ancient Sumerian civilization is crap. I'm just being truthful. I can't imagine that she put in any more than twenty minutes to plagiarize from Wikipedia. Doesn't she have any pride? Ms. Pallas won't let her get away with it. Anyway, the thing I remember next is getting distracted by what's going on outside the window. This is taking place in a coastal town, a slice of surfer paradise wedged between the Pacific Ocean and a redwood forest. The geography here makes the weather unpredictable: sunny one minute, and then warm air hits cold ocean, which makes the fog roll in, and that's what happens right then. It's like the whole classroom gets whisked to a different place and a different day without anyone leaving their seat. Poof. It's gray, dreary, and Jane Eyre-ish, which is fine with me. I'm not exactly embracing life these days. And I'm not going to lie. As I watch the weather change, I am trying very hard not to think about that guy with the eye crinkles who happens to be sitting a mere few seats to my right. Only, of course, my mind-control technique is backfiring. All I can do is think about him. What's the matter with me? Wasn't living through that embarrassment once enough? Why do I keep replaying it? For about the two-millionth time, I put myself through every mortifying detail. The pounding heart. The sweaty palms. My own voice confessing my love of mini-golf. The condescending look on his face. The heat rising to my cheeks. My stuttering apology for bothering him. How could I have been so stupid? Could I have made a more pathetic cry for love? Why did I pick such a popular guy? What was I thinking? Why do these embarrassing things always happen to me? Why me? Why not to other people? Why not to him ? Just once , I say to myself. Why can't he feel what it's like? He should try being me for once. He should feel every aching throb of longing for me that I feel for him, and then get shot down. I let that idea sink in very deep, and--I'm not going to lie about this either--it gives me a real charge, a jolt of pleasure, to think about getting back at him in some way. I decide to stay with my fantasy, go with it. I let myself get really worked up at him, then even angrier. Why not? Who am I hurting? So while Dawn or DeeDee drones on, and outside the fog turns to rain--not drizzle rain, but rain rain that slaps the windows in sheets--I let myself hate that boy with all my might. I savor every sweet detail of revenge that my mind conjures up. I let it become real. First he will come begging to me for a date. He'll be all shy and scared, and I'll listen as he fumbles his words. Then ... and then ... I won't answer. I'll just wrap both of my hands around his neck and pull him close and kiss him. I'll kiss him so hard that he won't know what hit him. This fantasy is so much fun. It feels so good that I have to stop myself from cackling out loud like a crazed chicken. I actually put my hand over my mouth. It's kind of scary how good it makes me feel, but scary in a very satisfying way. And when he looks at me, dazed with love, I'll ask, "So, change your mind about mini-golf?" He'll nod eagerly, hopefully, practically in pain with love for me, and I'll shoot him down. Bam! I'll yawn and say, "That was the most boring kiss ever. For you, Brendon, the mini-golf coupon has expired. Permanently." In public. So everyone hears. And after that ... And after that? I don't know what happens after that. I really don't. Something. I don't remember much, not a whole lot that makes sense, anyway. A light flashes and the air moves in a swirling distortion, like the whole world has suddenly tilted on its side. And there's music. Definitely music. Who is playing music? Why is music playing? My mind latches on to the individual notes, a series of them that rise and fall in an eerie, whistling way. I don't know this song. But then, I do know it. I do! I don't want it to ever go away. Under the music, someone is laughing. And then someone else is shouting the word hate. Hate! Hate! Hate! A hand cups my shoulder, but I push it aside. There's so much power surging through me. Someone is pulling on the hem of my shirt. I slap at it. "Meg!" Pause. "Meg!" I hear a bell then, loud and sharp, and I tremble with a jolt, as if waking suddenly out of a dream when you have a 103-degree fever. The music is gone. An empty silence has taken over. Reluctantly, I blink open my eyes. I'm standing. Not standing on the ground like your average, normal person, but standing on my chair. In the middle of class. With my neck muscles straining and a layer of sweat on my forehead. And my throat dry and raw. And my fists clenched in tight balls at my side. Ms. Pallas, directly in front of me, slams her ruler on my desk, and I feel the vibration ripple up through the bottom of my feet to my head. My brain feels like it's been punched in the gut. It all becomes clear then, too clear, and the word humiliation doesn't begin to cover it. It had been Raymond tugging on my shirt, calling my name. The bell was the end of class. And I was the one standing on my chair shouting, "Hate! Hate! Hate! I hate all of you." Text copyright © 2013 by Jill Wolfson Excerpted from Furious by Jill Wolfson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
