School Library Journal Review
Gr 8 Up-Poe Holly, a 16-year-old punk band member, is shipped from L.A. to suburban California to live with her estranged father while her "super doctor" mother goes off to help the poor of South America in this novel (Knopf, 2009) by Michael Harmon. Poe has to navigate many family secrets with her father, and it doesn't help that he's a guidance counselor at her new high school. Poe fashions herself as a bit of a rebel, and almost immediately clashes with her gym teacher, the principal, and the popular school bully. As the story of her early childhood unravels, Poe learns to pick her battles and watch her language as she tries to save her eccentric neighbor and fellow student, Velveeta, from dangerous bullying. Life in suburbia is not all bad, as Poe befriends Theo, the quirky son of the town's mayor. All of the adults have their blemishes, but they also come through in the end. Kim Mai Guest's portrayal of a teenager who possesses know-it-all certainty along with stark vulnerability is spot-on. An excellent choice for fans of novels by Chris Crutcher, Terry Trueman, and David Klass.-Jo-Ann Carhart, East Islip Public Library, NY (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Horn Book Review
With her doctor mother off "saving the world" (again), Poe is left to live with her estranged father in an oppressively perfect suburb. She comments on the shortcomings of her new high school by describing its failure to prevent social hierarchies and bullying. Poe's critique, initially intelligent and engaging, devolves into tiresomely repetitive rants. (c) Copyright 2010. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Review
An angry 16-year-old shakes up her school when she challenges its social order. When Poe moves from Los Angeles to suburban California to live with her father, a man she has no relationship with, she's furious: furious at her dynamo doctor of a mother for deserting her to take a year's sabbatical to care for the poor and furious at her dad for his neglect and emotional passivity. The focus of this highly charged novel is not Poe's dysfunctional family, however, but a question that has dogged high-school students from time immemorial. Why is it that the more socially elite students get to prey upon the less so? And the rather savvy answer Harmon comes up with is that it's because the adults who run the school allow it. A mention of Columbine at a faculty-student meeting somewhat negates this premise, as it reverses the power dynamic in readers' minds, and some of the characterizations, such as Poe's perfect boyfriend, seem more functional than fully human. Still, strong medicine with a strong message. (Fiction. 14 up) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
Sixteen-year-old Poe Holly is the outcome of a sperm donor program called Poor Choices and Bad Mistakes. Her workaholic mother has taken a year off to practice medicine in South America, unloading Poe into the custody of a father she's never met, a straitlaced counselor at Poe's new school. The pierced and mohawked Poe mostly abhors the homogeneity and elitism of her suburban classmates, though she finds two exceptions: the whip-smart punk-rocker son of the town mayor, and Velveeta, the troubled pariah on the hit list of Colby, the school's untouchable bully. There is little earth-shattering here, but that's part of the book's low-key charm; Harmon's dialogue is crystal clear and authentic, his youth characters intelligent, and his adult characters finely drawn. The central conflict the growing hostility between Colby and Velveeta leads to an ending of contrivance, but that should not take away from an admirably realistic portrayal of a rebel coming to realize that rebellion can be elitist, too.--Kraus, Daniel Copyright 2009 Booklist
Excerpts
Chapter One If I'd known I'd be living in Benders Hollow, California, when I was sixteen, I would have traded back every complaint I had about my life for a bus ticket out of this place. No can do, though. I'm stuck here for a year. Then I'll be gone, back to Los Angeles and on my own. I met Benders Hollow four minutes ago via a Greyhound bus because my mom, Dr. Nancy M. Holly, decided her "path" didn't include being a mom anymore. As I stepped on the bus to come here, she stepped on a private chartered jet, headed to some South American jungle village to help "world citizens" lance boils and disinfect festering monkey bites. All so she could come back and tell her doctor friends how she helped the underprivileged peons she looks down her long nose at. Not that I'm complaining. At this point I don't care if I see her until I get a monkey bite. I get in the way of her life, and we're like gunpowder and lightning together. First it was two weeks in Syria helping refugees. She missed my seventh-grade graduation for that one. Then it was a month in Africa. Scratch my fifteenth birthday for that trip, but add a purple Mohawk to greet her when she got back. Sometimes spite tastes sweet, and she refused to take me to any of her "functions" because it's not who you are, it's what you look like, and until I looked normal, I was out of the loop. Damn, no more jumbo shrimp cocktail and old pervert doctors ogling my ass. Now it's a year in South America. I don't even know what country. I didn't ask. Not that her being gone is much different from her being here, because even when she's here, she's gone. Whatever. My mom is saving the world one person at a time, she likes to say. I like to ask her how it feels to think you're a god. She rolls her eyes and walks away. I'm in a no-win situation, though, and I know it. Poor disaffected me. We're rich. I've been quietly "transferred" out of three high-end private schools due to my inability to follow stupid rules. My last school counselor asked me how I could possibly complain about having such a great life and wonderful mother. Yeah, everybody loves her, and she loves everybody loving her. For such a stupid and lame question, I started crying before I got pissed about it. My mom cares more about strangers than about me. She saves lives and that's good, and I love her because she's not always as selfish and egotistical as it seems, but it ends with the one thing more important than her status. Money. I asked her how many families she put through bankruptcy while she was saving their lives and she didn't speak to me for a week. Anyway, now she's working as a surgeon in remote parts of a jungle where her daughter isn't, and I'm in Benders Hollow to meet my father for the first time because she wouldn't let me stay home alone. It's not like I haven't taken care of myself since I was ten, and it's not like he has. I can order out. I know how to use a toaster. Big deal. No different from when she's in town. My mom likes telling me I'm spoiled. I'm a rich kid stuck in a not-rich-kid mind. She says I am who I am because I'm reactionary to her perfectness. But I'm not. I fit nowhere in her life, and the embarrassment I see in her face and the way she falters and casts her eyes away when she introduces me to "colleagues" makes me want to vomit on her four-hundred-dollar shoes. But I know who I am. I'm Poe Holly, and I'm pissed off. "Poe?" I recognized him from a picture I saw once, but more than that, I recognized his voice. I'd talked to him a few times before. Once at Christmas when I was ten, another time on my birthday, and then after I'd been caught drinking last year in the locker room of my last private school. My mother's daughter doesn't get suspended. It was decided Oak Grove Preparatory School was not good enough for me. I saw the resemblance in his eyes. The color of flagstone, just like mine. Other than that, he was totally and completely average. He could be any Joe Schmoe walking down the street in a small town: slim build, beige jeans, and a tucked-in slate green short-sleeved polo shirt. Every woman's dream if her dream was bland: he was about as clean-cut and boring as you could be. The only thing cool about him was that he wasn't wearing an article of clothing worth over fifty dollars. Maybe we'd get along. His hair was cut ultra-conservative, dark brown like mine if I didn't dye it black, and he was clean-shaven and looked older than I had imagined. I knew he was thirty-five, but his face was a bit drawn and the shade under his eyes reminded me of a person who read too much. He smiled, standing with his hands in his pockets. I could tell he was nervous. I stepped toward him. "Hi." He nodded, shifting his feet. "Hello." We stood there, me in my punk getup and him looking completely forgettable with his loafers and neatly parted hair. I hitched my bag on my shoulder, wondering if this had been a good idea. "You're not holding a sign." He blinked, then furrowed his brow. "A sign. Like at an airport. It's supposed to say my name. Poe Holly. So I don't miss you in the crowd." He brightened, then smiled, looking around the vacant sidewalk. "Nobody else got off at this stop." "I was the only one on the bus. I take it the usual tourists don't come by Greyhound." He laughed. "Benders Hollow isn't Los Angeles, and no, they don't." I looked around, taking in the touristy setting. Mom had offered to have a limo bring me up. "Seven hours on a bus?" she'd said. "Poe . . ." Blah blah blah. I sighed. "Well, I'm here." He held his hand out. "Let me take your bag." He took it, then looked to the bus idling at the curb. "Any more baggage?" "Mom wouldn't fit in a suitcase." He smiled, but a darkness passed through his eyes. Then he slung the huge thing over his back and we walked down the street. "That's why I like it." "Like what?" "Benders Hollow." I looked around. It looked like a small town to me, all right. "Why?" He chuckled, but barely loud enough to hear. "Because it's not Los Angeles." From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from Brutal by Michael Harmon 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.
