Because, let’s face it: MASH is an unreliable way to predict who you’re going to marry.
Jessica Wollman. Tell Me Who. Dutton Children’s Books, 2009. 224 pages. Age 9 to 12.
You know that old TV Grandma had? The big wooden end table with the screen? Now in color! Best friends Molly and Tanna found one that’s even older…kind of like this one…only it’s got a typewriter keyboard attached. While stylistically questionable, it serves an important purpose: type in anyone’s name, and it tells you who he or she is going to marry.
No, really. They tested it empirically by entering names of people who were already married, and it was accurate. And it would be pretty cool if it said you were going to marry the son of English nobility, but not so much if it said you’d marry a kid with perpetually stained shirts who’s a grade younger than you.
Molly is a great narrator. She kept me laughing with her wry sense of humor, and she earned my respect with her skepticism. Ouija boards? Tarot cards? Rolls eyes. (The “Who-Meter” only earns her confidence after repeated testing.) Plus there was a whole “maybe the future isn’t set in stone” line of reasoning that resonated with me.
My own inner skeptic kept trying to rationalize the Who-Meter. Vital records. Demographic statistics. Complex probabilities. Quite frankly, there is no suitable explanation, and the book doesn’t try for that. It’s a fantasy element in an otherwise contemporary realistic story, one that requires a reasonable suspension of disbelief. If you’re going to read it, just go with it.
As much as I loved the book, I wasn’t feeling it when Molly started getting obsessed with breast development—hers and others’. It’s probably because I’m an adult, and I got what I got a million years ago. Or possibly because I’m a prude. Still, I felt like I somehow found my way into one of Naylor’s Alice McKinley books. Fortunately, Tell Me Who was not wholly comprised of a plot orchestrated entirely around ways to talk about female anatomy.
And, uh, holy product placement. I seriously hope page space was rented to advertisers, with lines like this: “The only thing I’m really in the mood for is a big bag of Doritoes. I can practically taste the cheesy goodness.” I mean, talking about Pop Tarts or Band Aids is one thing (those mean more than “toaster pastries” or “adhesive strips”) but we don’t need to know that it’s Elmer’s glue. Or that the particular margarine spread they use is I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. There were at least a dozen other name brands used without much reason in the book. I’d list them, but no one’s paying me to.
Quotable—
“It would probably help if I learned how to read the cards myself, but I can’t. I’ve tried. All the symbols run together and I get them all mixed up. Besides, the pictures make absolutely no sense. I mean, what does a guy balancing seven swords have to do with being responsible? It’s not like he’s polishing the swords or color-coding them or anything.” (p. 10)
“[The champagne] looks sort of weird just sitting there, between the hamburger buns and a jar of pickles. Way too fancy. It’s like wearing a prom dress to go sledding.” (p. 17)
“I’d definitely rather be Mrs. SpongeBob SquarePants. At least he’s got a good sense of humor. And a job.” (p. 62)
other reviews:
Kidliterate | Presenting Lenore
