Lucky broken girl

Review by Booklist Review

Ruthie is excited she's been promoted from the special fifth-grade class, her father bought her a pair of go-go boots, and her family has a brand new Oldsmobile. But on the way back from Staten Island, the Mizrahis are involved in a massive car accident, leaving Ruthie in a full-body cast. As she spends more than a year incapacitated, Ruthie questions life, especially when a neighbor's young son tragically dies, but gradually begins to see the good side of everything. From facing feelings about the boys who caused her accident, to finding herself in painting and writing, to learning that she isn't slow just because English isn't her first language, Ruthie faces everything with an impressive inner strength. Fans of character-driven middle-grade novels, particularly those looking for diverse books, should be easily charmed by Behar's story, which is inspired by her own childhood as a Cuban immigrant in 1960s New York and her first-hand experience of surviving a car crash and spending a year in a full-body cast (an author's note offers some illuminating details).--Tomsu, Lindsey Copyright 2017 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Set in 1966, this strongly sketched novel, adult author Behar's first for children, focuses on a 10-year-old Cuban immigrant whose injury forces a prolonged convalescence and rehabilitation. The story begins with Ruthie Mizrahi moving up from the "dumb class" (where she learned English) to the "regular fifth grade class" at her school in New York City. However, a car accident leaves Ruthie so severely injured that she spends almost a year sequestered in her room in a body cast ("My bed is my island; my bed is my prison; my bed is my home"). Readers will get a powerful sense of the historical setting through Ruthie's narration, but the novel is perhaps defined even more by her family's status as immigrants and by its memorable multicultural cast. Some dialogue can ring false ("I am a bit of a hippie. I believe in peace, love, and flower power," explains the tutor sent to work with Ruthie), but Behar successfully juggles several engaging plot threads, and Ruthie's complicated relationship with her mother, given the demands of her care, is especially compelling. Ages 10-up. Agent: Alyssa Eisner Henkin, Trident Media Group. (Apr.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 5-8-Behar's debut is a coming-of-age story based on events from her childhood. As a young Jewish girl immigrating to New York City from Castro's Cuba in the 1960s, Ruthie can speak Yiddish and Spanish. She is placed in the remedial class at school to learn English, but she and her Indian friend Ramu are promoted out together. Things in America are looking up for the Behar family until a horrible car accident leaves Ruthie in a body cast with a broken leg. So how can a bedridden girl who must use a bedpan and eat lightly to avoid outgrowing her cast be considered lucky? Confined to her bed, Ruthie learns to cherish personal relationships with her family, teacher, friends, and neighbors. She learns that reading can take the reader to unimagined places and emotions. Behar reads this novel expressively, giving personality to the story's many characters. VERDICT Recommended for its themes of immigration and growing up.-Mary Lee Bulat, Harwinton Public Library, CT © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Horn Book Review

In this novel based on the authors childhood, Ruthie is just ten years old in 1966 when she arrives in Queens from Cuba with her little brother and parents. Because she only speaks Spanish, she is placed in the fifth-grade dumb class. Over the next eight months Ruthies English improves, she becomes the neighborhood hopscotch queen, and shes ready to move out of the remedial class. Life is looking up, but then everything comes crashing down when she breaks her leg in a car accident, requiring a full-body cast. Immobile in bed for almost a year, Ruthie is dependent on her mother for everything, and as the months pass, feelings of anger, loneliness, and despair fill her heart. When her next-door neighbor introduces her to drawing and painting, her attention refocuses and she begins to heal emotionally. As she attempts to learn how to walk again, Ruthie finds that friends, family, and the ability to look beyond the present into the future can help turn her brokenness into wholeness. Through an unflinchingly honest first-person narrative, readers are taken through a traumatic period in the authors life (an appended note provides more context and encourages readers to speak up. Tell your story). Effectively scattered Spanish phrases lend authenticity, while period references evoke the 1960s setting. alma ramos-mcdermott (c) Copyright 2017. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

In the 1960s, Ruthie Mizrahi, a young Jewish Cuban immigrant to New York City, spends nearly a year observing her family and friends from her bed. Before the accident, Ruthie's chief goals are to graduate out of the "dumb class" for remedial students, to convince her parents to buy her go-go boots, and to play hopscotch with other kids in her Queens apartment building. But after Papi's Oldsmobile is involved in a fatal multicar collision, Ruthie's leg is severely broken. The doctor opts to immobilize both legs in a body cast that covers Ruthie from chest to toes. Bedridden and lonely, Ruthie knows she's "lucky" to be alive, but she's also "broken." She begins collecting stories from her Jewban grandparents; her fellow young immigrant friends, Belgian Danielle and Indian Ramu; her "flower power" tutor, Joy; and her vibrant Mexican neighbor, Chicho, an artist who teaches her about Frida Kahlo. Ruthie also prays and writes letters to God, Shiva, and Kahlo, asking them for guidance, healing, and forgiveness. A cultural anthropologist and poet, the author based the book on her own childhood experiences, so it's unsurprising that Ruthie's story rings true. The language is lyrical and rich, the intersectionalityethnicity, religion, class, genderinsightful, and the story remarkably engaging, even though it takes place primarily in the island of Ruthie's bedroom. A poignant and relevant retelling of a child immigrant's struggle to recover from an accident and feel at home in America. (Historical fiction. 10-13) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Chapter 1: I am not dumb When we lived in Cuba, I was smart. But when we got to Queens, in New York City, in the United States of America, I became dumb, just because I couldn't speak English.       So I got put in the dumb class in fifth grade at P.S. 117. It's the class for the bobos , the kids who failed at math and read­ing. Also in it are the kids the teachers call "delinquents." They come to school late and talk back and are always chew­ing gum. Even though they're considered the bad kids, most of them are nice to me. "Here, Ruthie, have some Chiclets!" they whisper and pass me a handful.      We aren't supposed to chew gum in school, so we hold the Chiclets in our mouths until we go outside for recess. Then we chew the Chiclets to death and stick the gook on the bottom of our desks when we come back inside.      Most of the kids know I'm in this class because I'm from another country, not because I really belong there. Or maybe I do belong there? It's been eight months since school started and our teacher promised I wouldn't be in the class for long.      I am not dumb. I am not dumb. I am not dumb . . .      The first time I worked up the courage to raise my hand in class was a few weeks after we had arrived from Cuba and I was wearing flip-flops instead of shoes and socks like the other kids. But when our teacher, Mrs. Sarota, called on me to answer the math problem, I didn't have the words to say the number in English.      "Well, Ruth?" she asked, staring down at my bare feet. "Do you know the answer or not?"      I froze and a few kids laughed at me. But not Ramu.      He's not dumb either. Ramu is in our class because he's also from a different country. He comes from India and was raised there by his grandmother, who only speaks a language called Bengali. His parents came to New York first, and after they made enough money, they brought Ramu and his little brother, Avik, here.      Ramu has picked up English faster than I have because his parents know English and force him to speak it at home. Mine are always yelling, "¡Habla en español!" Especially Mami, who can understand a little English, but is usually too embarrassed to try to speak it.      Ramu is skinny and bows his head when anyone talks to him. I'm his only friend and that's because he lives down the hall from us on the sixth floor of our apartment building. Ramu brings Avik to school and I bring my brother, Izzie. Our little brothers are in the same kindergarten class. But af­ter school Ramu and Avik rush straight home. Mrs. Sharma doesn't let them play with the other children.      Their apartment smells different from ours. I get whiffs of it whenever we stumble into each other on the way to school. Today when Ramu and Avik stepped into the hall, Izzie and I were waiting for the elevator, and I asked, "What is that perfume?"      "It's my mother's curry," Ramu says.      "What's curry?"      "A spice. It makes everything taste good, even cauliflower."      "That's amazing."      "Yes, it is. And my mother burns sandalwood incense. She says it's good for meditation and the spirits like it too."      "Spirits?"      "People who used to be alive, when they're not alive anymore, become spirits. My grandmother says they are all around us. We can't see them but they watch over us. Of course, spirits don't eat, but they can smell fragrant things like curry and incense."      During lunch at the cafeteria, Ramu offers me something from his lunch box, a pastry filled with mashed potatoes his mother made.      "It's a samosa," Ramu tells me. "Maybe you'll find it too spicy."      Some kids at the table pretend to hold their noses. One says, "It smells like sweaty armpits!"      "No it doesn't!" I shout back.      I take a slow first bite. It tastes like a papa rellena , a crispy stuffed potato my nanny Caro made for me as a snack in Cuba. Eating Ramu's samosa makes me feel like Caro and Cuba aren't so far away.      "It's real good! Thanks, Ramu."      Ramu gives me a shy smile. "Very glad you like it."      I beg Mami to make pastelitos de guayaba after Izzie and I get home. The following day, I give Ramu one of the sweet pastries at lunch.      "The filling is guava fruit. I hope you'll like it," I tell him.      Ramu eats it slowly without saying a word. When he's done, he finally says, "I like guavas. We have them in India too," and I sigh.      "And do you have mangos in India?"      "Oh yes, drippy sweet mangos."      "Just like in Cuba!"      "I don't just miss the mangos," Ramu says. "I miss being able to go outside and play with friends. My mother worries too much about us. She doesn't let us do anything by our­selves."      "I know what you mean. In Cuba, even when I was five years old, my mother used to let me take a taxi all by myself to go visit my aunt Zoila, who used to sew pretty dresses for me. Can you imagine?"      "Yes, here everything is different," he says, with a faraway look in his eyes.      "But maybe one day we'll both get to taste mangos in India and Cuba!" I say, trying to cheer him up.      "Oh, Ruthie, I like that you have such an imagination!" Ramu and I sit together every afternoon after lunch period so we can practice our English.      Our favorite story is "The Princess Who Could Not Cry," about a princess who is placed under an evil spell and forgets how to cry. She laughs at everything, even sad things. When they toss away all the toys she loves from the tallest tower of the castle, she laughs, even though she feels terrible.      A little ragged girl arrives and announces, "I've come to help the princess cry."      The queen tells her, "Promise me you won't hurt my daughter."      The little ragged girl curtsies and replies, "I promise, Your Majesty, I will bring no harm upon your daughter. I just want to help her."      She goes into a room with the princess and draws two on­ions out of her bag.      "Let's peel these onions," the little ragged girl tells the princess.      As the little ragged girl and the princess pull apart the layers of the onions, the tears start pouring from both their eyes.      That is how the princess learns to cry!      The evil spell is broken, and the little ragged girl and her poor mother are given a nice house next to the castle where they live happily ever after.      "That is the best story!" I say to Ramu as we finish read­ing aloud.      "Yes, it's very fine," he replies. "Very fine indeed."      "Ramu, you always talk such a fancy English."      "Like they do in England. It's the Queen's English, you see."      "Yes! And now we live in Queens!" I say, joking.      "Very charming, Ruthie. That's almost funny."      "Let's ask Mrs. Sarota to test us!" I tell Ramu.      "But will you ask her, Ruthie, please? You see, in India, we don't talk to the teacher unless the teacher talks to us."      "Okay, I will ask. I'm not afraid of the teacher."      Mrs. Sarota comes to our desk and I say, "Me and Ramu are ready to switch into the smart class."      "In English, we say 'Ramu and I.' 'Me and Ramu' is in­correct."      I don't lose my courage. I repeat, "Ramu and I are ready to switch into the smart class."      "Is that so, young lady? Both of you?"      "Yeah, Mrs. Sarota," I reply, trying to keep from giggling. Mrs. Sarota wears her hair in a big bird nest on top of her head and today it's lopsided.      "Very well, young lady. Which of you can spell the word 'commiserate'?"      Ramu gets it wrong, but I get it right--two M s and only one S .      She doesn't ask, but I also know what the word means. To "commiserate" is to feel sorry for somebody else's bad luck.      "Very good, Ruth. I agree you're ready to be promoted. But remember to say 'yes' rather than 'yeah.' On Monday, you can join the regular fifth-grade class."      I see Ramu gazing sadly toward the floor. It's not fair. He's much better at English than I am. He talks like the Queen of England herself.      "Please, Mrs. Sarota, can you give Ramu another chance? Give him a harder word and see if he can spell it. Please."      Mrs. Sarota's eyes suddenly sparkle. "You said the magic word, 'please.' Ramu, can you spell the word 'souvenir'?"      I would have gotten that word wrong, but Ramu knows how to spell it right.      "Excellent job, Ramu. You are also promoted," Mrs. Sarota says. "On Monday, you and Ruth can join the regular fifth-grade class."      "Mrs. Sarota, you are very kind," Ramu says in his most polite voice.      Ramu gives me one of his shy smiles and that is enough of a thank-you for me.      I knew I wasn't dumb. I knew Ramu wasn't dumb either.      It's Friday. After the weekend, when we come back to school, both of us will be in our new class with the smart kids.      Yippee!      I collect my schoolbooks and say good-bye to the other kids. One of them looks sad that I'm leaving and gives me some Chiclets. "You may need them!"      I wish all the kids could come with Ramu and me to the smart class. I don't think any of them are really dumb. They just find school boring. They'd rather play all day.      In a chorus they call out, "Bye, Ruthie! Bye! Study hard or they'll send you back here again!" Excerpted from Lucky Broken Girl by Ruth Behar 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.

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