The simple art of flying

Gr 4-8-Alastair and his sister Aggie-both African grey parrots-start their lives in Pete's Pet (and Parrot!) Shack, where Alastair is grumpy and ready to escape and Aggie is innocent, gentle, and loving. Twelve-year-old human Fritz, an aspiring doctor, works at the pet shop a few days a week and takes the pair under his wing to bring them both to good health, all while developing a strong relationship with Aggie. Earning money little by little, Fritz finally has enough to take Aggie home for good, leaving Alastair wondering where his sister went. And then along comes eccentric 80-year-old Albertina Plopky-Bertie for short-who believes that Alastair is the solution to her loneliness. With no idea about Aggie's whereabouts, his growing fondness of Bertie, and a bum wing-not to mention all of his feather-plucking!-his attempts at escape keep getting thwarted. Leonardo's debut novel is told in three voices and combines storytelling with free verse poetry and letters. Reminiscent of The One and Only Ivan's storytelling, Leonardo has crafted a tale that will have readers rooting for each character. VERDICT A witty animal-centered story that will remind readers that families come in many shapes and sizes.-Kristin Unruh, Siersma Elementary School, Warren, MI © Copyright 2019. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Alistair is an African grey parrot who is tortured by his life in captivity.He narrates his tale in prose and poetry, alternating with Fritz Feldman, an almost-12-year-old boy who works in a pet shop, and Bertie Plopky, an elderly woman. The birds and animals all communicate with one another, displaying unique perspectives. Bertie speaks mainly through letters to her deceased husband, and Fritz keeps a journal. Although they were hatched in the pet shop, Alistair dreams of escaping with his sister, Aggie, to a world of trees and blue sky. His elaborate plans and attempts are always foiled, due in great part to his inability to fly because of a damaged wing. His frustration and anger lead him to pluck his own feathers and bite the hands that feed him. He refuses to see that Aggie is thoroughly content with her life as Fritz's pet, and when Bertie purchases him, he is resentful and uncooperative in spite of her kindness. As their interactions increase, however, the humans and birds grow a loving friendship, finding insights into themselves and one another. Leonardo carefully balances fantasy with a grounded reality. The three narratives flow nicely at a measured pace over the course of a year, allowing readers to see a complete, complex picture of the intertwining lives. The punny headings and poetry references ("One Flew Over the Parrot's CageorParrot-ise Lost") will likely fly right over the heads of young readers. The book adheres to the white default.Warmhearted, delightfully quirky, and believable. (Fantasy. 8-12) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

The Simple Art of Flying Fritz Feldman's Official Medical Logbook Medical Log, May 6 Today in English, Mrs. Cuthbert said that if I wanted to become a doctor someday, I should start writing like one, and oh Mylanta, I thought that was a GREAT idea, so here starts my "Official Medical Log." * Age: 11 years 10 months * Weight: 122.3 lbs * Height: 53 in (if I measured right) * Current status: 1 ingrown toenail, 2 spider bites, 1 possible heart palpitation, questionable lump I think that about covers the medical stuff. I guess I should tell you a little bit about me. There are probably only two really important things you should know. 1. I want to be a medical practitioner when I grow up. (That's a doctor, in regular terms.) My dad's an accountant at a big hospital with all kinds of doctors--brain surgeons, heart doctors. . . . I'm actually not sure what kind of doctor I'll be, but I'm pretty sure it won't be one of those. I don't want to specialize in the emergency stuff either. Or geriatrics (that's medicine for old people). Nothing where you, you know, have to try to save somebody's life? 2. I'm the only almost-twelve-year-old I know who has a job. I work at Pete's Pet (and Parrot!) Shack every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after school. It's not exactly legal, but Mom said it was okay since she works late and Grandpa isn't there to let me in after I get home from school anymore. She worries I'll get locked out again, like that time the neighbor's dog was sniffing around the rhododendron bush and ate our hidden key. (PS Did you know you can get frostbite in just thirty minutes? It's true. I didn't get frostbite because it wasn't exactly cold, but anything's possible.) At least at the shop Mom knows where I am. And if anyone asks, I tell them Pete's technically my childcare technician. (Pete says not to mention the five bucks he gives me every day.) It's a good job. I mostly sweep and stock shelves, but sometimes it's exciting. Like when I get to take a sick guinea pig to the back and put him in the Infirmary to get better. Or when a shipment of twenty-four tarantulas comes in, and I have to show Pete that his handwriting on the order really DOES look like a 24 and not a 2. That's why I get to fill out all the orders now. Or like today, when I got to watch a baby African grey parrot hatch. I was the very first person in the whole world to welcome him to earth. That's a big responsibility, I think. I didn't really know what to say, so I just introduced myself, and I kind of gave him a name. And just to keep him company, I told him about his genus and species and the differences between primates and birds (thumbs, for example)--stuff like that. But later, when I was cleaning out litter boxes in the back, I noticed one of the other eggs didn't look right. A tiny bird was halfway out of his shell, and he wasn't alive. I didn't touch him at all, but I could see that he hadn't absorbed his yolk sac, and when that's the case, there's just nothing you can do. I looked it up. Pete wasn't happy. He told me to take the baby bird out and feed it to the snakes. Don't worry--I didn't do it. But I did notice the egg incubator was at 97.3 degrees. A whole degree too low! That's a big deal when you're hatching chicks. I fixed it and added water to increase the humidity, so hopefully the last egg will hatch all right. I'll check on Alastair and the other egg when I go back in on Wednesday and let you know what happens. Signed: Dr. Francis Fitzpatrick Feldman, MD (I think this will be my future signature.) PS I just realized I forgot to bring the dead bird home. I was going to bury him. PPS I don't know why I'm telling you this, but during lunch today, I found a dollar in the school library's Latin dictionary. I didn't want to be sneaky, so I gave it to Mr. Hall, the librarian, and as I was leaving, this little old lady who was helping him put books on the shelf waved her feather scarf at me and shouted, "Ah! Rara avis! Farewell!" It was kind of weird. (Note to self: Remember to look up what "rara avis" means.) Excerpted from The Simple Art of Flying by Cory Leonardo 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.