A small zombie problem

Review by Booklist Review

Life for August DuPont, heir to a defunct hot-sauce empire, hasn't been what one would consider normal. For starters, he's never stepped outside of the decaying mansion where he lives with his high-strung, tiara-wearing Aunt Hydrangea, and the only kids his age he's ever seen have been on TV or delivering groceries to the mansion. It's a shock, then, when he receives an invitation from his hitherto unknown Aunt Orchid, asking him to tea. The visit is eye-opening in many ways. Apparently, a past relative had been a necromancer, and if August can find Orfeo DuPont's lost zombie stone, Aunt Orchid will enroll him in school with his cousins. Dreams of school, a friend gang, and most coveted of all someone with whom to exchange a high five flit before August's eyes, and he agrees. While passing a cemetery on his way home, August discovers he is being followed by young, newly undead Claudette DuPont, whom he just can't shake. Campbell's series-starter is an off-kilter delight featuring many of his own illustrations, which, though unseen, should be a fantastic addition, considering his artwork for Kate DiCamillo's Flora and Ulysses (2013). August's discoveries of family secrets unlock even greater mysteries, and readers who like macabre tales tempered with butterflies will eagerly follow Campbell's likable protagonist onward to his next adventure.--Julia Smith Copyright 2019 Booklist

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

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Campbell (Flora & Ulysses) leaps assuredly into middle grade fiction in this, well, spirited series opener featuring a cast of enchantingly eccentric characters. August DuPont lives in the garret of his family's crumbling manse with his quirky Aunt Hydrangea, who, fearing for his safety, refuses to let the 11-year-old outdoors. August's only knowledge of peers derives from a TV show about a group of friends-a program that he views, via telescope, on a TV located on a ramshackle houseboat nearby. Lonely and longing to "join the world," August insists on accepting an invitation to visit Hydrangea's equally offbeat sister, Orchid, estranged since she married a descendant of the ruthless entrepreneur who drove the DuPonts' prosperous hot sauce company out of business. Venturing beyond the garden gate for the first time, August gets a whirlwind introduction to the real-and not so real-world when he meets an undead girl in a cemetery, who removes and offers him one of her eyeballs, then refuses to leave his side. With wry humor and inventive plotting, Campbell reveals August's tangled, magic-tinged ancestry while shaping a poignant portrait of a boy-and a zombie-in search of friendship. Final art not seen by PW. Ages 8-12. Agent: Lori Nowicki, Painted Words. (June) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 3--7--August DuPont has a unique problem: his scent attracts butterflies. Because of this, his reclusive Aunt Hydrangea hasn't let him leave the house. Then his aunt's estranged family offer him his lifelong dream: to go to school and make friends. However, in order to do so, he must find the family's long-lost cadaverite. Meanwhile, he inadvertently reanimates Claudette who won't leave him alone. Could Claudette have been reanimated by the cadaverite? If so, where could it be? Can August find a way to get rid of his zombie problem? Todd Haberkorn's voices are engaging and entertaining, bringing to life each character with pizzazz and hilarity. The Roald Dahl-esque plot is humorous, well-developed, and draws readers into the story. VERDICT Delightfully fun for listeners who like dark comedy and zombie stories. Recommended for most library collections.--Jessica Moody, Olympus Junior High, Holladay, UT

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

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Hot sauce, butterflies, and zombiesoh my!When you're a lonely little boy who would like nothing more than to make friends, it is decidedly unhelpful that you are white as a sheet and often confused with a ghost due to having lived your entire life inside a dilapidated manor, or that you have a strange condition that unfailingly attracts butterflies that hover about your head, or that eccentric Aunt Hydrangea, whom you live with, won't stop talking about your family's failed hot-sauce empire. But even with all these setbacks, August DuPont manages to capture the attention of another aunt he didn't know he had, who invites August to meet her and his two cousins. Aunt Orchid proposes that she and August can help each other: He can look in his house for a rare stone and family heirloom that Orchid wants for her jewel collection, and in exchange she can send him to school. But his hopes of normalcy are seemingly dashed when a long-dead relative inexplicably pops out of her grave and refuses to leave August's side. In his middle-grade authorial debut, Campbell has crafted an endearing protagonist and intriguing cast (even a sweet zombie) and set them adrift in a haze of family mystery with such elements as giant white alligators and undead magic shows for added flair. His frequent black-and-white pictures add humor and depict August's family (both living and dead) as white.A tantalizing start to a delightfully macabre new series. (Supernatural mystery. 8-12) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Thunder rumbled and lightning flickered across the troupe of skeletons: a gruesome, silent circus of grim clowns and tumbling, hollow-eyed acrobats. Skulls gleamed. Skinless faces grinned madly. Bony fingers extended toward the lone, living boy before them. The boy who had made them. These weren't real skeletons, you understand, but models the boy had built. Their ribs and femurs had been crafted from coat-hanger wire, their skulls from clay molded over Ping-Pong balls. The spindly frames were painstakingly wrapped in strips of paper dripping with a paste of flour and water. When dry and hardened, the papier-mâché had been sanded to a finish smooth as ivory. The figures stood about sixteen inches tall and wore festive costumes cobbled together from old bandannas, misplaced buttons, and other odds and ends. The ringmaster sported a top hat made from a wine cork and held a chopstick baton. The trapeze artist's swing had once hung in a parakeet's cage. The strongman boasted an impressive mustache of steel wool and boots fashioned from black duct tape. The boy was engrossed in creating the latest addition to this bizarre, theatrical group. Hunched over a rickety desk, working in the murky light of a stormy afternoon, he was oblivious even to the sound of a sudden shower pattering on the roof above his head. Beneath his fingers, the model was nearing completion. Its costume was cut from the satin lining of an old waistcoat and studded with tarnished sequins. The hat was a solid silver thimble. The face was painted with particular care. He was outstanding--so splendid, in fact, that the boy had already given the clown a name. "Nearly there, Kevin," the boy advised. "You just need a nose." Now, you're probably thinking that Kevin is a rather everyday sort of name for a clown. Clowns, after all, generally come with whimsical names like Tickles or fancy foreign ones like Punchinello. But to be fair, the boy had little experience in thinking up names for things, and Kevin was one of the few he had come across. He carefully positioned a red plastic pushpin over Kevin's face when suddenly the desk lurched beneath the boy's elbow, jarring the pin from his tweezers and sending it tippy-tapping across the floorboards. "Aw, shoot!" cried the boy, scrambling after the tiny thing. "It's the last one; where'd it go?" A scarlet speck nestling in a crevice of the rough floorboards caught his eye. "Relax, everyone, I found it!" he reassured his bony audience. While he was on his knees, the boy added another thin book to the stack supporting one of the desk's broken legs. He pressed firmly on the desk's drop-down front to test its stability. "All right. Here we go." The boy made a second attempt to center the pin-nose. His breathing slowed. His eyes narrowed. He gripped the tweezers firmly but gently. This was the finishing touch; it had to be perfect! But Kevin the oddly named clown was not destined to receive his nose that day. For suddenly, without warning, the wet afternoon was pierced by the sounds of smashing, crashing, and a loud and terrible, bloodcurdling scream. "August!" shrieked a woman from the lower floor. "AUGUST!" Tweezers, pushpin, and stool flew in all directions as August (for such was the boy's name) jumped up. His boots pounded on the stairs as they raced toward the kitchen, from where the screams were coming. There, a dramatic scene confronted him. You'd be forgiven for concluding that a brutal crime had just occurred, for the room was strewn with overturned crates and broken bottles. The linoleum, range, and icebox were spattered and dripping with bloody red fluid. But the powerful, vinegary aroma and sting to August's eyes revealed the substance to be nothing more sinister than . . . hot sauce. Skittering and spinning about in the crimson pools on the floor, the skirts of her ballgown swirling around her, a woman was swatting frantically at a small yellow butterfly. It bobbed above her crooked pink tiara while she continued to screech at the top of her lungs, as if under attack by a pterodactyl. "August," the woman cried with desperation, "help me!" But August was saved the trouble of rescuing the lady. He had scarcely passed through the doorway when the butterfly abruptly abandoned its assault and casually flitted across the pungent wreckage to alight purposely on the boy's head. The woman, finally silenced, observed this unusual development with blanched face and gaping mouth. "Aunt Hydrangea?" said August with concern. But there was no response. The lady's eyes rolled upward into her head, and she promptly keeled backward, stiff as a board, in a dead faint. Excerpted from A Small Zombie Problem by K. G. Campbell 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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