Margin Notes

I absolutely loved this title.

Oh Brother is a graphic memoir by Georgina (Gina) Chadderton. As the story opens, Gina is spending the summer before she starts middle school moving into a new house with her family. Her brother, Rob, is autistic and has high support needs, so their home has to be set up in very specific ways to keep him safe. Doors and cupboards are secured, and even the fridge and windows have added safety measures. Early in the story, we see exactly why. Shortly after the family moves in, the new neighbours come over to let them know that Rob has somehow made his way into their living room.

You also learn so much about autism simply through the way Chadderton tells the story. Rob does not use many spoken words, but he communicates constantly through sounds, gestures, pointing, signing, and routines his family has learned to understand. The memoir gives readers a real sense of how frustrating it can be to know what you want or how you are feeling but not always be able to make other people understand.

But this is also very much Gina’s story. We experience life with Rob through the perspective of a sister who loves him deeply and can also feel embarrassed, worried, frustrated, protective, and completely overwhelmed. That honesty is part of what made the book feel so vulnerable and important.

There is another layer, too. In the back matter, Chadderton shares that she herself was diagnosed with autism as an adult. Knowing that makes you look back at Gina’s experiences differently and further challenges any narrow idea of what autism looks like.

Published as a middle grade graphic memoir, Oh Brother could be a powerful mirror for students who have neurodivergent siblings and an equally important window for readers who want to better understand autism, communication, family, and the complicated ways we love the people closest to us.

Some books are just so fun to read. The kind you pick up thinking you will read a chapter or two, and suddenly you are halfway through and fully invested in the characters’ lives. Fake Skating by Lynn Painter is exactly that kind of read.

At its core, this is a classic fake dating story with a hockey twist. Dani moves back to Minnesota after her parents’ divorce and reconnects with her childhood best friend, Alec, now known as “Zeus,” the town’s hockey star. When some not so great photos threaten his reputation, he convinces Dani to pretend to be his girlfriend to clean up his image. You can probably guess where it goes from there.

And yes, on paper, it sounds familiar. But somehow, it just works.

What makes this story stand out is the emotional layering beneath the trope. Dani’s past, constantly moving and dealing with bullying, shapes how she navigates relationships and trust. Alec is more than the confident hockey player. He is carrying his own weight with a father whose life changed after a devastating accident. These details give the story more depth than you might expect and make the characters feel real in a way that sticks.

There is also something really appealing about the world Painter builds. The hockey culture, the team dynamics, Dani’s grumpy but lovable grandfather, a former NHL player, and even the inclusion of a shared soundtrack all add to the experience. It feels warm, familiar, and just a little nostalgic.

This would be a great addition to a high school classroom library, especially for readers who gravitate toward romance or sports stories. It is accessible, engaging, and offers plenty to talk about, including identity, reputation, loyalty, and the choices people make to protect the people they care about. It could also open up conversations about how quickly narratives can shift, both online and in real life.

I will be honest. This is not a book that tries to reinvent the genre. But it does not need to. It gives readers exactly what they are hoping for in a way that feels genuine and satisfying.

And sometimes, that is exactly the kind of book students need

“Every sport, every little industry requires its own corner, its own voice, that it may find its friends, greet them, welcome them.”
— Harriet Monroe, founding editor of Poetry (1912)

As part of our April Poetry Month series, we’re highlighting Poetry magazine, available through our free to borrow digital collection on SORA.

There is something nice about a magazine like Poetry. It does not ask for a huge time commitment, and it does not need to be read in order. You can open an issue, read one poem, and still find something worth sitting with.

Founded in 1912, Poetry has been introducing readers to poems and poets for more than a century. Over the years, it has published many of the most recognizable voices in literature while continuing to make space for new and emerging writers. That means each issue offers a mix of voices, styles, and perspectives, and there is always the chance you will come across something unexpected.

That feels especially fitting to celebrate during Poetry Month, a time to celebrate writing that helps us notice, reflect, question, and feel a little more deeply.

“We want the magazine to question even as it provides respite, to be a space where every kind of poetry can be read, heard, and received with the curiosity and wonder it deserves.”
— Adrian Matejka, editor of Poetry magazine

You can find Poetry on SORA as part of our free digital collection.

I tear my eyes from my sweet dog
and look up at the sliver of moon,
barely there.
“I like it better when it’s full,” I say.

Laurel looks at me, her dark eyebrows scrunched up.
“But the moon is always full”

I blink. “It is?”
She points
at the moon.
“The moon is lit by the sun.
The dark part is just a shadow.”

“It’s always full?” I ask again.
“Yes, Pearl. The moon
is always full.”

Bobbie Pyron’s Octopus Moon is a beautiful and deeply needed novel in verse about a ten-year-old girl named Pearl as she begins to experience childhood depression. Pearl is thoughtful, sensitive, and deeply empathetic to all, especially the ocean and its creatures. But as fifth grade begins, life starts to feel heavier in ways she cannot fully explain. Things that once felt manageable, like friendships, school, and everyday life, begin to shift under the weight of something she does not yet have the words for.

I would recommend this book to any reader who wants to better understand what depression can look like in childhood. Its emotional honesty feels especially powerful because, as Pyron explains in her author’s note, Octopus Moon is the book she needed when she was young, before there were enough stories or language to help children understand what they were experiencing.

One of the most moving parts of the novel is Pearl’s relationship with her dog, who loves every version of her without question. That steady, unconditional love becomes a quiet but powerful thread throughout the story, reminding readers that Pearl is still herself even when depression makes her feel otherwise. The novel also shows the importance of support systems. Some of Pearl’s friends and family understand what she is going through right away, while others only begin to show up for her after doing some learning of their own about mental illness and realizing that depression is not something a person can simply “wish away.”

Because it is written in verse, Octopus Moon allows Pearl’s emotions to surface in a way that feels both gentle and deeply affecting. The language is accessible, but it never oversimplifies what Pearl is going through. In the end, Octopus Moon reminds us that, like the moon, a person can be shadowed and still remain whole.

Certain texts possess a rare economy of language, carrying an emotional and intellectual weight that far exceeds their page count. Kathrine Kressmann Taylor’s Address Unknown is exactly that kind of work.

What makes the most recently published edition increasingly special as an additional to the classroom library are the supplemental pieces that frame the narrative. In her introduction, Margot Livesey sets a powerful stage, noting that when the story was first published in 1938, it served as a “jolt” to an American public largely looking the other way. Livesey’s analysis highlights the confounding, timeless questions at the heart of the book: How do we know what we know? Why does a good person become a bad person? What power does a citizen have against the state?

The story itself unfolds entirely through letters between two friends and business partners: Max, a Jewish art dealer in San Francisco, and Martin, who has returned to Germany in 1932. While their initial tone is warm and familiar, the relationship shifts with the political climate. This gradual, and then sudden, erosion of loyalty demonstrates how easily individual identity can be consumed by a larger ideology. It is a hauntingly relevant lesson for young adults today, who may see these same patterns of normalization and polarization reflected in their own daily news.

The narrative concludes with an ending that is easy to miss at first, but impossible to forget once seen. This sense of unease is only deepened by the afterword, where the author’s son, Charles Douglas Taylor, reveals his mother’s real-world inspirations. By providing this historical record, he transforms a fictional exchange into a chilling account of actual events, offering students a touching yet sobering perspective on the author’s intent.

As a masterclass in the epistolary form, Address Unknown is an essential addition to high school libraries. It is a concise but profound case study in how ideology can reshape a soul, sparking the kind of critical thinking and debate that is vital in our increasingly polarized world.