Review by Booklist Review
Brett copes with his adoptive mother's terminal cancer by hiding his original comics in school library books in the dead of night as well as in less healthy ways: excessive underage drinking, impulsive snack stealing, and fast-food binge eating. When pages from his journal are leaked on social media, Brett is uncomfortably on the receiving end of an outpouring of pity from his classmates. It's only when his fat classmate Mallory enters the game that Brett starts to use the resources around him to pull himself out of his self-destructive spiral. Although Mallory is gay, her character veers close to serving as the archetypal quirky girl intended to fix the male character's problems, which is uncomfortable when viewed alongside the intense amount of misogyny from Brett's internal narrative. Despite this, the rich, emotional relationships Brett has with other male characters and the open, honest depiction of mental health remain incredibly important. Ultimately, this is a heartfelt debut that may miss the mark with a modern audience.
From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review
Smuggling the newest issue of his self-authored comic book, Kid Condor, into the school library is just one of the many things that Brett Isaias Harrison, 16, is up to. Some nights, he gets drunk and calls an Uber to take him "drunk drive-thru'ing"; others, he stargazes at the top of Tumamoc Hill in Tucson, Ariz. What Brett won't do is dwell on such subjects as his eating habits, how he compares to best friend Reed, his fear that girls won't ever like him, or his adoptive mother's recent cancer diagnosis. When his food journal goes viral on school socials, Brett finds himself the center of unwelcome attention, which prompts a series of binging and purging. Refuge comes from an unexpected friendship with Mallory, "the fattest kid in school"; her assertiveness and confidence both fascinate and confuse him. Brett's quirky voice--a mix of self-conscious thoughts, Kid Condor mythology, and bro-isms ("You ready for some nuggs, bruh?")--tempers this funny yet bruising narrative about one teen's experience with grief and disordered eating in which debut author Galarza carefully touches on issues surrounding underage drinking, body dysmorphia, and internalized anti-fatness. Extensive resources conclude. Brett has Welsh, Spanish, and Mayan ancestry. Ages 14--up. Agent: David Dunton, Harvey Klinger. (July)
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Review by Kirkus Book Review
A teenage boy in Tucson struggles with grief and disordered eating in this emotional debut. At almost 16, Brett has worked out how to make himself feel better. All it takes is a "Costco-sized bottle of vodka," a generous assortment of treats from every drive-thru restaurant in the area, and the privacy to dream up new adventures for Kid Condor, the hero of his own lovingly crafted comic-book universe. And lately, he's needed a lot of cheering up: Between his adoptive English professor mom's cancer diagnosis and new tensions with best friend Reed, who has taken to young adulthood with more grace, game, and abdominal muscles than Brett can fathom, there's a lot of fear to push away. Enter Mallory, a fat classmate who recognizes Brett's eating disorder for what it is before he's found the words to describe it himself. She takes Brett under her wing, demonstrating a path away from diet culture and the shame it enforces. Galarza brings humor and sensitivity to the story, permitting his characters to move organically through even the uglier moments of growth. Brett's internalized fatphobia brings a body-focused valence to his friendship with Mallory, but not at the expense of Mallory's depth of character. Mexican American Brett is mestizo, and his roots play an important role in his storytelling in the Kid Condor universe. Other major characters are white. A moving, funny story expressing the tenacious voice of a survivor. (author's note, resources) (Fiction. 13-18) Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
