In 1985, Kazumasa Yuuki, a reporter at the North Kanto Times, is assigned to be desk chief on the newspaper’s coverage of the largest air disaster in history, a Japan Air Lines crash on a mountain that killed 520 people. He’s a reluctant leader, still wracked with guilt over an incident with a co-worker a few years ago, but he also feels deeply for the passengers lost in the crash and the loved ones they left behind, and he recognizes his newspaper’s duty to tell the story right, and give them the closure they need.

Because of this work, he had to cancel a trip to climb a mountain with his best friend Kyoichiro Anzai. He later learned that Anzai collapsed that evening before making it up to the mountain himself, and that he lay in the hospital in a vegetative state. In 2002, Yuuki stands before the mountain he and Anzai were supposed to climb seventeen years ago. This time, he’s with Anzai’s son, Rintaro, and he’s determined to make the climb.

I really enjoyed Seventeen. It’s a compelling dive into the power struggles and office politics at a Japanese newspaper, where hierarchy is much more rigidly structured than in American newspapers. I was sucked right into Yuuki’s world as he fought to stay afloat and advocate for his stories amidst this environment. I loved that despite his reluctance to lead, Yuuki was forced to find his voice and fight for what he believes is right, and I thought the other characters in his workplace were just as vividly drawn. I loved seeing how the politics in the office are affected by the politics in the country, as the editors and board members have secretly aligned themselves with powerful politicians in opposition to each other, and this alliance impacts how they want the newspaper to cover particular incidents. For example, one really well-written story is killed because it presented a particular group in a favourable light, which would have offended one of the politicians.

I also love the tension between the old guard reporters and the new generation, all of whom are hungry to make their mark in the industry. The older reporters, including Yuuki, have long feasted on the acclaim of their reputation for having been involved in a major serial killer story a few years back, whereas the younger reporters are excited at the potential to get their own big break with the stories about the plane crash. In one particularly jarring scene, a pair of younger reporters risk their lives to deliver a scoop, only to have one of the editors refuse to extend the deadline for their story to make the morning papers. Yuuki wonders why he wasn’t warned that the deadline couldn’t be extended, so that he could give the reporters a more realistic timeline, but then realizes it’s because the editor doesn’t want to give up the glory of his own major scoop years back to the younger reporters. It’s petty and mean, but also all too realistic, and poor Yuuki is caught in the middle having to break the bad news to his reporters.

Amidst the office politics, Yokoyama also does a great job of depicting the humanity within the tragedy. I felt for the reporters who were first at the crash site, and the trauma they had to deal with because of the experience. There are some gruesome details of what they saw in the book, and it’s such a sharp contrast with the more touristy approach of media outlets at the site later on, once most of the bodies have been cleared away. Later in the book, a reporter who saw the site on the first day reacts violently when he sees another reporter take a selfie at the plane’s tail and then try to take a piece of debris from the site as a souvenir.

Family and friendship are also major themes. Yuuki bonds with Anzai’s son to deal with the emotional distance with his own son, and Rintaro Anzai finds in Yuuki a father figure to help him deal with his father’s situation. All of this was woven in closely with the workplace drama, and particularly as Anzai worked in the newspaper’s circulation department and therefore was also dealing with the politics of the workplace.

Seventeen is a compelling workplace drama. I love how vividly Yokoyama tells his story, and the glimpses he gives into office politics in a small Japanese newspaper.

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Thank you to Hachette Book Group for a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

Laura has a successful career and a solid, if not particularly strong, marriage, but the best thing in her life is the close relationship she has with her son Daniel, now twenty-three years old and studying to be a doctor. When he falls in love with Cherry, a real estate agent from the wrong side of the tracks, Laura thinks that Cherry is only after Daniel’s money. Worse, Laura worries that Cherry will take Daniel away from her. On the other hand, Cherry is determined to rise to a higher social strata, but soon finds herself developing genuine feelings for Daniel, and beginning to resent his mother’s constant presence in their lives.

The Girlfriend starts off as a taut domestic drama, an emotional tug-of-war that may likely feel familiar to parents whose children are about to leave the nest, or conversely, to people whose romantic partners have a possibly unhealthy attachment to their parents. While I admired the way Michelle Frances infuses a fairly everyday situation with a thriller-ish feel, the book started off slow for me and I struggled to stay interested.

About half-way through, one of the women tells the other an unforgiveable lie, and this sets off a series of events that ramp up the action considerably. The tension simmering just beneath the surface through the first half finally explodes to the surface, and Cherry and Laura go into full-on attack mode and scheme to destroy each other’s lives and win Daniel once and for all. The second half of the book bumped up my impression of the book overall; even though it felt more like a traditional thriller while the first half felt more unusual, I really enjoyed the twists and turns in the second half. Both women come off disturbed (Cherry’s borderline sociopathy and general coldness towards her mother, Laura’s smothering love for her son), but also somewhat tragic in their respective circumstances (Cherry’s poverty, Laura’s unhappy marriage), and it all comes to a head in an exciting climactic scene.

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Thank you to Publisher’s Group Canada for a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

I hesitate to use the word “authentic” to describe any book, but that’s precisely how Catherine Hernandez’s Kilt Pins felt to me. Hernandez writes about a group of girls in a Catholic high school in Scarborough, who explore their developing sexuality amongst the teachings of the Church that they’re inundated with daily. The story revolves around Dee, her classmate Anna and Anna’s boyfriend Chris, and the series of events that kicks off when Dee realizes Chris is attracted to her.

I love how Hernandez depicts Dee’s hesitation and uncertainty in her desire for Chris. Their story is punctuated by a chorus of girls reciting “rules” about sex that they claim to be certain about, even as they can’t help but reveal how unreliable and at times contradictory the rules actually are. Take for example how after a scene where Chris and Dee have sex, three of her classmates recite Rule #6: “You are in complete control.” The girls continue in this vein for a few more lines, until one interjects, “Unless you’re in the back of a car,” and the others follow up with a few other exceptions until the girls finally conclude in a chorus:

TERESA, ANNA & ASHA: But otherwise, you are under complete control. Rule #2:

DEE: There’s no turning back. [pp. 6-7]

It’s such a real portrait of being a teenager and being curious about sexual desire but hearing from adults only that you shouldn’t be having these feelings in the first place. As a result, you have no one to turn to but your friends, who are likely as clueless as you are.

Rule #6 in particular may sound naive, but also echoes the gendered double standard girls are taught about sex, that boys naturally have sexual desire and therefore it’s the girl’s responsibility to keep things from going too far. Thankfully, with social media, more people are pointing out the fallacy and sexism of that adage, but seeing the girls in this play repeating it as if it were gospel is a powerful reminder of how insidious it can be to teach such double standards to children.

I also love the scenes with teachers talking about sex, which reminds me of things teachers at my Catholic high school said, and which Hernandez treats with wonderfully light irony and humour. In one of my favourite scenes, Sister Grace is talking to the class about “Excuses Your Boyfriend May Give You for Having Sex and Arguments Against It.” First, I love that she uses a transparency on a projector! And second, the dialogue is hilarious: Sister Grace argues that people may think sex is good exercise, but in reality, penetration burns only 100 calories. A student asks the logical question: What about everything else?

STUDENT #1: Like the kissing and touching beforehand. What kind of sex only burns one hundred calories?

SISTER GRACE: The kind of sex that creates a child. [p. 38]

It’s a funny throwaway line, but it’s also a reminder of the Catholic Church’s teaching that the purpose of sex is procreation, not pleasure. It’s likely the Church has loosened up somewhat on this since I was in school, but I certainly remember being taught that masturbation was a sin because it was selfish, and it was selfish because it was only about self-pleasure and not at all about using love to create a child. So this scene really hit the mark.

Beyond the critical eye on rules and teachings around sexuality, Kilt Pins also explores the way boys and romance can wreak havoc on teenage hormones and how genuine all the emotional turmoil feels when you’re a teenager. Anna turns full on mean girl bully on Dee over Chris, and Dee in turn realizes how Chris is very much not worth the hassle but it doesn’t stop the bullying. I love how Anna isn’t a one dimensional villain and how Hernandez shows her vulnerability, which is very much tied to her motivation for wanting to hold on to Chris.

In her introduction to the text, Hernandez asks anyone putting on the play to “approach the characters with the utmost respect,” and resist turning any of the characters into caricatures. The text itself certainly doesn’t lend itself to caricature, and I’m impressed at how complex and textured Hernandez was able to make these characters in such a brief amount of time. If you grew up Catholic, you will likely see your teen years reflected in these pages. It’s very well done.

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Thank you to Playwrights Canada Press for a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.