You Don't Know Me by David Klass

From the Publisher

You think you know John? Well, let's see . . . What bathroom fixture did his father have in mind at his birth? Does algebra have a use, besides torture? Who is Glory Halle-lujah? Who is Violent Hayes? What do they want? Who or what are the Lashasa Palulu? Why do fools fall in love? How can anyone who is fighting a secret battle for his life know anyone? And how can they know him?

Publishers Weekly

The 14-year-old narrator describes the physical and emotional abuse he experiences from his mother's boyfriend in this "well-conceived novel," said PW. "The hero's underlying sense of isolation and thread of hope will strike a chord with nearly every adolescent." Ages 13-up. (Aug.)

Publishers Weekly

John, the 14-year-old narrator of Klass's (Screen Test; Danger Zone) well-conceived novel, deals with not only universal teenage problems (escaping his algebra teacher's questions, working up the nerve to ask out his dream girl, whom he calls "Glory Hallelujah," fighting with a friend), he also must deal with his mother's boyfriend, whom John calls "the man who is not my father." The tyrant verbally and physically abuses him when his mother is not around, and John experiences a "meltdown" when he learns that the man plans to marry his mother. While people do care about JohnDa rather stereotypically sensitive music teacher and a likable girl from his band class, whom John calls "Violent" Hayes "because she appears to be trying to strangle her saxophone before it kills her"Deven they cannot convince John to reveal what's happening at home. John's narrative often addresses various characters directly (his mother's boyfriend, the music teacher, etc.) with wry internal thoughts; this approach plays up the alienation John feels and also conveys the teen's sardonic humor and intelligence. A few scenes are so outrageous and comical that they clash with the book's overall tone (e.g., when Glory Hallelujah's father hunts John and the girl down in the basement of her home). But most, such as when John first asks out Glory Hallelujah via note, instructing her to check either the "yes" or "no" box, are very grounded in the high school experience. The hero's underlying sense of isolation and thread of hope will strike a chord with nearly every adolescent. Ages 12-up. (Mar.) Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.

Children's Literature

The best books can make you laugh and cry, often on the same page. This novel is definitely one of them. No one knows who the real John is. Not his mother, to whom he feels invisible, not his friend who is not a friend, not the man who is not his father, not the students at his anti-school, and not the music teacher who tries to help him. In his house that is not a house, the man who is not John's father abuses him severely, and John is afraid to confide the secret to anyone. He takes refuge in the imaginary African village of Lashasa Palulu, where people live in intelligence, tolerance and love. John thinks his fortunes are changing when the girl he has a crush on, Glory Hallelujah, agrees to go out with him. But the date turns into a hilarious disaster, soon followed by a fateful Tuesday where everything goes wrong and John has a giant meltdown. John's first person narrative is undoubtedly one of the most unique fictional voices to appear in many years. John reacts to his sorry lot with sarcasm, irony and remarkable good humor. Put this novel on your "must read" list. 2001, Frances Foster Books/Farrar Straus and Giroux, $17.00. Ages 12 up. Reviewer: Christopher Moning

VOYA

John's life appears caught up in the normal craziness that challenges high school students. Algebra is torture. He and his best friend both want the same girl. Mr. Steenwilly, the orchestra director, senses that all is not quite normal, but John brushes him off with assurances that he is fine. At least at school, he can escape his mother's boyfriend, the man who abuses him. John copes with the mistreatment via a running inner soliloquy on life. When his mother's boyfriend talks of becoming John's stepfather, John's slippery grasp on reality comes crashing down, and neither his cynical view of life nor his sarcastic sense of humor can save him. An attempt to experience a taste of average teenage life—attending a school dance—ends with John being severely beaten, saved almost too late by Mr. Steenwilly, who had refused to take John's assurances to heart. John's inner voice is wonderfully cynical yet sweet and sad, reminding readers of Steve in Rats Saw God (Simon & Schuster, 1996/VOYA June 1996) or Charlie in The Perks of Being a Wallflower (Pocket Books, 1999/VOYA December 1999). Klass sets up two separate worlds in this novel. John keeps the gleeful, witty one inside as he deals with the harsh reality of the outside. Klass skillfully blends these two worlds so that sometimes they are hardly distinguishable. The closer John comes to despair, the more tangled his worlds become. To reduce this novel to a story of John's abuse misses the stark contrast between the surrealism and absurdity in John's mind and in his reality as he longs for normalcy. This book is for anyone—teenagers and adults alike—who has ever been faced with the absurdity of a normal life. VOYACODES: 5Q 4P J M S (Hard to imagine it being any better written; Broad general YA appeal; Junior High, defined as grades 7 to 9; Middle School, defined as grades 6 to 8; Senior High, defined as grades 10 to 12). 2000, Frances Foster Books/Farrar Straus Giroux, M S272p, Ages 13 to 15. Reviewer: Susan Smith SOURCE: VOYA, June 2001 (Vol. 24, No. 2)

Alan Review

John, who claims that his father named him after a toilet, struggles to find a sense of belonging both at home and at school. He feels that his mother has chosen her new boyfriend, and is angry because she does not know that her boyfriend is abusing John. He struggles to find groups with which he belongs at school by playing in the band, hanging out with friends, and trying to ask girls to the dance. Some teachers sense that something is going on with John, and his band director, Mr. Steenwilly, asks him about marks he noticed on John's arm. John avoids talking directly with adults, as many of his responses occur within his mind, and he repeatedly "thinks" variations of, "You don't know me." While they may not directly identify with issues of abuse, many adolescents will identify with John's search for identity and for a feeling that people truly know him and who he is on the inside. The language and structure of the novel are intriguing; much of John's conversation is internal, and he defines various situations through what they are not. While this difference may make the novel begin as a slow read for some, it quickly picks up the pace as John begins hanging out with friends at the mall. Genre: Isolation/Identity/Family. 2001, Frances Foster Books, 266 pp., $17.00. Ages 12 up. Reviewer: Jennifer Dail ; Florida State University, Tallahassee, FL

Claire Rosser; KLIATT - KLIATT

To quote from KLIATT's January 2001 review of the hardcover edition: Klass, author of the ALA Best Books for YAs California Blue, Wrestling with Honor, and Danger Zone, attempts a different tone in this novel, and it may not "work" for some readers. John is the narrator. He is an angry high school student on the edge, spouting sarcasm and stabs at humor as he tries to survive a terrible home life. He has a crush on a lovely classmate named Gloria, who he calls Glory Hallelujah (in his narrative). His approach to her borders on farce, as does their date to the basketball game and a crazy confrontation with her father in Gloria's basement. His best friend is a person he derides for having a big nose—and this friend also gets involved in farcical misadventures. John plays the tuba in the school band, and the music teacher seems to be the only adult who worries about him. John of course pretends nothing is wrong in his life, but at the end of the book, it is the music teacher who rescues John from a near-fatal beating. The villain of the book is the man who has moved into John's house, hoping to marry John's mother. This man is a criminal and a bully who threatens John and hits him when the mother isn't around to see what is happening. There is nothing funny about this man at all—in a book that otherwise might be seen as an adolescent comedy of errors—and his final horrific attack on John is appallingly real, even if the rescue seems unreal. Perhaps other readers won't have as much trouble as I have switching from horror to humor and back again. Klass does give us the interior world of a troubled young man who manages to use humor to hold on to his sanity. Category: Paperback Fiction. KLIATTCodes: JS—Recommended for junior and senior high school students. 2001, HarperTempest, HarperCollins, 344p.,

School Library Journal

Gr 7 Up-John, 14, makes himself unknowable, contemplating volumes about the absurdities of his world while restraining most utterances to monosyllables. The narrative bounces between comic and serious elements, such as band director Steenwilly's glasses being blown off by the "saurian screech" of Violet's saxophone, juxtaposed with the all-too-real violence that John suffers at home and elsewhere. Klass blazes past his previous literary efforts stylistically, introducing elements of magical realism to gradually reveal a quirky, talented, and likable guy. Having been trashed by beautiful, shallow, and manipulative Gloria, John gradually discovers that down-to-earth Violet is truly the girl of his dreams. With his life already at one of its lowest points, the protagonist verbally abuses his algebra teacher, "Mrs. Moonface" and receives a week's suspension. He is viciously beaten by "the man who is not my father," and his mother doesn't know that her live-in almost-fianc is a hard-drinking, violent crook until he nearly kills John on a night when she is out of town. The story concludes with the teen finding that he is life itself to his mother, and that he is liked by his peers and teachers. School is still "anti-school," not a place of fun and learning, and snotty girls are still snotty. The world may be "muddled and painful," but it is, "in the end, a love song,"-a rewarding and important message for all readers.-Joel Shoemaker, Southeast Junior High School, Iowa City, IA Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Klass (Screen Test, 1997, etc.) has woven a captivating first-person narrative with an original voice. John is convinced that no one knows him. Not his kind-of-friends, not the teachers in his "anti-school" ("School is for learning and this place is for being stupid"), and certainly not his mother, who just might marry this boyfriend, the one that beats him when she isn't looking. John's piercingly funny narrative describes his days in his torturous algebra class ("I hear nothing. The sound waves part before they get to me and re-form when they have passed me by. Algebra does not have the power to penetrate my feverish isolation"), his okay music class ("To my surprise, the giant frog who is pretending to be my tuba suddenly comes very much to life"), a disastrous date with the much-sought-after Gloria ("Glory Hallelujah"), and the nightmare of being left alone with his soon-to-be stepfather while his mother is away. His humor stems from boredom, intense loneliness, and fear, and his story keeps the reader both howling with laughter and petrified. His narrative has a consistently narrow view, taking the reader through his twisted thoughts and emotions, while letting enough trickle through so that readers can see more than he does. Thankfully, of course, someone does know John, and steps up to save him. His mother (to whom the narrative is addressed) is never quite fleshed out as a character. Perhaps this is because John feels so keenly ignored by her, yet it makes her entrance at the end feel thin. Nevertheless, this is an engrossing story, in the vein of Laurie Halse Anderson's Speak (1999), to which readers will immediately connect. (Fiction. 12-16)

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Chapter One

who I am not

You don't know me.

Just for example, you think I'm upstairs in my room doing my homework. Wrong. I'm not in my room. I'm not doing my homework. And even if I were up in my room I wouldn't be doing my homework, so you'd still be wrong. And it's really not my room. It's your room because it's in your house. I just happen to live there right now. And it's really not my homework, because my math teacher, Mrs. Moonface, assigned it and she's going to check it, so it's her homework.

Her name's not Mrs. Moonface, by the way. It's really Mrs. Garlic Breath. No it's not. It's really Mrs. Gabriel, but I just call her Mrs. Garlic Breath, except for the times when I call her Mrs. Moonface.

Confused? Deal with it.

You don't know me at all. You don't know the first thing about me. You don't know where I'm writing this from. You don't know what I look like. You have no power over me.

What do you think I look like? Skinny? Freckles? Wire-rimmed glasses over brown eyes? No, I don't think so. Better look again. Deeper. It's like a kaleidoscope, isn't it? One minute I'm short, the next minute tall, one minute I'm geeky, one minute studly, my shape constantly changes, and the only thing that stays constant is my brown eyes. Watching you.

That's right, I'm watching you right now sitting on the couch next to the man who is not my father, pretending to read a book that is not a book, waiting for him to pet you like a dog or stroke you like a cat. Let's be real, the man who is not my father isn't a very nice man. Not just because he is not my father but because he hits me when you're not around, and hesays if I tell you about it he'll really take care of me.

Those are his words. "I'll really take care of you, John. Don't rat on me or you'll regret it." Nice guy.

But I am telling you now. Can't you hear me? He's petting the top of your head like he would pet a dog, with his right hand, which just happens to be the hand he hits me with. When he hits me he doesn't curl his fingers up into a fist because that would leave a mark. He slaps me with the flat of his hand. WHAP. And now I'm watching him stroke your cheek with those same fingers. He holds me tight with his left hand when he hits me so that I can't run away. And now he's holding you tenderly with his left hand. And I'm telling you this as I watch through the window, but your eyes are closed and you couldn't care less, because he's stroking you the way he would stroke a cat and I bet you're purring.

You don't know me at all.

You think I'm a good student. Hah!

You think I have friends. Hah!

You think I'm happy with this life. Hah, hah!

Okay, now you're putting down the book that is not a book. It's a Reader's Digest condensation of literature, which is like drinking orange juice made from concentrate. It has no pulp. The key vitamins have been processed out. You're pressing your head against his shoulder. I can see your toes move inside your pink socks on the coffee table. What's with this toe movement? Is it passion or athlete's foot? There is some kind of serious itch there.

And now the man who is not my father puts down his book, which is a real book, because he's not a stupid or shallow man, just cruel and self-centered. He kisses you long and full on the lips, and then on the side of your neck. And you glance upstairs, nervously, because you think I'm up in my room doing my homework. You don't know that I'm floating twenty feet above our backyard, watching this display of misplaced affection.

No, I am not levitating. I do not have secret wings that allow me to fly. I am not a vampire. I am not hanging by my heels from the roof or clinging to a drainpipe.

So where am I?

You don't know me at all.

I'll give you this one. I'm in the apple tree, which is not an apple tree. The man who is not my father calls it an apple tree, but it has never produced a single thing resembling an apple. Nor has it produced a pear, so it is not a pear tree. Nor has it produced a pair of apples. Nor has it produced a pineapple, so it is clearly not a pineapple tree. The only thing I have ever seen it produce is thin gray leaves, so I will call it a gray-leaf tree.

That's where I am. Sitting in the gray-leaf tree. There's a full moon out tonight, so if I were a werewolf or a vampire I would be hungry or thirsty for flesh or blood. But I'm full with the gluey spaghetti and golf ball meatballs from dinner. The only effect the moon has on me is to make me think of Mrs. Moonface and my five pages of algebra homework that is really her homework, except that for some reason I'm the one who got stuck with it.

Mrs. Moonface assigns us so much homework because she is miserable and lonely. I wrote a poem to her. It's not a very good poem, but I don't really care. The first stanza goes like this:

Mrs. Moonface, get a life,

Get a nose ring, fly a kite,

Find a boyfriend, learn to ski,

Just stop taking it out on me.

The man who is not my father is switching off the lamp. Now our house is dark except for the light in my room, which is really not a room, where I am not doing homework.

Except that I am actually up there doing homework after all! Did you really think that I was up in the branches of an apple tree? Not necessary. You don't have to see things to know that they are happening. Anyway, I don't like climbing trees. It's a cold fall night. The wind is howling around our house like a live animal.

I finish the last algebra problem. Put down my pencil.

Downstairs I can hear the springs of the couch creaking. The man who is not my father is repeating your name, with passion in his voice. But it's not really your name, even though it belongs to you. It's really the name of his pretty first wife, Mona, who died in a car accident five years before he met you and decided to move into your house, and take on the duties of disciplining your son.

And now he is repeating your name and thinking of Mona.

And you are listening to him and thinking of my father.

And I am not in this house at all. I am in the middle of a hurricane. Thunder is cymbal-crashing above and beneath me. Lightning makes my hair stand up. Winds are spinning me like a top. Do you really think I will come down to breakfast tomorrow and call the man who is not my father sir? Do you think I will go to school tomorrow and hand in my homework to Mrs. Moonface? I won't even be in this hemisphere tomorrow. This storm could set me down anywhere.

You don't know where I'll end up.

The good news is that you may have created my past and screwed up my present but you have no control over my future.

You don't know me at all...