Everyone's favorite neurotic second grader is back, with a collection of the funniest and most touching Alvin Ho books to date.
Allergic to Birthday Parties, Science Projects, and Other Man-made Catastrophes
In the third hilarious book about Alvin Ho, a boy who’s afraid of everything, includes his fear of a birthday party. What could possibly be so scary about a birthday party? Let Alvin explain:
You might be dressed for bowling . . . but everyone else is dressed for swimming.
You could get mistaken for the piñata.
You could eat too much cake.
You could throw up.
So when Alvin receives an invitation to a party—a girl’s party—how will he ever survive?
Allergic to Dead Bodies, Funerals, and Other Fatal Circumstances
In the fourth book in the Alvin Ho series, Alvin is facing something truly scary: the idea that someone he loves might die. When Alvin's GungGung loses his best friend, Alvin (gulp) volunteers to go with him to the funeral. Lenore Look and LeUyen Pham touch on a more serious subject in this Alvin book, but it's still filled with the same humor and laugh-out-loud antics fans have come to expect from the series.
Lenore Look’s touching, drop-dead-funny book about an Asian American second grader has tons of boy appeal and is great for reluctant readers. The previous books in the series, Alvin Ho: Allergic to Girls, School, and Other Scary Things and Alvin Ho: Allergic to Camping, Hiking, and Other Natural Disasters, have received rave reviews. “Alvin’s a winner,” declares the New York Post, and Newsday says, “The novel . . . shares with Diary of a Wimpy Kid the humor that stems from the hero’s Herculean efforts to manipulate the world around him in his favor, without all the facts at his disposal.” Alvin Ho perfectly captures the trials and tribulations of boyhood.
About Lenore Look
I first began making picture books in kindergarten because my other career option at the time was stealing. But a life of crime requires practice and patience, neither of which I had, so I settled into industry, making what I coveted but what my parents could not afford to buy: beautiful books like the ones my teacher read to us in school.
Publishing was no problem in those days, not like it is now. By first-grade, I was my own publisher, making multiple copies of my books by hand. As for fame and fortune, I took care of that, too–I taught my brothers and the neighborhood kids how to wait in line for autographed copies, and I charged them 25 cents a book (an enviable paperback royalty today!), but also accepted candy.
By third grade, I had abandoned the literary scene. My parents had bought an old piano and signed me up for lessons and, thus, I began dreaming of becoming a world-famous concert pianist.
Then I came across a book on Maria Tallchief, and became a ballerina, just like that. I weighed only 40 pounds and could leap and pirouette all day without stopping. It was a lot easier than becoming a pianist.
Then I read a book about a surgeon, and one about a veterinarian, and another about a great tennis player . . . and I found myself wanting to become whatever I’d last read.
Eventually I grew up and became a newspaper reporter. It was the perfect job for me. I got paid to do the two things I loved most: writing and being curious. Working as a reporter taught me how to talk to people, how to find the story behind the story, and how to tell a story in a way that keeps a reader reading. I learned to listen to the way people talk. I learned to be precise and concise in my own choice of words. Best of all, the more I wrote, the more I was filled with a sense of wonder. I loved writing not only about what happens to people, but also about what happens inside of them, which is what writing for children is all about, but I didn’t yet know it.
It wasn’t until I became a mother and began reading children’s books again that I felt what the Chinese call yun fuen, a continuing of work begun in past lives. I had long forgotten my early foray into picture books, the thread I’d dropped in kindergarten, a thin rig, like the one a spider would use in rising. I had journeyed nearly 30 years down through space by then, unaware of my silken strand. Then one afternoon, with my two young children clamoring for something to do, I showed them how to fold paper into a book . . . picked up some crayons and a pen, and then . . . felt myself rising . . . returning to that place where I began, that brief age in which I had so many talents, and leapt and pirouetted into the sun, and could not stop.