I Hate Books! (review)

Third-grader Hamish is an inventive and lively storyteller, a fact that has allowed him to get by in school and at home without anyone noticing that he can't really read. Now he's been found out, and Hamish is despondent, certain that his parents will be horrified at their lackluster son ("I couldn't expect them to love me as much when they found out") and discouraged because he's so far behind his classmates ("What was the point of trying? Everyone else could read already, and they were learning more words all the time"). The resolution (Hamish's older brother teaches him to read) is breathtakingly abrupt after the long focus on Hamish's non-reading, but the story turns what could have been a programmatic fable into a vivid and poignant chronicle of a kid who's essentially been too clever for his own good without even realizing it. The depictions of Hamish's classmates and family are energetic and particular, and Hamish himself is a believable little guy who, prizing excitement over diligence, legitimately finds his own creative tales more interesting than the bland drone of adults reading what's actually on the page. Brief chapters make this an appropriately unthreatening read (and an effective readaloud to boot), while Cox's informally scrawled line art adds invitation to just about every page.