We all know the story of the "selfless" tree that gave all she had just to make sure a young boy was "happy". Snore. This is a different tree. This is a different boy. This is a very different book. The Taking Tree is not so happy when the boy takes her twigs to pick on his sister, or takes her apples to sell for college (she's an oak tree for goodness sake), or when he cuts off her branches to build a house that he burns for insurance money. And the boy is not sorry at all. Ever. In fact, he's kind of a jerk. And the boy asks for more, and more, and more until the oak tree is so fed up she just can't take it any longer. While another story might end sweetly with an old man sitting on a stump. This one does not. K-Gr 2–In this parody of Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree (HarperCollins, 1964), the relationship between the tree and the boy is not as loving this time around. The boy is “a real jerk” whom the tree detests. He pokes his sister with twigs, throws acorns at old people, and takes leaves from the tree and sets them on fire. Each time the kid goes away–usually to jail–the tree is happy. And it is not so willing to sacrifice itself for someone who, as he grows older, is never satisfied. “Are you out of your mind?” it asks. “You took everything you could take. And I can't take it anymore!” While ultimately the tree fares no better, those who were disturbed by the original version will appreciate that the boy's outcome is equally grim. Charcoal illustrations evoke Silverstein's style, with watercolor accents to brighten the pages. While adults are the typical audience for parodies, children who enjoy stories a bit off-kilter will find this one intriguing. As fans of Roald Dahl know, seeing the truly evil get their comeuppance makes for a satisfying book.–Suzanne Myers Harold, Multnomah County Library System, Portland, ORα(c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted. Lucy Ruth Cummins is an author, illustrator, and art director of children’s books. She was happily paired with Jean Reidy for both Truman , which was named a New York Times Best Children’s Book of 2019, and Sylvie . She is also the author-illustrator of Stumpkin , Vampenguin , Dalmartian: A Mars Rover’s Story , Our Pool , and A Hungry Lion , or A Dwindling Assortment of Animals . Lucy has swum in creeks, streams, gorges, rivers, swimming holes, pools (above- and in-ground), lakes (both Great and Finger), decorative fountains, and oceans. Her very favorite place to swim, however, is at her community pool in Brooklyn with her sons and her neighbors. Blood Blood is my friend. Without it my cells shrivel. Without it I die. At night, alone with myself, I hear it rushing through arteries and veins, platelets tumbling in a soup of plasma and glucose through slick, twisty tubes, lining up to enter narrow capillaries, delivering oxygen and fuel, seeking idle insulin. It is a low-pitched sound: wind passing through woodlands. I hear a higher pitched sound too: A demon dentist drilling, rising and falling but never stopping. It is the sound of my thoughts. Alone, at night, with myself, the low sound and the high sound become music. If I lie perfectly still and quiet the concert separates me from my body. Eyes closed, I float above myself, supported on a cloud of song. But these are my secrets, things I do not talk about. You don't want people to think you're crazy, not even your best friends. Even if you are crazy. Especially if you are. When I was six years old I found a dying bat, probably Myotis lucifugus. Or maybe it was Desmodus rotundus, the infamous vampire bat, on vacation from South America. Nobody knows for sure. I saw the bat flopping around on the grass. I didn't know what it was, but being only six and fond of all small creatures, I picked it up. Its wings were velvety soft and it made squeaking, mewling protests. I put it in my pocket and took it home to show to my mother. She let out a shriek. That was ten years ago, but I can still hear her screech echoing in my skull. I dropped the bat -- flop flop flop -- on the kitchen floor and my mother grabbed her broom and WHACK WHACK WHACK. She swept it into the plastic dustpan and carried it outside and dropped it in the trash. Another pet story with a sad ending. That night when my father got home he heard the story of the bat. He did not scream like my mother but instead got very gruff and concerned and made me show him my hands. Scratches, scratches everywhere. Did it bite? He kept asking me did it bite. I was going NO NO NO, but my hands were scratched from picking raspberries at the Fremonts', where I was not supposed to go, and he was holding my hands too hard and he was furious and my mother was whining and I was screaming and shrieking loudest of all, I'm sure. WHERE IS IT? The bat is in the trash, my mother tells him. He drops my scratched hands and runs outside, but the