skygiants: Katara from Avatar: the Last Airbender; text 'just kicked butt' (katara kicks butt)
It turns out that rereading the Blossom Culp books was an amazing decision. I've done three now - The Ghost Belonged To Me, Ghosts I Have Been and Blossom Culp and the Sleep of Death - and I can't find The Dreadful Future of Blossom Culp anywhere, but I have vague memories of that one being the least exciting anyway.

The books take place in a small Missouri town in 1913; the two protagonists are Blossom Culp - champion speller, master troll, teen psychic and total weirdo, lives on the wrong side of the tracks with her neglectful fortune-telling mother - and Alexander Armsworth, golden boy, who comes from big money for Bluff City, Missouri because his dad owns a construction business, and who sees ghosts even more strongly than Blossom does, much to his eternal chagrin.

The first book is The Ghost Belonged to Me, which Alexander's book. When Alexander is telling the story, he is a dubious but reasonably plucky hero and Blossom is the weird semi-love-interest who pops up to alternately encourage him and troll him. That one also has the fewest ladies and the most ablism, of the "character lost his hand and turned into a murderous psychopath!" variety. But Richard Peck and everybody else figured out rapidly that Blossom was the most interesting character, and in Ghosts I Have Been, Blossom becomes the protagonist and gets second sight of her own and Alexander gets hilariously downgraded to reluctant love interest. His second sight is more powerful than Blossom's, but given that his standard reaction to seeing ghosts in Blossom-narrated books is to shriek "A HAUNT! I AM CURSED! WHY DID YOU GET ME INTO THIS, BLOSSOM CULP!" he is only of occasional use.

(Blossom keeps him around because he's pretty and because his freakouts are hilarious.)

Ghosts I Have Been also features some amazing older ladies, including the fabulous Miss Dabney, who invites Blossom and Alexander over for tea:

BLOSSOM: So I can't help but notice there are some loud, agonizing noises coming from your kitchen.
MISS DABNEY: Yes, I suspect that's the ghost of our old maidservant who committed suicide.
BLOSSOM: So it is! Want me to try and exorcize her?
MISS DABNEY: Oh, no! I certainly don't want her gone, that would be a shame. I just would appreciate it if she would stop hanging herself loudly in the kitchen every night and channel all that energy into, say, making delicious baked goods?

And then of course there's Blossom's teacher, Miss Spaulding, who -- when a pack of reporters invades her classroom -- rapidly has them all cowering behind desks listening to the lesson, and dismisses them with "GENTLEMEN, YOU HAVE A GOOD DEAL OF HOMEWORK TO DO." I kind of want to be Miss Spaulding when I grow up.

There's also some plot around the sinking of the Titanic, and a phony spiritualist that Blossom exposes, and a visit to the queen, but mostly the book is about watching Blossom troll everyone and generally be amazing.

Blossom Culp and the Sleep of Death is not quite as good, and it does have some sort of awkward stuff with then-Egypt, but it also has a suffragette history teacher with a monocle, so I am not really complaining.
skygiants: Princess Tutu, facing darkness with a green light in the distance (ooooh)
This Yuletide I read a pretty excellent, novella-length Blossom Culp fic that, among other things, managed to send the kid who sees ghosts to WWI, and make it both plausible and not awesomely depressing. It's called As Our Roads Converge and if you have some time to kill, you should read it! I barely remembered the Blossom Culp books and I enjoyed it a lot.

Anyway, because I did in fact barely remember the Blossom Culp books, I was sort of thinking about rereading, and then [personal profile] genarti and I happened across one of the books on sale for a quarter at a grocery-store book sale and I decided that a reread was clearly in my destiny.

. . . but I have to wait for the first one to come in at the library, so while I was waiting instead I read the one other Richard Peck book I did own, Voices After Midnight.

Voices After Midnight is a weird, matter-of-fact little ghost story. It starts with our fourteen-year-old protagonist's family -- including boy-crazy big sister Heidi and weird and eerily self-possessed little brother Luke -- moving to New York for a two-week vacation.

(Our protagonist's name is Chad, but fortunately, since it was a first-person story, I was able to forget that mostly.)

Anyway, the book would be worth reading for me just from the suburban California family's hilarious culture shock at their visit to eighties New York; it's all "OMG THERE ARE NO SUPERMARKETS, JUST BODEGAS, HOW WEIRD" and "WE HAVE NEVER TAKEN A WALK AS A FAMILY ON SIDEWALKS BEFORE." However, the kids are also running into a bigger problem, which is that New York is full of history and all of them keep accidentally time-slipping into it.


CHAD: Maybe this is just a dietary thing! Maybe it's a chemical imbalance. MAYBE IT'S PUBERTY.
LUKE: Obviously we have some business in the past we need to fix.
CHAD: How do you know this! You're EIGHT!
LUKE: Have I not mentioned this has been happening to me all my life? I mean, did the fact that I have always been a weird and and eerily self-possessed child not give you any signs? Seriously, I'm curious.
HEIDI: So, uh . . . who's the hot Gilded Age guy hanging out in my bedroom?

Heidi is kind of a caricature of an eighties teenaged girl, but she does get her moments of awesome. The ghost story, meanwhile, is actually pretty creepy, and turns out to be the reason I always get vague premonitions of doom every time I get into the hand-cranked old elevator at Housing Works.

I also spent the whole book trying to think of other examples of eerie and otherworldly younger brothers in YA fiction. (I find it such a weird trope because it is so not my experience of having a little brother!) I mean, Charles Wallace is a gimme, and I know there are more, but I'm drawing a blank. Help me out? (Moril from the Dalemark Quartet might also count, if the story weren't told from inside his own head.)

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