There are only two nice things I can say about this book:
1. It’s age-appropriate. It is YA that actually remembers what the Y stands for.
2. It is the only book I’ve ever read that is narrated by a grizzly bear.
At least I hope having the bear narrate was intentional…otherwise this book is even more incompetently-structured than I first supposed.
I’ll Be There opens one inauspicious day, in a Unitarian church in an affluent American suburb. Emily Bell is the pastor’s daughter, and she is terrified, because her father is also the music director, and he is forcing her to sing in front of the whole congregation despite the fact that she has no pipes and is (by her own admission) nearly tone-deaf. He is also making her sing “I’ll Be There” by the Jackson Five, as opposed to, y’know , church music.
Meanwhile, Sam Border the homeless kid has snuck away from his deranged, abusive father and ambiguously autistic little brother, as he often does on Sundays, to stop in a church, any church, and listen to the pretty music.
Luckily, Sam doesn’t look like a homeless kid. In fact, with his tall, toned body, lush dark brown hair, and big soulful eyes, he looks like a Hollister poster-boy.
Emily is quaking in her boots at the lectern when she spots Sam in the back of the room, staring at her. She doesn’t know why he would be staring—maybe Sloan should have picked a different five-member boy band to base this thing on and called it You Don’t Know You’re Beautiful *gags*—but she decides to pretend that she’s serenading him privately, because for some reason that prospect makes her less nervous than that of singing to the whole congregation. As opposed to more nervous, like most of us would be.
After the disastrous musical number and the service concludes, the two bump into each other, and nervous Emily disgorges her breakfast all over the stoic Sam, who is so enchanted with her beauty and fragility that he isn’t disgusted in the slightest.
Unfortunately, Sam’s home(less) life is an absolute mess. His father is a schizophrenic (?) who has repeatedly upended his sons’ lives due to the demanding voices in his head. If memory serves, the dad’s name is Clarence. If so, he deserves it. (If you caught that reference, Santa will give you a sweet sword or bow this year). Anyway, the dad is constantly abusing his sons: perfect Sam, the guitar savant, and delicate little Riddle, who seems like a candidate for Asperger’s Syndrome, if not a more severe form of high-functioning autism, and spends his days drawing the innards of machines on the pages of discarded phone books. The three live in their truck, which the dad parks on the outskirts of a given town until the voices tell him to leave.
I can understand Sam needing to escape from this environment whenever possible, but it bothers me that he would EVER leave Riddle alone with the monster that spawned them. I also don’t understand why the voices in Clarence’s head have not yet told him to abandon his sons, since they’ve told him to do every other wrong thing you can imagine.
Understandably, Sam doesn’t want to reveal this horrifying reality to Emily, and after initially being way too open with his feelings he disappears on her for a while, hoping not to lead her into his chaotic world, hoping not to draw his father’s jealous attention to her. It’s the same old hot-boy-disappearing-act from every other YA book these days, but at least here there is a good reason.
But Emily can’t forget Sam, and having no clue where he lives or anything else about him is just hypervigilant, watching for him. Her best friend worries that Emily is sad and withdrawn of late, and drags her along on double dates with her boyfriend’s friend Bobby.
Bobby is just the worst. If you combined Gaston from Beauty and the Beast with Frank Burns from M*A*S*H, the result...still wouldn’t be as annoying as Bobby. I know we’re supposed to hate Bobby, but I have a hard time believing we’re meant to hate him quite this much. Ugh.
Alas for Emily, Bobby has decided in his lizard brain that she is his property, and when Sam just happens to walk by the window of the restaurant where this joyless double date occurs, and Emily excuses herself with all the subtlety of a grand piano falling from the sky—or Kylo Ren running after Rey, but I repeat myself—Bobby’s lizard brain puts two and two together. And Bobby’s lizard brain tells him to eliminate the competition at any cost.
Then Sam and Riddle get haircuts, which the book treats as a major event. I suppose it’s a rare treat for them, given the miserable lifestyle forced on them by their father, but Sloan acts like this is a life-altering, unrepeatably beautiful experience. Sure.
Emily finally prevails on Sam to visit her house and meet her parents, little brother, and dog—and of course, sweet little Riddle is welcome too. The whole Bell family falls in love at first sight with the waifish Border brothers.
Bobby’s lizard brain, after several improbably escapades, discovers that Sam is really a homeless kid with a crazy dad, and tries in various nonsensical ways to use this as leverage against his rival. This accomplishes nothing until Clarence snaps again and forces his sons to move with him. Emily is shattered when Sam leaves without saying goodbye or explaining himself—shattered so badly it makes you wonder how she functioned before she met him—shattered so badly that Bobby’s lizard brain’s creepy advances seem comforting. She never responds to his attempts to kiss or molest her, but she never pushes him away either. Ugh.
Meanwhile, far away in the wilderness by now, Sam finally fights back against his father. Clarence pushes both boys out of the truck and attempts to shoot them—why is this the first time that he’s tried to kill them?—but Sam gets the gun, shoots him, and is able to escape with Riddle.
From here the boys spend several chapters trying to survive in the deep woods, encountering dangers that ought to be thrilling—including river rapids and our narrator, the grizzly bear.
The narrator reveals herself on page 240 and never breaks the fourth wall again. Or to be more strictly accurate, the grizzly bear is probably not meant to be the narrator of the whole book—although that would be hilarious—but out of the 500+ POV characters in this thing, for some reason the bear is the only one allowed to tell her story in first person. It’s just as random and jarring as it sounds, and I howled with laughter when I realized just who/what was talking in that paragraph.
The two brothers eventually lose each other. Riddle is miraculously discovered by some paleontologists who happen to be digging in the area, while Sam winds up closer to a city and is able to catch a bus to Vegas, and then to Emily’s town.
Clarence somehow survives all this, is found by a hiker, and goes to jail. Um, yay?
Meanwhile, Emily has remained in a catatonic state, wasting away for an absent lover like a Victorian girl with consumption and vapors, preparing to go to prom with Bobby like it’s her best friend’s funeral.
Bobby’s lizard brain tells him to get a spray tan for the occasion and winds up breaking his arm. Don’t ask me how it happened, I was too busy laughing to connect point A to point B. I’m not sure that Sloan connected point A to point B either. Bobby’s lizard brain also tells him to book a hotel room for himself and Emily, because Lady-of-Shallot levels of long-suffering silence somehow equal sexual consent to him. Ugh.
So, the brothers are reunited, Emily finally dumps Bobby, Bobby’s lizard brain completes its goal of ruining his life forever, the Bells adopt the Border boys, because a girl dating her adopted brother isn’t creepy at all, and the book ends with Sam headed off to college despite the fact that he never finished second grade.
Um.
This would be a very silly story in any format. But all the obvious flaws in the plot, characters and narrative structure are compounded by the relentlessly bland prose and almost complete lack of dialogue. Everything is told rather than shown. We can go ten pages in which everything is summarized for us, and we don’t see an interaction or hear a conversation for ourselves. This adds an unnecessary sense of distance to far-fetched characters who are hard enough to identify with as it is.
At least there’s no drug content or glorified suicide, the violence isn’t graphic, and the sexual content never ekes beyond innuendo. I would feel perfectly comfortable with a twelve-year-old kid reading this. I would just want to hand them a better book.