A bumblebee isn’t supposed to fly. The law of aerodynamics or something. Its body is too heavy and it’s the wrong shape. That makes it impossible that it should fly. The bumblebee doesn’t know about the law of aerodynamics, so it goes ahead and flies anyway.

— The Bumblebee Flies Anyway, p. 193

The Bumblebee Flies Anyway by Robert Cormier.
New York: Bantam Dell Books for Young Readers, 1983.
$4.99 — 241 pp.

In the target audiences for popular fiction there is no category more fraught with minefields that the one that is designated “for young readers.” Writers for this genre must try to please two audiences: the young readers themselves, and the critics and educators that review (and approve or disapprove of) the books. The contrasting expectations of these two groups create numerous contradictions about what is appropriate literature for high school students.

Educators do not hesitate to enumerate the characteristics which they look for in “acceptable” juvenile fiction: stories that are replete with positive role models (adults); young protagonists that embody ethical/moral principles; plots which exhibit an avoidance of “adult themes” such as sexuality and obscene language, and finally, a resolution that promotes positive aspects of life — in other words, “a happy ending.”

However, intelligent teens are quick to perceive attempts to manipulate them. If their books come bearing labels and endorsements, and if the author talks down to them, moralizes and fails to create characters and events that a teenager recognize as accurate depictions of his world, they are likely to drop the book into the nearest trash can like a broccoli and asparagus sandwich.

Very few authors manage to please both camps. However, Robert Cormier, who died in November of 2000, came closer than most. Young readers adored him, and books such as I Am the Cheese and The Chocolate Wars became best sellers (with movie adaptations with “amended” endings). Cormier’s style, which he called “journalistic realism,” is a rich mixture of descriptive details, memorable metaphors and delightful dialogue (spicy and profane), that pleased his readers. A common teenage response to a Cormier book is “That is the way we talk to each other.” Also, there aren’t any “positive adult role models” in sight. The protagonists are seriously flawed teenagers who may struggle against negative influences, and .... they fail. Consequently, the endings are anything but happy. It is not surprising, then, that Cormier’s books are banned by many school systems.

Cormier spent most of his career defending his most popular novel, The Chocolate Wars, which some parents and educators condemned because of “inappropriate swear words and offensive content.” By the time Cormier died, his book was number 5 on the list of the 50 most commonly banned books for libraries and schools.

Last week, on the recommendation of a librarian, I decided to read The Bumblebee Flies Anyway because I had never read it. The book is “vintage Cormier” and clearly demonstrates why this author was both celebrated and condemned. Let me give you a brief summary of the action.

The 14-year-old protagonist, Barney Snow, finds himself in a treatment center surrounded by terminally ill teenagers. All of the residents acknowledge their condition and have agreed to submit to experimental treatment, research designed to develop methods to defeat or alleviate the suffering of others. Although Barney is told to avoid “attachments,” he quickly becomes acquainted with the other patients. There is Billy the Kidney (confined to a wheelchair); Allie Roon, who is spastic, and Mazzo, a celebrated high school athlete who is slowly wasting away surrounded by an elaborate life-support system.

Despite the setting, The Bumblebee Flies Anyway avoids being depressing by focusing on the humanity of the characters. Barney, who is imaginative and intelligent, creates nicknames for everyone. The somewhat sinister doctor is The Handyman and the drugs administered are called “the Merchandise.” The other patients come to value Barney because he is allowed to move about freely and appears to be in good health. He befriends Mazzo (which is not easy) and learns that Mazzo has a twin sister. Because Mazzo refuses to see his family, Cassie, the twin sister, asks Barney to give her daily reports on her brother’s condition. Barney agrees because he has fallen in love with her.

However, due to his constant visits to Mazzo’s room, he begins to listen to Mazzo’s yearning to “go out in a blaze of glory.” The imaginative Barney develops a way for him to do that.

When Barney discovers a fake MG (it is made of balsa wood and plastic) in a junkyard across the street from the medical institution, he resolves to steal it. Recruiting the other patients, he devises an elaborate scheme: He will dismantle the MG, haul the pieces to the attic of the institution and reassemble them — all for a singular purpose: so that Mazzo (who loves sports cars) can have his wish. The MG is nicknamed “The Bumblebee.”

The Bumblebee Flies Anyway utilizes one of Cormier’s most effective plot devices — revelation. The reader can rest assured that “things are not what they seem.” For instance, there are the logical questions that trouble Barney. Where are his parents? Why can’t re recall his mother’s face? Why is he here? Gradually, Barney Snow learns a series of devastating truths. First, there is the reason for his nightmare ... which sometimes occurs in daylight.

As Barney goes from room to room each day, cajoling the other patients and recruiting them to take part in his “secret project,” he experiences occasional dizziness and hallucinations, episodes in which he imagines that he is driving down a steep hill in a speeding car with no brakes and a woman has just stepped off the curb into his path. Barney discovers that this dream has been “planted” by The Handyman as a kind of shield against a truth that Barney cannot face. Barney’s memory has been “edited.”

This is a mesmerizing little tale of deception. As in other Cormier novels, Barney finds himself manipulated by “an institution” — in this case a medical treatment center. In other novels, the institution may be a school system (The Chocolate Wars) or government agencies (I Am the Cheese). Cormier also frequently deals with other forms of manipulation that are very familiar to teenagers — peer pressure, the use and abuse of power and the temptations to comply despite an intuitive sense that obedience is sometimes wrong. But, there is a kind of paradox in the fact that Cormier’s protagonists invariably fail. Perhaps the most significant action is defiance — the decision to resist, even when revolt is fruitless.

Let me conclude by quoting Cormier’s response to his critics: “As Long as what I write is true and believable, why should I have to create a happy ending? My books are an antidote to the TV view of life ... phony realism. Life just isn’t like that.” The good guys don’t always win; in fact, Cormier says they rarely do.

Does he mean that happy endings are impossible? No, I don’t think so, but he is more concerned that much of the literature of “young adults” consistently denies that things often end badly. His primary intention is to faithfully record “the inevitability of events.” When he does it well, his readers experience “the shock of recognition.” They perceive a world in a book that resembles the “real world.”

(Gary Carden is a writer, storyteller and lecturer whose book, Mason Jars in the Flood, was recently named Book of the Year by the Appalachian Writers Association. He can be reached at gcarden498@aol.com.)