“There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt.” -Erma Bombeck
To open Rob Harrell’s latest middle-grade novel, Popcorn, is to invite a stomachache. If you do not get one empathizing with its protagonist, you will surely have one from laughing.
To be sure, the plot, which involves our protagonist doing his best to keep his brand-new shirt clean for the school picture, is not the driving force of this story. It is the mental and emotional trial—though often manifested in physical form—to keep his anxiety and OCD in check that propels Andrew Yeager’s fraught journey through this epically disastrous school day. This is not to say that the book is void of action. Confrontations abound, in fact—with stuck-up bullies, rogue basketballs, ketchup rockets, juice-sneezes—but these are ultimately seconds ticking off the timer, building to the inevitable explosion of a full-fledged panic attack that Andrew desperately wants to avoid.
Our hero compares his anxiety to a popcorn kernel (hence the title) slowly sizzling in the grease, building up internal heat and pressure until it can no longer be contained. It’s just one of dozens of metaphors Andrew gives us—many of them transmitted to the reader via comic strip style illustrations drawn by the protagonist himself. It is in these illustrations that Harrell’s wit is at its sharpest, finding humor in the horror of Andrew’s endless predicaments through often absurd visual representations of what anxiety feels like (like a swarm of caffeinated eels in your head, for instance). The jittery, bug-eyed images grow even more distressed as the book both visually and narratively piles on the pressure.
The comics are integral to our understanding of the hero’s ongoing battle, but the comedy is even more essential. The author understands that his readers need that buffer, the welcome release that comes from laughing in the face of anxiety and stress. Harrel deftly balances irony, sarcasm, and good old-fashioned gross-out humor, offering up an equal number of guffaws for every wrench of the gut, allowing us to snort at the absurdity of Andrew’s horrible day without diminishing the significance of his emotional journey.
There are no real villains here; nothing is that clear cut. Even Andrew is not without his faults, often selfish and sometimes quick to anger—Harrel paints him not as a superhero triumphing over the forces of anxiety, but for what he is: a kid who understands this is a daily struggle, requiring introspection, forgiveness, self-care, and communal support, all leading to an ending which is perfect for how imperfect it is.
Author Allen Klein once wrote that “humor does not diminish the pain – it makes the space around it get bigger.” Readers–especially young readers who are struggling with anxiety in ever-increasing numbers–need that space. They need stories like this to help foster empathy and understanding. They need room to breathe.
Especially after laughing so much.
