Contact

I wanted to like this more than I did. There are some lovely images—the blue lightbox, the smell of cinnamon from the bakery—but the plot often felt like a familiar checklist: hidden negatives, a town that prefers silence, a teen who discovers everything and must make a moral choice. A lot of the confrontations played out predictably; you could see the arc of who would admit what and when. Pacing is an issue. The middle slows with long passages of Rowan learning darkroom minutiae that, while atmospheric, don’t advance character enough. Gideon’s motivations are hinted at but never fully unpacked; his unreadable face is interesting at first but becomes frustrating when the book offers no satisfying explanation for his behavior. Some secondary characters hover without getting real consequences. The ending aims for quiet dignity but left me wanting sharper reckonings. Not a bad read—there’s talent here in the prose and description—but it leans on YA tropes and misses chances to complicate its central mystery.

I loved how Contact treats photographs like living documents. The sequence where Rowan follows a hidden trail of negatives and letters reads like a detective story wrapped in nostalgia. The writing is precise—the citrus cleaner, the damp paper, the tactile details when Gideon demonstrates how to wrap a print—so the stakes feel intimate rather than sensational. Rowan’s relationship to memory, and to Gideon’s rules about ‘healed places,’ is nuanced and believable. That deferred return—someone who was supposed to come back but didn’t—gives the emotional arc a slow burn that culminates in thoughtful public confrontations rather than easy catharsis. The community’s silence is realistically messy: not everyone is villainous, but silence itself becomes a kind of harm. Beautifully written and emotionally honest, this is an excellent YA about family secrets, responsibility, and what it takes to choose truth over safety. 🌿

As someone who taught teens for years, I found Contact to be a beautifully realistic portrayal of the liminal space Rowan occupies—almost-adult, always on the fringe, handling other people’s memories while theirs are missing. The details of darkroom practice (listening for the quiet bubble in the fixer!) are wonderfully specific and give the story a tactile core. What sells the book, though, is its moral center. The negatives force a choice between protection and truth, and the consequences ripple through family dinners, town meetings, and private conversations in Gideon’s studio. The author doesn’t lean on big revelations so much as the slow, painful work of telling and listening. That’s what makes the ending feel earned: not a single dramatic unmasking but a series of small, brave reckonings. Great pick for YA readers who like thoughtful, character-driven stories with a strong sense of place.

There are sentences in Contact that read like careful exposure settings—delicate, exact, and luminous. The Keepsake Studio at night, all scarves of shadow and the thin blue glow of the lightbox, is described with such patience that the place becomes symbolic of memory itself. I kept picturing prints hanging on a wire in the dark, each one a heart paused between developer and light. Rowan’s development—from someone who can name a tintypist two towns over but cannot locate their own childhood—felt true and ache-filled. Gideon’s instruction about twine and wrapping prints in cotton is such a small, domestic detail, but it becomes freighted with the book’s central dilemma: preserve and protect, or expose and heal. The moment the negatives are discovered and the town is forced to reckon with its past is wrought with necessary awkwardness and courage. This is a lyrical, quietly feminist YA novel about how images hold power, how communities bury things, and what it takes to bring them into the light. I savored every page.

Okay, I wasn’t expecting to get so attached to a photo lab. But here we are. Gideon’s face—steady, unreadable—had me suspicious from page one, and the line about ‘invisible = safe’ is a gut punch. The scene where Rowan tests the bath temperature with the back of their wrist? Perfectly specific. The book nails the small, tactile rituals of photography in a way that makes the stakes feel intimate. Also, Lila showing up with a coat still smelling like the bakery is one of those tiny, human moments I love in YA—so grounded. The eventual public reckoning felt earned: the negatives don’t just expose an event, they expose choices, and that moral tension drove the story home. Sharp, warm, and occasionally slyly funny. Definitely not your average coming-of-age romp 😉

Concise, tender, and sharply observed. I loved the sensory moments—the smell of citrus cleaner with damp paper, the curl of a photograph drying on a wire. Rowan’s voice is deft: they’re both skilled with other people’s images and painfully blank about their own past. Gideon’s lessons (how to test the tray, how to knot twine) become metaphors for control and concealment, and the negatives act like puzzle pieces that force the town into a reckoning. Thematically rich without feeling preachy. The town’s silence is convincingly rendered, and the choice between protection and truth lands emotionally. A wonderful YA read.

I appreciated how Contact uses the mechanics of photography as both metaphor and plot engine. The author builds a tidy, convincing world around the Keepsake Studio: the citrus cleaner, the fixer’s bubble, Gideon’s insistence on temperature testing—these details ground the narrative. Rowan’s talent at re-tinting wedding series and their blank personal album is a neat, consistent character note that pays off when the negatives are discovered. Structurally, the novel balances slow-burn investigation with emotional beats. The sequence where Rowan follows a trail of photographs and letters is paced well; each revealed negative escalates stakes logically and ties back to the community’s collective silence. The return that had been deferred is portrayed with restraint—no melodrama, just small, wrenching confrontations at town meetings and family dinner tables. If you like YA that leans on atmosphere and quiet revelation rather than big set pieces, this one delivers. It’s exacting in its prose and smart about how small objects can unspool big truths.

This book got under my skin in the best way. The Keepsake Studio—two doors down from the bakery—felt like a living thing: I could almost taste the cinnamon and feel the thin blue glow of the lightbox on my palms. The writing around the lightbox and the way negatives flatten things into measurable edges was gorgeous; that image of a photograph drying on a wire stuck with me for days. Rowan’s awkwardness and the notion that being invisible equals safety rang true for anyone who’s ever hidden pieces of themselves. Gideon is complicated in a way that made me ache—his steady face, his rules about “healed places,” and that small, frightening kindness when he teaches Rowan to knot the twine. And Lila arriving with her coat smelling like the bakery? A tiny detail that made the town feel lived-in. The discovery of the negatives turning a private memory into a public reckoning was handled so sensitively. The choice between protection and truth felt real and painful. I cried in the last third and then I felt oddly hopeful. A quietly powerful YA novel about memory, family secrets, and what happens when people finally tell the truth. Highly recommended.