What do you think it is? Judging from the general media, it seems to be that your kid will be raped and/or murdered. Bebe Moore Campbell's 72 Hour Hold explores an eventuality that, in same ways, could be just as hard for a parent: a serious mental illness.
Trina was a bright, beautiful teenaged girl. She had been accepted to Brown, she had lots of friends, she seemed to be doing well. Until her mother noticed her talking too much, too fast. Staying up for 36 hours at a time. Hitting the streets in the morning and returning loaded with shopping bags late at night. Then she'd crash. Trina was bipolar.
And the system was failing her, and her mother Keri. Trina's behavior would often be terrifying, but when her mother called to have her admitted to the mental health unit, she'd be able to pull herself together long enough to be judged not to meet the criteria for a 72-hour hold. Meanwhile, Keri's life changed. Her carefree days of spa trips with her girlfriends were over. She had a new crew now, people that she met at the mental illness family support groups she attended. Mostly they talked on the phone, rather than socialized in person, because they were all caring for children of their own.
Keri hits a breaking point when her daughter, a recently legal adult, sneaks out after her latest 72-hour hold before she can bring her home. One of Keri's friends from group told her about an alternative to t he traditional treatment: illegal, shadowy and costly, but she and her friend decide to pursue it together.
This is where the book started to come undone a bit, for me. The chapters on Keri's battle with Trina's illness were gripping, suspenseful, engaging and heartbreaking. And they had enough ancillary stuff thrown in so you didn't walk away from the book feeling like you'd just gone four rounds with Mike Tyson. Keri also deals with her ex-husband, Trina's father, a neocon pundit who's been married four other times since their divorce and is making noises about how maybe he had it right the first time. She deals with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, an actor whose dreams, talent and ambition are much larger than his luck. She runs her own business, a high-end designer consignment shop, with her two assistants, one of whom is a former prostitute and drug addict.
Keri's an interesting person, dealing with something unimaginable. The passages where she's trying to provoke Trina into assaulting her so she could get her placed on 72-hour-hold are heartbreaking. And the "alternative" is intriguing, but it should have been fleshed out a little more. The leader of the alternative treatment comes off as a foolish little boy, who revels in secrecy and the power it gives him. The reasons why people who've responded to nothing else respond to whatever it is his group does remain shrouded in mystery. Ultimately, Keri turns back to the system for help and hope.
But then again, I guess you can't really fault a novel for coming to the same conclusion about mental health treatment that anyone who's worked around it does: this isn't the answer, but damned if I know what is.
Incidentally, this is the book I got from the African-American section. It was good, and I'm going to do my best from now on not to read that label as a "WHITE GIRLS KEEP OUT" sign.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Apartheid at the Library
During my last library visit, it was unseasonably warm. Hardly anyone was there, and I was really able to take my time, to poke around, and to do it with no distractions. I'd noticed the "African-American Fiction" section before, but never really investigated it. For some reason, that day, I decided to. I pulled books by unfamiliar authors off the shelves and looked at them. I'd assumed, for some reason, that what was over there was primarily chick lit with black women, and there was a fair amount of that, but plenty of other, more intriguing fare mixed in.
It got me wondering, what is "African-American Fiction" anyway? How do they decide what gets shelved there, and what gets shelved in the general fiction section? Is it the race of the author? The race of the subjects? The fact that race is treated at all? How come Zadie Smith and Zora Neale Hurston aren't over there, then? My best friend from college is black, and I am white. If she wrote a novel about our friendship, where would they put it? Where would they put it if I wrote it?
Come to think of it, why is there an "African-American Fiction" section, anyway? Isn't it a pretty racist assumption that white people wouldn't want to read about black people, and that black people won't read anything unless it's about them? I think to some extent, a lot of people like to read about themselves. I know I do. I enjoyed books about college students when I was in college, books about people making their way in the world as a recent grad, and now that I'm over 30, I like to read about people making the transition to being 'real adults,' though I'm still not into Babylit yet. But I can appreciate and take an interest in the experiences of others. Why would the necessarily be all that different?
Sure, there are cultural differences between blacks and whites. Sadly, there are still many differences in status and socioeconomic class, too, too many differences. That doesn't mean that we still can't get something out of each other's experiences, though. Look how much fantasy and sci-fi novels often give their readers. I wrote, a while back, about how I found the explanation of death contained in the His Dark Materials trilogy to be enormously comforting, based in the only after-death experience we have hard evidence for. You never know what you might learn from, be enriched by, or take comfort in. That's why I feel it's wrong to take a group of books and put up a big "KEEP OUT" sign on them.
I'm interested, though -- does anyone have a different perspective? Do you feel that the classification of fiction into racial or ethnic groups is OK? I'd very much like to hear it, if so. Also, if anyone has theories as to why they started doing this in the first place, I'm interested.
It got me wondering, what is "African-American Fiction" anyway? How do they decide what gets shelved there, and what gets shelved in the general fiction section? Is it the race of the author? The race of the subjects? The fact that race is treated at all? How come Zadie Smith and Zora Neale Hurston aren't over there, then? My best friend from college is black, and I am white. If she wrote a novel about our friendship, where would they put it? Where would they put it if I wrote it?
Come to think of it, why is there an "African-American Fiction" section, anyway? Isn't it a pretty racist assumption that white people wouldn't want to read about black people, and that black people won't read anything unless it's about them? I think to some extent, a lot of people like to read about themselves. I know I do. I enjoyed books about college students when I was in college, books about people making their way in the world as a recent grad, and now that I'm over 30, I like to read about people making the transition to being 'real adults,' though I'm still not into Babylit yet. But I can appreciate and take an interest in the experiences of others. Why would the necessarily be all that different?
Sure, there are cultural differences between blacks and whites. Sadly, there are still many differences in status and socioeconomic class, too, too many differences. That doesn't mean that we still can't get something out of each other's experiences, though. Look how much fantasy and sci-fi novels often give their readers. I wrote, a while back, about how I found the explanation of death contained in the His Dark Materials trilogy to be enormously comforting, based in the only after-death experience we have hard evidence for. You never know what you might learn from, be enriched by, or take comfort in. That's why I feel it's wrong to take a group of books and put up a big "KEEP OUT" sign on them.
I'm interested, though -- does anyone have a different perspective? Do you feel that the classification of fiction into racial or ethnic groups is OK? I'd very much like to hear it, if so. Also, if anyone has theories as to why they started doing this in the first place, I'm interested.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Russo's Magic, and a book out of season
Richard Russo has been a favorite of mine since graduate school. Faced with the horrifying prospect of taking at trip without a book, I walked into the town's only, tiny bookstore and chose a Richard Russo book solely because his books seemed to be set in the same area I was living in at the time. Since then, I've read all of his books, but I've always found him to be hit and miss.
I would, sadly, put That Old Cape Magic in the "miss" category. I was rather surprised to see this one out so soon after his lengthy, ambitious Bridge of Sighs. That, right there, made me raise an eyebrow. But since it's Richard Russo, and since the library actually had this one, I read it.
The protagonist of the book, like many of Russo's protagonists, is a middle-aged man. Griffin grew up an only child of two academics who had a twisted and miserable outlook on life. His parents' lifelong goal and dream was to live and work in New England. Instead, they were stuck in "the fucking Midwest" (as they both consistently referred to it), unable to find a school that would take them as a package deal. They could only make their glorious escape to a rental every summer. Usually, that was virtually the only happy time of their year. Their marriage slowly became a prison and eventually broke up for good after mutliple infidelities on both sides.
Griffin strove to become their opposite. Happy in the present, committed to his wife and daughter. He comes to the Cape again in the first half of the novel to scatter his father's ashes and attend the wedding of his daughter's friend. As the book jacket promises, he is back in the second half, with more ashes to scatter, and has brought a date to his own daughter's Cape wedding. So has his wife.
I don't know what it is lately with books that take place in the past, but this is another one. The real story is not what became of Griffin's ostensibly happy marriage (though even in the first part, there are major cracks). The real story is how Griffin will resolve his relationship with his complicated parents, and cope with their deaths.
But it all fell a bit flat to me. Even though most of Russo's characters are in the throes of a personal crisis, he keeps them from being too angsty by a strong cast of supporting characters. Lucky Hal and Sully didn't just sit around and whine. They went out drinking, they played raquetball, they threatened ducks, stole snowblowers, went to work. They had LIVES. They had friends, too, and antagonists. Griffin's angst exists in a virtual vaccuum. Russo gave him a best friend, who stays mostly in the background. His daughter is made of cardboard. Griffin isn't working, since he too has become an academic and this is a summer story. His main activity is sitting around and whining.
It gets old. Fortunately, this is a short one. And Russo at his worst is better than a lot of people at their best.
The next book I tried was another David Guterson. I've been meaning to since Snow Falling on Cedars. East of the Mountain was just as beautifully written. But I couldn't do it. The book is about the last journey of an old man with terminal cancer. He is going to shoot himself and make it look like a hunting accident. It's gorgeous, sad...and all wrong. Around here, it's been warm and sunny, the flowering trees are in bloom, my folks are coming home soon, everything is going well. I tried. I will remember this one and come back to it, but for now it's definitely out of sync with my mood. I'm going to try that Sherman Alexie one instead.
I would, sadly, put That Old Cape Magic in the "miss" category. I was rather surprised to see this one out so soon after his lengthy, ambitious Bridge of Sighs. That, right there, made me raise an eyebrow. But since it's Richard Russo, and since the library actually had this one, I read it.
The protagonist of the book, like many of Russo's protagonists, is a middle-aged man. Griffin grew up an only child of two academics who had a twisted and miserable outlook on life. His parents' lifelong goal and dream was to live and work in New England. Instead, they were stuck in "the fucking Midwest" (as they both consistently referred to it), unable to find a school that would take them as a package deal. They could only make their glorious escape to a rental every summer. Usually, that was virtually the only happy time of their year. Their marriage slowly became a prison and eventually broke up for good after mutliple infidelities on both sides.
Griffin strove to become their opposite. Happy in the present, committed to his wife and daughter. He comes to the Cape again in the first half of the novel to scatter his father's ashes and attend the wedding of his daughter's friend. As the book jacket promises, he is back in the second half, with more ashes to scatter, and has brought a date to his own daughter's Cape wedding. So has his wife.
I don't know what it is lately with books that take place in the past, but this is another one. The real story is not what became of Griffin's ostensibly happy marriage (though even in the first part, there are major cracks). The real story is how Griffin will resolve his relationship with his complicated parents, and cope with their deaths.
But it all fell a bit flat to me. Even though most of Russo's characters are in the throes of a personal crisis, he keeps them from being too angsty by a strong cast of supporting characters. Lucky Hal and Sully didn't just sit around and whine. They went out drinking, they played raquetball, they threatened ducks, stole snowblowers, went to work. They had LIVES. They had friends, too, and antagonists. Griffin's angst exists in a virtual vaccuum. Russo gave him a best friend, who stays mostly in the background. His daughter is made of cardboard. Griffin isn't working, since he too has become an academic and this is a summer story. His main activity is sitting around and whining.
It gets old. Fortunately, this is a short one. And Russo at his worst is better than a lot of people at their best.
The next book I tried was another David Guterson. I've been meaning to since Snow Falling on Cedars. East of the Mountain was just as beautifully written. But I couldn't do it. The book is about the last journey of an old man with terminal cancer. He is going to shoot himself and make it look like a hunting accident. It's gorgeous, sad...and all wrong. Around here, it's been warm and sunny, the flowering trees are in bloom, my folks are coming home soon, everything is going well. I tried. I will remember this one and come back to it, but for now it's definitely out of sync with my mood. I'm going to try that Sherman Alexie one instead.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Life After People
I had excellent luck at the library last weekend. I came home with about eight books, and two of the newer ones I wanted were in. I decided to take the potential fine hit and get them, because who knows when they'll be in again?
The one I wanted to read the most was Year of the Flood, by Margaret Atwood. I'm a big fan of Oryx and Crake, and I've enjoyed several of her other books as well. Year of the Flood takes us back to our own dystopian future from Oryx and Crake, and several of the minor characters that paraded around the edges are back, for a different perspective on the events that led to humanity's being wiped out.
Or nearly wiped out. In O&C, Jimmy believed himself to be the sole human survivor of his buddy Crake's super-plague, just him and the Crakers until the end of his life. In Year of the Flood, we learn that more have survived than we may have thought. It makes sense, in retrospect. The society depicted in these books is a police state, all about power and control. People's movements were restricted, they couldn't go places without good reason, it makes logical sense that there'd be a fair amount of people who were isolated from their fellow man.
Toby, for instance, who barricaded herself inside the high-class AnooYoo Spa, even though her co-workers all decided to go be with their families. Or Ren, a stripper/hooker (and Jimmy's onetime girlfriend) who worked at a club called Scales & Tails, where the women all wore these super-realistic animal costumes that were sort of alive and bonded directly to their skin. One night just before the plague, a customer tore Ren's costume, and she had to be placed in quarantine lockdown.
But as with O&C, most of the real action is in the past. Life in a depopulated world is interesting, but kind of begs the question, 'What the hell happeend?'
We get a different perspective on the events leading up to the super-plague here. Toby and Ren, who are the book's main characters, were also God's Gardeners, a religous, environmentally based organization. They were never isolated safely in a luxurious corporate Compound, but were out in the dangerous, disease-ridden Pleeblands, where unspeakable things happen all the time.
If you liked the gore from the first novel, this one delivers plenty of that, as well. The SecretBurgers, sold on every street corner, and comprised of animal proteins whose source could be anything at all, I mean ANYTHING. Same with garboil, a fuel made up of garbage, even people. The same sort of amoral feeling pervades the young people of the book. They have vile insults for one another, even the boys in God's Gardeners often encourage girls to suck their carrots, or call them meatholes, etc.
Unlike the first book, though, this one feels a bit less hopeless. It seems to seek to answer some of the questions raised by the first, one fo the big ones being: "You mean, everyone was OK with all of this?" Year of the Flood shows that NOT everyone was OK with environmental degradation and corporate control over all aspects of life. Not everyone thought that it was cool to make pigs with human brain tissue and splice lions and lambs together. Not everyone was willing to just buy more plastic crap as they were told to do. The God's Gardeners lived together in a communal setting, grew their own food, created their own energy in treadmill gyms and using solar technology, and practiced organic medicine. They had a school for their kids. They were strict vegans ('meat-breath' was a major insult).
They begin by just passive resistance. Living their own way, following their own path. The book is the tale of their dark days, their challenges, and how, in a way, they claimed victory over their enemies. If you hated Oryx, you won't like this either. But if you enjoyed it, this book is certainly a worthy follow-up.
The one I wanted to read the most was Year of the Flood, by Margaret Atwood. I'm a big fan of Oryx and Crake, and I've enjoyed several of her other books as well. Year of the Flood takes us back to our own dystopian future from Oryx and Crake, and several of the minor characters that paraded around the edges are back, for a different perspective on the events that led to humanity's being wiped out.
Or nearly wiped out. In O&C, Jimmy believed himself to be the sole human survivor of his buddy Crake's super-plague, just him and the Crakers until the end of his life. In Year of the Flood, we learn that more have survived than we may have thought. It makes sense, in retrospect. The society depicted in these books is a police state, all about power and control. People's movements were restricted, they couldn't go places without good reason, it makes logical sense that there'd be a fair amount of people who were isolated from their fellow man.
Toby, for instance, who barricaded herself inside the high-class AnooYoo Spa, even though her co-workers all decided to go be with their families. Or Ren, a stripper/hooker (and Jimmy's onetime girlfriend) who worked at a club called Scales & Tails, where the women all wore these super-realistic animal costumes that were sort of alive and bonded directly to their skin. One night just before the plague, a customer tore Ren's costume, and she had to be placed in quarantine lockdown.
But as with O&C, most of the real action is in the past. Life in a depopulated world is interesting, but kind of begs the question, 'What the hell happeend?'
We get a different perspective on the events leading up to the super-plague here. Toby and Ren, who are the book's main characters, were also God's Gardeners, a religous, environmentally based organization. They were never isolated safely in a luxurious corporate Compound, but were out in the dangerous, disease-ridden Pleeblands, where unspeakable things happen all the time.
If you liked the gore from the first novel, this one delivers plenty of that, as well. The SecretBurgers, sold on every street corner, and comprised of animal proteins whose source could be anything at all, I mean ANYTHING. Same with garboil, a fuel made up of garbage, even people. The same sort of amoral feeling pervades the young people of the book. They have vile insults for one another, even the boys in God's Gardeners often encourage girls to suck their carrots, or call them meatholes, etc.
Unlike the first book, though, this one feels a bit less hopeless. It seems to seek to answer some of the questions raised by the first, one fo the big ones being: "You mean, everyone was OK with all of this?" Year of the Flood shows that NOT everyone was OK with environmental degradation and corporate control over all aspects of life. Not everyone thought that it was cool to make pigs with human brain tissue and splice lions and lambs together. Not everyone was willing to just buy more plastic crap as they were told to do. The God's Gardeners lived together in a communal setting, grew their own food, created their own energy in treadmill gyms and using solar technology, and practiced organic medicine. They had a school for their kids. They were strict vegans ('meat-breath' was a major insult).
They begin by just passive resistance. Living their own way, following their own path. The book is the tale of their dark days, their challenges, and how, in a way, they claimed victory over their enemies. If you hated Oryx, you won't like this either. But if you enjoyed it, this book is certainly a worthy follow-up.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Sisters, OY!!!!!
When I was growing up, I had this terrific book called "Stories for Free Children." Approximately the size and shape of a magazine, it contained feminist fairy tales, stories dealing with other cultures before "multiculturalism" was trendy, and essays aimed at children explaining why gun violence is bad, why it's wrong to pay women less than men for doing the same job (a practice I still can't believe goes on), and why it's wrong to make fun of kids with disabilities. The book was edited by Letty Cottin Pogrebin, founding editor of Ms. Magazine. I loved that book so much that her name was burned into my subconscious, even though I hadn't thought of her for decades, until I was at the Weensy Library near my job and saw that she'd written a novel.
Three Daughters. Of course, I picked it up and took it home with me. I finished it last week, and I'm glad I pushed through, because it was pretty rewarding and enjoyable.
It was a little tough at first. The "Three Daughters" of the title -- Leah, Rachel and Shoshanna -- are not just Jewish, but the daughters of a rabbi. Judaism plays a major role as a force in the lives of the three women, and at first I felt that the novel had been written mostly for Jewish people, as an inside joke I'd never get. The community I work in has a huge Jewish population, though, and I've picked up a few terms, so I felt encouraged enough when I encountered them in the novel to keep going.
Three Daughters is basically about secrets and lies, and coming to terms with them. Though the three women are sisters, you find out early on that they weren't raised thusly. Leah's father and Rachel's mother had both been divorced at a time when that was frowned on, and found each other. Leah continued to live part-time with her biological mother, until her unstable mother reclaimed her and forbade her father to have anything to do with her. By this point, Shoshanna had been born, and by coincidence, Leah's father got a new job.
Shockingly, he went along with it. Rachel and Shoshanna moved with their parents. Shoshanna was told Rachel was her sister. She knew nothing of Leah. The entire extended family went along with the lie, until the day when Shoshanna was ten and one of her cousins hatefully blurted out the truth.
Obviously, this would have quite an effect on a person, whether you were the one cast out, the one lied to, or the one who kept everyone's secrets. The women are between 50 and 65 when the novel takes place, and through the course of the book, they all work through and past their own issues.
Interesting to me was the strong current of feminism that runs through the book. Leah and Shoshanna become close during the 1960s, when Leah is a newly-minted PhD active in the women's movement, and Shoshanna is an impressionable 14-year-old, fascinated by both her older sibling and the women's rights movement. The movement seemingly passed Rachel by -- housewife, mother of five, active in Hadassah and other respectable causes -- but even Rachel has more than meets the eye.
I do hate to say it, but Three Daughters is the type of book that won't appeal to men at all. It's strictly a women's novel. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but one I noticed. It was neat to be reunited with Pogrebin after all these years, and made me wonder what else she's written.
Three Daughters. Of course, I picked it up and took it home with me. I finished it last week, and I'm glad I pushed through, because it was pretty rewarding and enjoyable.
It was a little tough at first. The "Three Daughters" of the title -- Leah, Rachel and Shoshanna -- are not just Jewish, but the daughters of a rabbi. Judaism plays a major role as a force in the lives of the three women, and at first I felt that the novel had been written mostly for Jewish people, as an inside joke I'd never get. The community I work in has a huge Jewish population, though, and I've picked up a few terms, so I felt encouraged enough when I encountered them in the novel to keep going.
Three Daughters is basically about secrets and lies, and coming to terms with them. Though the three women are sisters, you find out early on that they weren't raised thusly. Leah's father and Rachel's mother had both been divorced at a time when that was frowned on, and found each other. Leah continued to live part-time with her biological mother, until her unstable mother reclaimed her and forbade her father to have anything to do with her. By this point, Shoshanna had been born, and by coincidence, Leah's father got a new job.
Shockingly, he went along with it. Rachel and Shoshanna moved with their parents. Shoshanna was told Rachel was her sister. She knew nothing of Leah. The entire extended family went along with the lie, until the day when Shoshanna was ten and one of her cousins hatefully blurted out the truth.
Obviously, this would have quite an effect on a person, whether you were the one cast out, the one lied to, or the one who kept everyone's secrets. The women are between 50 and 65 when the novel takes place, and through the course of the book, they all work through and past their own issues.
Interesting to me was the strong current of feminism that runs through the book. Leah and Shoshanna become close during the 1960s, when Leah is a newly-minted PhD active in the women's movement, and Shoshanna is an impressionable 14-year-old, fascinated by both her older sibling and the women's rights movement. The movement seemingly passed Rachel by -- housewife, mother of five, active in Hadassah and other respectable causes -- but even Rachel has more than meets the eye.
I do hate to say it, but Three Daughters is the type of book that won't appeal to men at all. It's strictly a women's novel. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but one I noticed. It was neat to be reunited with Pogrebin after all these years, and made me wonder what else she's written.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Wooot! Post 400
I had no idea I was so close, or I would have done this weeks ago. Sadly, I remember that was my goal for the end of 2009. Here it is, April, and I'm just hitting the magic number. Oh, well.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Fresh Jennifer Weiner -- just in time for spring
Last week, I went to the library near work on my lunch hour. My main goal was to settle my fines, but of course I looked around. The place is about the size of my living room, so it's a good half-hour break destination. I only got three books, but one of them was the new Jennifer Weiner, Best Friends Forever. I did that one first, since it was a 7-day book, and got it back only one day (or 12 hours, as I prefer to view it) late.
As I've said before, I like Jennifer Weiner a great deal. Like Lisa Jewell, her books are not always terribly deep. They almost invariably meander towards a happy ending, with the heroine getting her man, solving most of her problems, and shaking off the last droplets from the storm of the book before walking into her new, happy, sunny life.
Best Friends Forever is no exception. The heroine of our novel is 33-year-old Addie Downs. She's such an underdog that it's hard not to root for her. Her life, thus far, has been rather sad and dreary. Picked on through all of high school (because she was fat; it wouldn't be a Weiner novel without a character with weight issues), she lost the closeness of her family early on, with her parents both dying during what should have been her freshman year of college. During high school, she also 'lost' her brother in a sense: he was in a terrible car accident and suffered from brain damage. Although he's able to have some semblance of a life, he's not really a companion for Addie.
But in a way, Addie's most devastating loss, the one she truly never got over, was that of her best friend Valerie. Valerie, in high school, was everything that Addie wasn't. Skinny, pretty, popular, well-liked. During their senior year, they had a terrible falling-out and never spoke again...until the beginning of this novel.
The novel mostly takes place in the past. The present-day plot is rather thin: it involves an accident at the class reunion, the lonely, unhappy cop who investigates it (and you know what his real role in the plot is from literally the moment he appears in the story), and the unlikely, unforeseen reunion of Valerie and Addie after fifteen years and a horrible betrayal. But like Jewell, Weiner's characters are enjoyable, her writing is strong, and she paces her stories well. I enjoyed reading something where the female friendship was the primary focus, too.
If you hate Jennifer Weiner, stay the hell away from this one. It probably won't change your mind, but fans will enjoy it.
As I've said before, I like Jennifer Weiner a great deal. Like Lisa Jewell, her books are not always terribly deep. They almost invariably meander towards a happy ending, with the heroine getting her man, solving most of her problems, and shaking off the last droplets from the storm of the book before walking into her new, happy, sunny life.
Best Friends Forever is no exception. The heroine of our novel is 33-year-old Addie Downs. She's such an underdog that it's hard not to root for her. Her life, thus far, has been rather sad and dreary. Picked on through all of high school (because she was fat; it wouldn't be a Weiner novel without a character with weight issues), she lost the closeness of her family early on, with her parents both dying during what should have been her freshman year of college. During high school, she also 'lost' her brother in a sense: he was in a terrible car accident and suffered from brain damage. Although he's able to have some semblance of a life, he's not really a companion for Addie.
But in a way, Addie's most devastating loss, the one she truly never got over, was that of her best friend Valerie. Valerie, in high school, was everything that Addie wasn't. Skinny, pretty, popular, well-liked. During their senior year, they had a terrible falling-out and never spoke again...until the beginning of this novel.
The novel mostly takes place in the past. The present-day plot is rather thin: it involves an accident at the class reunion, the lonely, unhappy cop who investigates it (and you know what his real role in the plot is from literally the moment he appears in the story), and the unlikely, unforeseen reunion of Valerie and Addie after fifteen years and a horrible betrayal. But like Jewell, Weiner's characters are enjoyable, her writing is strong, and she paces her stories well. I enjoyed reading something where the female friendship was the primary focus, too.
If you hate Jennifer Weiner, stay the hell away from this one. It probably won't change your mind, but fans will enjoy it.
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