Whitley Johnson is definitely not me, nor have I ever been her. I used to feel out of place at most High School parties I attended, when all my friends were drunk and sprouting nonsensial things, while I mentally steeled myself to dodge puke fountains left and right. And although I more or less hated her most of our teenage years, I worried myself to pieces when my sister partied in one of the bars in the neighboring village and stayed over at places of friends of whom I hadn't heard before.
But Whitley's story was so excellently narrated that all the right buttons activated themselves in me. The murky depths of small town poison, a persistently growing sisterly bond, a wonderful, edgy romance featuring a nice but definitely unboring hottie and superficial, far from perfect parents handing their teenaged offspring unthinkingly a private little hell to deal with and believing everything is peachy after muttering a half-hearted "Munchkin, I'm so sorry."
Heavens, I guess, I haven't sobbed so much about a book since reading 'The Murder Of Bindy Mackenzie', and I am afraid to inspect my bloated, tear-streaked face in the mirror. Yet, I have to, because the shower is getting impatient to meet me and lunch isn't a bad idea either. I had so much plans for my day off, but a quick peek at the first chapter did me in, *doublesigh*.
