(c) 1991 by Martha Brooks.

Marketed as an ordinary teen romance novel, and in many ways it's simply that. I stumbled on it when I was 13, i.e. the beginning of my officially designated teenage years. I reread it a few days ago and remembered what I was thinking then: I wanted to fall in love like that, and, having just had my heart broken for the first time, I was optimistic that my adolescence would bring with it many more crushes and crushing defeats, I would fall in and out of love and come out wiser, etc. Too much television, I think, was my problem.

Now I'm 19, i.e., the end of my officially designated teenage years. Although I suppose all those things have occurred to some extent, for the most part I'm still in waiting (perhaps am always looking forward to the next stage of life). I haven't kissed anyone in a lot of years. The more I think about this, the more I pity myself, so shut up.

It's a well-written book, even if it makes me sad:

"He probably thinks this new bathing suit is the same one I usually wear. Maybe he doesn't know that one is Roberta's - or maybe he thinks we own identical suits. Which of course we do now, more or less. But I love this suit anyway, even if he won't look at me in it. I love the way it feels so slippery and silky on my body."

"You can never hold anyone as long as you want. It's a rule that you won't find written anywhere, but it's one all the same."

"Only a few days in that last year was Mom able to rally around and try to be like her old self. My birthday was one of them. I had to choose the day she died not to show her how I looked in that hot, thick, very expensive black sweater with the white and red skiers endlessly crisscrossing a path around the cuffs and waistband and neckline."

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