(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."