Annabel Pitcher's Ketchup Clouds
Pitcher's latest (after My Sister Lives on the Mantelpiece) requires so much suspension of disbelief that I never really got past it. It's about a teenage girl in England involved in a love triangle with a pair of brothers--and look, teenage girls do a LOT of stupid things in the name of hormones, but I really can't believe that a girl who had an /amazing connection/ with one boy would keep hooking up with his brother once she realized who they were. Just, no. And also, this whole thing is told in letters to an American killer on death row (because apparently she killed one of the boys and got away with it), which, also, no. I mean, I like epistolary novels, but what teenage girl would spin her story in such a literary way--because you don't know which boy died. A teenage girl would not write letters in a way as to build suspense, right? It just kept throwing me out of things. It may have worked better as a diary kind of book. And then when the reveal finally comes, it's the most melodramatic reveal it could possibly be. Weirdly, the ending is then kind of nice, but in general, this book was not for me. I bet teenagers will eat it up though. B/B-.
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