Because after a book's worth of pointless dithering about how pretty he is and how scary her life could be now, oh well, I guess it's not surprising that she wouldn't have any kind of spine, seeing as how she doesn't have any discernible personality either. WHAT!? Someone else has to suddenly magically reveal the truth for it to come out. She's all, oh, there's no point, he'll just surf on by and no one will care. Was it supposed to be obvious? Not sure.įifth, once she finds out that the asshole boyfriend is indeed an asshole who almost ruined her life, she is mad, BUT DOES NOTHING ABOUT IT.

The asshole boyfriend did it! Well, duh, it was really obvious. But a story is supposed to have an ARC-not a flat line of 'ooh Billy is so wonderful I wonder if he likes me eeee he likes me does he like me for me? he's so very dreamy! does he really like me? why is he looking at that other girl? oh he's IMing me and calling me his gf he likes me squee!' THAT'S NOT A PLOTLINE.įourth, I saw the 'twist' coming from a mile away More like, almost from the beginning. Now, I understand that teenage girls are like that in real life. But a good chunk of the book is her obsessing over him. That is the impetus for the entire freaking story in this book. Third, related to the first two, is that the character does nothing but think about her boyfriend. It's like the author was just trying to make her character seem deeper by giving her a 'passion.' (Which clearly the character is not very passionate about.) Don't forget the token non-white friend who just happens to possess every single stereotypical trait of people from that country. Everyone is one-dimensional-including the main character, whose head we're in! Oh sure, she's an 'artist.' Except that only gets mentioned here and there, instead of being fully shown or explained or reasoned. Second, there is zero character development. By a good 100 pages or something, in which nothing of consequence happens. Let me tell you why.įirst of all, it is WAY too long. This book is really stupid, for lack for a more sophisticated term.

Where it began by ann redisch stampler