Hailed by the critics and lauded by readers for its riotously funny and scathing portrayal of America in an age of trial by media, materialism, and violence, Vernon God Little was an international sensation when it was first published in 2003 and awarded the prestigious Man Booker Prize.
The memorable portrait of America is seen through the eyes of a wry, young, protagonist. Fifteen-year-old Vernon narrates the story with a cynical twang and a four-letter barb for each of his townsfolk, a medley of characters. With a plot involving a school shooting and death-row reality TV shows, Pierre’s effortless prose and dialogue combine to form a novel of postmodern gamesmanship.
|Product dimensions:||5.56(w) x 8.04(h) x 0.78(d)|
About the Author
Date of Birth:1961
Place of Birth:Reynella, Australia
Read an Excerpt
It's hot as hell in Martirio, but the papers on the porch are icy with the news. Don't even try to guess who stood all Tuesday night in the road. Clue: snotty ole Mrs Lechuga. Hard to tell if she quivered, or if moths and porchlight through the willows ruffled her skin like funeral satin in a gale. Either way, dawn showed a puddle between her feet. It tells you normal times just ran howling from town. Probably forever. God knows I tried my best to learn the ways of this world, even had inklings we could be glorious; but after all that's happened, the inkles ain't easy anymore. I mean – what kind of fucken life is this?
Now it's Friday at the sheriff's office. Feels like a Friday at school or something. School – don't even fucken mention it.
I sit waiting between shafts of light from a row of doorways, naked except for my shoes and Thursday's underwear. Looks like I'm the first one they rounded up so far. I ain't in trouble, don't get me wrong. I didn't have anything to do with Tuesday. Still, you wouldn't want to be here today. You'd remember Clarence Somebody, that ole black guy who was on the news last winter. He was the psycho who dozed in this same wooden hall, right on camera. The news said that's how little he cared about the effects of his crimes. By 'effects' I think they meant axe-wounds. Ole Clarence Whoever was shaved clean like an animal, and dressed in the kind of hospital suit that psychos get, with jelly-jar glasses and all, the type of glasses worn by people with mostly gums and no teeth. They built him a zoo cage in court. Then they sentenced him to death.
I just stare at my Nikes. Jordan New Jacks, boy. I'd perk them up with a spit-wipe, but it seems kind of pointless when I'm naked. Anyway, my fingers are sticky. This ink would survive Armageddon, I swear. Cockroaches, and this fucken fingerprint ink.
A giant shadow melts into the dark end of the corridor. Then comes its owner, a lady. As she approaches, light from a doorway snags a Bar-B-Chew Barn box in her arms, along with a bag of my clothes, and a phone that she tries to speak into. She's slow, she's sweaty, her features huddle in the middle of her face. Even in uniform you know she's a Gurie. Another officer follows her into the corridor, but she waves him away.
'Let me do the preliminaries – I'll call you for the statement.' She slides the phone back to her mouth and clears her throat. Her voice sharpens up to a squeak. 'Gh-hrrr, I am not calling you a moron, I'm explaining that, stuss-tistically, Special Weapons And Tactics can limit the toll.' She squeaks so high that her Barn box falls to the floor. 'Lunch,' she grunts, bending. 'Only salad, poo – I swear to God.' The call ends when she sees me.
I sit up to hear if my mother came to collect me; but she didn't. I knew she wouldn't, that's how smart I am. I still wait for it though, what a fucken genius. Vernon Genius Little.
The officer dumps the clothes in my lap. 'Walk this way.'
So much for Mom. She'll be pumping the town for sympathy, like she does. 'Well Vern's just devastated,' she'll say. She only calls me Vern around her coffee-morning buddies, to show how fucken tight we are, instead of all laughably fucked up. If my ole lady came with a user's guide it'd tell you to fuck her off in the end, I guarantee it. Everybody knows Jesus is ultimately to blame for Tuesday; but see Mom? Just the fact I'm helping the investigation is enough to give her fucken Tourette's Syndrome, or whatever they call the thing where your arms fly around at random.
The officer shows me into a room with a table and two chairs. No window, just a picture of my friend Jesus taped to the inside of the door. I get the stained chair. Pulling on my clothes, I try to imagine it's last weekend; just regular, rusty moments dripping into town via air-conditioners with missing dials; spaniels trying to drink from sprinklers but getting hit in the nose instead.
'Vernon Gregory Little?' The lady offers me a barbecued rib. She offers halfheartedly, though, and frankly you'd feel sorry to even take the thing when you see the way her chins vibrate over it.
She returns my rib to the box, and picks another for herself. 'Gh-rr, let's start at the beginning. Your habitual place of residence is seventeen Beulah Drive?'
'Who else resides there?'
'Nobody, just my mom.'
'Doris Eleanor Little ...' Barbecue sauce drips onto her name badge. Deputy Vaine Gurie it says underneath. 'And you're fifteen years old? Awkward age.'
Is she fucken kidding or what? My New Jacks rub together for moral support. 'Ma'am – will this take long?'
Her eyes widen for a moment. Then narrow to a squint. 'Vernon – we're talking accessory to murder here. It'll take as long as it takes.'
'So, but ...'
'Don't tell me you weren't close to the Meskin boy. Don't tell me you weren't just about his only friend, don't you tell me that for one second.'
'Ma'am, but I mean, there must be plenty of witnesses who saw more than I did.'
'Is that right?' She looks around the room. 'Well I don't see anyone else here – do you?' Like an asshole I look around. Duh. She catches my eyes and settles them back. 'Mr Little – you do understand why you're here?'
'Sure, I guess.'
'Uh-huh. Let me explain that my job is to uncover the truth. Before you think that's a hard thing to do, I'll remind you that, stuss-tistically, only two major forces govern life in this world. Can you name the two forces underlying all life in this world?'
'Uh – wealth and poverty?'
'Not wealth and poverty.'
'Good and evil?'
'No – cause and effect. And before we start I want you to name the two categories of people that inhabit our world. Can you name the two proven categories of people?'
'Causers and effecters?'
'No. Citizens – and liars. Are you with me, Mister Little? Are you here?'
Like, duh. I want to say, 'No, I'm at the lake with your fucken daughters,' but I don't. For all I know she doesn't even have daughters. Now I'll spend the whole day thinking what I should've said. It's really fucked.
Deputy Gurie tears a strip of meat from a bone; it flaps through her lips like a shit taken backwards. 'I take it you know what a liar is? A liar is a psychopath – someone who paints gray areas between black and white. It's my duty to advise you there are no gray areas. Facts are facts. Or they're lies. Are you here?'
'I truly hope so. Can you account for yourself at a quarter after ten Tuesday morning?'
'I was in school.'
'I mean what period.'
'Uh – math.'
Gurie lowers her bone to stare at me. 'What important facts have I only now finished outlining to you, about black and white?'
'I didn't say I was in class ...'
A knock at the door saves my Nikes from fusing. A wooden hairdo pokes into the room. 'Vernon Little in here? His ma's on the phone.'
'All right, Eileena.' Gurie shoots me a stare that says 'Don't relax' and points her bone at the door. I follow the wooden lady to reception.
I'd be fucken grateful, if it wasn't my ole lady calling. Between you and me, it's like she planted a knife in my back when I was born, and now every fucken noise she makes just gives it a turn. It cuts even deeper now that my daddy ain't around to share the pain. My shoulders round up when I see the phone, my mouth drops open like, duh. Here's exactly what she'll say, in her fuck-me-to-a-cross whimper, she'll say, 'Vernon, are you all right?' I guarantee it.
'Vernon, are you okay?' Feel the blade chop and dice.
'I'm fine, Ma,' now my voice goes all small and stupid. It's a subliminal plea for her not to be pathetic, but it works like pussy to a fucken dog.
'Did you use the bathroom today?'
'Hell, Momma ...'
'Well you know you get that – inconvenience.'
She ain't so much called to turn the knife, as to replace it with a fucken javelin or something. You didn't need to know this, but when I was a kid I used to be kind of unpredictable, for 'Number Twos' anyway. Never mind the slimy details, my ole lady just added the whole affair to my knife, so she could give it a turn every now and then. Once she even wrote about it to my teacher, who had her own stabbing agenda with me, and this bitch mentioned it in class. Can you believe it? I could've bought the farm right there. My knife's like a fucken skewer these days, with all the shit that's been added on.
'Well you didn't have time this morning,' she says, 'so I worried that maybe – you know ...'
'I'm fine, really.' I stay polite, before she plants the whole fucken Ginzu Knife Set. It's a hostage situation.
'What're you doing?'
'Listening to Deputy Gurie.'
'LuDell Gurie? Well, tell her I know her sister Reyna from Weight Watchers.'
'It ain't LuDell, Ma.'
'If it's Barry you know Pam sees him every other Friday ...'
'It ain't Barry. I have to go now.'
'Well, the car still isn't ready and I'm minding an ovenful of joy cakes for the Lechugas, so Pam'll have to pick you up. And Vernon ...'
'Sit up straight in the car – town's crawling with cameras.'
Velcro spiders seize my spine. You know gray areas are invisible on video. You don't want to be here the day shit gets figured out in black and white. I ain't saying I'm to blame, don't get me wrong. I'm calm about that, see? Under my grief glows a serenity that comes from knowing the truth always wins in the end. Why do movies end happy? Because they imitate life. You know it, I know it. But my ole lady lacks that fucken knowledge, big-time.
I shuffle up the hall to my pre-stained chair. 'Mister Little,' says Gurie, 'I'm going to start over – that means loosen up some facts, young man. Sheriff Porkorney has firm notions about Tuesday, you should be thankful you only have to talk to me.' She goes to touch her snatch, but diverts to her gun at the last second.
'Ma'am, I was behind the gym, I didn't even see it happen.'
'You said you were in math.'
'I said it was our math period.'
She looks at me sideways. 'You take math behind the gym?'
'So why weren't you in class?'
'I ran an errand for Mr Nuckles, and got kind of – held up.'
'Our physics teacher.'
'He teaches math?'
'G-hrrr. This area's looking real gray, Mister
Little. Damn gray.'
You don't know how bad I want to be Jean-Claude Van Damme. Ram her fucken gun up her ass, and run away with a panty model. But just look at me: clump of lawless brown hair, the eyelashes of a camel. Big ole puppy-dog features like God made me through a fucken magnifying glass. You know right away my movie's the one where I puke on my legs, and they send a nurse to interview me instead.
'Ma'am, I have witnesses.'
'Is that right.'
'Mr Nuckles saw me.'
'And who else?' She prods the dry bones in her box.
'A bunch of people.'
'Is that right. And where are those people now?'
I try to think where those people are. But the memory doesn't come to my brain, it comes to my eye as a tear that shoots from my lash like a soggy bullet. I sit stunned.
'Exactly,' says Gurie. 'Not real gregarious, are they? So Vernon – let me ask you two simple questions. One: are you involved with drugs?'
'Uh – no.'
She chases the pupils of my eyes across the wall, then herds them back to hers. 'Two: do you possess a firearm?'
Her lips tighten. She pulls her phone from a holster on her belt, and suspends one finger over a key, eyeing me all the while. Then she jabs the key. The theme from Mission: Impossible chirps on a phone up the hall. 'Sheriff?' she says. 'You might want to attend the interview room.'
This wouldn't happen if she had more meat in her box. The dismay of no more meat made her seek other comforts, that's something I just learned. Now I'm the fucken meat.
After a minute, the door opens. A strip of buffalo leather scrapes into the room, tacked around the soul of Sheriff Porkorney. 'This the boy?' he asks. Like, fucken no, it's Dolly Parton. 'Cooperational, Vaine, is he?'
'Can't say he is, sir.'
'Give me a moment with him.' He closes the door behind him.
Gurie retracts her tit-fat across the table, turning to the corner like it makes her absent. The sheriff breathes a rod of decay at my face.
'Bothered folk, son, outside. Bothered folk are quick to judge.'
'I wasn't even there, sir – I have witnesses.'
He raises an eyebrow to Gurie's corner. One of her eyes flicks back, 'We're following it up, Sheriff.'
Pulling a clean bone from the Bar-B-Chew Barn box, Porkorney moves to the picture on the door, and traces a line around Jesus' face, his bangs of blood, his forsaken eyes. Then he curls a gaze at me. 'He talked to you – didn't he.'
'Not about this, sir.'
'You were close, though, you admit that.'
'I didn't know he was going to kill anybody.'
The sheriff turns to Gurie. 'Examine Little's clothes, did you?'
'My partner did,' she says.
Porkorney thinks a moment, chews his lip. 'Check the back of 'em, did you, Vaine? You know certain type of practices can loosen a man's pitoota.'
'They seemed clean, Sheriff.'
I know where this is fucken headed. Typical of where I live that nobody will come right out and say it. I try to muster some control. 'Sir, I ain't gay, if that's what you mean. We were friends since childhood, I didn't know how he'd turn out ...'
A no-brand smile grows under the sheriff's moustache. 'Regular boy then, are you, son? You like your cars, and your guns? And your – girls?'
'Okay, all right – let's see if it's true. How many offices does a girl have that you can get more'n one finger into?'
'Cavities – holes.'
'Uh – two?'
'Wrong.' The sheriff puffs up like he just discovered fucken relativity.
Fuck. I mean, how am I supposed to know? I got my fingertip into a hole once, don't ask me which one. It left memories of the Mini-Mart loading-bay after a storm; tangs of soggy cardboard and curdled milk. Somehow I don't think that's what your porn industry is talking about. Not like this other girl I know called Taylor Figueroa.
Sheriff Porkorney tosses his bone into the box, nodding to Gurie. 'Get it on record, then hold him.' He creaks out of the room.
'Vaine?' calls an officer through the door. 'Fibers.'
Gurie re-forms into limbs. 'You heard the sheriff. I'll be back with another officer to take your statement.'
When the rubbing of her thighs has faded, I crane my nostrils for any vague comfort; a whiff of warm toast, a spearmint breath. But all I whiff, over the sweat and the barbecue sauce, is school – the kind of pulse bullyboys give off when they spot a quiet one, a wordsmith, in a corner. The scent of lumber being cut for a fucken cross.CHAPTER 2
Mom's best friend is called Palmyra. Everybody calls her Pam. She's fatter than Mom, so Mom feels good around her. Mom's other friends are slimmer. They're not her best friends.
Pam's here. Three counties hear her bellowing at the sheriff's secretary. 'Lord, where is he? Eileena, have you seen Vern? Hey, love the hair!'
'Not too frisky?' tweets Eileena.
'Lord no, the brown really suits you.'
You have to like Palmyra, I guess, not that you'd want to imagine her humping or anything. She has a lemon-fresh lack of knives about her. What she does is eat.
'Have you fed him?'
'I think Vaine bought ribs,' says Eileena.
'Vaine Gurie? She's supposed to be on the Pritikin diet – Barry'll have a truck!'
'Good-night, she damn near lives at Bar-B-Chew Barn!'
'Oh good Lord.'
'Vernon's in there, Pam,' says Eileena. 'You better wait outside.'
So the door flies open. Pam wobbles in, bolt upright like she has books on her head. It's on account of her center of gravity. 'Vernie, you eatin rebs? What did you eat today?'
'Oh Lord, we better go by the Barn.' Doesn't matter what you tell her, she's going by Bar-B-Chew Barn, believe me.
'I can't, Pam, I have to stay.'
'Malarkey, come on now.' She tugs my elbow. The force of it recommends the floor to my feet. 'Eileena, I'm taking Vern – you tell Vaine Gurie this boy ain't eaten, I'm double-parked out front, and she better hide some pounds before I see Barry.'
'Leave him, Pam, Vaine ain't through ...'
'I don't see no handcuffs, and a child has a right to eat.' Pam's voice starts to rattle furniture.
'I don't make the rules,' says Eileena. 'I'm just sayin ...'(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Vernon God Little"
Copyright © 2003 DBC Pierre.
Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Felt it had a lot of gratuitous bad language and sexual content. A real downer with nothing redeeming.
Vernon Gregory Little, a 15-year-old boy from central Texas, who always seems to make inappropriate decisions or be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The book itself is a bit of a dark comedy as the main story arc revolves around Vernon's alleged participation in a violent school shooting where 16 classmates were killed. Hard to imagine this premise would spawn a humor book, but alas it does.My biggest issue with this novel was my inability to relate to the main character. Parts of the novel were funny, parts confusing, but mostly I just didn't care. I was surprised to find that this was an award winning book, but what the heck do I know I am just one opinion in a sea of many.
Vernon Little is 15 when his friend Jesus opens fire on a group of classmates, killing 16 including himself. As one of the few survivors, Vernon becomes the town's scapegoat and is almost immediately charged as an accessory to the crime. This book, told from Vernon's point of view, describes the nightmare of his life in the months following the shooting. Surprisingly, it does so with considerable humor and irony. Vernon lives with his mother; his father disappeared some time before. They have very little money and his mother clearly has emotional issues. Vernon steadfastly maintains his innocence relative to the shootings, but the townspeople are looking for a way to release their anger and grief. Unfortunately Vernon has no idea how to work the legal system, and his mother is pretty useless as well. He befriends a news reporter who appears to be on his side, but turns out to be a conniving jerk, using Vernon's story to his own advantage and fanning the flames of anger in the town. Vernon does several stupid things that increase the authorities' suspicions, and these desperate acts only serve to get him further tangled up in the case.Vernon God Little is completely different from another in the "school shooting genre," We Need to Talk about Kevin, which was published about the same time. The latter is intense and emotional. Vernon God Little is filled with the wry wit and sexual obsessions of a 15-year-old boy. It's almost funny in parts. About two-thirds of the way through the book the storyline became a bit unbelievable, but the last 30 pages or so resolve things in a fairly satisfying way. Not a bad read.
Imaginative, beautifully written, funny, the invention of a delightful character
This novel, Vernon God Little, by DBC Pierre, is some of the wackiest, darkest comedy I've ever come across, not that I'm a humor expert, or anything. It satires life in a central Texan town, the media, and many types of human beings we all know. It's told in first person by Vernon Gregory Little, with his ever so interesting vocabulary and twang, and the reader gets to see him grow up while wrestling with a personal nightmare.When Vernon's best friend, a depressed outcast in school, randomly shoots sixteen of his classmates and then turns the gun on himself, Vernon is left in the wrong place at the wrong time and is accused as being an accessory to these murders. There really is no case against Vernon, or so you'd think, in a town where people are reasonable and reasonably bright, but unfortunately, this town is filled with people who are just plain ole stupid. This is a cliffhanger of a story that you'll want to keep reading, and there's lots of laughter, too. An original!
I enjoyed the comedy elements of this book - there are some brilliantly funny phrases which make this worth reading. That said I found the story and characters hard going. The ending is bizarre and lost me completely. This book is a real mixed bag for me - sometimes I loved it and sometimes I didn't think I would finish it. This book may well be the literary equivalent to marmite.
Pierre didn't quite capture America--his depiction of American culture, even in parody, gave me the sense of reading English translated into a foreign language then back again--but that actually made the book in a way more interesting. It was a look at someone from outside looking in at the ugliest, least flattering side of us.
I want to give this such a better review and rating but I don't even remember reading it! Book journal says I did, put it on the re-read list.
If you¿re easily offended, this is definitely not the book for you. However, if you can cast aside foul language, toilet humor, and sexual innuendo to get to the heart of a story, you¿ll thoroughly love this satire of life in Texas amid media moguls, law enforcement officers, and lady friends. In the story, fifteen-year-old Vernon Gregory Little is thought to be an accomplice to the murder perpetrated by his friend Jesus upon sixteen of their high school classmates. In angst-filled, turbulent teen-speak, we listen to Vernon as he tries to proclaim his innocence. Later, when no one believes him, he plans his escape to Mexico. This is not an easy book to read because of its language, but it is a fun one. If you just let the story flow, without taking it too seriously, you¿re in for an entertaining ride. There is a motley cast of characters, many of whom you¿re never sure if they¿re good or evil. You¿ll be seeing all of them through the eyes of Vernon who, despite his bravado, is one very scared youngster, realizing that he might be captured for a crime in which he had no part.
No question about the quality of the writing (it's high: the modern American teenager's verbal awkwardness released through a lyrical written consciousness), perhaps more about whether this is for everyone.It's filthy and shot through with bleakness. Then again, it's the filth and bleakness of the modern world, nothing more or less. Pierre has nailed the internal grindings of an adolescent boy, and much of America too. I couldn't have enjoyed it as much as I did were it not for the lively sense of humour, and the redemption which is given room to breathe. Tellingly, it's the redemption Vernon envisages; he's a product of his world to the last.
I'm going to keep this short. One of the worst books I ever read. Too many swear words. Infantile language. I couldn't relate.
The tag of Booker Prize winner is no guarantee of a satisfying read, but the last two (Life of Pi and now Vernon God Little) make one look forward to the next.VGL is a street-wise teenager growing up in a small town in Central Texas. In the hysteria that follows a mass shooting at his high school, he becomes the main suspect in the murder investigation. The real culprit, his friend Jesus, was his own final victim and no longer satisfied the craving for retribution.This is a crackling, pacy short novel ¿ almost a long short story in the American style. It is funny, acerbic, sometimes satirical, and profound. The vitality of the book stems from the strength of its wise-cracking hero. VGL the street kid, views the world with the steady, dispassionate gaze of a perceptive adult, In spite of his mounting troubles, he betrays no flicker of self-pity. Towards those who wrong him (practically everyone!), he shows not malice but understanding. Almost Christ-like virtues (and there is plenty of such imagery and allusion), with the difference that VGL is free from messianic delusions of grandeur. A terrific central character in a terrific book.
Damn funny and irreverent. Though sometimes I found myself becoming frustrated at just how much goes wrong for poor Vernon Little, the ending really made it worth it. It's about time something this cutting and amusing came from an Australian author.National tragedies. Media beat ups. Excrement.And it's better than it sounds.
This is a very painful read!As with the best of satire, you are taken into a world of extremes where you KNOW that this couldn't really happen (or could it?)!The characters who people this world are not like us - they are condensations of what we can do, of how we could think, of how we might act. You need only look at the vigilante groups wandering various parts of the world, at the more extreme religious views held by certain groups of people and of the ruthless way the media have at times investigated personal tragedies to realise that this is not about any one place or any one time - it is about all of us and about what we could turn into if there were not people like the author of this work throwing books like this at our heads and hoping, like the fools of old, some of the message sticks.
I loved this book. the characters were so well drawn, and the style so refreshing. I couldn't put it down. Some were put off by the swearing and refused to read it, but if you are writing about a teenage boy, and using his words, of course there will be swearing, he is hardly likely to go around saying 'gosh, how absolutely ghastly'. This book, while dealing with a serious and awful event at a High School in America, manages to portray with humour the scrapes a young man can get into if he is always believed to be a criminal. Some of the characters are hilarious, I found myself laughing out loud.Definitely recommend this book.
Not so funny humorous book. Got slightly better at the end, but not worthy of awards. Lots of gratuitous vulgarity.
It's interesting that an Australian raised in Mexico can imagine an "America-as-imagined-by-Brits".This could be destined to become one of my all-time favourites.
Funny, disgusting, and completely truthful, Vernon God Little shows us what the media has warped our minds into and how it can make the guilty innocent and the innocent accessories to murder. Vernon Little lives with his mother, who believes that money is everything. When his best and only friend shoots 16 students at their school and then himself, he is accused of being a party to the murders. Things go from bad to worse, so he sets off for Mexico. The second half of the book is much more solemn and sad than the comical first part, but I was never so satisfied by an ending than with this one. It's a wonderful book all around.
I found this book refreshing and hilariously funny. The main character is a true anti-hero, struggling to survive in an unjust Kafkan world. Tough to read 'cause you both laugh and cringe. Highly recommended.
It's a painful book to read because it's just so painfully real. Love the language. Love to incredibly dark sense of humor. I'd recommend this book for people who can take tough love.
I picked up this book because it seemed to be an interesting premise and the price was right. However, I was very disappointed and nearly did not finish the book. The first half of the book is very difficult to get through. It fails to captivate and the language used, which is a regional dialect by a teenager from a small Texas town peppered with profanity, makes it more difficult. The story is fairly predictable with stereotypical characters, none of whom are very interesting. The story picks up after the second half of the book (the language becomes much more clear), but none-the-less it is too little too late for Vernon God Little.
I, as a teenager really liked this book. It was blunt and realistic. Vernon thought similar to any teenage boy and it showed how arrogant adults can be sometimes. The way everything happened in the book could happen in real life. I really really enjoyed reading it and i did laugh out loud!
Hm... well, 'Vernon God Little' is a very different kind of book. I thought it was a bit disgusting, and the writing style kind of irritated me and was difficult to read. I do give the author credit though for writing something really different. I like that. This is not your average teen romance novel thing. It may involve teens, but it's a grossly different tale. I thought the book was okay. It was funny in some, and just disgusting in others. Not recommended for people with no sense of humor, no sense of imagination, or low tolerance for odd things. I'd give this book more of a 2.5, but I'll just round up and say '3'.