Fairy Tale

The supernatural teen romance, a genre that barely existed for young adults just a few years ago, is now hugely popular, as authors and publishers hope to produce the next Twilight. The same phenomenon happened a few years earlier, and continues today, with Harry Potter and the fantasy genre. FAIRY TALE is mercifully shorter than Twilight, and it has a few other things going for it: an amusingly sardonic narrator, a few interesting tweaks of the formula, and a writing style that keeps the pages turning even when there's little happening in the story.

But there's not much involvement here. The characters are rather flat and superficial, the emotions distant, the ending all-too predictable. As Morgan's self-centeredness becomes increasingly dangerous to both Cam and Pip, readers may grow impatient for her to reach the obvious conclusion. There's not much chemistry between Morgan and Cam beyond her frequent professions of love (that mostly amount to her not being able to imagine what she'll do without him in her life, a dubious model of love). She and Pip have a bit more, but it's spoiled by her frequent observations of how hunky he's becoming. A pleasantly entertaining novel that won't stick in the mind much past the final page.

From the Book:
I know that probably makes me sound like a total snob, but it's simple fact. Since freshman year, I've correctly predicted the futures of dozens of students at Stevens. It all started way before that, though, in junior high, when I correctly guessed who would win the million-dollar prize on every reality-TV show out there. At times I would have to think, really think, to know the answer, but sometimes I would just wake up and, clear as day, the face of the winner would pop into my mind. Soon, I started testing my abilities out on my friends, and my friends' friends, and before long, every other person at school wanted my services. Seriously, being a psychic will do more for your reputation than a driver's license or a head-to-toe Marc Jacobs wardrobe.

Sierra tosses her frizzed-out, corn-husk-blond spirals over her shoulder and straightens. "Well, maybe you saw someone else. Someone who looked like me. Isn't that possible?"

Actually, it isn't possible at all. Sierra has a totally warped sense of style, like Andy Warhol on crack. Everyday things lying around the house do not always make attractive accessories. I shrug, though, since I don't feel like explaining that hell would have a ski resort before two people on the face of this earth would think it was okay to tie their ponytail up in a Twizzler, and crane my neck toward the refreshment stand. I'm starving. Where are my French fries?