Tell the Wolves I’m Home by Carol Rifka Brunt
My rating: 1 of 5 stars
I seldom give up on a book, but about half of this one was all I could take. Within the first couple of chapters I was wondering why I’d thought it would interest me at all. Did I click the wrong link when I bought the audiobook? By Chapter 26 or wherever I finally quit I knew that if I had to endure one more flashback I’d eat the barrel of a pistol. I haven’t returned to the story in about two weeks and still have no desire to pick it up again, so I’m just finished and moving on.
The story? This whiny teenage girl’s uncle dies of AIDS in 1987. She’s the only one who’ll be friends with the dead guy’s lover. Blah, blah, blah. Constant freaking flashbacks. I swear, I don’t think Brunt wrote a page that didn’t contain the beginning or end of a flashback. The dynamic between the sisters was trite, predictable, and so boring. The protagonist’s relationship with her dead uncle was weird and, really, kinda hard to believe, and I never bought how she didn’t immediately ask the hard questions of his lover when the dude kept making contact with her.
I hate quitting on a book. I do want to know what happened to these characters, and why the buttons were added to the shirt in the painting, but not enough to endure the rest of the book. If you want to give me a spoiler in the comments, go for it.
My disdain was only increased by Amy Rubinate’s breathy whine of a narration. Just the thought of listening to her again made me choose the dreck of morning shows on the radio or the millionth listen of an old CD instead of this book.
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