On the strength of a luxurious visit to the Park Hill branch (which shouldn't feel so luxurious, since it's the one closest to my house) instead of the overcrowded with people and non-book media one near work) and her Peaceable Stories, I borrowed Francine Prose's After yesterday. She uses a high school shooting as the catalyst for post-September 11th invasions of civil liberties. Kind of like The Wave. And not without some "Red Dawn." It was mediocre, and not just because lately my diet has been of High Literature.
I confess that after the Barnes & Noble opened on the Sixteenth Street Mall, I browsed there as in a library. It was closer than the library or the Tattered Cover. I didn't buy from there (much). But it facilitated cheesy browsing. I read Life in the Fat Lane there. And The Face on the Milk Carton and Whatever Happened to Janie?. So yesterday when I spotted another Caroline B. Cooney Jane book, I bought it.
It was a Twinkie, a soap opera. I read it after After last night and in the jacuzzi this afternoon. Woe is me.