When I picked up this book, I figured it’d either be great but decidedly middlebrow (i.e. perfect for someone too tired to read anything but through the paraliterary) or TikTokSlop with no in-between. Instead, I got a well-written novel that, unfortunately, was an ephemeral product of the middle class privilege it sought to explore.

The teenage Joni Wilson and her friends are growing up in some quaint British seaside town stagnating in the wake of its bygone heyday of tourism. They’ve known each other since primary school, alternately becoming friends and enemies as part of and as a result of the typical gossip, cliques, and drama that come with maturing and failing to mature. Through this story, Clark examines the emptiness of White (with a capital ‘W’) middle-class life: there is no intrinsic meaning to it, no great political struggles besides switching currencies, no pervasive strife with which to examine the character of the class. The characters just go about their day through high-school dramas and minor Tory scandals. Out of seemingly nowhere, Joni’s burned alive by her three friends.

Her mother cannot find a cause to channel her anger and misery after the burning. It’s an isolated incident; the girls were arrested the following day. There won’t be a ‘Joni Wilson Bill’ to prevent school shootings or drunk driving, to fund leukemia research or mental health resources. Despite being such a terrible, life-altering event, it goes unremarked upon in the national news cycle as it cannot be placed in a larger context. 

Years after her death, true crime podcasts (incidentally one is named Cliterati, which would make a great username for a book reviewer) attempt exactly that. The novel is told as the nonfiction account of a journalist visiting the town to set the record straight, to clear up any misconceptions around the case. As the tale progresses, we learn about Tumblr accounts and cyberbullying, pagan fixations and local legend.