Twelve by Nick McDonell

By now we’re all familiar with the spoilt little ultra-rich kids of America with their superficial little lives that revolve around drugs and getting laid.

But Twelve is a quick, strangely compulsive read. The Catcher in the Rye on speed, perhaps, McDonall trespasses on Bret Easton-Ellis’ territory and plays by his rules, but we’re gripped all the same.

The inevitable violent end is too predictable to be cathartic. We should really dislike the victims but perhaps we just don’t care. Or perhaps being a teenager is always boring, no matter how much or how little money you have to bored with.

I loved it.

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