Scan barcode
A review by illustrated_librarian
Dogs of Summer by Andrea Abreu
dark
reflective
medium-paced
3.5
In the sticky humidity of a working class neighbourhood in Tenerife, boring summer holiday weeks of nothing stretch ahead of our unnamed tween narrator - the beach is far, far away and her parents work too much to take her. But she has a best friend, Isora, who makes everything okay. She loves everything about Isora, but Isora is changing. As the summer wears on, their claustrophobic friendship morphs into something more obsessive.
'I dreamed of healing Isora's sadness, I wanted to be her dog and I wanted her to be my saint with scraped knees.'
This is a strange, often uncomfortable story. Not quite a coming of age narrative, it nonetheless treads the borderlands between childhood and adolescence as Abreu slowly, slowly peels away layers of innocence.
The narrator has her first brushes with the divide between her and the wealthy tourists who visit the island, knowing without yet understanding that the invisible barrier is class. Meanwhile make-believe games with barbies are used to explore unnameable adult urges, menstrual cramps, bleeding, and other bodily functions are discussed with a still-childish glee but the first hints of shame, and the girls begin to understand the way boys and men will look at them.
Our narrator is insecure, very naïve, and willing to wholly give herself over to Isora's whims. Abreu navigates the breakdown of this blind loyalty in the wake of an awful experience well, with overwhelming feelings suddenly testing a childish friendship never meant to hold them. Lots remains unsaid which feels frustrating as a reader, but true to the girls' emotional immaturity.
I think a lot about this will put people off; it's uncomfortable (check content warnings), there's a LOT of talk about bowel movements, and it's sad. And yet, it strikes a gloomy chord. If you too were a timid kid - desperate to be accepted, terrified to be exposed for the unremarkable thing you suspected yourself to be, eager to grow up but uncomfortable with it - the narrator's shoes may fit a little too well.
'I dreamed of healing Isora's sadness, I wanted to be her dog and I wanted her to be my saint with scraped knees.'
This is a strange, often uncomfortable story. Not quite a coming of age narrative, it nonetheless treads the borderlands between childhood and adolescence as Abreu slowly, slowly peels away layers of innocence.
The narrator has her first brushes with the divide between her and the wealthy tourists who visit the island, knowing without yet understanding that the invisible barrier is class. Meanwhile make-believe games with barbies are used to explore unnameable adult urges, menstrual cramps, bleeding, and other bodily functions are discussed with a still-childish glee but the first hints of shame, and the girls begin to understand the way boys and men will look at them.
Our narrator is insecure, very naïve, and willing to wholly give herself over to Isora's whims. Abreu navigates the breakdown of this blind loyalty in the wake of an awful experience well, with overwhelming feelings suddenly testing a childish friendship never meant to hold them. Lots remains unsaid which feels frustrating as a reader, but true to the girls' emotional immaturity.
I think a lot about this will put people off; it's uncomfortable (check content warnings), there's a LOT of talk about bowel movements, and it's sad. And yet, it strikes a gloomy chord. If you too were a timid kid - desperate to be accepted, terrified to be exposed for the unremarkable thing you suspected yourself to be, eager to grow up but uncomfortable with it - the narrator's shoes may fit a little too well.