Hm, which is worse? The device of an upper east-side teen girl's diary? The b otched wanna-be street-smart slang when hard times for her Hollywood script writing father evict the family to Harlem? Or the endless repetition of non-developing plot points that stretch a flimsy short story into a novel-length snore?

Nah, it's gotta be the payola reviews on the back cover, herniating themselves to tell me Womack is comparable to Gibson and Hoban. What money or bedfellows this guy must have.