My Sunshine Away, M O Walsh, G P Putnam's Sons, 2015, 303 pp
Sometimes when I meet a new person who finds out that I love to read, I am given a book or books by that person. Then I feel somewhat obligated to read the book. In that way this novel came to me. I did not know anything about it except for the cover flap summary.
This debut novel was not bad, neither was it great. Set in the summer of 1989 in a white privileged neighborhood of Baton Rouge, a 15-year-old girl is raped. Lindy Simpson is the belle of the neighborhood and a boy across the street (who narrates the story) has a hopeless crush on her.
This boy, along with three other males in the area, becomes a suspect. As usual in these cases, the police fail to identify or charge any culprit. For about 300 pages, I lived inside this boy's head, gradually learning about his life, Lindy's life and his obsession with her.
He was not the rapist (not a spoiler, you know this soon enough) but he feels guilty for reasons his teenage mind does not understand though he figures it has something to do with how he had lusted after this beautiful, free-spirited track star of a female since he was in middle school. He knows little about romantic love, he knows plenty about his own and other boys' sexual desires, he has some truly messed up male friends. Eventually he becomes a sort of friend of Lindy's, but she of course has changed, is depressed and becomes pretty weird herself.
I was uncomfortable with this boy's actions and attitudes. What he feels toward Lindy is almost completely about him. I was lucky in high school. I had a steady boyfriend for three years and we loved each other, or at least we thought we did. It is true that in the end I felt he didn't really get me and we broke up after graduating, but it was never weird.
So I suppose, well actually I know, there are boys who mostly just want sex and will do anything to get it. Later in the book, the narrator figures himself out, grows up, marries another woman and is happy.
Since M O Walsh is male and grew up in Baton Rouge, I assume he knew what he wrote about, but it seemed somehow a little off to me. Something was missing, something did not quite add up. I think he was trying to discover the fine line between lust and love, but I was not convinced that he pulled it off.