I recommend this book to both adult and precocious young adult readers.
While young adults might identify with the teenage protagonist, they will also enjoy revisiting it years later once they have accumulated more life experience. This is an auspicious debut, and I look forward to Ms. Enter your keywords.
The Little Bride. Author s :. Anna Solomon.
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There was Leo's masterful windbreak, six trees in a perfect, silent row, and beyond it his fields in their perfect rows, and beyond them the family's hay, already cut and stacked, golden piles of their labor. Minna's wish turned suddenly desperate. What wedding was ever as sober? Not a single person had danced the kamensky; there was no pageantry, no drunkenness, no wrestling.
No noise and no stars. Not even a chuppah tall enough to stand under.
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More than cheated, she felt doomed. Even when the guests lined up to kiss her as they departed, the mood was more funereal than celebratory. Even Otto, who with his pretty blond wife looked the very picture of joy, had not looked joyous. Or maybe Minna was exaggerating?
Maybe this was only self-pity. What bride woke up hating the world?
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There was, as her aunts used to say, something spoiled in her. And now she was spoiled, too, in the corporeal sense. She had heard of girls pricking their fingers, drawing red smears down the sheets.
My Little Bride
But if he woke, and caught her, it would seem she had something to hide. He would question her, and what would she say? She couldn't tell him about the Look, no more than she could tell him what she'd done to make herself itch, her touching and seeking. If there was something wrong inside her, any explanation she gave would make him angry.
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At Rosenfeld's, perhaps--at her, certainly. In the basement, she'd felt she had no choice, but now she didn't see it that way, now it seemed she'd made a terribly wrong choice--many wrong choices--now she could not imagine Max had meant for her to submit to that. He couldn't have known. He could not know now. She looked back at him. She'd neglected to cover him when she rose, and now she saw that at some point in the night, he'd put his shirt back on, and buttoned up his trousers, so that he looked like a man who was simply taking a nap, in his own bedroom, in the middle of the day.
And she looked, she realized, like a wife. A wife standing by the window in her stainless nightgown, the collar of which was still buttoned up to her chin. And this, perhaps, was the way to proceed.