From Publishers Weekly
For the last 30 years, Pennsbury High, a huge public school in Fairless Hills, Pa., has staged such an over-the-top senior prom that thousands of local residents turn out on prom night just to watch the seniors enter their "Wonderland." Bamberger, a
Sports Illustrated senior writer, spent a school year with Pennsbury's seniors, recording their "true-life" stories. Since prom planning starts in September and climaxes in May, the event is both a good hook for readers and a convenient organizational device for various subplots that develop month by month. Will up-and-coming musician John Mayer finally agree to play for the prom? Will Rob and Stephanie still go to the prom, now that they're parents of a newborn baby? Will Lindsey keep co-chairing the prom committee even though she needs heart surgery? Bamberger cuts from one subplot to the next like a seasoned TV soap director, breaking away from each story just when it gets juicy. While much of the drama is about who's attracted to whom (high school kids are "on display, like mating birds"), for variety there's an ace student involved in a drinking death, another coping with cerebral palsy, some with college admissions problems, one or two kids planning for upward mobility via sports, plus a few faculty members with their own issues. Bamberger's teens may not be 100% typical, but they offer a good window onto at least a segment of contemporary teen culture.
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From The New Yorker
The juniors and seniors of Pennsbury High—whose fortunes Bamberger traces in this account of a year in the life of a suburban Pennsylvania public school—are a familiar menagerie: jocks, grocery baggers, the odd A.V. Club geek. But their earnestness about the renowned, over-the-top Pennsbury Prom is striking. One student schemes to secure the DeLorean from "Back to the Future" as transportation. It's a fitting detail; although Bamberger means to present a microcosm of contemporary middle-class America, his weakness for quaint traditions results in a book that feels more nostalgic than up to date. It's unclear whether Bamberger found a campus preserved in fifties-era amber or merely ignored aspects of it that would complicate his white-bread vision. Still, he succeeds in evoking the strangely obdurate innocence of a place where generations come and go but the school rest rooms still smell of "grapefruit disinfectant."
Copyright © 2005
The New Yorker
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