110. This Is Not the Jess Show

This is Not the Jess Show. Anna Carey. 2021. [February] 304 pages. [Source: Library]

First sentence: Three things happened the week I found out. Titanic won a bunch of Oscars, and my sister and I stayed up late to watch because we'd never miss a chance to see Leo in a tux. Meanwhile every news anchor was talking about the president, and everywhere I went people repeated that phrase, how he "didn't have sexual relations with that woman." I probably should have cared (president, impeachment, important stuff) but another, more pressing matter, had consumed me: I'd fallen in love with my best friend. Tyler.

Premise/plot: What if your whole life was a lie?!?!?! Jessica Flynn begins to question--to doubt--EVERYTHING as her life begins to unwind slowly but surely. It starts small--hearing voices yelling, chanting. Catching a glimpse of something that seems off/odd. But it isn't until HER dog is seemingly replaced with a look alike that she is like SOMETHING is wrong and NO ONE will tell me the truth. Just enough is "off" with her reality to make her start questioning everything. And once the questions start, there's no going back...

My thoughts: Part of me wishes that This is Not the Jess Show had been set in JUNE 1998--or should that be "June 1998"--so that Jess could go see THE TRUMAN SHOW with her friends. Though probably the powers that be--Life-Like Productions? Like-Life Productions?--would have banned that film from their universe. Still it would have been great.

The Truman Show is one of my favorite, favorite, favorite movies. I don't think it gets enough love. Perhaps the intended audience of this YA novel--tweens and teens--haven't seen it or heard of The Truman Show. For better or worse? On the one hand, This Is Not The Jess Show is a total and complete copycat of The Truman Show. On the other hand, it is a total and complete copycat of The Truman Show. Except instead of the "star" of the show being an adult--she's a teen girl--a minor.

Still, I loved so many things about it. It reminded me of The Truman Show, The Twilight Zone, and Margaret Peterson Haddix's awesome book, Running Out of Time. I did enjoy all the 90s references.

One of her conversations with Ty.

I wanted to go back into the bathroom and reapply my lip gloss and pinch color into my cheeks.

“Who knew Jen Klein was obsessed with Chumbawamba?” His finger rested on some CD spines in the middle of the stack. “I didn’t even realize they had other bad songs.”

“I actually wouldn’t mind that stupid song if it wasn’t so lazy,” I said, stepping toward him. “Have you ever listened to the lyrics? It’s the same two verses over and over again. He says the same line three dozen times.”

“But also, what is the guy in the song even doing?” Ty was still smiling as he said it. “He drinks four drinks in a row, all different. Like, I’m no bartender dude, but I’m pretty sure mixing a whiskey drink and a vodka drink and a lager drink, then chasing it down with hard cider, is not going to be good.”

Did I love him? Was it possible to love someone you’d never even kissed?

“You hiding out in there?” Ty asked, glancing over my shoulder into the bathroom. He had on this green flannel that he was obsessed with and a vintage Tears for Fears tee shirt underneath, the fabric faded from so many wears.

“Maybe. Don’t tell anyone.”

“You kept my secret about that weird cat statue.”

“The statue! I forgot about that.” I laughed.

“That’s how good you are at keeping secrets.”

When I was younger, my mom bought this abstract cat statue and displayed it on a pedestal in our den. Ty and I were rolling around inside a refrigerator box, pretending it was a carnival ride, when we slammed right into it, knocking it to the floor. I put the head back on with Crazy Glue. You could only tell it was broken if you held it an inch from your face.

“What is that?” he asked, peering at the pink stuff in my cup.

“Some weird lemonade  drink. Wanna try?”

“With that rave review?”

One of her conversations with "Patrick" (aka Kipps)

I guess it’s kind of obvious we’re not in the ’90s, huh?”

“Who else was going to say it? You think we’re going to run into some therapist who’s going to sit me down and, like, gently break the news to me?” I asked.

Kipps pressed his lips into a straight line.

“So, Bill Clinton? He’s not the president?”

“No, he’s dead,” Kipps said.

“Alanis Morissette? Puff Daddy?”

Kipps cringed. “I don’t know? I think they might be alive still? People don’t really listen to Alanis Morissette anymore, no offense. Not when Izzy Pike is making music.”

“That means…” I tried to do the math in my head. “Ew. How old is Scott Wolf? Like…70?”

I couldn’t shake the visual. Scott Wolf, my Scott Wolf. Old. Wrinkled. GRAY.

“Who is Scott Wolf?” Kipps said.

“Bailey from Party of Five?”

It was useless. I kept imagining him with saggy jowls and stooped shoulders. Scott Wolf with a grandpa pancake butt and white hair. “Gross. That is truly repulsive.”

© 2021 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews