We Were Liars, E. Lockhart
Delacorte, May 2014
Reviewed from ARC

For the first formal writeup of the season, I thought I’d tackle the first likely contender I read (I read this one in late 2013, so I was early).

Also, I know lots of people are itching to talk about it.

First, pedigree: this one made our longlist in a whopping 4 categories. Buzz (although some of that was manufactured by the smart marketing people who knew they had something worth pushing); previous winner (The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks, 2009 Printz Honor book); stars (five of them); and interest (Frankie was one of my committee’s picks, and I also love love love Lockhart’s smart, sly Ruby Oliver books, which seem fluffy on the outside and are actually protein and pathos packed when you dig in.)

Now, I like intricately plotted books that work seamlessly when I read them but leave me thinking about the author’s skill in putting all the bits together once I’ve finished reading. I also like mysteries and unreliable narrators.

In other words, We Were Liars was made for me — but that’s not what  makes it a worthy contender.

So what does?

The writing is smart — the characters are intelligent, the plotting is deft, the characters are complex and often unpleasant but distressingly believable. There are rich allusions to Shakespeare’s King Lear and a fairy tale motif Cadence uses to get at truths too unpleasant to face head on runs through. If we don’t mind books that do have a message (but not a MESSAGE), then holla, because this is a nuanced look at how awful family can be. In the midst of privilege, Cadence, Mirren and Johny — and maybe Gat, although for different reasons — are left without guidance or nurture, silenced every time they ask for help, and the results are horrific. That’s literary chops and theme, both considerations for Printz recognition.

But the thing that really makes this a standout is the voice.

Cadence’s voice is a standout: spare, poetic, revealing but never expository. She’s a series of contradictions — she can cuttingly talk about how her grandfather “kept” her grandmother and moments later state — with no apparent recognition of the issues she’s revealing — that she and her mother discarded everything from her father when he left them and went shopping to replace the loss. She can be filled with hate for everything Sinclair, and yet still tilt up her chin, act normal, and even take pride and delight in being a Sinclair. She can be awful in so many ways, and yet still elicit sympathy from the reader.

It’s a voice that creates a portrait that makes the secret lurking in her forgotten past utterly believable — she’s stubborn and believes in her own infallibility, because she’s a Sinclair. She understands the value of material possessions, because she’s a Sinclair. She knows exactly how to hurt the people she loves, because she’s been raised in a world where control and pain and luxury all mingle. But she’s also a Liar, and while we never see why the four teens are known as the Liars, we see how their youth and the inclusion of an outsider, in a family that has gotten rid of all the other outsiders (even Ed, who is seemingly with Carrie only in the city after that first summer, and who can blame him) has brought out a different kind of fight. And just as Cadence consistently embodies tensions, the tension between Sinclair cruelty and Gat’s desire for a certain kind of action, embodied in Cady, lead to the tragedy.

In the end, the issue isn’t going to be about voice but about the reveal. I’ll just say that it worked for me, and for many other readers. And on the second read, knowing what was coming didn’t make it any less compelling, merely different.

Will the early buzz and hard marketing push lead to subconscious pushback from the RealCommittee? Did this peak too early? Will it get tossed aside as a book about first world problems and spoiled little rich girls? I hope not, because this deserves to make the shortlist.