asandwich

I was having a discussion recently about the state of female characterisation in fiction, and this book was mentioned. I hadn’t read the book, and I don’t generally read a lot of Young Adult fiction, as it’s not really a genre aimed at middle-aged men, but my interest was piqued enough to give it a read-through.

First off, I’d like to briefly preface this by expressing how influential the YA genre has been in establishing strong female protagonists in mainstream media, which has been a fantastic move in the right direction for offsetting gender stereotyping and for promoting worthy role models for teenagers of both sexes. Long may this continue. However, with this in mind, I do feel that YA writers have to accept that they have a certain level of responsibility when it comes to their readership. Which brings me to Enclave.

It all starts off pretty well: picture a post-apocalyptic future, where a mystery disease has conveniently killed off anyone above the age of the target demographic for the novel, thus negating the need to introduce any pesky ‘old people’ to ruin the vibe. The book follows a particular group - or enclave - based in the ruins of New York. Remember that bit with the tribe of kids in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome? It’s kind of like that, except underground.

Our protagonist, Deuce, is a huntress for the enclave, which basically means she’s a total badass; trained to hunt for food and protect the borders of the colony from encroaching ‘Freaks’ (for all intents and purposes: zombies). Cue lots of fighting and badassery, etc. None of which I have a problem with - yes, it’s all very derivative of the genre, but the writing isn’t terrible and, like a lot of YA, tends to read like a movie.

However, serious problems arise in the second half of the story, once Deuce (and her sullen, misunderstood, but a-totally-complex-and-sensitive-guy-really, co-hunter Fade) are forced to leave the enclave and head onto the surface. Here, they have a run-in with a gang who capture and rape girls, led by an apparent sociopath called Stalker (yes, seriously). Deuce and Fade evade Stalker’s clutches, and manage to free a teenage sex-slave called Tegan from the gang in the process. Deuce’s own thoughts regarding Tegan:

She had good reason to be angry. It twisted me up when I thought of what she’d suffered - and just because she was born a girl.

Okay; so far so good.

Then it all kind of goes to shit.

A little later on, our trio have another run in with Stalker and his gang - who are still pissed with them for escaping their rapey clutches - but, before battle can commence, both sides are jumped by zombies Freaks, and this is where the downhill slide begins. Deuce, despite Tegan’s understandable protestations, agrees to let Stalker (the only member of the gang to survive the battle) join their group. Her justification:

He embodied the Hunter tenet: “The strong survive.” Part of me hated him for what he’d let the other Wolves do to Tegan, but the Huntress half of me wondered why she hadn’t fought until she died. And I admired his ruthless skill with those blades that seemed an extension of his hands.

What. The. Fuck?

Context! I hear you scream. No. I’m pretty certain that we’re supposed to be on Deuce’s side, her being the protagonist and all, but this rape-apology business just completely blew my mind. This isn’t American Psycho - Aguirre actually wants her audience to relate to Deuce. She needs us to like her, or the story falls apart. But instead, Aguirre seems intent on taking all the usual YA tropes and twisting them in ways they should never be twisted; always seemingly two steps in the wrong direction; sending horribly mixed messages that steadily advance Deuce to some form of zero-empathy event horizon.

It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion.

And then it gets worse.

Because all Young Adult novels need a love triangle, right? It’s absolutely mandatory. Not to mention bad boys. So, go on - have a guess who starts competing with Fade for Deuce’s attentions? Yep. You’ve got it in one:

When I dropped my hand, he caught it and used it to pull me closer. Warmth curled through me when he lifted me up and ran his lips down my jaw to my neck. The feeling shook me, so I put my hands on his shoulders. I intended to shove or kick, something to remind him he couldn’t handle me this way. Instead, I found myself gazing down into his pale eyes. They didn’t look cold to me anymore; instead they shone like the sun on snow.

That’s it: screw it. I’m out.

I’m no prude, but I honestly think that writers of fiction aimed at a predominantly teenaged audience have a moral obligation to produce stories that don’t screw around with the perceptions of their readership. The mixed messages created by asking your readers to support a protagonist who belittles rape victims, whilst admiring (and even romancing) their tormentors, is just plain irresponsible.

I could not, with a clear conscience, recommend this book.