–Twelve:
A Novel by Nick McDonell

"Nick
McDonell’s Twelve is a chilling novel of urban adolescence that
has caused an international sensation," reads the inside cover of the 18-year-old’s
chilling novel of urban adolescence that has caused an international sensation
(Grove Press, 256 pages, $23). Except that it’s far more cliche
than chilling, and, considering it was just released, surely it hasn’t
caused any international sensation.

But never
mind the shameless corporate hype: What Harvard-bound McDonell lacks in discernable
literary talent he makes up for in being fucking rich and connected. His father,
Terry, is currently editor of Sports Illustrated and formerly Jann "I
left my wife for a boy half my age"Wenner’s top man at Rolling
Stone; his godfather is the president of Atlantic Books, which just
happened to publish this novel, and his family friends include ex-geniuses Hunter
S. Thompson and Joan Didion, both of whom contribute glowing testimonials to
Twelve’s cover.

"Nick
McDonell is the real thing," Thompson writes, most likely under the influence.
"The ratio of age to talent is horrifying. His trick is he writes the truth.
I’m afraid he’ll do for his generation what I did for mine."

Not quite,
Raoul. Granted, Twelve is an ambitious and attention-grabbing piece,
but unfortunately it’s one that belongs in a high-school writing workshop,
not every bookstore on Planet Earth. (Twelve was published in nine languages,
unheard of for a first-time novelist.) The story follows the drug-laden adventures
of teenage pot dealer White Mike and fellow affluent, sex-obsessed students
Chris, Jessica, Sara and Hunter, the last of whom is–as McDonell puts it
in one eloquent passage–"a pretty beef kid. It is a kind of flowing
beefness." That’s all there really is to say about the plot, except
of course that everyone dies in the end.Like Hamlet.

"I
guess people in that book are all the people who are not my friends," McDonell
recently told the U.K. Observer. "All these great writers
that I seem to be suddenly compared to like Bret Ellis wrote books about the
spiritual debilitation of the wealthy youth. And here I am, like, a wealthy
youth… That’s why I killed everybody. To stop myself from being crazy.
If that makes sense." He continues: "One of the things that made me
do this I guess, that made me give up my summer and write…was [guilt]…
I felt like this ridiculous rich kid sitting down to write a novel, like, who
the hell did I think I was, this stupid cliché."

Pretty much,
Nicky-Nicky-Nick-Nick. Which is disappointing, because it’s great to see
a major effort put forth by a teenager other than Britney "Fuck Me Justin
Fuck Me Fuck Me in My Ass Justin Harder Harder" Spears. Too bad Twelve
is filled with narrative bombs that add up to its reading more like one
big outline than a finished product. "A black kid and a white kid with
fake IDs from Ohio and Oregon, fucked up dead on 117th street," begins
one chapter. "God, I hate drugs, thinks one of the detectives investigating
the double murder at the Jefferson Houses housing project."

Salinger
it isn’t. The painful truth is that Twelve would’ve never been
published if the McDonell family weren’t in the money and in the business,
and it would’ve never been successfully hyped if Hunter Thompson–easily
the greatest writer of his generation–hadn’t whored himself out in
a futile attempt to be relevant again. (For Christ’s sake, the last three
books published under the man’s name have been relics from the 60s and
70s and a "long lost" novel from 1959.)

"Before
discussing this book," writes one reviewer on Amazon.com’s Twelve
talkback forum, "it is important for this reviewer to acknowledge that
at 18 years of age he would not have had the ability to create a novel of any
coherence."

Bullshit,
One Reviewer on Amazon.com’s Twelve Talkback Forum. Adolescence
has always generated stories of joy and loss and pain, but–contrary to
the claims of Atlantic–Twelve isn’t a Catcher in the Rye
for a new generation. It’s simply self-serving swill from a rich kid
with connections, and calling it more would be the phoniest thing of all.

You wouldn’t think the book too bizarre from the back cover. It actually sounds quite mundane: “Yesterday’s children learned about the birds and bees in the street, from friends and other unknowledgeable sources. Most people agree that that day is past, the sexual revolution has arrived. But where can today’s child turn for information, not preaching? The parents who got it wrong the first time?… Here is a modest book for children up to the age of thirteen or so–and for their parents–who need and want to know.” The book is called The Kids’ Own XYZ of Love and Sex. 

Sounds quite helpful, right? It was this sales pitch that convinced my own mother to buy the little white book when I was just a blooming 11-year-old (I only recently found it under my bed). Why, even semi-reputable publication The Boston Globe lends a kind quote to the back cover, claiming the book “fills a great need…a ray of light in a dark basement.”

A ray of light in a dark basement, eh? Well, maybe. Let’s look at some excerpts from the book’s opening piece, “Is it True?,” a hopefully fictional account of a father teaching his little girl about the reproductive process:

One day Lena and her father were in the kitchen. Lena was drawing at the kitchen table. Her father was peeling potatoes by the sink.

“Daddy,” said Lena suddenly, “is it true that you and mommy make love?”

“Yes,” said Lena’s father.

“But Matthew and Eva say that it’s dirty.”

“I think it’s lovely,” said Lena’s father.

“Lovely? But Matthew and Eva say that the daddy puts his thing inside the opening between the mother’s legs when they make love. How can that be lovely?”

“Well, it is,” answered Lena’s father. “For grown-ups it is nice and sweet and feels wonderful… When people make love, they stroke and caress each other and then they kiss each other and say sweet things to each other. Then they get undressed so that they can feel each other’s naked bodies and can caress each other all over, on the breasts and on the tummy, on the arms and legs and between the legs. When they do that, the man’s sex organ–it is called the penis–becomes stiff and it stands straight up away from his body. The woman’s breasts become large and soft and the opening between her legs–it’s the beginning of the passageway called the vagina–becomes wet and soft.

“Then the man puts his penis inside the woman’s opening and caresses her and pulls his penis in and out several times. And it feels nicer and nicer the longer they lie like that together. And at last, it feels so nice that a fluid comes out of the man’s penis. This fluid–it’s called the seminal fluid–goes into the mother’s body.”

If you think this reads more like cheap erotic literature than a mature explanation of reproduction to little innocent children, you couldn’t be more wrong. This is proven when Lena asks her father if the seminal fluid is “pee,” to which he assures his daughter that it is not pee at all, but rather the sperm necessary for pregnancy.

“‘Won’t I have a baby then if I make love to somebody?’ asked Lena.

“‘No, you won’t have a baby,’ answered her father. ‘But you haven’t made love to a boy, have you?’

“‘Well, not exactly. But we have played games, Eva and Betty and Sam and I, many times. You know–doctor games. And we have looked at each other’s bottoms and things, and touched each other…’

“‘Oh, that is quite different. Lots of children play those sort of games, but nobody can ever have a baby because of it.’”

While this particular point of Widerberg’s might be disputed by acknowledging the beloved age-old game of Dr. Unlicensed Childcare Provider Steve Crams His Husky Shlongamadingaling into the Cavernous Depths of Tiffany the Autistic Preteen, Lena nevertheless becomes curious about her own future as a veritable breeding machine:

“‘When can I have a baby?’ asked Lena.

“‘When you are grown up,’ said her father. ‘When you have got breasts like Mommy and hair above your opening–it’s called pubic hair–and your periods.’

“‘Periods? What’s that?’

“There were so many things she did not know.

“‘Periods, or menstruation as it’s also called, is when a tiny amount of blood comes out from the opening between your legs. You know, Mommy often says, “Oh, I have my period today,” and then she has to put something up her opening to keep the blood from running out and staining her underwear.’

“Yes, Lena knew that.”

But what about the boys, Lena? But what about the boys?

“‘But what about the boys?’ she asked. ‘Do they have their periods too?’

“‘No, they don’t have anything like that. There are other signs to show a boy is grown up enough to start a baby growing inside a woman. He starts to grow a beard on his chin, his voice gets deeper, and his penis becomes bigger. And the little bag behind his penis grows bigger, too, so that there will be room for the seminal fluid to be kept in two round things called the testicles.’”

Still, Lena isn’t completely sure how having a 10-inch shaft of man-meat ferociously pulsating inside her “opening” could ever be pleasurable:

“‘But how can it feel nice?’ asked Lena. ‘I don’t think it sounds nice at all…’

“‘Well, you see, that’s because you’re not old enough to understand it properly yet,’ said Lena’s father. ‘You remember you said that you play sex games, you look at each other undressed and so on–you called it playing doctor. Well, you think that’s nice and I suppose you don’t want to stop it just because some parents don’t want their children to play games like that.’

“‘I know. Betty’s mother was terribly angry about it once when she came in and found us.’”

Unfortunately, “Is It True?”–like all great moments–eventually comes to an end. And really, I’ve probably excerpted enough material already to violate Widerberg’s copyright, so I better just pull out before I cause any sort of terrible mess. The Epic Climax:

“The potatoes are boiling,” said Lena.

The water was bubbling and hissing in the saucepan on the stove.

“I was talking so much I forgot all about the food,” said Lena’s father. He went over to the stove and started to fry some sausages. Lena’s mother and her two younger brothers would soon be home for lunch.

“Can I watch when you and Mommy make love sometimes?” Lena asked.

“No, we want to be by ourselves then,” said her father. “Most people enjoy lovemaking more when it’s private.”

“I see,” said Lena. At that moment, Lena’s mother and brothers arrived.

“…We are having sausages and potatoes for lunch,” said Lena. “And I helped Daddy so the potatoes didn’t boil over.”

“That was nice of you,” said Lena’s mother. She took off her coat and then she began to set the table.

In conclusion, let’s take a moment to recap some of the more striking points encountered in today’s dissection:

A) The daddy puts his thing inside the opening between the mother’s legs when they make love.

B) Then the man pulls his penis in and out several times. And it feels nicer and nicer the longer they lie like that together.

C) You know, Mommy often says, “Oh, I have my period today,” and then she has to put something up her opening to keep the blood from running out and staining her underwear.

Needless to say, The Kids’ Own XYZ of Love and Sex gets this critic’s euphoric approval. Highly recommended, kids! Highly recommended!

Marty Beckerman is a 17-year-old Alaskan humorist and the author of Death to All Cheerleaders: One Adolescent Journalist’s Cheerful Diatribe Against Teenage Plasticity, now available on Amazon.com and DeathTo-AllCheerleaders.com.

Sounds quite helpful,
right? It was this sales pitch that convinced my own mother to buy the little
white book when I was just a blooming 11-year-old (I only recently found it
under my bed). Why, even semi-reputable publication The Boston Globe
lends a kind quote to the back cover, claiming the book "fills a great
need…a ray of light in a dark basement."

A ray of light in a
dark basement, eh? Well, maybe. Let’s look at some excerpts from the book’s
opening piece, "Is it True?," a hopefully fictional account of a father
teaching his little girl about the reproductive process:

If you think this reads
more like cheap erotic literature than a mature explanation of reproduction
to little innocent children, you couldn’t be more wrong. This is proven
when Lena asks her father if the seminal fluid is "pee," to which
he assures his daughter that it is not pee at all, but rather the sperm necessary
for pregnancy.

"‘Won’t
I have a baby then if I make love to somebody?’ asked Lena.

"‘No, you
won’t have a baby,’ answered her father. ‘But you haven’t
made love to a boy, have you?’

"‘Well, not
exactly. But we have played games, Eva and Betty and Sam and I, many times.
You know–doctor games. And we have looked at each other’s bottoms
and things, and touched each other…’

"‘Oh, that
is quite different. Lots of children play those sort of games, but nobody can
ever have a baby because of it.’"

While this particular
point of Widerberg’s might be disputed by acknowledging the beloved age-old
game of Dr. Unlicensed Childcare Provider Steve Crams His Husky Shlongamadingaling
into the Cavernous Depths of Tiffany the Autistic Preteen, Lena nevertheless
becomes curious about her own future as a veritable breeding machine:

"‘When can
I have a baby?’ asked Lena.

"‘When you
are grown up,’ said her father. ‘When you have got breasts like Mommy
and hair above your opening–it’s called pubic hair–and your periods.’

"‘Periods?
What’s that?’

"There were so
many things she did not know.

"‘Periods,
or menstruation as it’s also called, is when a tiny amount of blood comes
out from the opening between your legs. You know, Mommy often says, "Oh,
I have my period today," and then she has to put something up her opening
to keep the blood from running out and staining her underwear.’

"Yes, Lena knew
that."

But what about the boys,
Lena? But what about the boys?

"‘But what
about the boys?’ she asked. ‘Do they have their periods too?’

"‘No, they
don’t have anything like that. There are other signs to show a boy is grown
up enough to start a baby growing inside a woman. He starts to grow a beard
on his chin, his voice gets deeper, and his penis becomes bigger. And the little
bag behind his penis grows bigger, too, so that there will be room for the seminal
fluid to be kept in two round things called the testicles.’"

Still, Lena isn’t
completely sure how having a 10-inch shaft of man-meat ferociously pulsating
inside her "opening" could ever be pleasurable:

"‘But how
can it feel nice?’ asked Lena. ‘I don’t think it sounds nice
at all…’

"‘Well, you
see, that’s because you’re not old enough to understand it properly
yet,’ said Lena’s father. ‘You remember you said that you play
sex games, you look at each other undressed and so on–you called it playing
doctor. Well, you think that’s nice and I suppose you don’t want to
stop it just because some parents don’t want their children to play games
like that.’

"‘I know.
Betty’s mother was terribly angry about it once when she came in and found
us.’"

Unfortunately, "Is
It True?"–like all great moments–eventually comes to an end.
And really, I’ve probably excerpted enough material already to violate
Widerberg’s copyright, so I better just pull out before I cause any sort
of terrible mess. The Epic Climax:

In conclusion, let’s
take a moment to recap some of the more striking points encountered in today’s
dissection:

A) The daddy puts his
thing inside the opening between the mother’s legs when they make love.

B) Then the man pulls
his penis in and out several times. And it feels nicer and nicer the longer
they lie like that together.

C) You know, Mommy often
says, "Oh, I have my period today," and then she has to put something
up her opening to keep the blood from running out and staining her underwear.

Needless to say, The
Kids’ Own XYZ of Love and Sex gets this critic’s euphoric approval.
Highly recommended, kids! Highly recommended!

Marty Beckerman is
a 17-year-old Alaskan humorist and the author of Death to All Cheerleaders:
One Adolescent Journalist’s Cheerful Diatribe Against Teenage Plasticity,
now available on Amazon.com and DeathTo-AllCheerleaders.com.