REVIEW: Teenager by Bud Smith

Fiction. 400 pgs. Vintage. May 2022. 9780593315224.

What if Albert Camus wrote The Stranger in the mid-2000s but wanted the humming engine of it all to be the absurdity of teenage love and a Tarantino taste for blood?

Our “heroes” aren’t as emotionless and dissociated as Meursault, they are actually full of passionate and reactionary behavior, but Smith writes with a purposeful naivete that allows us the reader to seamlessly join Kody and Teal’s micro-cult of crime, violence, and of course, love. We don’t have to feel concern for the consequences of their behavior because they are continuously moving away from them.

“Another bug hit the windshield. They were playing a game. Each time a bug hit, they made a new wish. Lots of wishes.”

Like most road-trip novels, the narrative can begin to feel monotonous and aimless, but Bud Smith knows how to write a sentence that feeds the magic and fuels the engine.

Both Kody and Teal have muddled, abusive histories that are doled out effectively between pitstops. Each have been betrayed and hurt by those responsible for protecting them. Each have reasons for feeling vengeful and isolated from the world and yet, each deserve to be held responsible for their actions.

Teenager is the kind of bat-shit story anyone can enjoy and still feels understated and quiet. Each new offense disappears as quickly as the stolen cars and the reader is left, like the love birds, wondering what’s next.

One of the more positively bizarre moves by Smith is his willingness to dip into an adjacent point of view with no warning at all. Consider this moment, when we briefly follow a rogue chicken that’s just escaped from our heroes’ car:

“The hen who had escaped ran on through the dark night. Her legs pumped furiously and behind her she could hear the yipping of a lone coyote in pursuit.”

Reliable narrator? Who cares? Teenager is a fever dream built on fire-cracker logic. It’s only when we get moments of pause, like Kody’s job shoveling shit, that we feel like things are beginning to make sense. The moments are reminiscent of Bud Smith’s earlier Work, and the familiarity allows the prose to shine.

“Whenever he asked a question of any other ranch hands, they just spit on the ground and walked away. He was surrounded by angels and demons, ordinary idiots. They rode saintly ATVs.”

Delusion can be contagious and requires serious detoxification if caught. Bud Smith knows this. It’s why he infects the reader and the only path to a cure is to finish the book.