Realistic Fiction is a tough sell in the world of young adult (YA) literature at the moment. Shelf space at bookstores is always at a premium, but lately the bulk is reserved for novels that feature vampires, faeries, zombies, and, most recently, angels (evil, heaven-sent, you name it). Add a star-crossed romance between such mythical creatures and an ordinary human girl. Or boy. Usually a girl. Then stir. And voila! Instant bestseller. Or so the publisher hopes.

The Twilight phenomenon—the appeal of the now infamous Edward (the vampire), Jacob (the werewolf), Bella (the ordinary high school girl), and the love triangle they form over four thick, juicy novels by Mormon mom Stephenie Meyer—has landed the YA industry in this predicament. With so many authors and editors focused on finding the next big paranormal hit, books that fall under the heading Realistic Fiction—stories without mythical creatures, newfound magical abilities, and love everyone is willing to die for—are not only neglected but sometimes squeezed from shelves altogether.

Yet many of the best YA novels happen to fall into this marginalized territory. I've spent months talking up a wonderful debut, Amy & Roger's Epic Detour, by Morgan Matson, because I fear it will get lost amid the hundreds of paranormal ones. But add in another complicating factor: Realistic Fiction for boys is an even tougher sell. Most YA novels claim girls as their audience because it is widely known that girls read and girls buy books. Getting boys to read, especially teen boys, is a problem under near constant discussion among editors, authors, children's librarians, and parents, too.

This is the challenge facing seasoned author Peter Abrahams with Bullet Point, a mystery of sorts. Not only does it lack vampires—it's a boy book to its core. Protagonist Wyatt Lathem is a guy's guy. He's quiet. Reserved. Only speaks if he has something to say and even then not much. Education is not his priority, though occasionally something from class will niggle its way into his thinking, as Shakespeare's Hamlet does over the course of Wyatt's story. He's his high school's star baseball player, but his family circumstances and Lowertown, where he lives, are not promising. Abrahams' setting is gritty and blue-collar—he makes no effort to brighten anything up, preferring to draw the background to Wyatt's journey in shades of gray and populate it with down-on-their-luck locals. Layoffs abound in Lowertown. Businesses close. School programs—including Wyatt's beloved baseball—are slashed. And that's the catalyst that sets the story in motion, sending Wyatt to a new school in a new town, where he has a chance to get to know his biological father, Sonny Racine, a convict who's doing time for murder at the nearby state penitentiary.

Clearly, Wyatt's world is as far from the sort of fantasy Twilight offers as it gets. Lucky for Abrahams, his premise appeals. Wyatt isn't in Silver City two days before he meets the beautiful Greer, whose father is also doing time in the same prison, and who has intriguing information about Wyatt's dad. The questions facing Wyatt abound: Is his father an innocent man, or the criminal Wyatt has always thought him to be? Does he want to pursue a relationship with Sonny? Is Greer to be trusted, or is she leading him down the wrong path? As Wyatt and Greer delve further into the mysterious circumstances of his father's conviction, things only become more obscure. Worst of all, Wyatt begins to wonder: was his mother involved? Did she pull the trigger that led to Sonny's incarceration?

Despite such intrigue and the setting's appeal—a story unfolding against the backdrop of a prison is distinctive among YA novels—this book never entirely gets off the ground. I followed Greer and Wyatt in and out of her bedroom, then his, then hers again, watched as Wyatt walked through the prison gates and guards to meet Sonny the first time, tagged along while Wyatt and Greer tracked down witnesses and information—but all from a safe distance. Abrahams' style lacked the emotional punch I seek as a reader, and while I went wherever he asked, I never felt truly invited into the story he was telling.

I can't help but wonder: is this because of my gender? In a literary culture where dialogue about gender, feminism, and girl empowerment within children's literature is ongoing, it might seem strange that when it comes to reaching boy readers, most of us are willing to bracket such commitments. We must contend with the reality that boys are pickier than girls when choosing what to read, and they tend to pick books according to the gender of the protagonist.

In middle grade fiction, boy protagonists abound and boy books tend to feature magic, adventure, special abilities, clear heroes and villains, and a good dose of humor. Among the the category's most obvious successes are Harry Potter, Rick Riordan's Percy Jackson series, and the Newbery winner Holes by Louis Sachar. Lesser known is the Genius series by Catherine Jinks, but I'd argue that its first installment, Evil Genius, is one of the best boy books ever written.

But here's the thing: girls read all of these books, too. Girls are far likelier to cross gender lines as readers. Girls have no problem reading stories with boy protagonists. So boy books tend to be a safe bet with the girls as well.

Perhaps John Green, whose debut novel Looking for Alaska won the Printz Award, the highest honor for YA literature, and whose subsequent bestsellers include Paper Towns and, most recently, Will Grayson, Will Grayson (co-authored with David Levithan), sits atop the YA boy book throne. His stories feature teen boy protagonists who swear liberally, think a lot about sex, and tend to feel down on their luck with certain girls, often obsessively so. But then, the boys Green brings to life, if vulgar at times, are also sensitive and romantic, brilliantly clever, and better known for chasing their heart's desires to the ends of the earth (or through small town America) than for playing sports and other stereotypical guy behavior. So, like the successful middle grade boy books, Green's YA novels win over a huge swath of girl readers, too.

Which reminds me of the one significant girl character Abrahams offers: Greer, who is at the center of what bothers me most about Bullet Point. Greer is mysterious. She's hot. And she's an older woman—at nineteen to Wyatt's sixteen, in adolescent years she may as well be a decade his senior. Add to this that she's willing to jump into bed with Wyatt immediately, barely a few days after they meet—and the male fantasy is complete.

Isn't it just like a (stereotypical) man, to skip the romance and go straight for sex? To dream up a girl who could care less (or very little) about conversation and commitment, who wants nothing more than to have sex like the boys do? Granted, girl books proffer the (stereotypical) female fantasy, which tends to feature the long, delicious lead-up to the first kiss, often foregoing even the thought of sex, so I suppose I should afford Abrahams license to do the same. But it's this storyline that further shut me out as a reader.

Whether Bullet Point will find its audience alongside the latest Twilight imitators, I honestly don't know. I do know, however, that I am not it. Whether the problem has to do with my gender is an open question. I'm not a teen girl either, and haven't been for some time, but I've had little trouble falling hard for YA novels of all types in the past. Including those expressly aimed at middle grade boys, like Holes and Evil Genius.

Donna Freitas is associate professor of religion at Hofstra University and writer in residence at Hofstra's Honors College. She is the author of two YA novels, The Possibilities of Sainthood and This Gorgeous Game, both published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

Copyright © 2011 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture magazine.
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