A review by cheraquili
Punk 57 by Penelope Douglas

reflective medium-paced

2.25

 

He seems to sense me watching him, because he turns his head toward me, both of us locking gazes across the crowded hall. His green eyes pin me to my spot, something hot flashing in them, and I suddenly can’t move a step.
2.25/ 5 stars

Aaaaa, the fact that I didn't like this book makes me so sad😥!; it is honestly such a shame because I love Penelope Douglas' writing!! In my opinion, the first half of this book is near perfection! My favourite book ever is Birthday Girl by Penelope Douglas herself, and this was reminding me so much of it; I immediately liked how this book had a playlist like BG, the tension between the main characters and also the plot twists.
Yet it went downhill after that...

We were perfect for each other.
Until we met.
I hate when I am reading a romance book and the characters are initially arguing, and then, they just randomly start kissing each other... like wtf it doesn't work like that mate! The exact thing happened in Punk 57: initially, they were arguing and really going at each other because of Misha's secret, yet all of a sudden they just started kissing and effing each other. 🤦🏻‍♀️

Dark corners, shadows, dank glimmers from the fluorescent light hitting the puddles of water… I see nothing. But I breathe hard, unable to shake the creepy feeling. Someone is there.
Additionally, I EXTREMELY dislike how passive Ryen was; for instance, she kept freaking talking to Lyla, knowing well enough how double-faced and appalling she was.

All in all, although I disliked and felt so disappointed by this novel, I will most probably read more books by Penelope Douglas as I LOVE Birthday Girl so much! 🥰







Other quotes I liked:
It’s just that…given all of her detestable attributes, she’s never alone. You know?
I kind of envy that. Okay, I really envy that.

When she removes her makeup, taking off her brave face for the day, do the demons she keeps buried start playing with her when there’s no one else to play with? I guess not. Narcissists don’t have insecurities, right?

But what if I hear her voice and I like it? What if her laughter in my ear or her breathing into the phone haunts me as much as her words, and I want more?
I’m already obsessed enough with her letters.

Everything makes sense now. The cheerleader she talked about in her letters and everything she hated—she was talking about herself.