Was your most profound moment of disillusionment when you learned that Spotty wasn't really living on your uncle's farm in upstate New York? Or maybe when you found a pack of Camels in your mother's coat pocket, though she swears she's never touched a cigarette? For me, it was reading Francine Pascal's "Sweet Valley Confidential" and discovering that the woman who created a series that forms a major building block of my identity is a complete moron and that I was possibly also a complete moron for avidly devouring these books as a kid.
Any former fan of the "Sweet Valley" series remembers Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield, the flawless California twins (described in pretty much every volume as proud possessors of sun−streaked blonde hair, eyes the blue−green color of the Pacific Ocean and perfect size−six bodies) whose dichotomous personalities tugged them into all manners of mischief. In fact, any devoted fan has also probably considered whether they're a Jessica — fashionable, flighty and a smidge selfish — or an Elizabeth — whose love of writing, lofty moral code and hyper−responsible nature is chalked up to the four−minute head start she wrested from Jessica during their birth.
But, see, that's where things get crazy in "Sweet Valley Confidential." Liz is no longer the reliable, stable girl of series past. She's off in New York City, reviewing plays for some riffraff theater magazine and wearing itty−bitty black dresses. She debates getting her boss drunk and sleeping with him within the first 10 pages of the book. Most surprisingly, she hasn't spoken to Jessica in eight long months: Turns out her impetuous other half is a no−good, dirty−rotten boyfriend thief. Gasp!
Hey, wait a minute. Didn't Pascal already write something really similar to this in her and Laurie John's (but probably mostly John's — the majority of the Sweet Valley books are labeled "Francine Pascal's," not "by Francine Pascal") "Elizabeth" spin−off series (2001) in which Elizabeth runs off to London because she thinks Jessica has stolen her boyfriend, and they don't talk for months? Yes, the exact same plot goes down in another major metropolis, which is probably why the "Elizabeth" books are not at all referenced in "Sweet Valley Confidential."
In fact, there seems to be a very distinct possibility that Pascal has not read many of her ghostwriters' masterpieces, which would account for the inconsistencies that spring up throughout "Confidential." The majority of Elizabeth's non−Todd Wilkins boyfriends disappear in the miasma of what Pascal prefers her readers not to know. Also chucked into that void is Liz's and Jess' notorious history of macking on each others' men.
Of course, inconsistencies are a given in a series crafted by multiple writers; "Confidential" is really just following the trend of numerous other "Sweet Valley" books, in which characters are killed off, magically revived and even phenotypically duplicated in order to keep the plot moving. (At one point, there's a set of twins identical to the Wakefields, and they want to kill Jessica and Elizabeth and steal their lives. One of them dies once and comes back to life.) Still, it's annoying for a reader to constantly need to reconcile her own Sweet Valley experience with the version Pascal is presenting.
Worst of all, this version is a very, very poorly written one. The dialogue is completely unbelievable: Jessica constantly peppers the word "so" into her sentences, resulting in awkward lines like, "I so love you, Lizzie." The few sex scenes read like "Twilight" (2005) fan fiction, with gasping passion and entire sentences mashed into single−syllable gotta−have−you−now utterances. For a book that should be geared to the now−adult audience raised and nourished on the drama of Pascal's series, "Confidential" seems fresh out of the LiveJournal of a melodramatic preteen.
And yet, as with the literal hundreds of "Sweet Valley" books that line my bookshelves at home, I absolutely could not put "Sweet Valley Confidential" down and tore through all 291 pages in one night. Sure, the characters are one−dimensional, and the story is recycled and stale. Even so, there's just something about those two golden girls.
Although Pascal's writing is best described as brainless bilge, the Wakefield twins haven't lost their captivating magnetism. The magic of the "Sweet Valley" books lies in the glamorous impossibility of two stunning replicas coming of age like any ordinary girl, and in this installment, the twins are more flawed — and more ethereal — than ever before.
In short, the night you spend reading "Confidential" is likely the dirtiest one−night stand you'll have in college. You may regret it in the morning, but in the moment — well, if feeling that good is wrong, I don't want to be right. And spending the night with two hot blondes who are perfect size sixes? Can't beat that, bro.
