"Summer Sisters," by Judy Blume. I sometimes think Blume doesn't get the right amount of literary cred. This particular novel was a Number One "New York Times" bestseller, and it features two beach chairs on the cover, right in front of beautiful, rolling waves. The ad copy promises that the story is "dripping with sex," and the title is unabashedly feminine; the title doesn't have the adjective "American," and it doesn't use ponderous rhythms. It's not "The Inheritance of Loss" or "Do Not Say We Have Nothing." So I think people maybe aren't inclined to take it seriously. But this is just a great story. It really does feel like you're given access to someone's dream; there is that level of vividness and authority. At times, the rockiness between Caitlin and Vix reminded me of the central relationship in "My Brilliant Friend"--but, since Judy Blume is not Elena Ferrante, and is not surrou...