Meh. It was a challenge to be enthused about this book given the seesaw quality of writing, limited range of the characters' emotions, and the broadly indifferent (or contrived) context in which the main character perceives her life to have evolved.
EVERYTHING CHANGES is fiction at its simplest: there is only one character of relevance, there are zero splinter plots, the character arcs are predictable and linear, and there are no conflicts the main character encounters that she herself did not create. To wit, EVERYTHING CHANGES isn't bad; rather, it's simplistically (weakly) written. Whether this is what contemporary readers require, however, is another concern entirely.
This book is a coming-out story. That's it. No ruminations on true love. No vacillations on one's place in society. No internal conflict that manifests in new or challenging ways. None. EVERYTHING CHANGES focuses all 180 pages on one girl, Raven, owning up to her capacity to say, "I'm gay," out loud, and nothing more.
In sociological terms, this book probes an interesting dilemma: how do teens, who are new to self-identifying on the LGBTQIA spectrum but are afraid to do so publicly, manage self-doubt? There is value in claiming the self -- to say, "I am" -- in spite of one's circumstances. And for this Cartesian effort, Hale's story has value. Raven is acrimonious toward physical contact with others (males) and can't figure out why. She's dislocated herself, emotionally, from personal relationships because it's never worked out. Except for when she meets Morgan.
Morgan is an art school freshman (and proud lesbian) who knows what she wants and doesn't want. Somewhat predictably, Morgan's interaction with the main character causes seventeen-year-old and closeted Raven to muster a few bold moves and break out of her shell. Also predictably, Raven is terrified of what being gay means, how that affects her family relations, personal friendships, and social (high school) life. Raven's paranoia and stress endangers her romance with Morgan, and things get worse before they get better.
Hale deserves kudos for drawing a line from Raven's due caution (toward living out) to the very real problem of internalized homophobia. Raven hates the idea of being categorized as an "other," while at the same time she knows full well that nothing is truly different about her. In the real world, this may manifest in physically or psychologically stressful or violent ways. EVERYTHING CHANGES, however, provides a decidedly vanilla version (Raven ignores her friends for a week and cries to herself).
The book nevertheless falls short in terms of getting the reader comfortable with drawing these kinds of serious, behavioristic implications from the text.
The quality of writing is noticeably better in the second half of the book than in the first. Structurally, the book abdicates a lot of context. There are multiple occasions where characters have a chat, but the nature of their discussion is completely glossed over in favor of the author scurrying to the end of the dialogue, interjecting a simple and feathery resolution, and moving on. This happens every time characters sit down to eat a meal or watch a movie, which is a lot. It's not a problem to time-skip through life's boring parts; however, when one skips too much, readers will suspect there's nothing in these character's lives that's worth skipping to. If the life events we're skipping over clearly don't matter. Do the characters matter?
In EVERYTHING CHANGES, the answer isn't always clear. The book's average chapter length is around five or six pages. Some chapters are less than two pages long -- e.g., a phone conversation (pp. 105–106); a conversation about a phone conversation (pp. 155–156) -- and the result (of a lack of substantive context) is a blatant cheapening of the narrative. If the phone conversation occurs in the same scene as the chapters both before it and after, why bother? As a transitional scene, it's a complete waste of energy (and unwittingly highlights another one of the book's problems: scene breaks and chapter breaks).
There's also a handful of vague overwriting, for example, which really take the wind out of what should be brief, intimate moments. Characters roll their eyes a lot (p. 24-26). And simple behaviors/actions become terribly clunky with phrases such as, "handing around the condiments" (p. 17), "the house was in darkness when Raven pulled into the driveway" (p. 39), or "the kiss with Morgan had been pushed from the forefront of her mind" (p. 43), which is a strange lyrical inversion the book's editor, or any editor should have caught.
The prize for the most vague? "Her dark green dress brought out the flecks in her eyes" (p. 129), which sounds nice, but doesn't make a lot of sense. What flecks? Flecks of what?
The most burdensome phrase? Try, "She took a couple of bites that were tasteless on her tongue and settled heavily in her stomach" (p. 166). This book, one finds, is quite the nightmare for anyone whose bane in life are excess prepositional phrases.
Pronouns are a recurring problem as well. Primarily, this is because there are no recurring male characters in this book. None. (AJ, the boyfriend of Raven's pal Chloe, as well as Raven's father, unnamed, appear but don't speak until the Third Act.) As such, the balance or lack thereof regarding any and all instances of "she" and "her" and their appropriate proper nouns go up in the air after the first two or three chapters. To whom is the author referring when they open up a chapter, blankly, with "she" or "her," and nothing else?
Sometimes, Hale has no control over the subject. One scene to which this applies finds Raven mulling the consequences of having stolen a kiss from Morgan, and thus hyper-rationalizing why doing so again may or may not be a good idea: "The first time she'd kissed her, and then run away, Morgan had forgiven her. She'd understood Raven was feeling lost and confused. If she did it a second time, she wouldn't be so understanding. If she kissed Morgan now, it would mean something" (p. 64). She who? Her who? Reread it carefully and figure it out. The author isn't going to help you.
EVERYTHING CHANGES does have the occasional gem. The biggest and shiniest of which is a speech Morgan gives when declaring that dating a girl who refuses to come out does more harm to their relationship than good. "All the time we spend holed up in here instead of going out, like a normal couple," Morgan says, "that's me taking a step backward" (p. 121). Few in the LGBTQIA community speak of the difficulties and dynamics of out/in-closet dating. Most assume it's not even an issue. But it is. And Morgan's discourse on how doing everything the average couple does becomes "less than" when one individual (Raven), refuses to be [her]self in public, is painfully, regrettably true. (Naturally, this is only one part of the argument, since cultural indices may inhibit safe, public interactions; but Morgan's point is clear: if you can't be yourself, then I can't be myself.)
EVERYTHING CHANGES documents a very narrow emotional response to a very individual situation, through a very narrow narrative lens. Settling into all those caveats, it's an okay book. But the rules and boundaries ascribed to a teenager coming out of the closet are rarely, if ever this well-defined. And this is where the book's central conflict, indeed its whole premise, bears scrutiny. Raven has a small but stable support network, a patient and mature first-love girlfriend, and a relatively uneventful suburban life who's the largest dilemma is an art history midterm. Everything changes? Not really.