Criss Cross, a book by Lynne Rae Perkins, reflects the definition of feminist writing given by Trites: “Defined simply, it is a novel in which the main character is empowered regardless of gender” (Waking 4). In a beautifully subtle way, the reader shares the everyday feelings of adolescents of both genders as they move from the comfortable relationships of childhood to the more confusing ones of adulthood. No trauma here, no scars. Just the gentle aches and longings of discovery as they are experienced by the young characters. I am particularly intrigued by Trites’ focus on voice. Both boys and girls are somewhat more articulate by the end of the story, but from the beginning, they are introspective and insightful. They grow; they stumble and correct; they come close to, and sometimes succeed, discovering each other in new ways that are simultaneously more intimate and fractured. The characters interact like sentient electrons that observe and bond when they bump. This simile is so apt I can’t remember if the author eluded to it, or if I made the connection independently. In both voice and plot this novel is the antithesis of the chic lit lamented by Cris Mazza. In these ways, Criss Cross is, perhaps, the consummate post-modern novel. It does not move in a predictable way to either satisfactory or unsatisfactory pairings. Relationships result from a combination of both agency and chance. “Hector did look at Debbie, and he saw her, really saw her for a moment. Debbie looked at Hector and she saw him, really saw him, for a moment. If it had been the same moment, something might have happened. But their moments were separated by about a second. Maybe only half a second. Their paths crossed, but they missed each other” (335). In these moments of ‘seeing’, the characters observe with wit, the reader with irony. Growth isn’t about “transcendence or separation”, but rather, about “acceptance of one’s cultural habitat” (Trites, Disturbing 18).