The Cheerleaders

I’ll admit, I rolled my eyes at first—*another* dead-cheerleader story? But *The Cheerleaders* disarmed me within an hour. Phoebe Strole’s performance is *that* good. She doesn’t just read Monica’s investigation; she *inhabits* it. The way her voice cracks when Monica’s confronting her own complicity in her sister’s death? Chills. The production is clean, but the real star is the pacing. Thomas structures the mystery like a series of gut punches, with Strole’s delivery ensuring each reveal lands like a slap. The flashbacks (narrated with a haunting, almost detached clarity) contrast brutally with Monica’s present-day rage, making the past feel inescapable. That said, the romance subplot feels tacked on—like Thomas remembered halfway through that YA thrillers *have* to have a love interest. And while the ending is satisfying, the final confrontation lacks the raw, messy chaos the rest of the book excels at. But these are quibbles. What sticks with me is how *unflinching* this story is. It’s not about solving a murder; it’s about the cost of looking too closely at the people you’re supposed to trust. If you’ve ever been a girl in a small town—or just enjoyed *Sharp Objects*’ slow-burn dread—this’ll claw under your skin. Strole’s narration turns a great book into an *experience*.