Dirt Creek

Searing heat and searing pain pulse off the pages of Scrivenor’s debut novel, which brings to mind the colonially forged dysfunction described by her Australian countryman David Malouf. The sad tale, in which awful events take on an air of near-inevitability, is narrated by Ronnie, a 12-year-old girl whose best friend, Esther, vanishes one day after school. Esther wears her name “like a queen wearing her crown at a jaunty angle” and even on a normal day exudes a kind of magic, says Ronnie; it’s impossible to her that anything bad could have happened. Still, nighttime comes and Estie’s not home, and the search is on. While the girls’ movements take center stage in Ronnie’s mind, to the reader, there are three centers of gravity here. Yes, there’s Ronnie and Estie. But also starring are their mothers and other weary, disappointed women of the dilapidated town. Finally, there’s a Greek chorus of disembodied children’s voices whose chillingly detached versions of what happened alternate with the more conventionally delivered story. Brace yourself, this is something.