By Eva Ciabattoni

Elizabeth McKenzie’s debut novel, “Stop That Girl” (Random House, 2005), joins the spate of coming-of-age tales clamoring for shelf space next to Tom Wolfe’s bloated “Charlotte Simmons” and Curtis Sittenfeld’s overhyped “Prep.” Like Sittenfeld, McKenzie draws from her own life to create the substructure of this semiautobiographical novel. (Who on publishing Olympus decrees the difference between a semiautobiographical novel and a memoir is anyone’s guess.)

Told in the first person by main character Ann Ransom, the nine chronologically arranged stories convey scenes of growing up with her manic-depressive mother, new stepfather and new baby half sister, with occasional cameos by a lunatic grandmother, Dr. Frost.

Asked whether the character of Dr. Frost is based on someone from her own life, McKenzie said, “A grandmother for me is not a warm and cozy gray-haired being, but a prickling ball of mania and misguided schemes.”

At one point, Frost kidnaps Ann; then calmly explains that like a baby duck who bonds to the first thing it sees, Ann bonded to her, not her mother, since Frost was the first thing she saw after being born. In her next appearance, Frost in her Town Car chases down college-age Ann and her boyfriend as they convey Allen Ginsberg across town in a borrowed beater. The opportunity to bask in the presence of the poet is ruined by Frost’s offended sense of entitlement.

According to Ann’s mother, the family has one problem - the neighbors - illustrated by a backyard barbecue where Ann’s stepfather, Roy Weeks, and her friend Leslie Foote’s father pick up an argument between the girls about whether there is a planet called Comet.

McKenzie writes: “Mr. Foote shrugs and sends Roy a sporty wink, directing him out for the pass. ‘Yes, all right, and then there’s little Comet. Right, Weeks?’ Roy glances around the table at the faces of our neighbors, settles last on Leslie, then manages a sickly smile. ‘Yes, right, little Comet. Of course.’ ‘No way,’ I say.” In a few lines, McKenzie manages to spin a complex web of tension between love, betrayal, forgiveness and belonging.

It’s a relief that McKenzie avoids the inevitable staples of coming-of-age tales: boy meets girl, boy deflowers girl, boy betrays girl, girl grows up or self-destructs - generally told in turgid detail with the family of origin relegated to backdrops or bit parts once boy enters girl’s life. McKenzie/Ann keeps boy in perspective in the larger picture of primary family relationships: their importance and never-ending renegotiation.

One wishes, though, that stories so charmingly written and so well-observed would add up to more than their sum in this novel.