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Chapters (47)
  1. Cover
  2. Back Cover Text
  3. Praise
  4. About the Author
  5. Booklist
  6. Dedication
  7. Chapter One
  8. Chapter Two
  9. Chapter Three
  10. Chapter Four
  11. Chapter Five
  12. Chapter Six
  13. Chapter Seven
  14. Chapter Eight
  15. Chapter Nine
  16. Chapter Ten
  17. Chapter Eleven
  18. Part Two
  19. Chapter Twelve
  20. Chapter Thirteen
  21. Chapter Fourteen
  22. Chapter Fifteen
  23. Chapter Sixteen
  24. Chapter Seventeen
  25. Chapter Eighteen
  26. Chapter Nineteen
  27. Chapter Twenty
  28. Chapter Twenty-One
  29. Chapter Twenty-Two
  30. Chapter Twenty-Three
  31. Chapter Twenty-Four
  32. Chapter Twenty-Five
  33. Chapter Twenty-Six
  34. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  35. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  36. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  37. Chapter Thirty
  38. Chapter Thirty-One
  39. Chapter Thirty-Two
  40. Chapter Thirty-Three
  41. Chapter Thirty-Four
  42. Chapter Thirty-Five
  43. Chapter Thirty-Six
  44. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  45. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  46. Acknowledgments
  47. Excerpt from Dead Little Mean Girl by Eva Darrows

“She’s not sick, Ma. She’s pregnant, okay? That’s why we’re here. Sara’s pregnant.” I kept my eyes closed, because then I wouldn’t have to see the disappointment on my grandmother’s face. Mom came to stand behind me, her hand going to the small of my back and rubbing in soothing circles. It helped me not hurl all over the kitchen island, but it didn’t make me feel better. Mormor was silent save for the sound of her knife hitting the cutting board as she attacked another tomato.

Shunk.

Shunk.

Shunk.

“Well,” Mormor said, speaking only after she’d finished cutting up her vegetables. I cracked an eye, daring to peek at my grandmother’s face. No smile. No scowl. No anything. She was arranging more tomato slices on a paper plate when she said, without looking up, “It’s good, then, that I have four bedrooms.”

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

I asked to be excused from the conversation about my own baby. I know that’s weird, but I was exhausted—emotionally and physically—and napping seemed like the best course of action, especially as a puke risk, which is like a flight risk, only more disgusting. Dr. Bhatia had prescribed medicine to help with that, but I hadn’t gotten to the pharmacy yet on account of the Mormor visit.

Who, so far, was taking the whole thing pretty well. Thank God.

I climbed the stairs to the big beautiful spare room on the right. The bedspread was ivory. The wallpaper on the walls was ivory with little red-and-pink flowers with whorled greenery. The curtains in the windows were lace. It was pretty, at least two of my current room in size, and a lot fancier. I wasn’t going to have a reason to be jealous of Devi’s nice stuff anymore.

Right, Devi.

I have to call her.

This’ll be fun.

I walked over to the bed and face planted into the pillows, arms to either side of my body, legs akimbo. Mormor walked in behind me to pull the shades. I had four windows total, three on one wall facing the neighbor’s house next door, one on the adjacent wall pointed out at the backyard, overlooking Mormor’s shed and frog pond. She made sure each of them was darkened before coming over to the foot of the bed to pull another crochet blanket up over my legs.

Mormor liked to crochet, particularly when she was watching Jeopardy and Fox News at night.

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

“You’re welcome. This is going to be your room. You can fix it up how you like.”

“Okay.” I lifted my head so I could look at her. There was no reproach on her face, only her tried and true austere expression of chin up, brows high on her weathered forehead, mouth pinched tight in a flat line.