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448 pages, Hardcover
First published June 1, 2021

"Excrement."



“I’m not a ghost. I’m your sister.” I enunciate each word like she’s hard of hearing.
Siri lets go of a guttural scream.
"Intercourse this."
"What the underworld?"
“You’re such a gluteus maximus trench.”
“Are you intercoursing kidding?”
“Excrement.”

“Mara, are you proposing to me? Because I’m not interested in you that way,” I say instinctively.
"What the actual flippity fudge fork jibbit fuck!?"
“MOTHER FUCKER BALLS BASKET,”

“The faceless men,” Mom mumbles.
Wow. They’re literally not even questioning the magic.


Heartache clangs down my esophagus.
I flop the spoon around in my Special K and glare down at the Rediscover Yourself retreat pamphlet she shoved in my face last night. . . .
I sit with my butt on the very edge of a plastic subway seat, back ramrod straight, suitcase tucked between my legs, in route to JFK.
He’s smiling-smiling. It’s kind of just like his non-smile-smile; it’s on one side of his face.
A grin the size of a life-ending meteor smashes onto my face.
Dawn and I have been practicing the weird opening pattern game the team does and starting scenes together for thirty minutes on the grass along the side of the house where we’re performing when the other members of Duck Waterfall start to show up.