âNothing is sinful to us outside of ourselves,
Whatever appears, whatever does not appear, we are beautiful or sinful in ourselves only. (O MotherâO Sisters dear! If we are lost, no victor else has destroyâd us, It is by ourselves we go down to eternal night.)â
âWalt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1900
Many people helped breathe life into this book. My deep gratitude to Anne and Taylor Pace, who shared their beloved North Carolina with me and watched patiently while it became my beloved North Carolina.
My thanks also to my gifted editor, Susan Pezzack, and to my tireless agent, Laura Dail, who still has no idea that her encouragement is completely intoxicating.
I am blessed to have a friend like Mary Jane Clark, who is a constant source of strength and love.
My Emily gave me Carrieâs voice and helped me remember what itâs like to be a little girl. My Lizzie gave me support and unknowingly saved me from myself time and time again. And my Jeffrey gave me this whole new wonderful life and with unwavering support and love made it possible for me to be a writer.
The first time Richard hit me I saw stars in front of my eyes just like they do in cartoons. It was just a backhand, thoughânot like when I saw Tommy Bucksmithâs dad wallop him so hard that when he hit the pavement his head actually bounced. I sâpose Richard didnât know about the flips I used to do with Daddy where you face each other and while youâre holding on to your daddyâs hands you climb up his legs to right above the knees and then push off, through the triangle that your arms make with his. Itâs super fun. I was just trying to show Richard how it works. Anyway, I learned then and there to stay clear of Richard. I try to stay away from home as much as I possibly can.
Itâs impossible to get lost in a town called Toast. Thatâs where I live: Toast, North Carolina. I donât know how it is anywhere else but here all the streets are named for whatâs on them. Thereâs Post Office Road and Front Street, which takes you past the front of the stores, and Back Street, which is one street overâin back of them. Thereâs New Church Road, even though the church that sits at the end of it isnât new anymore. Thereâs Brownâs Farm Road, which is where Hollis Brown lives with his family, and before him came other Browns who Momma knew and didnât like all that much, and Hilltop Road and even Riverbend Road. So wherever you set out for, the street signs will lead the way. I live on Murray Mill Road, and I sâpose if you didnât know any better youâd think my last nameâs Murray, but itâs ParkerâMr. Murray passed on way before we got here. We didnât change a thing about the Murray house: the way in from Route 74 is just grass growing up between two straight lines so your tiresâll know exactly where to go. The first thing you see after youâve been driving till the count of sixty is the mill barn thatâs being held up over the pond by old stilts. We still have the board with peeling painted letters that says No Fishing on Sunday nailed up to the tree on the edge of the pond. Just to the side of that, taking up a whole outside wall of the mill, is Mr. Murrayâs old sign that shows a cartoon rooster cock-a-doodle-doing the words Feed Nutrena ⦠Be Sure, Be Safe, Be Thrifty. Itâs getting hard to read the words of the poster now that a fine red dust from the dirt outside the mill has settled over it top to bottom. But you can see the rooster clear as day. Tacked up to the door of the old mill is this: âWARNING: It is unlawful for any person to sell, deliver, or hold or offer for sale any adulterated or misbranded grain. Maximum penalty $100 fine or 60 days imprisonment or both.â I copied that down in my notebook from school.
âWhoa!â The notebook goes flying out of my hands into the dirt.
âBetcha didnât see that coming!â Richard laughs at me as I scramble to pick it up before he gets ahold of it. âMust be something pretty important, you grabbing at it like that. Lemme see there,â and he pulls it out of my hands before I can make a squeak about it.
âGive it back.â
ââCollie McGrath isnât talking to me on account of the frog incidentâ ⦠whatâs the frog incident?â He looks up from my diary.
âGive it back!â But when I go to try to get it back he shoves me away, flipping through the pages, scanning each one with his dirty finger. âWhere am I? I canât wait to see what all you write about me. Hmm,â more flipping, âMomma this, Momma that. Jesus H. Christ, nothing about your dear ole dad?â
He throws it back down to the ground and Iâm mad I didnât listen to my own self when I thought I shouldnât reach down to pick it up until he leaves, âcause when I do bend down again he shoves me into the dirt with his boot.
âThere! Gave ya something to write about!â
I live here with my stepfather, Richard, my momma, and my sister, Emma. Emma and I are like Snow White and Rose Red. Thatâs probably why itâs our favorite bedtime story. Itâs about two sisters: one has really white skin and yellow hair (just like Momma) and the other one has darker skin and hair thatâs the color of the center of your eye (thatâs just like me). My hair changes colors depending on where youâre standing and when. From the side in the daytime, my hair looks purple-black, but from the back at night itâs like burned wood in the fireplace. When itâs clean, Emmaâs hair is the color of a cotton ball: white, white, white. But usually itâs so dirty it looks like the dusty old letters Momma keeps in a shoe box on her closet shelf.