Excerpt from Six Feet Over It by Jennifer Longo, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Wade loves to justify his hijinks like he's done us all a big favor—It's a solid investment, guaranteed income, you love it!—but has realized at last that with Meredith, he is skating on very, very thin ice, ice with a bunch of long-dead bodies floating beneath it. So he leaves her alone to Miss Havisham it up in the laundry room and makes rules such as No Talking About the Graveyard in the House When Your Mother Is Home. Which is fine by me.

I lean in the doorway and watch her paint.

"How was school?"

"Dumb."

"Oh, good."

Wist, wist, wist. She pulls fog up from foamy waves with a fan brush, wisting it into a restless violet sky.

"Kai said to pick her up if it gets dark."

She brushes up some white gesso, moves it around her palette.

"Well," she says, "I'm kind of in the middle of something."

I close my eyes. Count silently to five. "Yeah," I say, "I can see that. And she'll probably walk. She just means if it's dark when they finish. Just in case. Later."

"What's your father doing?"

I shake my head.

Wist, wist, wist.

Poor Kai. Between Wade and Meredith it's a miracle she ever makes it home before midnight. She's on the track and cross-country teams at school. They practice all the time, which is partly what absolves Kai of any obligation to help in the graves, but on the downside has left her more than once waiting on the curb outside school for Mr. I Love My Graveyard! and Ms. I'm Painting Some Seagulls! to remember to pick her up.

"Just please make sure someone goes to get her, okay? Don't make her wait in the dark by herself. Again."

Meredith nods, already back at the shore.

Waves crash.

I lug my backpack upstairs, turn the water on in the bath, and retreat to the cool dark of my room, where moving boxes are still waiting to be unpacked, piled against the walls, stacked in the closet. They still smell like the ocean. I did not pack them and have no idea what's inside—a situation clutter experts say means I should just get rid of it all. Which would leave me with one drawer of clothes, a few pens, and some library books.

Meredith's waves overtake even the sound of the filling tub. I pour in some kind of seashore-themed soap, drop my clothes on the floor, turn off the light, and sink into the dark, hot water. My hip bones knock awkwardly against the tub, Yorks lately being one of the few foods I can stomach. My head beneath the suds, the waves finally give it a rest.

Excerpted from Six Feet Over It by Jennifer Longo. Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Longo. Excerpted by permission of Random House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.