Excerpt from These Heathens by Mia McKenzie, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

One thing I liked about my life was the moments I had to myself, especially the few minutes between starting the laundry and when Ma came out to sit with me while I did it. No matter how sick or tired she felt in the morning, she always ended up coming out to sit with me on the back porch while I washed clothes. But for the first little while, fifteen minutes or so, I was out there by myself. These were my favorite minutes. We had a record player that Daddy had found broken somewhere and fixed, and sometimes I'd put on Mahalia Jackson while I worked, but not for that first little bit. I let it be quiet. There was always noise—­the neighbors' dogs barking, somebody's baby screaming, everybody's chickens bawking—­but I could block it out, make a quiet space inside my head while I mixed up the soap and water. On the morning Ma said there was something different about me, I filled the quiet space with thoughts about last Sunday's church service while I poured the washing powder into the bucket. Pastor Mills had let his daughter, Constance, lead a hymn, even though the girl couldn't sing. Deacon Turner, who always sucked up to Pastor, had the nerve to say the girl sang "like a bird ascending toward heaven." I was scandalized to see somebody lie so bad in church. I knew Jesus could hear us no matter where we were, but you couldn't get a word past him in his own house. "A bird ascending toward heaven"? More like a bird getting shot out a tree. That thought made me laugh. I took out the little notebook I kept in my pocket, and the pencil I kept in my hair, and wrote it down. I'd been doing that—­writing down little funny thoughts and turns of phrase—­for as long as I could remember. I used to use little scraps of paper I'd tear from the corner of The Millen News, or a paper grocery bag, or whatever was handy at the moment I had the thought. But most times I'd end up losing the scrap of paper, and the thought right along with it. When I quit school, Mrs. Lucas, who'd seen me writing thoughts on scraps of paper for a whole year, gave me a little notebook as a present. I liked it much better than the scraps, so once I'd filled it up, I went out and got another one. I'd filled up half a dozen little notebooks by now. I kept them in my bottom dresser drawer, and sometimes I'd take them out and look over what I'd written, when I had time, which I almost never did.

"Doris Steele!" It was Mrs. Haley, our neighborhood's official crazy person, coming up behind the house.

"Ma'am?" I called out to her, hoping I wouldn't have to come down off the porch. But she leaned against the wood fence and waved me over to her. Crazy as she was, she was still my elder, so I had to be polite. I went down the steps and crossed the yard. Soon as I was within reach, she put a gnarled hand on my stomach and, with raised, crooked, penciled-­on eyebrows, said, "I can feel life pulsing inside your belly, Doris Steele."

I shook my head and took a step back. "I'm pretty sure that's just cream of wheat, ma'am."

She threw her head back and cackled at the cataract sky.

Mrs. Haley was sho'nuff crazy, and it didn't make sense to take anything she said to heart. But right then it hit me that my menses was late. So late, in fact, that I couldn't remember when it came last. On top of that, I'd been queasy on and off the last few days. Standing there, watching Mrs. Haley, who was laughing herself to tears now, I remembered what Ma had said. "It something different about you, child."

Shit.

I left Mrs. Haley standing there and ran in the house.

I went to my room and got down on my knees beside the bed. My first prayer was: Lord Jesus, please don't let me be pregnant. But even as I said it, I already knew I was. So, next I prayed: Please take it away, Lord. But that didn't sound right, either. If I was pregnant, then it must be God's will. What sense did it make to pray to that same God to take it away?

Excerpted from These Heathens by Mia McKenzie. Copyright © 2025 by Mia McKenzie. 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.