Belittled Women

by Amanda Sellet

Genres: YA Coming of Age; YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Sharp and subversive, this delightfully messy YA rom-com offers a sly wink to the classic Little Women, as teenage Jo Porter rebels against living in the shadow of her literary namesake.

Lit’s about to hit the fan. Jo Porter has had enough Little Women to last a lifetime. As if being named after the sappiest family in literature wasn’t sufficiently humiliating, Jo’s mom, ahem Marmee, leveled up her Alcott obsession by turning their rambling old house into a sad-sack tourist attraction.

Now Jo, along with her siblings, Meg and Bethamy (yes, that’s two March sisters in one), spends all summer acting out sentimental moments at Little Women Live!, where she can feel her soul slowly dying.

So when a famed photojournalist arrives to document the show, Jo seizes on the glimpse of another life: artsy, worldly, and fast-paced. It doesn’t hurt that the reporter’s teenage son is also eager to get up close and personal with Jo—to the annoyance of her best friend, aka the boy next door (who is definitely not called Laurie). All Jo wants is for someone to see the person behind the prickliness and pinafores.

But when she gets a little too real about her frustration with the family biz, Jo will have to make peace with kitsch and kin before their livelihood suffers a fate worse than Beth.

Release date: November 29, 2022

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 384

Sample

“My child, the troubles and temptations of your life are beginning, and may be many.”

—Little Women

Chapter One

It doesn’t matter how fast you run, or how far. There are things in this life you can’t escape.

Like your family.

At least not during track season.

If this had been a cross-country workout, my sister would be eating my dust right now. Unfortunately, it was spring, which meant circling the asphalt loop behind school like hamsters with delusions of NASCAR. It also gave Amy a chance to trail after me wailing, “Jo! Wait!” like she needed my help defusing a bomb.

When I sped up, she cut across the end of the field to catch me coming around the bend. By now the rest of the team had probably recognized that the freak in street clothes pinballing around the inside of the track was my sister, so there was no point pretending not to know her. Plus, Coach Solter blew her whistle, beckoning me with one finger. Fun time was over.

“Didn’t you hear me calling?” Amy panted, when I jogged to a stop beside her.

“People in the next state heard you.” I hadn’t been ignoring her. Well, not the whole time. When I was running, my mind spun out into the future. Today I’d been imagining a college campus somewhere far, far away. Walking slowly across a grassy quadrangle. Autumn leaves. Lots of wool. I could almost smell the crispness of the air, until Amy bulldozed through the middle of my daydream.

“Why are you here?” I resisted the urge to yell. Coach probably thought all the drama signaled a legit emergency, as opposed to Amy’s standard attention-seeking behavior.

My sister pressed a hand to her belly as she drew in a shaky breath. You could have made a sandwich during the pause that followed, because apparently no crisis was too urgent to keep her from grandstanding. “We need you at home, Jo.”

“I have practice until four thirty.”

“Whatever. You’re not even on the team.”

It was a cheap shot. The only reason I didn’t run track was that I’d have to miss half the meets—including state championships—due to the demands of our family business. Though the word “business” was a stretch. Tragic obsession would be more accurate.

“Coach wants me here.” A minimum of three weekly workouts was mandatory, so those of us who only ran cross-country didn’t lose all our conditioning in the off-season. That was the official reason; unofficially, we were demonstrating our commitment, team spirit, and extreme dedication to the cause. All of which were crucial if I wanted a shot at being cross-country captain next fall. Not that Amy would care about that.

Coach pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, clipboard balanced against one hip. She was already getting the distinctive ski-goggle tan line around her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a problem at home, Jo?”

“It’s not—” I pressed my lips together, doubting I could make her understand. “Everything was fine this morning. They were singing at breakfast.”

“When the red, red robin goes bob-bob-bobbin’ . . .” Amy began, falling silent when I glared at her.

“We need to be able to communicate.” Coach squinted at me, and I caught the unspoken message: if you want to be a leader. And since I had yet to secure more than one provisional offer from a college team, there was a lot more riding on next year than another varsity letter.

Amy grabbed Coach by the arm, leaning in like she was paying her respects at a funeral. “Thank you for understanding,” she said in a totally fake rasp. Straightening, she jerked her head at me. “Let’s go.”

“I have like three laps left—”

Coach shook her head. “Family is important, Jo. We’ll see you next week.”

“Such a beautiful message,” Amy murmured. From her backpack she produced a crumpled piece of paper, which she handed to Coach with a smile. “Take one of these. I did the design myself.”

Also known as “typing,” if you weren’t full of yourself. Although the blocky paragraphs were printed in simple black ink, certain phrases leaped off the page, sizzling behind my eyelids. Family-friendly. Pinafore. Ample parking. Because if you had to brag about the parking, didn’t that say it all?

I tried to snatch it away, but the damage was done. Coach scanned the press release like there might be some hidden message, as opposed to the same tired promotional language we used every year.

“That time already, huh?”

“Not really. It’s still March.” For a few more days, anyway. If the clock wanted to stop right here, it would be okay with me.

“You know what they say. It’s always March at our house.” Amy sent Coach a hopeful look that with the slightest encouragement would turn into a wink.

“No one says that. Ever.”

“I can send you a countdown widget,” my sister told Coach Solter, as if I had myself on mute. “So you can track exactly how long it is until the big day.”

Ha. Not the words I would have chosen to describe our annual pageant of humiliation. Waking nightmare, maybe. A living hell. And this year would be even worse.

“It’s like watching the time tick down until Christmas,” my sister blathered on.

“Or an asteroid on a collision course with Earth,” I countered, not quite under my breath.

“The anticipation builds and builds.” Amy squeezed her fists in a pantomime of excitement. “And then, bam! It’s finally May.”

“May Day,” I said grimly, like the distress signal it was. Mayday. Mayday.

“We’re so pleased to be able to offer an exclusive sneak preview for the local schoolchildren.” Amy spoke like she was hosting a charity telethon. “Giving back to the community is hugely important to the entire Little Women Live! family.”

“Did you take too much allergy medicine?” I tried to see if her pupils were dilated.

“All this”—she fluttered her fingers toward the track, ignoring me—“is such a valuable part of Jo’s process.” It sounded like she was throwing Coach a bone. Because three consecutive Class 4A state titles couldn’t possibly compete with the personal validation of contributing to a third-rate tourist attraction.

“It’s really not,” I assured Coach.

“The Other Jo was always scampering about—”

I stepped on my sister’s foot to shut her up. Her elbow caught me in the rib cage before I could dodge sideways.

Coach tucked the press release under the other papers on her clipboard. “You should hang one up in the locker room, Jo.”

I made a noise that passed for agreement, even though what I really meant was That would be tricky since my copies are at the bottom of the recycling bin outside the cafeteria. By now they were probably drenched in Smurf-colored Powerade. Or worse.

“Thanks again,” Amy said, like they’d just completed a professional transaction.

“I know school tours are a big deal.” For your sad, impoverished family. Coach didn’t say that part out loud; it was written in the sympathetic pinch of her expression.

My sister yanked me by the arm before I could disagree. We’d only gone a few steps when she let go, wiping her hand on the front of her shirt. “Is that sweat? Gross.”

“I just ran four miles.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t flood the stadium.”

That reminded me. “I think I left my water bottle by the bleachers.” I gestured with my thumb. Amy glanced back at me, eyes widening.

“No way.” This time she grabbed the hem of my T-shirt. “You’re not going back there.”

“It’ll take me two seconds.”

“That’s not why,” she hissed.

I was briefly distracted by a series of weird eyebrow contortions, like her face was using Morse code. “Are you glitching out right now?”

Although there was no one else within twenty feet of us, she got right up in my space. “David,” Amy said through gritted teeth. “He’s over there.”

My shoulders lifted in a shrug I was only halfway to feeling. “So? The guys’ team has practice too.” I stole a quick glance in that direction, easily spotting David’s lanky form among the knot of runners getting ready to hit the track. He was the tallest by several inches, but even without the extra height I would have recognized his posture: hands on hips and head down as he listened to someone else talk. It was a neat trick for someone his size to make himself so unobtrusive.

Amy smacked me on the shoulder. “Will you stop staring? He looks the same as always.”

“He got new running shoes.” In happier times, I would have known all about them: brand, model, how he was breaking them in. We might have even gone shopping together.

“Whatever, perv. Quit ogling. What if he looks over here?”

“I don’t know. We’ll wave at him, like normal people?”

“We can’t do that.” From the look on her face, you would have thought I’d suggested sawing off a limb.

“Why not? It would be way ruder to ignore him.”

“News flash. David doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“And you know this how?”

“Because, unlike you, I’m capable of understanding delicate emotions.” Amy placed a hand over her heart. She probably thought that was where feelings lived—the Hallmark version of human anatomy.

“What’s your point?”

Her head tipped back as she heaved a sigh. “It’s too painful for him to see us. A reminder of what he’s lost.”

I resisted the urge to glance at David. Not that I’d be able to read signs of devastation from this distance. Even up close he had a pretty good poker face. “I’m sure he’s realized he’s better off by now.”

“Wow. Disloyal much? Meg is our sister.”

“Which is how I know she was a terrible girlfriend.”

Amy pressed her lips together. Even she couldn’t pretend our space-case older sister was an ideal romantic partner.

“David’s too nice for any of us,” I continued.

“Except you, right?”

“I said us, dumbass. As in our whole family.”

“There’s no me in team, Jo.” Amy glanced at Coach, like she was thinking of repeating this bit of sporty wisdom to her. “But that still doesn’t mean he wants to be around you.”

“We were friends before. There’s no reason that has to change.” I’d been a little afraid to test this theory by actually talking to him, but I wasn’t going to share that with Amy. “It’s not like I’m the one who dumped him.”

“He doesn’t need you to run in circles with him, Jo. He has a whole team for that.” She flung an arm in that direction,

which of course made David look our way.

I froze, painfully aware we’d been busted. Had he gotten even taller, or were his shorts shorter than usual? Right as my brain sent a signal to my face that this would be a good time to smile instead of staring at his legs, Amy jumped in front of me.

“Nope.” She held a hand in front of my face to block my view. “You are not going to charge over there like a wrecking ball and make him hang out with you. Let him grieve in peace.”

“I wasn’t going to make him do anything.”

“That’s right, because we’re leaving. Mom needs us.” She shoved me forward with both hands. I thought about turning around and slide-tackling her legs out from under her, but there was a chance Coach would see. Plus David probably thought we’d been talking about him and then deliberately given him the cold shoulder, which was like choking down a chili dog of awkwardness on top of the deluxe shameburger of Amy’s earlier performance.

“Why exactly do we have to go home?”

“She’ll tell us when we get there.”

I gave a small yet eloquent huff.

“You’re going to feel bad when it turns out to be something major.”

“Somehow I’ll survive.”

As we stepped past the chain-link fence that bordered the track, Amy spotted a gaggle of her equally loud and show-offy sophomore friends, who of course she had to greet with squeals and hand-grabbing and hopping in place. It had probably been under ten minutes since they’d seen one another. I could have won the lottery and made less of a production.

Crossing my arms, I gave Amy a look.

“What?” She was faking it for her friends, pretending not to understand my silent warning. The one that said, you are standing on thin ice.

“I have to go,” Amy told them, cutting her eyes at me. A chorus of “Bye-ee!” and kissy noises erupted. They hugged like it was a contact sport, swaying side to side. It was all very notice me, as evidenced by the way they kept stealing glances over one another’s shoulders, hoping for an audience. I stared back, stony-faced.

“Could you be more of a downer?” Amy muttered as she joined me.

“You dragged me away from practice. I’m not going to stand there and watch The Amy Show.”

“Sometimes I think that’s my true medium.” She stared dreamily into the distance, head cocked, before glancing at me to see if I was impressed.

“Acting fake in public?”

“It’s not fake. I just enhance things. Make them more vivid. And beautiful.”

“Then it’s definitely not like your art.” Our house was littered with Amy’s failed experiments in everything from origami to bottled sand. When your own mother asks if you’ve

considered paint-by-numbers, it’s probably time to find a new hobby.

“At least I’m actually creating something.” She stuck her tongue out. “Besides stanky puddles of sweat.”

“Being dramatic is not an art. Nobody gasps that much unless they’re being strangled. Which unfortunately hasn’t happened.”

Amy sucked in an outraged breath, not exactly disproving my point. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“The pathological need to be stared at? True.”

“If anything, I’m more honest than other people because I express myself openly. Which is way better than trying to hide your feelings and then turning all sour and twisted on the inside.” She side-eyed me while pretending to cough.

“Congratulations on being an exhibitionist.” We’d reached the car, an ancient station wagon lacking any hint of vintage coolness. Amy thrust the keys at me without a word.

“Where’s Meg?” I asked, wedging myself behind the steering wheel. The lever that moved the seat forward and back had broken several years earlier, leaving it permanently adjusted for a person with much shorter legs. “Did she get a ride?”

“Here,” said a voice from behind me.

I jolted hard enough to hit my head on the roof of the car. “What the hell, Meg?”

She yawned hugely, then covered her mouth. “It was taking too long. Time goes way faster when you’re sleeping.”

I glanced between her and Amy. “How long have you been out here?”

“Since school got out,” Amy snapped, like it was my fault.

“Why didn’t you go home?”

This earned me an epic eye roll. “How were we supposed to do that?”

I tapped my chin, pretending to think. “I don’t know, maybe with the car you were sitting in?”

“I don’t have my license with me,” Meg said sleepily.

That brought me up short. “Where is it?”

Pulling the elastic from around her messy bun, Meg fluffed her long hair before scratching her scalp with the pads of her fingers. “Manketti oil,” she said, sniffing her hair. “Leonor Greyl Masque Quintessence.”

Usually when Meg sounded like she was speaking in code, it had to do with one of her personal-care products, a subject of less than zero interest to me. “License?” I reminded her.

“It’s in my wallet.”

“Which is where?”

“My backpack.”

I twisted to peer over the seat. There was the usual smattering of junk—candy wrappers, ten thousand hair bands (including the one she’d just dropped), a few pieces of paper stamped with muddy shoe prints—but no backpack. “Can you cut to the chase and tell me where you left your stuff?”

“In my locker.” She blinked several times. “I’m pretty sure.”

“This is why you need to get your license,” I told Amy.

“Excuse you, I had a very traumatic experience.”

I rolled my eyes at the latest installment in the Tragic Saga of Amy, Perpetual Victim. “You ran over the mailbox. It’s not like you were in a plane crash.”

“It was a head-on collision, Jo.”

“I don’t think that’s what that means. Only one of you was moving, which you would have noticed if you’d been wearing your freaking glasses—”

“Number one,” Amy interrupted, “it’s called an accident for a reason. That means it wasn’t my fault. And (b), glasses pinch my nose. It’s agony!”

“So get contacts. And then maybe you’ll make it out of the driveway next time.”

“Maybe they shouldn’t make driveways so narrow.”

“They’re about as wide as the road, though. That’s the thing.”

Amy made a scoffing sound. “The road is way wider.”

“Yeah, but you only get one of the lanes. You know that, right?”

“Whatever. I see plenty.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” I raised the middle one on my right hand.

“Real mature, Jo.” She stuck out her tongue. “Just drive us home. I’m hungry, I’m bored, and I have a new hairstyle I want to try.”

Realization settled over me like a cold mist. “I thought Mom needed us.”

Amy looked shifty, clicking the lock on the car door up and down. “She does. She texted.”

“What did she say, exactly?” I glanced at Meg, who shrugged. Apparently, she’d misplaced her phone, too.

“That she had news. And she would tell us everything when we got home.”

“That’s it?” I gripped the steering wheel like I was going to rip it in half. “And you got me out of practice for that?”

“She used a lot of exclamation points!”

“Um, have you met our mother?” Mom shed excess punctuation like other people lost dead skin. I yanked the keys from the ignition. “I’m going back to practice.”

Amy grabbed my wrist before I could escape. “You should be grateful.” This was a frequent refrain around our house. We should all be thankful for [insert random crappy thing]! Count your blessings! “Running is the worst.” Sticking a finger in her mouth, she pretended to gag.

It was fascinating how many people felt comfortable dumping on a major part of my life. Oh, you’re a runner? I can’t stand running. And then they’d explain in graphic detail how they’d once come really close to blowing out their shorts while jogging around the block. Yes, sometimes it felt like your lungs were saw blades and your thighs were actually on fire, but it was worth it to know you could push through the pain and come out the other side.

“You don’t have to like it,” I told Amy. “It’s my thing.” It wasn’t like I went around to knitters saying, Ugh, how do you not stab yourself with those needles to make it stop?

“So you miss a day. Who cares? It’s not like it’s a competition.”

“It literally is, though.” I pictured Kiersten W., my chief rival for captain, finishing her run, then sticking around to bond with the team. She didn’t need it as badly as I did. Her grades were good, running wasn’t her only extracurricular, and she’d actually made it to the surprise workout Coach had held for college recruiters, during which I was following my mother around the fabric store because ugly plaids were on sale. Plus Kiersten’s family could pay for college if they had to, since her parents worked real jobs.

Amy flicked me in the shoulder. “Can you not be difficult? Like, for once in your life?”

“Right. Because I’m the problem.”

Shaking her head like I was too dense to understand, she pulled a lollipop out of her pocket. From the way the wrapper stuck as she peeled it off, I could tell this was one Amy had started earlier. Maybe the lint made it more delicious.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about what Mom’s going to tell us?” she said between slurps.

“No.” Curious wasn’t the feeling. It was more of a numb state of dread, like if you’re already standing in a cold rain and someone pulls out a squirt gun. Here we go again.