How to Be Eaten

by Maria Adelmann

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

A darkly funny and provocative debut novel that reimagines classic fairy tale characters as modern women in a support group for trauma

In present-day New York City, five women meet in a basement support group to process their traumas. Bernice grapples with the fallout of dating a psychopathic, blue-bearded billionaire. Ruby, once devoured by a wolf, now wears him as a coat. Gretel questions her memory of being held captive in a house made of candy. Ashlee, the winner of a Bachelor-esque dating show, wonders if she really got her promised fairy tale ending. And Raina's love story will shock them all.

Though the women start out wary of one another, judging each other’s stories, gradually they begin to realize that they may have more in common than they supposed…What really brought them here? What secrets will they reveal? And is it too late for them to rescue each other?

Dark, edgy, and wickedly funny, this debut for readers of Carmen Maria Machado, Kristen Arnett, and Kelly Link takes our coziest, most beloved childhood stories, exposes them as anti-feminist nightmares, and transforms them into a new kind of myth for grown-up women.

Release date: May 31, 2022

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 336

Sample

The Beginning

The women gather in a YMCA basement rec room: hard linoleum floors, half-windows along one wall, view of sidewalk and brick. It’s a Friday, just after six, and above them the city of New York bustles. Up there, people are teeming out of subway stations and into the hot sun, rushing toward tourist traps, toward restaurants, toward parties and friends.

Whatever people do on a Friday, the women in the basement are not doing it. Instead, they unfold metal chairs, listen to the rubber nubs squeak across the floor as they circle up. They collect store-brand chocolate chip cookies off a card table, pour coffee into paper cups despite the heat, shake in the powdered creamer. They write their names on white, rectangular name tags, then press those tags to their chests. The instant they’re on, they begin to peel off, as if the tags themselves understand what the women want most: to be rid of their history, to start anew.

But they can’t outrun their names and they can’t outrun their stories.

They all had been blind cc’d on the same email. Personal trauma, public figure? the subject heading read. Unusual story? the email asked.

It continued with more questions: Did they feel alone or misunderstood? Could they identify with certain symptoms—recurring nightmares, intrusive thoughts, numbness, self-destructive behavior, anger, sadness, guilt, shame? Were they interested in free, experimental group therapy? Would they like to schedule a screening?

They would not.

Bernice had read the email, then deleted it. Gretel had marked it as “spam.” Ruby had read half of it, then marked it as “unread,” where it joined over 5,000 other “unread” emails. Ashlee didn’t even see it because she was trying to avoid the internet. Raina read the message, then left it in her inbox, where it fell lower and lower in the queue until it disappeared from the first page entirely.

By then, another email had arrived, and after that came another, and another.

Ashlee, who had opened her account in a moment of weakness, scheduled a screening immediately. Ruby replied to the third message while sitting alone at a bar, figuring even if it was some kind of scam, at least it might be entertaining. Bernice and Raina both replied to the fourth email, deciding that a screening would be harmless.

Gretel was the final holdout. In the middle of a sleepless night, feeling almost all of the symptoms the email had listed, she checked her spam folder. She deleted four of the five identical messages. Her cursor hovered over the fifth. What, at this point, did she really have left to lose?

There must have been others who received the email, who never replied, or who replied but never followed through with the screening, or who followed through with the screening, then decided not to come.

Perhaps those people had the right idea, the women think now as they shift in their seats, fidget with their phones, poke through their purses, look at each other and pretend not to look at each other, trying to attach faces to names, names to stories.

Bernice is fresh from the last news cycle. Until now, the other women have known her only by her media-christened name: Bluebeard’s Girlfriend. The dark and bizarre secrets of the eccentric tech billionaire with the trademark cyan beard made headlines for weeks earlier that summer. Even if you weren’t paying attention, you managed to accrue details by mere osmosis.

Bernice had yet to speak to the media. In freeze-frame footage from CNN, she had a double chin, a slight smirk, a nefarious brown eye peeking out from under a bright umbrella. Commentators commented: “Why so guarded?” “A rainbow umbrella, for a funeral?” “Why blue for her dress, of all colors?” Yet here, in real life, quietly eating a cookie, sans CNN, she appears less suspicious, less homely, less fat. Her uninspired office ensemble, her tired eyes, her half-bitten nails, these all make her seem so normal, so totally average, as to be incapable of anything the sensational headlines have implied.

As for Gretel, they’ve all heard her name, and if she’s here, she’s almost certainly the Gretel, the one from the strange kidnapping story that captivated the nation more than two decades before: a brother and sister went missing, reappeared three months later miles from home. The photo of the siblings reuniting with their father was one of Time’s photos of the year. The children had made wild and fascinating claims, though they themselves disagreed on what had happened, and the claims were unsubstantiated. Even so, after all these years, die-hard amateur sleuths still searched for proof, discussed theories on message boards devoted to unsolved crimes.

In that famous photo, Gretel is all elbows and knees and corkscrew curls, sweet gingham dress and bright, glistening eyes. It’s unsettling to see her now, grown up, mid-thirties, creases on her forehead. She’s still rail thin with a cropped puff of corkscrew curls. On a kid it was cute; on an adult it seems strange. Her hair is too spunky for her serious face, like a cloud has drifted in and settled on her head. The gingham dress has been replaced with jeans and an oversized gray button-down, the patent-leather shoes with Converse. Gretel sits hunched in her chair with an untouched cup of coffee in her hands, earbuds in her ears, avoiding eye contact with everyone. If she is giving off any vibe it’s this: she’d rather be anywhere else.

Raina, almost forty, is the oldest of the group, though you might not guess it. She is elegantly attractive. Her makeup is natural, her ensemble classy yet functional: tailored black capris, stylish black loafers, an airy white button-down tank, a large beige leather tote, ears studded in real pearls. She has a long neck and a sleek bob. A lock keeps falling from behind her ear, and she keeps tucking it back with a short, French-manicured nail. She’s reading on an e-reader—ostensibly reading—and drinking from a sleek, white insulated coffee cup. On her left hand, a diamond engagement ring sits above a pavé wedding ring.

Not one of the women recognizes her, not by name nor by face—though people occasionally do, mostly when she’s standing next to her husband. Her story made waves decades ago, though the details had always been hazy and now were mostly forgotten. All that remained was a certain warm feeling people had when they looked at her spouse, a sense that the man before them was heroic and kind.

Ashlee is the recent, controversial winner of The One, the most popular reality TV dating show in the country. The other women are surprised to find her among them. Her name tag reads ASHLEE E, 21, RETAIL ASSOCIATE, PARK POND, PA. When she first entered the room she was wearing a floppy sun hat and giant, bug-eye sunglasses. She had wandered around the space, squinting suspiciously into each corner, even looking behind the coffeemaker and her chair, her glossy lips scrunching into a blooming rose. Now she sits in her folding chair, fanning herself with her sun hat, one gleaming tan leg crossed over the other, sunglasses tucked in a purse so small it’s hard to imagine that anything additional would fit inside.

In real life, as on TV, Ashlee looks like a 3D rendering of herself. Her features are dramatic, her makeup expertly applied. She has perfected the “sexy baby” look—adorable and dangerous at the same time: doe eyes, long lashes, plump cheeks, pouty lips. Her skin is so smooth, it looks as if it’s been blurred with a filter. Her eyelashes are thick, her nails are sharp, her wedged espadrilles are three inches high. Her blush-pink romper has a V so deep that the point ends beneath her breasts, which—are they glittering? On her left hand, an engagement ring so massive that her hand seems like an afterthought. Even among such bold features, it is her mouth—her much talked about mouth—that is most outrageous, long and expressive, twisting and bending into projections of her every thought. In its neutral position, the ends turn up in a subtle smirk.

Will is the group leader, the only man. He is unobtrusively but certainly handsome—a full head of brown hair; soft, kind eyes flecked with green; a blue button-down that accentuates an athletic figure, the cuffs rolled up at the forearms. His demeanor suggests benevolent authority, like a young high school teacher, the one everyone likes.

He had vetted each member of the group individually in a screening interview, then assured more than one in a post-screening phone call that, though he hadn’t predicted the group would be all-female, he was still the person for the job, aware of and sensitive to their unique needs.

He does seem attentive, the women think as Will scans the circle, stopping to acknowledge each group member, tiny personal check-ins punctuated with encouraging smiles. His teeth are a tabula rasa of whiteness. When the women look at them, they each see something different. Bernice recalls the bone-white inlay of a bright blue dresser. Ashlee sees the glint of her own engagement ring. Gretel sees hard candy winking in sun. Raina sees her husband’s smile, all veneer.

Should the teeth be a tip-off? After all, they have already laid their fortunes in the hands of the most obvious psychopaths—billionaires and reality TV producers, metaphorical witches and literal wolves. Perhaps the women should wonder if something is amiss. Especially since one of them, yet to arrive, had already made a fairly substantial error with regard to teeth.

Ashlee sighs loudly and looks around the room for a clock, though there isn’t one. Just as she’s about to ask for the time, a high-heel clatter comes echoing down the hall, louder and louder until the door bursts open and Ruby, the final group member, careens into the room. She stops midway between the door and the group to catch her breath. “Sorry, sorry,” she says. Her face is bright red and sweaty. Her lips are picked raw. Her hair is a disaster: much of it is stuck to the sweaty sides of her face; the rest of it hangs down to her shoulders in a tangle. An old pink dye job clings to the bottom three inches. Her clear-framed glasses, the lenses comically smudged, slip down her nose. Just as they seem poised to fall off, she pushes them back up.

It’s no wonder she’s sweating. She’s wearing a massive fur coat: gray with dirt and ridiculous in the summer heat. It hangs open, framing a red top and a black pleather skirt, revealing the coat’s worn beige silk lining. A thick lapel extends to a hood that’s fallen on her back. The sleeves are so long that only the ragged, chewed tips of her fingers peek out.

She wipes the sweat from her brow with a furry sleeve, smudging a greasy tint of gray across her forehead, and squints around the circle. “Name tags!” she says, and clacks to the snack table to fill out her own.

When she spins back to the group, a chocolate chip cookie is shoved halfway in her mouth. The name tag rides along the hairs of the coat. LIL RED, it reads in smudgy all-caps. Then, in smaller letters below: RUBY. She latches an arm around a chair and squeezes in between Ashlee and Raina. Ashlee wrinkles her nose.

“Welcome,” says Will, clapping his hands on his thighs. His voice is as calm and clear as a podcaster’s, comforting yet with an air of gravitas. He has the impressive ability, as he speaks, to keep scanning the circle, surveying the group, like a phone constantly checking for a signal.

He reiterates why they’re here, gives them the spiel they’ve each heard individually, about the groundbreaking preliminary research on narrative therapy, about how each week one woman will take the lead, tell her story, and the others will listen and react.

He reminds them that they are unique. They’ve each been through a trauma that played out, in some way, publicly. “People know of you, but do they know you?” he asks. No, they concur, shaking their heads, people don’t know them at all.

He reminds them of the conditions they’ve agreed to in documents they signed prior to group. They should be present and participatory—no missing meetings, no lateness (he looks at Ruby with a smile), no phones allowed. Above all, they must be completely and absolutely honest. No lies, not even white lies, not even lies by omission. No holding back. He calls this “Absolute Honesty.” He explains that a natural by-product of Absolute Honesty is tension and conflict. In this sense, conflict, like a fever, is a sign that things are working, and should be embraced as part of the process.

“It’s not going to be easy,” he tells them, “but if you stay open and do the work”—he spreads his arms wide, as if in benediction—“you’re going to learn more about yourselves than you ever imagined.” He lets the words linger, then his arms drop.

“Big sell,” says Ruby through a mouthful of cookie. “Let’s just get the show on the road.”

“We could’ve started, like, twenty minutes ago?” says Ashlee. “If you weren’t late?” Her voice, nasal yet vocal-fried, is reminiscent of a creaking floor.

“I see you’re as charming in real life as you are on TV,” says Ruby, wiping cookie crumbs from her mouth with a furry sleeve.

“Hashtag editing?” says Ashlee, her words lilting up.

The other women look in their laps.

“Ashlee,” says Will, “you told Ruby you were upset that she was late. That’s a great example of Absolute Honesty.”

Ashlee beams.

“Absolute Honesty sounds like Total Crap to me,” says Ruby.

“That’s perfect, Ruby,” says Will, clasping his hands together. “That’s exactly the kind of honesty I’m looking for. Also, it’s natural to feel that way. Resistance is part of the process.”

Ashlee sighs dramatically. “I mean, if we have to be honest, I guess I should mention that I don’t really know if I belong here?” She combs her fingers through her shiny hair, her pointy, pink nails sticking through like claws. “Like, I’m famous for falling in love, where you guys are famous for what? Weird tragedies? Regurgitated by a wolf? Locked in some loser’s mansion? I mean, no offense.”

“Right, and you’ve never been locked in some loser’s mansion,” says Ruby.

“Not locked,” Ashlee says. “Also not a loser, obviously,” she adds.

“Ringing endorsement,” says Ruby.

“Speaking of rings,” says Ashlee, thrusting her left hand into the middle of the circle, wrist limp, as if waiting for a gentleman to kiss it so she can curtsey. “Princess cut. Fourteen carat white gold. Two carat colorless diamond. Looks like a lot of you aren’t in serious relationships, just from the hands I can see right now. I mean, Sad Face.” Her bottom lip juts out in a look of extreme pity. She drops her hand in her lap, then nods at Raina. “I mean, looks like you’re married, but if we have to be honest, I honestly don’t even know who you are. I feel like I recognize you from something, but maybe I don’t? Maybe I’m too young?”

“Could be,” says Raina, not offended. “I have a daughter about your age.”

“Maybe I know her?” says Ashlee.

“What is this? Twenty questions?” says Ruby. She squints at Raina’s name tag. “Raina’s going to tell her fucking story eventually. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“I just thought we were supposed to be famous, you know?” says Ashlee. “Like, I thought that was the point? But really only me and Bernice are actually famous.”

“Let’s see if anyone remembers you in three months,” says Ruby.

“You might rather they didn’t,” says Gretel. Her tone is neutral, even, out of tune with her curls, which quiver and bounce.

“Interesting,” says Ruby, like she’s gathering intel.

An awkward silence ensues, punctuated by the muffled honk and squeal of rush hour. The women take an interest in their coffee cups, their shoes, the wall. Will waits it out.

Bernice slides a chewed fingernail inside the lip of her paper coffee cup, starts unrolling it. “I’m not so much famous as infamous,” she says. All eyes shift to her. “I do wonder what you’ve all heard about me.” Eyes shift away, save Ashlee’s.

“I guess I heard you were in on it?” Ashlee says. “Like helping him for money? I wasn’t really paying attention. But Bluebeard’s exes were all, kind of”—she brings her hands narrowly together and draws them down—“you know? More like models? Whereas…”

“Is that what they’re saying?” asks Raina.

“Of course that’s what they’re saying,” says Bernice.

“Because Bernice is, you know, more like a sidekick type than a girlfriend type?” Ashlee explains.

“You are aware that fat people can have boyfriends, right?” says Ruby.

Ashlee makes a face. Bernice flicks at the lip of her cup.

“How do you feel about what you’re hearing now?” Will asks Bernice.

“I know what people think.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I feel okay. I get it.”

Will sighs, leans back in his chair, furrows his brow, not as if she’s done something wrong but as if he’s done something wrong, as if he hasn’t yet conveyed the correct information. “What’s one of our rules?” he asks.

“No lateness,” says Ashlee, throwing a smug look at Ruby. “No phones.”

“And?” says Will.

“Absolute Honesty,” says Bernice.

“That’s right,” says Will. “So, Bernice: how do you feel about what they’re saying?”

“Hurt,” says Bernice. “I am just, in general, very hurt.”

Somewhere in the city, police sirens wail. Bernice has an ear for sirens now. The sound throws her back to a few months prior, when she was lying on the couch of her childhood home as the flashing lights cut across the walls of the den. The room was rhythmically blue, blue, blue. If there were other colors, she didn’t see them. Her fingertips were blue, blue, blue. Her mind itself, everything: blue. Her sister was blue, was saying, “It’s okay, Berry, it’s okay, you’re in shock.”

Bernice tries to bring herself back to the present. She feels her feet on the hard floor, her back on the cool chair. She can’t blame the women for hearing what they’ve heard or thinking what they think. She knows how people consume the news: scanning headlines, catching a few sentences at the top of the hour, overhearing a rumor on the subway.

“I know people don’t like me,” Bernice says. “But whatever you heard, maybe it’s not the whole story.”

Will leans back, crosses one leg over the thigh of the other, cupping his knee with knit fingers. “What is the whole story, Bernice?”

“You want me to go first?” she asks, alarmed.

“I know you can do it,” he says.

She has practiced her story for weeks now. She has edited pieces of it in her head during almost every free moment—while grocery shopping or riding the subway. She sees it in her mind’s eye like a typewritten page. She wants to get as close to the truth of her experience as she can. Late at night, when she can’t sleep, her head tucked under her covers, earplugs in, she has perfected it, her lips forming the shapes of the words. When she replied to the email, she already knew what she would say, assuming she didn’t get stage fright. But, after all she’s been through, is that really what she’s afraid of? Public speaking?

“All right,” Bernice says, nodding. The other women look relieved.

“Thank you, Bernice,” says Will. “When you’re ready.”

Bernice closes her eyes, shakes out her arms, takes a deep breath, tries to let go of the stress and anxiety that has built up over the past months. She can use her exhaustion to her advantage. She can turn it into a kind of flow.

There isn’t much in her life she has felt prepared for, but she feels prepared for this. She opens her eyes.

Bernice

Bluebeard, as he was called on the gossip sites, had two houses: a penthouse on Fifth Avenue facing the park and a blue beachfront mansion in East Hampton. And by blue, I mean painted bright blue, so that at certain times of day, in certain weather, it merged with the sky. He also had a blue Bugatti, a nineteen-foot TV with surround sound that could be controlled from anywhere in the world, and, for all of his computers, brass keyboards with round typewriter keys, which run about two grand apiece. His dyed beard was touted as one of his many eccentricities.

I’d grown up as a year-rounder in East Hampton. We lived in a modest, two-story house with cedar shake siding that had long been mottled gray. In summer, the Hamptons was the picture of the American Dream: polo-shirt-wearing families on sailboats, licking ice cream from waffle cones. I befriended kids who disappeared into boxwood hedges at the end of August, never to be heard from again. In winter, it was as if we lived at the ends of the earth.

Until Bluebeard bought the property across the street, our neighbors had been the ever-elderly Pearsons: two, then one, then grown children in to sell the place. The house’s best feature was its size—so small that we could see around it, out across the tan-green beach grass into the beautiful blue beyond. At dinner, in the years following my father’s sudden death from a pulmonary embolism, my mom would stare out at the water as we ate. “At least we have that view,” she’d say.

My sister, Naomi, two years my senior, used to paint that view scrunched up on a lawn chair in the Pearsons’ backyard. She painted on damaged canvases my mom brought home from the art store where she worked, thus the skies were cracked through with lightning or punctured with invented constellations.

Construction on the mansion had already begun when Naomi moved back to the home I’d never left. She’d earned a big scholarship and gone away to college, while I’d stayed home, saving money by commuting back and forth to Stony Brook. Naomi’s boss at the nonprofit where she’d worked had wept when he laid her off—wept. He had been forced by policy—last one in, first one out—he hated to see her go.

The mansion loomed higher, wider, bluer by the day. Our view disappeared first, then the morning sun. “Sticks out like a sore thumb,” my mom repeated each morning at the kitchen window, scowling as she brushed her teeth in the sink. Our house had only one bathroom.

Ashton Adams—that was Bluebeard’s real name—sent a neighborly gift in a bright blue cake box. Our last name was emblazoned in raised, gold script on the top of the box, which itself was tied up with a silky blue ribbon. A surprisingly thoughtful, analog gift for a twenty-eight-year-old tech billionaire. We’d all read the articles.

The cake box was so e. . .