Excerpt from The Guineveres by Sarah Domet, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

We tried to put this out of our minds as we made our way to the concrete patio in the center of the courtyard where the floats were parked, lined in rows. Our Hand of Benediction wasn't so shoddy compared to some of the others: an enormous fish with streamers for a tail; some lumpy nondescript saints; a dove with an elongated neck; a lamb that looked more like a dog; a tree of life that resembled pom-pom fronds; and a float that simply spelled out L-O-V-E, each letter in a different color. We hurried in silence toward our Hand of Benediction. Sister Fran had made a sign that read A BLESSING FOR YOU and affixed it to the front of the float; the smell of fresh glue stung our noses.

Getting into the float was like getting into a canoe—it wasn't easy. Though the float didn't tip and turn, the angle was tight as we climbed through the hollow plywood base and into our hiding spots. We hadn't accounted for the space taken up by our stash of blankets and supplies, so I scraped my back as I slid up into position, and I grabbed hold of the chicken wire to get my balance.

"I can see your fingers poking out, idiot," Gwen snipped, so I loosened my grip a bit and allowed the frame to hold my weight. Waiting for everyone to take their places, I felt like a caged animal ready for transport.

"Okay, ready," Win said.

"Hurry," I heard Ginny say.

Gwen grunted somewhere beneath me. The float rocked and knocked as she slid inside the platform below.

"Okay," Gwen said.

"All aboard," Win said.

"God save us," Ginny said.

"Amen," I said.

We didn't have to wait very long. Only a few minutes later the short punctuation of Sister Fran's whistle grew louder. Through small gaps we could make out the outline of some Sisters approaching. We closed our eyes, hoping if we couldn't see them, we'd be invisible. Our hearts were beating quickly; we swallowed pitifully. We could hear our stomachs grumbling from too much funnel cake we'd eaten earlier in the day. We didn't know when we'd be able to eat again. Soon we could hear footsteps surrounding us, and then Sister Fran began coaching the others.

"Parade route is same as last year. Be sure to keep moving at all times—and stay a good ten feet back from one another. No accidents this time, please, Lucrecia." Sister Fran then began calling out the assignments. Sister Margaret would march with the L-O-V-E float; Sister Magda would be pulling the lamb; Sister Claire would walk with the Saint Theobald.

"Which one is Theobald?" we heard Sister Claire ask.

A pause. Claire was not known for her brains. "The monk," replied Sister Fran with a tone of disappointment. She sighed audibly, then continued her list of assignments.

Sister Fran answered our prayers and assigned Sister Monica to pull our float. She was the largest sister in the order, so presumably the strongest. Her hips were wide, her back end was huge, and she sort of hunched and waddled when she walked, swinging her legs out and around her body, earning her the nickname Sister Hippomonica.

Now Sister Monica's enormous derriere faced us. It looked like two oblong melons beneath her skirt, and I thought I heard Win restraining a laugh. Sister Monica picked up the long handle attached to our float and jerked it lightly to test its weight. "Jesus help me," she muttered, then turned to face front.

We heard Sister Fran's whistle again—a long, low sound followed by an up-pitched zip. Soon we were moving—not quickly, but moving. Inside the float, our muscles already began to ache from the odd angles at which we held our bodies. We couldn't think of where we'd sleep or how the woods at night would be crawling with spiders and snakes. We couldn't project our thoughts very far into our futures. We could only recall our pasts in silence. We considered our present, too, and we marveled at what had become natural in our lives: the stone structure itself, now looming behind us; the Sisters who normally resembled black-cloaked matryoshka dolls; the alabaster statues of saints that lined the corridors of the convent, staring down at us like disapproving parents. But not our parents. Our parents were far away. What would they think of us now, we wondered, as Sister Monica unknowingly pulled us up the hill, our bodies twisted and contorted inside our Hand of Benediction. Together we took a deep breath of stale air and exhaled. All these years later, and I can attest: This may have been my only out-of-body experience. I felt like I was watching the scene from a distance, from the crowd of onlookers in the parade. In fact, I'm certain I can see it in my memory, that jalopy of a float, our Hand of Benediction, slowly wobbling its way up the hill, the four of us hidden inside.

Excerpted from The Guineveres by Sarah Domet. Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Domet. Excerpted by permission of Flatiron Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.