Excerpt from Speak No Evil by Uzodinma Iweala, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I hear a sniffle behind me and spin around. The landing is still empty. I'm not trying to be funny, she says, but I still can't see anyone. I follow her voice back toward the stairs up to the guest room, feeling along the wall with my fingertips. There are no knobs or handles but my fingers touch a seam in the drywall. Where are you, I whisper. Meredith coughs. It's really cold out here and I think you have my shirt, I say. Fuck your shirt, she says, but I hear rustling through the wall. I'm not playing, Meredith. Neither am I. I shiver and rub my arms. What if her parents come back to find a half-naked black man standing in the middle of their upstairs hallway. This kind of thing never ends well for the black man, no matter how innocent. I really should have driven home. Any accident could not have been more of a wreck than this evening.

Meredith groans. I don't get it, you keep rejecting me, she says. She sniffles again as she works herself into sobs. I try to swallow but I can't. Meredith, it's not—I can't continue because I don't know what to say. I wish for a steady voice, for some of OJ's confidence, my father's single-mindedness, my mother's calm. I pinch my arms and dig my nails into my own skin and scratch. The burning is relief, the pain a welcome distraction. Is it my face, she whimpers. No. You don't like my body? No. I'm not cool enough for you? I bring my palm to my mouth and bite down against the fleshy pad of my thumb. I raise my knuckles to my lips. I'm not black enough? No. Is it my lack of booty? Meredith manages a chuckle. No, I say. Well what the fuck is wrong with me then?

I've asked myself the very same question since that first time something felt different when I wrestled with Zhou, my next-door neighbor, until his father got a job with an aerospace company in San Diego. We threw each other to the carpets and lay down on each other. I felt Zhou's breath against my face and neck. His chest moved against my chest and it felt nice with our legs tangled together.

Because boys aren't supposed to like other boys, my mother said to me when I asked what the pastor meant when he said America was living under the shadow of that abomination, homosexuality. But OJ likes boys and I like Zhou, I said. Abeg, leave that thing, my mother said. She only ever speaks pidgin when she's surprised or angry. Otherwise she sounds faintly British. She fidgeted in the driver's seat and turned up the radio so I knew she didn't want to talk. She said, God said man is for woman and woman is for man. That's how it's supposed to be. And God was always right; so I decided I would only like girls even if I could feel that I liked looking at them less than I should. I didn't watch the porn my classmates shared on their phones in the hallways before class or sitting on the lawn in front of the Cathedral. At home, I would watch women with women and men with women on my phone, trying only to focus on the women as I touched myself. But those men, their bodies, their sounds. I wanted to gouge out my eyes. Sometimes I asked God for deliverance. Sometimes I held my own breath and circled my hands around my throat and squeezed until they grew tired and I coughed saliva over my lips and onto my chin. Sometimes I cried. When my mother asked me what was wrong I said homework. She never probed any further. Sometimes when Meredith touched me, when she circled her arms around my neck or pinched my butt, I felt something, but never very strong or for very long.

There is nothing wrong with you, I say into the darkness. I slump against the wall and slide to the floor. I say, Meredith, I think—I'm gay. She slides the door back and thrusts her head out from the closet. She has wrapped herself in a blanket and her hair covers her face. She says, what?

She stretches an arm out from the darkness and lets it fall. Then she emerges and envelops me fully in her blanket. She holds me as she murmurs, I'm right here. She says, I'm with you. I start to cry. I'm overwhelmed by the sound of my own pain. She tries to slow things down the way our track coaches slow us down. Count your breaths, Niru, she says. Follow my voice, Niru. I follow for a moment, but my thoughts are strong and I choke on a mixture of relief, embarrassment, and fear. She pulls me closer and rocks with me. She drapes an arm over me and clasps my hand. She says, I'll always be here. I say, what do we do now?

Excerpted from Speak No Evil by Uzodinma Iweala. Copyright © 2018 by Uzodinma Iweala. Excerpted by permission of Harper. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.