Excerpt from We Deserve Monuments by Jas Hammonds, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

THE GHOST

THERE WERE APPROXIMATELY fifty people who resided in the sixteen homes that dotted Sweetness Lane, and all of them had heard the joke at one point or another. Out-of-town relatives, visiting friends, and mail carriers would examine the gaping potholes and pale patchwork lawns and homes that seemed to sag into the earth and ask, Sweetness? Where? Residents would laugh or roll their eyes or, if you dared to utter these comments in the presence of Letty June Harding, tell you to shut the fuck up. It didn't matter what Sweetness Lane looked like. Sweetness Lane was home. And home was always sweet.

Carole Cole had lived on Sweetness Lane since she was Carole Thompson. The blue brick ranch with the dogwood tree in the side yard was the only home she'd ever known. Darryl Cole had grumbled when he moved in after their wedding, complaining that grown men had no business moving into their mother-in-law's house. He promised one day they'd leave. But since the house was there and Darryl's funds were not, they stayed. They stayed after their first two babies were born, even though the eight hundred square feet became bloated with toddler screams. They stayed after Martha Thompson passed and left them the home in her will. They stayed even when the third baby took them by surprise. It wasn't until their three children became two that Darryl finally made good on his promise and left.

Through it all, Carole remained tethered to Sweetness Lane like a life raft. Seasons changed. People came and went. Her youngest daughter braided flower crowns under the dogwood tree. Usually, Carole would gaze upon the lane and think, This is fine. This is good enough. Occasionally, she thought about the girl who used to live next door and wondered what she was up to. Sometimes she thought about writing her. It wasn't until Letty's third round of cancer that she finally did.

By the time Carole devised a letter she was proud of, she'd burned through four days and half a notebook. After several weeks with no reply, she'd almost given up hope. On a particularly steamy August afternoon, Carole was sweeping her kitchen and minding her business when a fancy silver car arrived on Sweetness Lane. Fancy cars on this block were not a common occurrence, so Carole stopped mid-sweep. She paid attention. And when a ghost from her childhood emerged from the driver's side, she nearly dropped her broom.

2.

BY THE TIME I hauled the last bag inside, Mama Letty had retreated to her bedroom. I followed my parents' voices into the small, sun-drenched kitchen, mind still swimming from Simone's and Carole's comments.

Mom was leaning against the chipped tile counter, eyes trained on the peeling yellow diamond wallpaper. Dad sat at a circular Formica table shoved up against the window, drumming his fingers along a glass of water. Above his head was a creepy black cat-shaped clock, hands stuck at midnight.

"I didn't know," Mom said. She scrubbed a hand over her face and took deep, labored breaths. It was the same technique she always used before a big speech, the one she taught me when I was losing sleep over a public speaking assignment in eighth grade: inhale on the one, exhale on the two, continue to ten, lather, rinse, repeat. I cleared my throat, and my parents looked up with fake, stretched smiles.

"Hey, Avery baby," Mom said, too chipper. "Thanks for grabbing the rest of the bags."

"Don't mention it." I took a step closer. "You okay?"

She nodded. "I haven't seen your Mama Letty in a while, and it's hard. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," I said, but it was no use. She was already composing herself, wiping the emotions from her face like Windex on glass. Soon, she was Dr. Zora Anderson again—calm, collected, close to perfect.

"You're in luck," she said, pulling at one of my spiral curls. "You're getting my old bedroom. Best room in the house." She brushed past me before I could say anything and busied herself with the suitcases in the living room.

Excerpted from We Deserve Monuments by Jas Hammonds. Copyright © 2022 by Jas Hammonds. Excerpted by permission of Roaring Brook Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.