Excerpt from Stop Me If You've Heard This One by Kristen Arnett, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Orange you glad I didn't say banana?

When it comes to moving through the world in this particular suit of flesh, I have to be careful. I don't get to make the same kind of jokes my brother would make. I can't prank people and expect not to get punched. If I'm not careful, if I don't watch what I'm doing, I could get hurt.

I'm remembering being chased out a window when I pull up to the woman's house. My heart is thumping like it wants me to let it out, free it from the prison of my rib cage so it can take off down the street and away from this terrible decision. It's smarter than me, I think. If I were paying attention, I'd recall that not even a week earlier a man tried to brain me with a shampoo bottle at this very house after he caught me fucking his wife in their bathroom.

The neighborhood is one that looks like all the others in this particular area of Central Florida: an expanse of perfectly manicured lawns with expensive sprinkler systems that are undoubtedly depleting all the water from our state's limited aquifers. The woman's house is painted buttercup yellow with perfectly clean white trim and large windows bracketing the front door. There's a hand‑painted mailbox beside the curb that features a twined pair of pink flamingos in dark sunglasses and wacky striped bow ties; the wallaces is scrawled above them in bright green calligraphic script.

For a moment I consider parking on the street because my car has been leaking coolant, and their driveway is made up of a patchwork of dun‑colored bricks that I know must have cost a small fortune—but the need for a quick getaway overrules my worries. Why should I care about what these people think?It's not like we'll meet up at their country club or chat over dirty martinis at Hillstone; it's doubtful they'll ever set foot in the dingy, grunged‑out bars where Darcy and I spend our weekends, bumming drinks off drunk tourists. They live in the kind of neighborhood that has made it impossible for anyone from Orlando to own a home, transplants from up North who've decidedto help gen‑ trify the parts of Central Florida that used to belong to the locals. My mother owns a house, sure, but it took her years of scrimping and saving to manage that, and it was before the housing crisis began in earnest. Unless you work in finance or real estate or were born with money, your odds of owning property in Central Florida are remarkably slim. Dwight never owned a home. I doubt I will either.

I pull in behind a shiny black Range Rover and make my way up the walk. When I ring the bell, the chime inside plays the opening notes to the University of Florida fight song. I completed only three semesters of community college, but the reason I know the Gators fight song is because I used to date a woman who was really into football. I finger comb my hair, and my elbow connects with the tray of a hummingbird feeder. Syrupy water slicks around my elbow and trails down my wrist.

The woman who eventually answers the door is not the woman but looks significantly like her, only older. Must be her mother, I think, and my mommy issues flare to sudden bright light.

"Is Marcia home?" I ask. "Could I speak to her, please?"

She stares at me awhile longer, no real expression on her face, and I find myself squirming under her scrutiny. She's my height but for some reason appears taller. Blue eyes stabbing into me like she knows I've done something awful.

It's intensely erotic.

"Marcia," she suddenly yells. "Someone at the door."

She disappears down the hall, leaving me alone. I try to wipe the liquid from my arm, but my fingers stick in the tackiness of the drying sugar. It's like someone chewing Bubble Yum decided to spit on me.

"Can I help you?" Marcia says.

She doesn't recognize me, but that's understandable. She's only ever seen me dressed in full clown gear, and this afternoon I've shown up in my work clothes with no wig and my face completely naked, not even a lick of tinted ChapStick to give my mouth some color. She's wearing a pair of lavender joggers, and her short blonde hair is pulled back into a barely contained ponytail that sprouts from the back of her head like pineapple leaves.

Excerpted from Stop Me If You've Heard This One by Kristen Arnett. Copyright © 2025 by Kristen Arnett. Excerpted by permission of Riverhead Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.