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

The rejection hurts worse than I'd thought it would, even though the woman's not really my type. How can there be such a gap between the people who have nothing and the people who have something? Some‑ times, like now, the divide feels like an entire gulf, wider than Florida itself. I laugh, and it doesn't sound all that funny. It feels a little like I'm drowning.

When she goes to put the rest of her money away, I clear my throat and wiggle my fingers.

"Restocking fee," I announce. "That'll be an extra hundred."

Her mouth screws up in distaste, but she doesn't argue; she just counts out the extra twenties and hands them over. I let myself focus on the money, and it helps numb the sting of her dismissal. When she's done, the door is unceremoniously slammed in my face.

I shove the wad of cash in my pocket—$350, more than enough for greasepaint and even enough to buy some stuff I'd put off acquiring be‑ cause it was too expensive, plus easy admission to the audition and money for gas and lodging on the overnight drive out to Tampa—and I toss my gear kit in the trunk. As I climb back into the front seat, the woman's husband pulls up. He rolls down the tinted window of his Lexus and peers in at me.

"Nice car," he says. "Seventy‑nine Firebird?"

"Seventy‑seven."

He whistles, long and low. "Love that paint job too. American muscle. A real classic."

Truthfully, the man reminds me of my older brother. Dwight had the same kind of bulky block head perfect for a crew cut, tailor‑made for the army. Pouch at his waist threatening to turn into something serious from consuming too much alcohol. But unlike this man, Dwight's been dead for five years. He'll never have to worry about a beer gut again.

The man's got his hand on the window frame, and his gold wedding band glints in the late‑afternoon sunlight. I nod congenially, and he gives me a brief wave before exiting the car, hauling his black leather briefcase behind him. Tasteful gray suit and a crisp white shirt with a loosened tie dangling around his thick neck. Lawyer, maybe. Or some‑ thing that has to do with finance. He doesn't give me a second thought, this stranger idling in his driveway. He looked only at the car.

As I reverse, I take in the neighborhood: speed posted twenty miles per hour, a bright yellow drive like your kids live here double‑ sided sign propped at the edge of a violently green lawn. Zero traffic or pedestrians in sight. I rev my engine and back directly into that god‑ awful flamingo mailbox.

Carefully, of course. Wouldn't want to scratch the paint.

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.