This is the writer's voice, new fiction from the New Yorker.

I'm Deborah Treisman, fiction editor at the New Yorker.

On this episode of the writer's voice, we'll hear Addie Kitchens read her story, That Girl,

from the February 12th and 19th, 2024 issue of the magazine.

Kitchens is a Mississippi Delta-born New Orleans-based writer of fiction and non-fiction.

She's published work in the Oxford American in the Paris Review, among other places.

Now here's Add Eddie Kitchens.

That girl.

Underneath a huge old rusty awning, it was three shades darker and 10 degrees cooler than in the street.

Theo had been sitting on the porch rocker watching Shirley go back and forth.

It was strange to see a girl walking alone, but Shirley was always out and about by herself. She always looked the same too. Once upon a time white canvas

shoes, t-shirt tied above her belly button, jeans pulled up into her crotch. With one hand on her hip and the other

shading her eyes she stepped into the yard. Do a dude named Melvis say on the

street? The girl's hair was scraped up into a short peacock, style with

jailed baby hairs and curly cues. Her lips shined like she had just eaten chicken.

Thea wanted to bust out laughing,

but she knew that would be the absolute wrong thing to do.

Shirley has stopped short of climbing the porch steps.

I don't know no Melvin.

Oh, he owed me some money, Shirley said,

squinting at Theo's lap.

I know it ain't the summertime and you up there reading a book.

...