Little Fires Everywhere: The New York Times Top Ten Bestseller

Pearl, for a moment, imagined herself transforming into a tree. Rooting herself so deeply on that spot that nothing could displace her.

An idea began to form in Pearl’s mind in wild golden loops.

That child who she thought had been her opposite but who had, deep inside, inherited and carried and nursed that spark her mother had long ago tamped down, that same burning certainty that she knew right from wrong. She thought, as she would often for many years, of the photograph from that day, with the one golden feather inside it:

They would keep them and the photos would assume the status of uneasy family heirlooms, something later generations would wonder about when at last that dusty box in the attic was found and opened: where those photographs had come from, who had made them, what they meant.

Inside were their portraits, inverted and reversed, all the dark made light and the light made dark.

Toughness rendered tender, even beautiful.

daughter? Was she the bird trying to batter its way free, or was she the cage?

Was it a portrait of her, or her

Part of her wanted to scream, so she slid a Tori Amos CD into the player, turned up the volume, and let it do the screaming for her.