{"product_id":"theres-a-slight-chance-i-might-be-going-to-hell-isbn-9780812975727","title":"There's a (Slight) Chance I Might Be Going to Hell","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe first novel from the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure  Club\u003c\/i\u003e is a rollicking tale of small-town peculiarity, dark secrets, and one extraordinary  beauty pageant.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When her husband is offered a post at a small university, Maye is  only too happy to pack up and leave the relentless Phoenix heat for the lush green  quietude of Spaulding, Washington. While she loves the odd little town, there is  one thing she didn’t anticipate: just how heartbreaking it would be leaving her friends  behind. And when you’re a childless thirtysomething freelance writer who works at  home, making new friends can be quite a challenge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After a series of false starts  nearly gets her exiled from town, Maye decides that her last chance to connect with  her new neighbors is to enter the annual Sewer Pipe Queen Pageant, a kooky but dead-serious  local tradition open to contestants of all ages and genders. Aided by a deranged  former pageant queen with one eyebrow, Maye doesn’t just make a splash, she uncovers  a sinister mystery that has haunted the town for decades.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e“[Laurie Notaro] may be  the funniest writer in this solar system.”\u003ci\u003e—The Miami Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eLaurie Notaro\u003c\/b\u003e has been fired from seven jobs, laid off from three, and voluntarily liberated from one. Despite all that, she has managed to write a number of \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling essay collections. She lives with her husband in Oregon, where—according to her mother, who refuses to visit—she sleeps in a trailer in the woods.Prologue  \u003cbr\u003e SPRING, 1956 \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The moment the girl stepped onto the stage, the circle of  a spotlight swung toward her, announcing her presence\u003cbr\u003e above the audience in a sheer,  clean illumination. The crowd before her suddenly quieted, as if expecting something  truly spectacular to occur. It would \u003ci\u003ehave \u003c\/i\u003eto be spectacular; after all, Mary Lou  Winton, the contestant before her, had let loose a greased baby pig onstage, which  she managed to lasso, hog-tie, and brand—with a branding iron fashioned to look like  a sewer pipe, no less—in a definitive nine seconds flat. It was, in fact, confirmed by the audience, who counted down as Mary Lou whipped that rope and then stomped  over to plunge the glowing iron. And it was further rumored that Ruth Watson was  planning to bring her rifle out onto the stage and shoot every winged fowl right  out of the sky, all in her evening gown attire, for her talent segment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Farm antics,  the girl scoffed to herself, wondering if such a thing really could be considered  as a talent or just an episode of unfortunate breeding. She knew she could not let  any of that concern her as she looked out over the crowd, searching the faces. She  knew almost everyone—everyone who was waiting to hear her sing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She smiled softly,  an expression that seemed gentle. If only I had ruby slippers, she thought to herself.  The light\u003cbr\u003e that would have caught them would have been astounding, the sparkle would  have bounced off of them like rockets, far more impressive than an oily piglet or  dead birds. She looked down at her feet, at her pair of last year’s Sunday shoes—now  buffed a bright cherry red by her father, who had been so proud when he surprised  her with them—and saw that they did not sparkle, but produced a dull, minuscule shine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Behind her, she heard Mrs. A. Melrose from the church choir begin playing the piano;  this was her cue, and the pianist had better keep time. Although she considered herself  a devoted Christian woman overflowing with generosity, Mrs. Melrose thought little  of donating her time to the endeavor and suggested that instead she exchange her  musical services for the girl’s scrubbing a week’s worth of the accompanist’s and  her flatulent husband’s laundry. Despite the gruesome task that lay ahead in the Melroses’ wash bin the next day, the girl continued to smile as she drew a deep,  full breath, so full that the replica blue gingham pinafore fashioned from a picnic  tablecloth seemed to expand slightly, making the ketchup stains that stubbornly remained  on the cloth look like she had encountered Ruth Watson’s rifle. She waited: one,  two, three.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The next note was hers. She was ready.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Somewheeeeere over the rainbow  . . .”\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer voice glided sweetly over the stage into the audience and twirled in the  air above them like magic. She could see it on the faces of the people watching her,  listening to her, heads tilted slightly to the side, as they smiled back at her.  This was no pig roping event, and no explosion of feathers was going to trickle down  from the clouds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This was talent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have it, she thought giddily to herself as  she finished the first verse, as her voice continued on clear, strong, and with the  right touch of delicacy. It is mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She saw him, standing in the back, far beyond  the crowd assembled in the square—the most handsome man she had ever seen in real  life, the one who could save her. With a bouquet spilling with flowers in the crook  of his arm, he leaned up against his brand-new powder-blue Packard Caribbean convertible  with its whitewall tires and gleaming, curvaceous chrome bumpers. It was a glorious  machine. It suited him. Cars like that were rare in this town, and so were the men  they suited. She saw him smiling at her, and to her he delivered a nod of encouragement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe felt herself blush a shade. The surge of delight was just the push she needed  to soar into the last verse and deliver with earnest, heartfelt yearning, \u003ci\u003e“Why, oh,  why can’t I?” \u003c\/i\u003eThe moment the last note evaporated into the air, the crowd burst  forth with a shower of applause, the hands of the audience clapping heartily, and  as she looked toward the back of the crowd, she saw that he was clapping, too, his  arms full of tulips, roses, and lilies. Clapping for her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eExcitement raced up her  spine like a block shooting up to hit the bell on a Hi Striker carnival game. It  was hers, she had done it, she knew it, she owned it. She could actually feel the  weight of the crown being placed on her\u003cbr\u003e head, she could foresee the way that it would  sparkle. She wanted it to sparkle brightly, feverishly, ferociously. Sparkle so bright  it would blind them. Show this town that she was the queen of this scrap heap, this  tiny little town with nothing in it but sewer pipes and waste. From this moment,  it was all hers, all of it. If she wanted ruby slippers, she would get ruby slippers,  not last year’s fake, cheap Sunday shoes painted red with a dirty rag. She was more  than that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was hers, the crown, the town—she had won and she would take it. She  knew it like she had never known anything else. As if there was any other choice!  The pig tosser, the bird slayer? This was now her town, her kingdom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To reign as  she saw fit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe smiled sweetly again, then closed her eyes slowly, laid her arm  over her chest, holding her hand to her heart the way she had seen it done in the  movies, and crossed one leg deeply behind the other in what could only be described  as a true queenly and magnificent gesture.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And with that, she took a bow.New York Times bestselling author of The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club","brand":"Villard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303797379301,"sku":"NP9780812975727","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812975727.jpg?v=1767742401","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/theres-a-slight-chance-i-might-be-going-to-hell-isbn-9780812975727","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}