The following letter appears ahead of the advanced reader copies of A Girl Walks into the Forest. I am sharing it here with the publisher’s permission.

Dear Reader,

A Girl Walks into the Forest started with a pair of blue polyester shorts. In middle school, when gym time came around, we were given navy blue standard-issue shorts—shapeless and hideous, flattering to no body style I’ve ever had or seen. But who cares? “It isn’t a fashion show,” my mom would say, ad nauseam, every time I fretted over my outfit before going to school (she was right). Besides, the shorts were perfectly serviceable for phys ed dodgeball, badminton, and soccer—all of which I was good at. I was my parents’ last-ditch effort to have a girl. I’m the youngest of three, with two older brothers, which means I was submerged in sports, Star Wars, Ninja Turtles, and Mortal Kombat (in and out of the video game) up to my eyeballs. In other words, a boy, by society’s standards (sorry, Mom!).

I bet you’re like: What does a creepy Baba Yaga book have to do with Nintendo and Darth Vader? Everything, weirdly. Up until Blue Shorts Day, I saw myself as one of the boys. Most of my closest friends were girls, but in gym class or intramural sports, I was competitive and intense, which won me the respect and comradery of the guys. And frankly? I enjoyed it. Maybe I didn’t know what the patriarchy was at the tender age of eleven, but I was already sensing it, absorbing the idea that having the admiration of boys and men wasn’t just an ego boost but somehow essential. I cared about and clung to my ability to hang with the guys; it felt like a badge of honor.

One day in sixth grade, extraordinary by no measure I can remember other than what was to come, I put on my ugly blue polyester shorts as normal and went out to gym class. It must have been winter, because we were inside, and I remember it being cold. The cold is important because I was just starting to grow hair on my legs, and I had goosebumps, so all those fine blond hairs stood on end like I had licked an electrical socket. It didn’t mean anything to me—it was just my body being my body—until one of the boys pointed at my legs, then turned to his friends and started whispering. We’ll call him John because his name was John (hi, John!). When I asked what they were all giggling about, John said, “Why are your legs like that? It’s gross. Why don’t you shave them?”

A pit opened up in my stomach; I wanted to vanish into it. Everyone was staring at me. I wasn’t one of the guys anymore—maybe I wasn’t a girl either—I was just weird and disgusting. On the bus home that day, I tried not to cry and draw more attention to myself. I didn’t tell my mother what had happened, but I did ask if we could buy a razor so I could start shaving. A Girl Walks into the Forest is about that day, yes, but it’s also about the hundred thousand escalating and excruciating humiliations we all suffer as girls, women, and nonbinary and femme-presenting people while we just try to exist peacefully in our bodies. It’s about what we lose when those with power insist on taking, and what we gain when we refuse them. It’s a long, warm hug for the little girl in blue shorts who just wanted to be good at badminton and soccer, and it’s a shield for her body against the judgment and cruelty of this world.

The little girl grew fangs that day, and I keep them sharp.

Happy reading,

Madeleine