We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Summer I Ate the Rich by Maika and Maritza Moulite, a modern-day YA fable inspired by Haitian zombie lore that scrutinizes the socioeconomic and racial inequity that is the foundation of our society—publishing with Farrar, Straus and Giroux on April 22nd.
Brielle Petitfour loves to cook. But with a chronically sick mother and bills to pay, becoming a chef isn’t exactly a realistic career path.
When Brielle’s mom suddenly loses her job, Brielle steps in and uses her culinary skills to earn some extra money. The rich families who love her cooking praise her use of unique flavors and textures, which keep everyone guessing what’s in Brielle’s dishes. The secret ingredient? Human flesh.
Risk-Taking
I am alone in the receiving room once again, looking out at the handful of deceased billionaires and multimillionaires before me. I don’t have much time before Marcello comes looking for me. My plan has been firmly planted in my mind, and if I am going to pull it off, then I must act quickly.
I look along the shelves and find a small pouch, perfect for what I need. I grab it and return to the bodies. Since Amelia Hannigan is nearest, I head to her first. If someone were to walk into the room right now, they would see me holding her hand in somber acknowledgment. In an instant, I snap off her pinky finger and drop it into the bag. I head to the next person and the next and the next. It doesn’t take long before I have acquired a middle toe, a sliver of skin from the back of a calf, and a few teeth that were surprisingly easy to pry out.
Finally, I am looking down at Mr. Beauregard. Though I wouldn’t wish his death on even my worst enemy, I find that there is a limit to my pity. In the nearly twenty years Mummy has worked for the Banks family, she has missed only two days of work. Two days off that they granted her to grieve my father. Maybe she could’ve asked for some more leave, but when you hear not-so-subtle whispers about how difficult it is to find good help these days, you’re constantly in fear that your work might not be deemed quality enough, and the risk of losing a job that is barely able to help make ends meet is already too high.
I think back to the two days Mummy spent mourning my father. She wailed as if her heart had been ripped out of her chest, the gaping hole of his absence unable to be filled again. No matter what I made for her to eat, it was left completely untouched. Sobs racked her body and she trembled beneath her sheets, inconsolable. I thought she’d never be whole again. But on the third day, she pulled herself out of her tangle of blankets, a zombie in her own right. I watched her ice her face to reduce the signs of her sorrow, apply makeup as if it were just another day. She was slow but deliberate in her movements. When she walked out of the house that third morning, she told me that I could spend the day at home. The week, if I needed to. I asked her why she wouldn’t do the same, and she gave me a watery smile in return.
“I can’t afford to stay behind. As your mother, I make these sacrifices so that you won’t have to.”
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The Summer I Ate the Rich
That moment has stayed with me till this day, tucked away in the back pocket of my heart. A memory of the time I bore witness to my mother’s agony, when she was forced to walk through the shards of her broken heart. For me. I can’t know what the future will hold for our family, now that Mr. Beauregard is gone. But in the present, I choose to act.
I slide a thumb along the side of the old man’s face, almost tender in my caress. The rage that fills my body is not new, since it’s always simmering just below the surface. But today it boils with another element. For so long I have suppressed the darkness inside me. Whenever it threatens to bubble over, Mummy reminds me that I have to contain it. That I have to be good. But where has adhering to all these rules gotten us? What would happen if, just once, I released the power that courses through me, let it stretch into its full glory? Already, I hear the whispers of an ancient magic roiling inside. These bits and pieces of people who’ve never had to want for anything, ingredients of power. Control.
The gentle pop when I remove Mr. Beauregard’s eye from its socket is comforting to my ears. I look around for something to replace it with—and I see a small bowl of grapes that Grandma Tabitha must’ve been snacking on as she worked. I love her for many reasons, her lack of squeamishness being one of them. I reach for a grape and compare it to the eye in my hand, twisting them both this way and that. The sweet juice splashes against my tongue as I bite down softly. Carefully, I twist the grape around and around after each bite until it resembles an apple bitten down to the core. I compare the fruit with the eyeball and grin when I lightly press the grape into the empty hole of Mr. Beauregard’s eye and slide the lid shut without issue.
For once, I will let my true nature shine.
Excerpted from The Summer I Ate the Rich, copyright © 2025 by Maika and Maritza Moulite.
A memory of the time I bore witness to my mother’s agony, when she was forced to walk through the shards of her broken heart.
Such poetry in describing grief- I can feel her pain in this.